I deeme your loue, and hold me to you bound;
Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart,
Where cause is none, but to your rest depart.
Not all content, yet seemd she to appease
Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art,
And fed with words, that could not chuse[70] but please,
So slyding softly forth, she turnd as to her ease.
Long after lay he musing at her mood, lv
Much grieu’d to thinke that gentle Dame so light,
For whose defence he was to shed his blood.