Much was he then encombred, ne could tell xxv Which way to take: now West he went a while, Then North; then neither, but as fortune fell. So vp and downe he wandred many a mile, With wearie trauell and vncertaine toile, Yet nought the nearer to his iourneys end; And euermore his louely litle spoile Crying for food, did greatly him offend. So all that day in wandring vainely he did spend. At last about the setting of the Sunne, xxvi Him selfe out of the forest he did wynd, And by good fortune the plaine champion wonne: Where looking all about, where he mote fynd Some place of succour to content his mynd, At length he heard vnder the forrests syde A voice, that seemed of some woman kynd, Which to her selfe lamenting loudly cryde, And oft complayn’d of fate, and fortune oft defyde. To whom approching, when as she perceiued xxvii A stranger wight in place, her plaint she stayd, As if she doubted to haue bene deceiued, Or loth to let her sorrowes be bewrayd. Whom when as _Calepine_ saw so dismayd, He to her drew, and with faire blandishment Her chearing vp, thus gently to her sayd; What be you wofull Dame, which thus lament, And for what cause declare, so mote ye not repent. To whom she thus, What[468] need me Sir to tell, xxviii That which your selfe haue earst ared so right? A wofull dame ye haue me termed well; So much more wofull, as my wofull plight Cannot redressed be by liuing wight. Nathlesse (quoth he) if need doe not you bynd, Doe it disclose, to ease your grieued spright: Oftimes it haps, that sorrowes of the mynd Find remedie vnsought, which seeking cannot fynd. Then thus began the lamentable Dame; xxix Sith then ye needs will know the griefe I hoord, I am th’vnfortunate _Matilde_ by name, The wife of bold Sir _Bruin_, who is Lord Of all this land, late conquer’d by his sword From a great Gyant, called _Cormoraunt_; Whom he did ouerthrow by yonder foord, And in three battailes did so deadly daunt, That he dare not returne for all his daily vaunt. So is my Lord now seiz’d of all the land, xxx As in his fee, with peaceable estate, And quietly doth hold it in his hand, Ne any dares with him for it debate. But to these[469] happie fortunes, cruell fate Hath ioyn’d one euill, which doth ouerthrow[470] All these our ioyes, and all our blisse abate; And like in time to further ill to grow, And all this land with endlesse losse to ouerflow.