There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.

Sir Torm, the husband of fair Gwendolaine,
Is all unconscious of aught else beside
The outward seeming, 'tis enough for him
That she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.
He has a nature small and limited
By sight, and sense, and self, and his desires;
A heart as open as the day to all
That touches his quick impulse, when it costs
Him naught of sacrifice. The needy poor
Flock to his castle for the careless gift
Of falling dole, but his esquire is faint
From his exacting service, night and day
His Lady Gwendolaine is satiate
With costly gems, palfreys, and samite thick
With threads of gold and silver, but the sweet
Heart subtleties and fair observances
Are lost in the _of course_ of married life.
He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile,
But never sees the shadow in her eyes
His hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath,
And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.
His vassals know not if, from day to day,
He will approve, or strike them with a curse.
His humours are the byword of the court,
And, were it not for his good-heartedness,
His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,
Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;
He is so often in a stormy rage,