In this great thought, sore troubled in my mind,
Alone thus rode I all the morrowtide,
Till, at the last, it happed me to find
The place wherein I cast me to abide

When that I had no further to ride,
And as I went my lodging to purvey,
Right soon I heard, but little me beside,
In a garden, where minstrels gan to play.

La Belle Dame sans Mercy, Alain Chartier, tr. Sir Richard Ros