ed, and why
does she not spare herself? Why does she wring her lovely hands and beat
and tear her breast? Would she not be marvellously fair to look upon
when in happy mood, seeing that she is so fair in her displeasure?
Surely yes, I can take my oath on that. Never before in a work of beauty
was Nature thus able to outdo herself, for I am sure she has gone beyond
the limits of any previous attempt. How could it ever have happened
then? Whence came beauty so marvellous? God must have made her with His
naked hand that Nature might rest from further toil. If she should try
to make a replica, she might spend her time in vain without succeeding
in her task. Even God Himself, were He to try, could not succeed, I
guess, in ever making such another, whatever effort He might put forth."

(Vv. 1507-1588.) Thus my lord Yvain considers her who is broken with her
grief, and I suppose it would never happen again that any man in prison,
like my lord Yvain in fear for his life, would ever be so madly in love
as to make no request on his own behalf, when perhaps no one else will
speak for him. He stayed at the window until he saw the lady go away,
and both the portcullises were lowered again. Another might have grieved
at this, who would prefer a free escape to tarrying longer where he was.
But to him it is quite indifferent whether they be shut or opened. If
they were open he surely would not go away, no, even were the lady to
give him leave and pardon him freely for the death of her lord. For he
is detained by Love and Shame which rise up before him on either hand:
he is ashamed to go away, for no one would believe in the success of his
exploit; on the other hand, he has such a strong desire to see the lady
at least, if he cannot obtain any other favour, that he feels little
concern about his imprisonment. He would rather die than go away. And
now the damsel returns, wishing to bear him company with her solace
and gaiety, and to go and fetch for him whatever he may desire. But she
found him pensive and quite worn out with the love which had laid hold
of him; whereupon she addressed him thus: "My lord Yvain, what sort of
a time have you had to-day?" "I have been pleasantly occupied," was his
reply. "Pleasantly? In God's name, is that the truth? What? How can one
enjoy himself seeing that he is hunted to death, unless he courts and
wishes it?" "Of a truth," he says, "my gentle friend, I should by no
means wish to die; and yet, as God be