No More Learning

A run-on line
should be read closely with the following line with only a slight pause to
indicate the line-unit. Monotony is prevented by the occasional use of a
light or feminine ending--a syllable on which the voice does not or cannot
rest; e. g. --

"Then choosing out few words most horrible. " (I, xxxvii. )
"That for his love refused deity. " (III, xxi. )
"His ship far come from watrie wilderness. " (III, xxxii. )

The use of alliteration, i. e. having several words in a line beginning with
the same letter, is another device frequently employed by Spenser for
musical effect; e. g. --

"In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare. " (I, xxxvi. )
"Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes. " (I, xxxvi. )

5. VERSIFICATION. --In the handling of his stanza, Spenser revealed a
harmony, sweetness, and color never before dreamed of in the English. Its
compass, which admitted of an almost endless variety of cadence, harmonized
well with the necessity for continuous narration. It appeals to the eye as
well as to the ear, with its now languid, now vigorous, but always graceful
turn of phrase. Its movement has been compared to the smooth, steady,
irresistible sweep of water in a mighty river. Like Lyly, Marlowe, and
Shakespeare, Spenser felt the new delight in the pictorial and musical
qualities of words, and invented new melodies and word pictures. He aimed
rather at finish, exactness, and fastidious neatness than at ease, freedom,
and irregularity; and if his versification has any fault, it is that of
monotony. The atmosphere is always perfectly adapted to the theme.

6. DICTION AND STYLE. --The peculiar diction of the _Faerie Queene_ should
receive the careful attention of the student. As a romantic poet, Spenser
often preferred archaic and semi-obsolete language to more modern forms. He
uses four classes of words that were recognized as the proper and
conventional language of pastoral and romantic poetry; viz. (a)
_archaisms_, (b) _dialect_, (c) _classicisms_, and (d) _gallicisms_. He did
not hesitate to adopt from Chaucer many obsolete words and grammatical
forms. Examples are: the double negative with _ne_; _eyen_, _lenger_,
_doen_, _ycladd_, _harrowd_, _purchas_, _raught_, _seely_, _stowre_,
_swinge_, _owch_, and _withouten_. He also employs many old words from
Layamon, Wiclif, and Langland, like _swelt_, _younglings_, _noye_, _kest_,
_hurtle_, and _loft_. His dialectic forms are taken from the vernacular of
the North Lancashire folk with which he was familiar. Some are still a part
of the spoken language of that region, such as, _brent_, _cruddled_,
_forswat_, _fearen_, _forray_, _pight_, _sithen_, _carle_, and _carke_.

Examples of his use of classical constructions are: the ablative absolute,
as, _which doen_ (IV, xliii); the relative construction with _when_, as,
_which when_ (I, xvii), _that when_ (VII, xi); the comparative of the
adjective in the sense of "too," as, _weaker_ (I, xlv), harder (II, xxxvi);
the participial construction after _till_, as, _till further tryall made_
(I, xii); the superlative of location, as, _middest_ (IV, xv); and the old
gerundive, as, _wandering wood_ (I, xiii). Most of the gallicisms found are
anglicized loan words from the French _romans d'aventure_, such as,
_disseized_, _cheare_, _chappell_, _assoiled_, _guerdon_, _palfrey_,
_recreaunt_, _trenchand_, _syre_, and _trusse_. Notwithstanding Spenser's
use of foreign words and constructions, his language is as thoroughly
English in its idiom as that of any of our great poets.

"I think that if he had not been a great poet," says Leigh Hunt, "he would
have been a great painter. "

"After reading," says Pope, "a canto of Spenser two or three days ago to an
old lady, between seventy and eighty years of age, she said that I had been
showing her a gallery of pictures. I do not know how it is, but she said
very right. There is something in Spenser that pleases one as strongly in
old age as it did in youth. I read the _Faerie Queene_ when I was about
twelve, with infinite delight; and I think it gave me as much, when I read
it over about a year or two ago. "

