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XLVIII.

And now, as slowly sauntering up the dale

He homeward wends, in heavie musefull stowre,
The smooth Deceiver gan his heart assail;
His heart soon felt the fascinating powre:
Old Cambrias Genius markt the fatal houre,
And tore the girlond from her sea-greene hair;
The conscious oakes above him rustling lowre,
And through the braunches sighs the gloomy air,
As when indignant Jove rejects the Flamens prayer.

XLIX.

The Dryads of the Grove, that oft had fird

His opening mind with many a raptured dream,
That oft his evening wanderings had inspird,
All by the silent hill or murmuring stream,
Forsake him now; for all as lost they deem:
So home he wends; where, wrapt in jollitie,
His hall to keepen holiday mote seem,
And with the Hunters soon full blythe was he,
The blythest wight of all that blythesome companie.