XCII
Like Gunther he demean'd him, false mimic of the true;
Around th' unloving damsel his loveless arms he threw.
Him from the bed with fury against a bench she flung.
His head fell on a footstool so hard, that loud it rung.
XCIII
With all his might upstarted again th' undaunted man;
He'd try his fortune better; a struggle stern began,
When he essay'd to quell her; long was his toil and sore;
Such strife, I ween, will never be waged by woman more.
XCIV
As still he would not quit her, up sprung the frenzied fair;
"Sir knight, it ill becomes you a lady's dress to tear.
These are Burgundian manners! but dear it shall be paid;
I'll bring you soon to smart for it," exclaim'd the stormy maid.
XCV
Her arms around the warrior she scrupled not to fling,
And forthwith thought to bind him as though it were the king,
That of the bed sole mistress in quiet she might sleep.
For her injur'd night-dress took she vengeance deep.
XCVI
What booted then his manhood well prov'd in many a fight,
When that heroic maiden put forth her mastering might?
Him by main force she lifted in spite of all he tried,
And 'gainst a press she jamm'd him that stood the bed beside.