“Traitor,” quoth he, “with tongue of scorpión, Thou hast me brought to my confusión; Alas that I was wrought! 4985 why n’ere 4986 I dead? O dearë wife, O gem of lustihead, 4987 That wert to me so sad, 4988 and eke so true, Now liest thou dead, with facë pale of hue, Full guiltëless, that durst I swear y-wis! 4989 O rakel 4990 hand, to do so foul amiss! 4991 O troubled wit, O irë reckëless, That unadvised smit’st the guiltëless! O wantrust, 4992 full of false suspición!