Bradamant enters Montalbano's seat, Whom Beatrice had mourned, and vainly sought Through spacious France: 'Tis here all welcome sweet, The kiss and clasp of hand, she holds at nought, While her a mother and a brother greet, As the enamoured maid compares in thought These with the loved Rogero's fond embrace;
Which time will never from her mind efface.
