She towards Provence, by the nearest road, So journeying, met a maid of mournful air;
Who, though her cheeks with tears were overflowed, Was yet of visage and of manners fair.
She was it, so transfixed with Love's keen goad, Who sighed for Monodante's valiant heir, Who at the bridge had left her lord a thrall, When with King Rodomont he tried a fall.