Xlv

Whom broad awake she finds, in troublous fit, Forecasting, how his foe he might annoy, And him amoves with speaches seeming fit: Ah deare Sansjoy, next dearest to Sansfoy, Cause of my new griefe, cause of my new joy, Joyous, to see his ymage in mine eye, And greev'd, to thinke how foe did him destroy, That was the flowre of grace and chevalrye; Lo his Fidessa to thy secret faith I flye.