Xxxv

In prime of youthly yeares, when corage hot The fire of love and joy of chevalree First kindled in my brest, it was my lot To love this gentle Lady, whom ye see, Now not a Lady, but a seeming tree; With whom as once I rode accompanyde, Me chaunced of a knight encountred bee, That had a like faire Lady by his syde, Like a faire Lady, but did fowle Duessa hyde.