One day it fortuned, faire _Britomart_ xxii Into her fathers closet to repayre; For nothing he from her reseru’d apart, Being his onely daughter and his hayre: Where when she had espyde that mirrhour fayre, Her selfe a while therein she vewd in vaine; Tho her auizing of the vertues rare, Which thereof spoken were, she gan againe Her to bethinke of, that mote to her selfe pertaine. But as it falleth, in the gentlest harts xxiii Imperious Loue hath highest set his throne, And tyrannizeth in the bitter smarts Of them, that to him buxome are and prone: So thought this Mayd (as maydens vse to done) Whom fortune for her husband would allot, Not that she lusted after any one; For she was pure from blame of sinfull blot, Yet wist her life at last must lincke in that same knot. Eftsoones there was presented to her eye xxiv A comely knight, all arm’d in complete[889] wize, Through whose bright ventayle lifted vp on hye His manly face, that did his foes agrize, And friends to termes of gentle truce entize, Lookt foorth, as _Phœbus_ face out of the east, Betwixt two shadie mountaines doth arize; Portly his person was, and much increast Through his Heroicke grace, and honorable gest. His crest was couered with a couchant Hound, xxv And all his armour seem’d of antique mould, But wondrous massie and assured sound, And round about yfretted all with gold, In which there written was with cyphers old, _Achilles armes, which Arthegall did win_. And on his shield enueloped seuenfold He bore a crowned litle Ermilin, That deckt the azure field with her faire pouldred skin. The Damzell well did vew his personage, xxvi And liked well, ne further fastned not, But went her way; ne her vnguilty age Did weene, vnwares, that her vnlucky lot Lay hidden in the bottome of the pot; Of hurt vnwist most daunger doth redound: But the false Archer, which that arrow shot So slyly, that she did not feele the wound, Did smyle full smoothly at her weetlesse wofull stound. Thenceforth the feather in her loftie crest, xxvii Ruffed of loue, gan lowly to auaile, And her proud portance, and her princely gest, With which she earst tryumphed, now did quaile: Sad, solemne, sowre, and full of fancies fraile She woxe; yet wist she neither how, nor why, She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile, Yet wist, she was not well at ease perdy, Yet thought it was not loue, but some melancholy.