Swounende upon the grene gras.
And, as me thoghte, anon ther was 2750
On every side so gret presse,
That every lif began to presse,
I wot noght wel hou many score,
Suche as I spak of now tofore,
Lovers, that comen to beholde,
Bot most of hem that weren olde:
P. iii. 368
Thei stoden there at thilke tyde,