steepholm

Now Schrapnomart entered a forest drear,
The haunt of toads and paddocks without sight,
Which when that Irishe Knight approached near
She saw a captiue maiden, Sulis hight,
Tied to a stone, and by her stood a wight
Yclad in leaves and vines, some Wodwose call,
An vncouth carl, who spat with foul despite
And threated her with whips and barbs most cruell:
He meant upon that stone to make her funerall.

In show he seemed the fiercest wretch alive
And vaunted of his venom ever new
And with the English tongue vnethe did striue
And ever as he raued, most hard he blew.
But though on Sulis’ flesh he tried to chew
He could not cleanly bite, ne deeply hurt,
For that his teeth were blunt and all askew,
But spilt his poison down his leafy shirt
Where it as wastefull spittle fell into the dirte.

Which seeing, he produced a rusty knife,
Ad hominen by name, in hemlock dipped,
And made a priuy thrust against her life;
But Schrapnomart, with sword and buckler clipt,
With puissant stroke that weapon from him stript
And layd the wildman bleeding on the ground.
Eftsoones the maiden’s bonds she mainly ripped
From that same stone, and Wodwose with them bound,
And left him there to languish long, as one astound.

Gramercy,

lady_schrapnell - my chevalier!

Edited to add: This makes more sense if you have read the Green Man Review's curious review of Death of a Ghost, its author's equally curious self-description, and

lady_schrapnell's response to it.