LVII "If good Anglante's lord the prize forbore, Nor seized the fair occasion when he might, The loss be his, if Fortune never more Him to enjoy so fair a prize invite. To imitate that lord of little lore I think not," said, apart, Circassa's knight. "To quit such proffered good, and, to my shame, Have but myself on after-thought to blame. LVIII "No! I will pluck the fresh and morning rose, Which, should I tarry, may be overblown. To woman, (this my own experience shows), No deed more sweet or welcome can be done. Then, whatsoever scorn the damsel shows, Though she awhile may weep and make her moan, I will, unchecked by anger, false or true, Or sharp repulse, my bold design pursue." LIX This said, he for the soft assault prepares, When a loud noise within the greenwood shade Beside him, rang in his astounded ears, And sore against his will the monarch stayed. He donned his helm (his other arms he wears), Aye wont to rove in steel, with belted blade, Replaced the bridle on his courser fleet, Grappled his lance, and sprang into his seat. LX With the bold semblance of a valiant knight, Behold a warrior threads the forest hoar. The stranger's mantle was of snowy white, And white alike the waving plume he wore. Balked of his bliss, and full of fell despite, The monarch ill the interruption bore, And spurred his horse to meet him in mid space, With hate and fury glowing in his face. LXI Him he defies to fight, approaching nigh, And weens to make him stoop his haughty crest: The other knight, whose worth I rate as high, His warlike prowess puts to present test; Cuts short his haughty threats and angry cry, And spurs, and lays his levelled lance in rest. In tempest wheels Circassia's valiant peer, And at his foeman's head each aims his spear. LXII Not brindled bulls or tawny lions spring To forest warfare with such deadly will As those two knights, the stranger and the king. Their spears alike the opposing bucklers thrill: The solid ground, at their encountering, Trembles from fruitful vale to naked hill: And well it was the mail in which they dressed Their bodies was of proof, and saved the breast. LXIII Nor swerved the chargers from their destined course; Who met like rams, and butted head to head. The warlike Saracen's ill-fated horse, Well valued while alive, dropt short and dead: The stranger's, too, fell senseless; but perforce Was roused by rowel from his grassy bed. That of the paynim king, extended straight, Lay on his battered lord with all his weight.