Xlvii

O foolish faeries son, what fury mad Hath thee incenst, to hast thy doefull fate? Were it not better I that Lady had, Then that thou hadst repented it too late? Most senseless man he, that himselfe doth hate To love another. Lo then for thine ayd Here take thy lovers token on thy pate.° So they two fight; the whiles the royall Mayd Fledd farre away, of that proud Paynim sore afrayd.