LVIII Her body free, captivated was her heart, And love the keys did of that prison bear, Prepared to go, it was a death to part From that kind Lord, and from that prison dear, But thou, O honor, which esteemed art The chiefest virtue noble ladies wear, Enforcest her against her will, to wend To Aladine, her mother’s dearest friend.
LIX At Sion was this princess entertained, By that old tyrant and her mother dear, Whose loss too soon the woful damsel plained, Her grief was such, she lived not half the year, Yet banishment, nor loss of friends constrained The hapless maid her passions to forbear, For though exceeding were her woe and grief, Of all her sorrows yet her love was chief.
LX The silly maid in secret longing pined, Her hope a mote drawn up by Phoebus’ rays, Her love a mountain seemed, whereon bright shined Fresh memory of Tancred’s worth and praise, Within her closet if her self she shrined, A hotter fire her tender heart assays: Tancred at last, to raise her hope nigh dead, Before those walls did his broad ensign spread.
LXI The rest to view the Christian army feared, Such seemed their number, such their power and might, But she alone her troubled forehead cleared, And on them spread her beauty shining bright; In every squadron when it first appeared, Her curious eye sought out her chosen knight; And every gallant that the rest excels, The same seems him, so love and fancy tells.
LXII Within the kingly palace builded high, A turret standeth near the city’s wall, From which Erminia might at ease descry The western host, the plains and mountains all, And there she stood all the long day to spy, From Phoebus’ rising to his evening fall, And with her thoughts disputed of his praise, And every thought a scalding sigh did raise.
LXIII From hence the furious combat she surveyed, And felt her heart tremble with fear and pain, Her secret thoughts thus to her fancy said, Behold thy dear in danger to be slain; So with suspect, with fear and grief dismayed, Attended she her darling’s loss or gain, And ever when the Pagan lift his blade, The stroke a wound in her weak bosom made.
LXIV But when she saw the end, and wist withal Their strong contention should eftsoons begin, Amazement strange her courage did appal, Her vital blood was icy cold within; Sometimes she sighed, sometimes tears let fall, To witness what distress her heart was in; Hopeless, dismayed, pale, sad, astonished, Her love, her fear; her fear, her torment bred.