Xxviii

At last when fervent sorrow slaked was, She up arose, resolving him to find Alive or dead: and forward forth doth pas, All as the Dwarfe the way to her assynd: And evermore, in constant carefull mind, She fed her wound with fresh renewed bale; Long tost with stormes, and bet with bitter wind, High over hills, and low adowne the dale, She wandred many a wood, and measurd many a vale.