Xxxvii

Therewith in haste his helmet gan unlace,° Till Una cried, O hold that heavie hand, Deare Sir, what ever that thou be in place: Enough is, that thy foe doth vanquisht stand Now at thy mercy: Mercie not withstand: For he is one the truest knight alive, Though conquered now he lie on lowly land, And whilest him fortune favourd, faire did thrive In bloudie field: therefore of life him not deprive.