I long to ſee thee backe returne from thence, That I may view theſe milk-white ſteeds of mine. All loden with the heads of killed men, And from their knees, euen to their hoofes below, Beſmer’d with blood, that makes a dainty ſhow.

From back at the mill came the sounds of men laughing and joking about how dumb Joe Reese had been. ¶ Their humor disgusted him. Reese had been careless, and it had cost him his life. There wasn’t any call for them to rag on him now.

[…] it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

they will nevertheleſs exclude their horns, and therewith explorate their way as before