"Ranging, she wandered to a shady font;
Where, worn and troubled, she, in weary wise, Lit from her courser and disarmed her front, And, couched upon the greenwood, closed her eyes.
A tale more pleasing than what I recount In story there is none, I well surmise:
Thither repaired young Flordespine of Spain, Who in that wood was hunting with her train.
