Xliii

Who now is left to keepe the forlorne maid From raging spoile of lawlesse victors will? Her faithfull gard remov'd, her hope dismaid, Her selfe a yielded pray to save or spill. He now Lord of the field, his pride to fill, With foule reproches, and disdainfull spight Her vildly entertaines, and will or nill, Beares her away upon his courser light: Her prayers nought prevaile, his rage is more of might.°