Save this she prayed him, if that he might, Her little son he would in earthë grave, 2597 His tender limbës, delicate to sight, From fowlës and from beastës for to save. But she none answer of him mightë have; He went his way, as him nothing ne raught, 2598 But to Bologna tenderly it brought.

The marquis wonder’d ever longer more Upon her patience; and, if that he Not haddë soothly knowen therebefore That perfectly her children loved she, He would have ween’d 2599 that of some subtilty, And of malíce, or for cruel coráge, 2600 She haddë suffer’d this with sad 2601 viságe.