Whom broad awake she finds, in troublous fit, xlv
Forecasting, how his foe he might annoy,
And him amoues with speaches seeming fit:
Ah deare Sans ioy[167], next dearest to Sans foy,
Cause of my new griefe, cause of my new ioy[168],
Ioyous, to see his ymage in mine eye,
And greeu’d, to thinke how foe did him destroy,
That was the flowre of grace and cheualrye;
Lo his Fidessa to thy secret faith I flye.
With gentle wordes he can her fairely greet, xlvi