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- Стр. 389/1366
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And
never
saw
I
plied
a
currycomb
By
stable-boy
for
whom
his
master
waits
,
Or
him
who
keeps
awake
unwillingly
,
As
every
one
was
plying
fast
the
bite
Of
nails
upon
himself
,
for
the
great
rage
Of
itching
which
no
other
succour
had
.
And
the
nails
downward
with
them
dragged
the
scab
,
In
fashion
as
a
knife
the
scales
of
bream
,
Or
any
other
fish
that
has
them
largest
.
"
O
thou
,
that
with
thy
fingers
dost
dismail
thee
,
"
