And so great honour with so fowle reproch had blent.
So as she thus melancholicke did ride, xix
Chawing the cud of griefe and inward paine,
She chaunst to meete toward the euen-tide[303]
A Knight, that softly paced on the plaine,
As if him selfe to solace he were faine.
Well shot in yeares he seem’d, and rather bent
To peace, then needlesse trouble to constraine.
As well by view of that his vestiment,
As by his modest semblant, that no euill ment.