So on the grounde Aristotle crept,
And in his teeth she long the brydle kept,
Till she therof had inough her fyll;
And yet for this he never had his wyll.
She dyd nothing but for to mocke and scorne
This true lover whiche was for love forlorne:
But when he knewe the poynt of the case,
The fyry angre dyde hys herte enbrace,
That he him selfe dyd anone well knowe,
His angre dyd his love so overthrowe,