And now it is empassionèd so deep, For fairest Una’s sake, of whom I sing, That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep, To think how she through guileful handëling,[b] Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though fair as ever living wight was fair, Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, Is from her Knight divorcèd in despair, And her due loves derived to that vile Witch’s share.[c]
Yet she, most faithful Lady all this while, Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid, Far from all people’s press, as in exile, In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray’d To seek her Knight; who, subtilly betray’d Through that late vision which th’ Enchanter wrought, Had her abandon’d: she, of nought affray’d, Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought; Yet wishèd tidings none of him unto her brought.
One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, From her unhasty beast she did alight; And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay In secret shadow, far from all men’s sight; From her fair head her fillet she undight,[d] And laid her stole aside: her angel’s face, As the great eye of heaven, shinèd bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place: Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace.
It fortunèd, out of the thickest wood A ramping lion rushèd suddenly, Hunting full greedy after savage blood: Soon as the royal Virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have at once devour’d her tender corse; But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, His bloody rage assuagèd with remorse, And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force.
Instead thereof, he kiss’d her weary feet, And lick’d her lily hands with fawning tongue, As he her wrongèd innocence did weet. O, how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submissiön, Still dreading death, when she had markèd long, Her heart ’gan melt in great compassiön; And drizzling tears did shed for pure affectiön.
“The lion, lord of every beast in field,” Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate, And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, Forgetful of the hungry rage which late Him prick’d, in pity of my sad estate:-- But he, my lion, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her that him loved, and ever most adored As the god of my life? why hath he me abhorr’d?”