Xxxvii

That cruell word her tender hart so thrild, That suddein cold did runne through every vaine, And stony horrour all her sences fild With dying fit, that downe she fell for paine. The knight her lightly reared up againe, And comforted with curteous kind reliefe: Then, wonne from death, she bad him tellen plaine The further processe of her hidden griefe: The lesser pangs can beare, who hath endur'd the chiefe.