In coming back she met upon the way A shepherd, who was riding through the wood To find a heifer that had gone astray, And been two days about the solitude. She took him with her where Medoro lay, Still feebler than he was with loss of blood; So much he lost, and drew so hard a breath, That he was now fast fading to his death.
Angelica got off her horse in haste, And made the shepherd get as fast from his; She ground the herbs with stones, and then express'd With her white hands the balmy milkiness; Then dropp'd it in the wound, and bath'd his breast, His stomach, feet, and all that was amiss And of such virtue was it, that at length The blood was stopp'd, and he look'd round with strength.
At last he got upon the shepherd's horse, But would not quit the place till he had seen Laid in the ground his lord and master's corse; And Cloridan lay with it, who had been Smitten so fatally with sweet remorse. He then obey'd the will of the fair queen; And she, for very pity of his lot, Went and stay'd with him at the shepherd's cot.
Nor would she leave him, she esteem'd him so, Till she had seen him well with her own eye; So full of pity did her bosom grow, Since first she saw him faint and like to die. Seeing his manners now, and beauty too, She felt her heart yearn somehow inwardly; She felt her heart yearn somehow, till at last 'Twas all on fire, and burning warm and fast.
The shepherd's home was good enough and neat, A little shady cottage in a dell The man had just rebuilt it all complete, With room to spare, in case more births befell. There with such knowledge did the lady treat Her handsome patient, that he soon grew well; But not before she had, on her own part, A secret wound much greater in her heart.
Much greater was the wound, and deeper far, Which the sweet arrow made in her heart's strings; 'Twas from Medoro's lovely eyes and hair; 'Twas from the naked archer with the wings. She feels it now; she feels, and yet can bear Another's less than her own sufferings. She thinks not of herself: she thinks alone How to cure him by whom she is undone.
The more his wound recovers and gets ease, Her own grows worse, and widens day by day. The youth gets well; the lady languishes, Now warm, now cold, as fitful fevers play. His beauty heightens, like the flowering trees; She, miserable creature, melts away Like the weak snow, which some warm sun has found Fall'n, out of season, on a rising ground.