And strait forth stalking with redoubled pace,
For that I sawe the night drew on so fast,
In blacke all clad there fell before my face
A piteous wight, whom woe had all forewast,
Forth on her eyes[1498] the cristall tears out brast,
And sighing sore her hands shee wrong and folde,
Tare all her hayre, that ruth was to beholde.
12.
Her body smale, forwithred, and forspent,
As is the stalke that sommer’s drought opprest,