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XXXIV.

The Man of Worth ſhuns Thy reputeleſſe dore;

Even the old Peaſant ſhakes his ſilverd head,
Old ſaws and ſtories babbling evermore,
And adding ſtill, Alas, those dayes be fled!
Here Indignation pauſd, when, up the glade,
Pale through the trees his houſhold ſmoke aſcends;
Wakd at the ſight, his Brothers wrongs upbraid
His melting heart, and grief his boſome rends:
And now the keene Reſolve its gleaming comfort lends.

XXXV.

Perdie, now were I bent on legends fine

My Knight ſhould riſe the flowre of Chivalrie,
Brave as Syr Arthegal or Valentine,
Another Saint George England then ſhould ſee,
Britannias Genius ſhould his Sabra bee,
Chaind to the rock by Dragon to be ſlain;
But he the Virgin Princeſſe ſoon ſhould free,
And ſtretch the monster breathleſſe on the plain;
Bribery, the Dragon huge, ſhould never riſe again.