But, above all, she hates to recollect
    That she had taken to Rinaldo so;
  She thinks it the last want of self-respect,
    Pure degradation, to have look’d so low. 
  “Such arrogance,” said Cupid, “must be check’d.” 
    The little god betook him with his bow
  To where Medoro lay; and, standing by,
  Held the shaft ready with a lurking eye.

  Now when the princess saw the youth all pale,
    And found him grieving with his bitter wound,
  Not for what one so young might well bewail,
    But that his king should not be laid in ground,—­
  She felt a something strange and gentle steal
    Into her heart by some new way it found,
  Which touch’d its hardness, and turn’d all to grace;
  And more so, when he told her all his case.

  And calling to her mind the little arts
    Of healing, which she learnt in India,
  (For ’twas a study valued in those parts
    Even by those who were in sovereign sway,
  And yet so easy too, that, like the heart’s,
    ’Twas more inherited than learnt, they say),
  She cast about, with herbs and balmy juices,
  To save so fair a life for all its uses.

  And thinking of an herb that caught her eye
    As she was coming, in a pleasant plain
  (Whether ’twas panacea, dittany,
    Or some such herb accounted sovereign
  For stanching blood quickly and tenderly,
    And winning out all spasm and bad pain),
  She found it not far off, and gathering some,
  Returned with it to save Medoro’s bloom.

  In coming back she met upon the way
    A shepherd, who was riding through the wood
  To find a heifer that had gone astray,
    And been two days about the solitude. 
  She took him with her where Medoro lay,
    Still feebler than he was with loss of blood;
  So much he lost, and drew so hard a breath,
  That he was now fast fading to his death.

  Angelica got off her horse in haste,
    And made the shepherd get as fast from his;
  She ground the herbs with stones, and then express’d
    With her white hands the balmy milkiness;
  Then dropp’d it in the wound, and bath’d his breast,
    His stomach, feet, and all that was amiss
  And of such virtue was it, that at length
  The blood was stopp’d, and he look’d round with strength.

  At last he got upon the shepherd’s horse,
    But would not quit the place till he had seen
  Laid in the ground his lord and master’s corse;
    And Cloridan lay with it, who had been
  Smitten so fatally with sweet remorse. 
    He then obey’d the will of the fair queen;
  And she, for very pity of his lot,
  Went and stay’d with him at the shepherd’s cot.

  Nor would she leave him, she esteem’d him so,
    Till she had seen him well with her own eye;
  So full of pity did her bosom grow,
    Since first she saw him faint and like to die. 
  Seeing his manners now, and beauty too,
    She felt her heart yearn somehow inwardly;
  She felt her heart yearn somehow, till at last
  ’Twas all on fire, and burning warm and fast.