Vpon the mind, whose glorie-thirsting heart, By deedes of armes did at true honor aime, Such edge I set, that from each forren part, The brood of Mars to Britaine’s _Arthur_ came, Of him to purchase the reward of fame: And take that order, that I then did found, Which till this day men call the table round. 14. Vpon this table’s superficiall part Statutes ingrauen were by my decree, Vnto the which each man of valiant hart, That of this famous fellowship would bee At Camelot by oath did first agree, And call’d they were amongst our chiualrie Armes, seuen religious deeds of charitie. 15. But where is now this honor’d dignitie, That wont to be the care of noble kind? Or is it dead, or will nobilitie Let that, which only was to it assign’d, Be now polluted by the baser mind? Alas the while, that once the best reward To vertuous deeds is now of no regard. 16. No golden churle, no elbow-vanting Iacke, No peasant base, nor borne of dunghill mould, Could find such treasure in his pedler’s packe To purchase that, which fame on high did hold For true desart, aboue the reach of gold: This order then dame vertue kept in store For such, as did her sacred selfe adore. 17. In this new flourish of my flowring spring, When honor’s hopefull buds appear’d in mee, And promis’d goodly fruit in time to bring, My forward thoughts being set on fier, to free My natiue land from Saxon tyrannie: With phantasie still working ’gainst the foe, In sleepe this spectacle to me did show. 18. As I (me thought) did sit on royall throne With peeres about me set, a ladie faire In presence came and making pitious mone, Tearing the tresses of her golden haire, And wringing both her hands, as if despaire Had her bereft of hope her griefe to show, With teares did vtter forth these words of woe 19. “Behold,” quoth she, “behold me wretched wight, The forlorne ladie of this noble Ile, From towring state cast downe by foes despight, And of an empresse, which I was ere while, Of Saxon yoke now made a subiect vile: What bootes it what I was, sith now I am The scorne of fortune and the Briton’s shame? 20. O, noble prince, vnsheath thy conquering blade And saue that little, which is left to mee, Left not for aye my antient glorie vade, Nor let me subiect liue, as thus you see, To pride of barbarous foes, but set me free:” Thus ended she her plaint, and in sad plight With piteous lookes departed from my sight. 21.