3645 And fain he would him wreak, 3646 if that he might, Of vermin that destroyed him by night. Th’ apothecary answer’d, “Thou shalt have A thing, as wisly 3647 God my soulë save, In all this world there is no creatúre That eat or drank hath of this cónfectúre, Not but the mountance 3648 of a corn of wheat, That he shall not his life anon forlete; 3649 Yea, sterve 3650 he shall, and that in lessë while Than thou wilt go apace 3651 nought but a mile: This poison is so strong and violent.” This cursed man hath in his hand y-hent