Xliv

And all the way, with great lamenting paine, And piteous plaints she filleth his dull eares, That stony hart could riven have in twaine, And all the way she wets with flowing teares: But he enrag'd with rancor, nothing heares. Her servile beast yet would not leave her so, But followes her farre off, ne ought he feares, To be partaker of her wandring woe, More mild in beastly kind, then that her beastly foe.

* * * * *