And many deemed her heart was won;

For sought by numbers, given to none,

Had young Francesca's hand remained

Still by the Church's bonds unchained:

And when the Adriatic bore

Lanciotto to the Paynim shore,

Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 200

And pensive waxed the maid and pale;

More constant at confessional,

More rare at masque and festival;

Or seen at such, with downcast eyes,

Which conquered hearts they ceased to prize:

With listless look she seems to gaze:

With humbler care her form arrays;

Her voice less lively in the song;

Her step, though light, less fleet among

The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 210

Breaks, yet unsated with the dance.