This lost kind of life in him was no mean burthen of grief unto his noble father. All hope being already spent of any future happy recovery, he gave command, because he would not always have such a sorrow in his sight, that he should live at a farm of his own in a country village, among his peasants and plough-swains. This was not anyway distasteful to Cymon, but well agreed with his own natural disposition; for their rural qualities and gross behaviour pleased him beyond the cities' civility. Cymon living thus at his father's country village, exercising nothing else but rural demeanour, such as then delighted him above all other, it chanced upon a day, about the hour of noon, as he was walking over the fields with a long staff on his neck, which commonly he used to carry, he entered into a small thicket, reputed the goodliest in all those quarters, and by reason it was then the month of May, the trees had their leaves fairly shot forth.
When he had walked through the thicket it came to pass that, even as good fortune guided him, he came into a fair meadow, on every side engirt with trees; and in one corner thereof stood a goodly fountain, whose current was both cool and clear. Hard by it upon the green grass he espied a very beautiful damsel, seeming to be fast asleep, attired in such loose garments as hid very little of her white body; only from the girdle downward she wore a kirtle made close unto her of interwoven delicate silk, and at her feet lay two other damsels sleeping, and a servant in the same manner. No sooner had Cymon fixed his eye upon her but he stood leaning on his staff, and viewed her advisedly, without speaking a word, and in no mean admiration, as if he had never seen
