For whether he through fatall deepe foresight
Me hither sent, for cause to me unghest,
Or that fresh bleeding wound,[°] which day and night
Whilome doth rancle in my riven brest,
With forced fury[°] following his behest,
Me hither brought by wayes yet never found;
You to have helpt I hold myself yet blest.
Ah curteous knight (quoth she) what secret wound
Could ever find,[°] to grieve the gentlest hart on ground?