So hauing said, her twixt her armes twaine xxxiv She straightly straynd, and colled tenderly, And euery trembling ioynt, and euery vaine She softly felt, and rubbed busily, To doe the frosen cold away to fly; And her faire deawy eies with kisses deare She oft did bath, and oft againe did dry; And euer her importund, not to feare To let the secret of her hart to her appeare. The Damzell pauzd, and then thus fearefully; xxxv Ah Nurse, what needeth thee to eke my paine? Is not enough, that I alone doe dye, But it must doubled be with death of twaine? For nought for me but death there doth remaine. O daughter deare (said she) despaire no whit; For neuer sore, but might a salue obtaine: That blinded God, which hath ye blindly smit, Another arrow hath your louers hart to hit. But mine is not (quoth she) like others[893] wound; xxxvi For which no reason can find remedy. Was neuer such, but mote the like be found, (Said she) and though no reason may apply Salue to your sore, yet loue can higher stye, Then reasons reach, and oft hath wonders donne. But neither God of loue, nor God of sky Can doe (said she) that, which cannot be donne. Things oft impossible (quoth she) seeme, ere begonne. These idle words (said she) doe nought asswage xxxvii My stubborne smart, but more annoyance breed, For no no vsuall fire, no vsuall rage It is, O Nurse, which on my life doth feed, And suckes the bloud, which from my hart doth bleed. But since thy faithfull zeale lets me not hyde My crime, (if crime it be) I will it reed. Nor Prince, nor pere it is, whose loue hath gryde My feeble brest of late, and launched[894] this wound wyde. Nor man it is, nor other liuing wight; xxxviii For then some hope I might vnto me draw, But th’only shade and semblant of a knight, Whose shape or person yet I neuer saw, Hath me subiected to loues cruell law: The same one day, as me misfortune led, I in my fathers wondrous mirrhour saw, And pleased with that seeming goodly-hed, Vnwares the hidden hooke with baite I swallowed. Sithens it hath infixed faster hold xxxix Within my bleeding bowels, and so sore Now ranckleth in this same fraile fleshly mould, That all mine entrailes flow with poysnous gore, And th’vlcer groweth daily more and more; Ne can my running sore find remedie, Other then my hard fortune to deplore, And languish as the leafe falne from the tree, Till death make one end of my dayes and miserie.