And now it is empassioned so deepe, ii For fairest _Vnaes_ sake, of whom I sing, That my fraile eyes these lines with teares do steepe, To thinke how she through guilefull handeling, Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though faire as euer liuing wight was faire, Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, Is from her knight diuorced in despaire And her due loues deriu’d to that vile witches share. Yet she most faithfull Ladie all this while iii Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd Farre from all peoples prease, as in exile, In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd, To seeke her knight; who subtilly betrayd Through that late vision, which th’Enchaunter wrought,[110] Had her abandond. She of nought affrayd, Through woods and wastnesse wide him daily sought; Yet wished tydings none of him vnto her brought. One day nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, iv From her vnhastie beast she did alight, And on the grasse her daintie limbes did lay In secret shadow, farre from all mens sight: From her faire head her fillet she vndight, And laid her stole aside. Her angels face As the great eye of heauen shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shadie place; Did neuer mortall eye behold such heauenly grace. It fortuned out of the thickest wood v A ramping Lyon rushed suddainly, Hunting full greedie after saluage blood; Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To haue attonce deuour’d her tender corse: But to the pray when as he drew more ny, His bloudie rage asswaged with remorse, And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet, vi And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong, As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beautie maister the most strong, And simple truth subdue auenging wrong? Whose yeelded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her hart gan melt in great compassion, And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. The Lyon Lord of euerie beast in field,[111] vii Quoth she, his princely puissance doth abate, And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate: But he my Lyon, and my noble Lord,[112] How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her that him lou’d, and euer most adord, As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord?