XXX The gamesome wind among her tresses plays, And curleth up those growing riches short; Her spareful eye to spread his beams denays, But keeps his shot where Cupid keeps his fort; The rose and lily on her cheek assays To paint true fairness out in bravest sort, Her lips, where blooms naught but the single rose, Still blush, for still they kiss while still they close.
XXXI Her breasts, two hills o’erspread with purest snow, Sweet, smooth and supple, soft and gently swelling, Between them lies a milken dale below, Where love, youth, gladness, whiteness make their dwelling, Her breasts half hid, and half were laid to show, So was the wanton clad, as if this much Should please the eye, the rest unseen, the touch.
XXXII As when the sunbeams dive through Tagus’ wave, To spy the store-house of his springtime gold, Love-piercing thought so through her mantle drave, And in her gentle bosom wandered bold; It viewed the wondrous beauty virgins have, And all to fond desire with vantage told, Alas! what hope is left, to quench his fire That kindled is by sight, blown by desire.
XXXIII Thus passed she, praised, wished, and wondered at, Among the troops who there encamped lay, She smiled for joy, but well dissembled that, Her greedy eye chose out her wished prey; On all her gestures seeming virtue sat, Toward the imperial tent she asked the way: With that she met a bold and lovesome knight, Lord Godfrey’s youngest brother, Eustace hight.
XXXIV This was the fowl that first fell in the snare, He saw her fair, and hoped to find her kind; The throne of Cupid had an easy stair, His bark is fit to sail with every wind, The breach he makes no wisdom can repair: With reverence meet the baron low inclined, And thus his purpose to the virgin told, For youth, use, nature, all had made him bold.
XXXV “Lady, if thee beseem a stile so low, In whose sweet looks such sacred beauty shine,— For never yet did Heaven such grace bestow On any daughter born of Adam’s line— Thy name let us, though far unworthy, know, Unfold thy will, and whence thou art in fine, Lest my audacious boldness learn too late What honors due become thy high estate.”
XXXVI “Sir Knight,” quoth she, “your praises reach too high Above her merit you commenden so, A hapless maid I am, both born to die And dead to joy, that live in care and woe, A virgin helpless, fugitive pardie, My native soil and kingdom thus forego To seek Duke Godfrey’s aid, such store men tell Of virtuous ruth doth in his bosom dwell.