In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet,
And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong,
As he her wronged innocence did weet.31

O how can beautie maister the most strong,
And simple truth subdue avenging 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 every beast in field
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,
How does he find in cruell hart to hate

Her that him lov'd, and ever most adord,

As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord?

Redounding 32 teares did choke th'end of her plaint, Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood; And sad to see her sorrowfull constraint

The kingly beast upon her gazing stood;

With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood.
At last in close hart shutting up her paine,
Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood,
And to her snowy Palfrey got againe,

To seeke her strayed Champion, if she might attaine.

The Lyon would not leave her desolate,

But with her went along, as a strong gard

81 weet, know.

82 redounding, overflowing.

Of her chast person, and a faithfull mate

Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:

Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,
And when she wakt, he waited diligent,
With humble service to her will prepard:
From her faire eyes he took commaundement,
And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.

Long she thus traveiled through deserts wyde,
By which she thought her wandring knight shold pas,
Yet never shew of living wight espyde;

Till that at length she found the troden gras,
In which the tract of peoples footing was,
Under the steepe foot of a mountaine hore;
The same she followes, till at last she has
A damzell spyde slow footing her before,
That on her shoulders sad a pot of water bore.

To Whom approching she to her gan call,
To weet, if dwelling place were nigh at hand;
But the rude wench her answer'd nought at all,
She could not heare, nor speake, nor understand;
Till seeing by her side the Lyon stand,

With suddaine feare her pitcher downe she threw,
And fled away for never in that land

Face of faire Ladie she before did vew,

And that dread Lyons looke her cast in deadly hew.

Full fast she fled, ne ever lookt behynd,

As if her life upon the wager lay,

And home she came, whereas her mother blynd
Sate in eternall night: nought could she say,

But suddaine catching hold did her dismay

With quaking hands, and other signes of feare:
Who full of ghastly fright and cold affray,
Gan shut the dore. By this arrived there

Dame Una, wearie Dame, and entrance did requere.

The day is spent, and commeth drowsie night,
When every creature shrowded is in sleepe;
Sad Una downe her laies in wearie plight,
And at her feet the Lyon watch doth keepe:
In stead of rest, she does lament, and weepe
For the late losse of her deare loved knight,

And sighes, and grones, and evermore does steepe
Her tender brest in bitter teares all night,

All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light.

Now when broad day the world discovered has,
Up Una rose, up rose the Lyon eke,

And on their former journey forward pas,

In wayes unknowne, her wandring knight to seeke, With paines farre passing that long wandring Greeke, That for his love refused deitie;

Such were the labours of this Lady meeke,

Still seeking him, that from her still did flie,

Then furthest from her hope, when most she weened nie.

Fair nymph, if fame or honor were
To be attained with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth,

To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

Siren.

Ulysses, O be not deceived

With that unreal name,

This honor is a thing conceived,
And rests on others' fame.

Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile,

The best thing of our life, our rest,

And give us up to toil.

Ulysses.

Delicious nymph, suppose there were

Nor honor nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport;

For toil doth give a better touch

To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much

As labor yields annoy.

Siren.

Then pleasure likewise seems the shore

Whereto tends all your toil,

Which you forego to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversely

Find never tedious day,

And ease may have variety
As well as action may.

Ulysses.

But natures of the noblest frame.

These toils and dangers please, And they take comfort in the same As much as you in ease;