In this sad plight he walked here and there, xvii And romed round about the rocke in vaine, As he had lost him selfe, he wist not where; Oft listening if he mote her heare againe; And still bemoning her vnworthy paine. Like as an Hynde whose calfe is falne vnwares Into some pit, where she him heares complaine, An hundred times about the pit side fares, Right sorrowfully mourning her bereaued cares. And now by this the feast was throughly ended, xviii And euery one gan homeward to resort. Which seeing _Marinell_, was sore offended, That his departure thence should be so short, And leaue his loue in that sea-walled fort. Yet durst he not his mother disobay, But her attending in full seemly sort, Did march amongst the many all the way: And all the way did inly mourne, like one astray. Being returned to his mothers bowre, xix In solitary silence far from wight, He gan record the lamentable stowre, In which his wretched loue lay day and night, For his deare sake, that ill deseru’d that plight: The thought whereof empierst his hart so deepe, That of no worldly thing he tooke delight; Ne dayly food did take, ne nightly sleepe, But pyn’d, and mourn’d, and languisht, and alone did weepe. That in short space his wonted chearefull hew xx Gan fade, and liuely spirits deaded quight: His cheeke bones raw, and eie-pits hollow grew, And brawney armes had lost their knowen might, That nothing like himselfe he seem’d in sight. Ere long so weake of limbe, and sicke of loue He woxe, that lenger he note stand vpright, But to his bed was brought, and layd aboue, Like ruefull ghost, vnable once to stirre or moue. Which when his mother saw, she in her mind xxi Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to weene, Ne could by search nor any meanes out find The secret cause and nature of his teene, Whereby she might apply some medicine; But weeping day and night, did him attend, And mourn’d to see her losse before her eyne, Which grieu’d her more, that she it could not mend: To see an helpelesse euill, double griefe doth lend. Nought could she read the roote of his disease, xxii Ne weene what mister maladie it is, Whereby to seeke some meanes it to appease. Most did she thinke, but most she thought amis, That that same former fatall wound of his Whyleare by _Tryphon_ was not throughly healed, But closely rankled vnder th’orifis: Least did she thinke, that which he most concealed, That loue it was, which in his hart lay vnreuealed.