The imperishable charm of the poem lies in its appeal to the pure sense of
beauty. "A beautiful pagan dream," says Taine, "carries on a beautiful
dream of chivalry. " The reader hears in its lines a stately and undulating
rhythm that intoxicates the ear and carries him on with an irresistible
fascination, he sees the unsubstantial forms of fairyland go sweeping by in
a gorgeous and dreamlike pageantry, and he feels pulsing in its luxuriant
and enchanted atmosphere the warm and beauty-loving temper of the Italian
Renaissance. "Spenser is superior to his subject," says Taine, "comprehends
it fully, frames it with a view to the end, in order to impress upon it the
proper mark of his soul and his genius. Each story is modified with respect
to another, and all with respect to a certain effect which is being worked
out. Thus a beauty issues from this harmony,--the beauty in the poet's
heart,--which his whole work strives to express; a noble and yet a laughing
beauty, made up of moral elevation and sensuous seductions, English in
sentiment, Italian in externals, chivalric in subject, modern in its
perfection, representing a unique and admirable epoch, the appearance of
paganism in a Christian race, and the worship of form by an imagination of
the North. "

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

EVENTS IN SPENSER'S LIFE A. D. CONTEMPORARY EVENTS

Birth of Edmund Spenser (about) 1552 Birth of Sir Walter Raleigh
1553 Death of Edward VI; Mary crowned.
1554 Mary marries Philip of Spain.
1558 Death of Mary; Elizabeth crowned.
1560 Charles IX, king of France.
1568 Council of Trent.
_Visions of Bellay_, published, 1569
_Sonnets of Petrarch_, published, 1569
Enters Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, 1569
1572 Gregory XIII, Pope of Rome.
1572 Massacre of St. Batholomew.
1574 Henry III, king of France.
Received M. A. , leaves Cambridge, 1576 Rudolph II, emperor.
Leaves Lancashire, 1578 Elizabeth aids the Netherlands.
Visits Lord Leicester, 1579
_The Shepheards Calender_, 1579
Goes to Ireland, 1580 Massacre of Smerwick.
1581 Tasso's _Jersalem Delivered_.
Lord Grey's return to England, 1582
1584 Assassination of William the
Silent.
1585 Sixtus V, Pope. Drake's voyage.
1585 Leicester goes to the Netherlands.
1586 Death of Sir Philip Sidney.
First marriage (before) 1587 Execution of Mary Queen of Scots.
Clerk to the Council of
Munster, 1588 Defeat of Spanish Armada.
Death of Leicester.
Visits England with Raleigh, 1589 Assassination of Henry III;
Henry IV crowned.
_The Faerie Queene_, Books I, 1590 Shakespeare's _Love's
II, III, Labour's Lost_.
_Mother Hubberds Tale, Tears of 1591 Shakespeare's _Comedy of Errors,
the Muses, Ruines of Time, Henry VI_.
Daphnaida, The Visions_ 1591 Ariosto's _Orlando Furioso_, trans.
1593 Shakespeare's _Midsummer
Night's Dream_.
1593 _Richard III. _
Second marriage, 1594 Shakespeare's _Richard II_.
_Colin Clout's Come Home Again_, 1595 Shakespeare's _King John_.
_Amoretti, Epithalamion, Hymns_ 1595 Johnston's _Seven Champions
of Christendom. _
_Astrophel, Prothalamion,_ 1596 Shakespeare's _Merchant of Venice_.
_The Faerie Queene_, Books I-VI 1596 Ben Jonson's _Every Man in his
Humour. _
_Vision of the Present State of 1598 Edict of Nantes,
Ireland_ Philip III crowned.
Death of Spenser, 1599 Revolt of Irish. Expedition
of Essex to Ireland.


* * * * *

THE FAERIE QUEENE

* * * * *

LETTER TO SIR WALTER RALEIGH

A LETTER of the Authors expounding his whole intention in the course of
this worke;[1] which, for that it giveth great light to the reader, for the
better understanding is hereunto annexed.

TO THE RIGHT NOBLE AND VALOROUS

SIR WALTER RALEIGH, KNIGHT.

_Lo: Wardein of the Stanneries, and her majesties lieutenaunt of the
countie of Cornewayll. _

SIR,

Knowing how doubtfully all Allegories may be constructed, and this booke of
mine, which I have entituled _The Faery Queene_, being a continued
Allegorie, or darke conceit, I have thought good, as well for avoyding of
jealous opinions and misconstructions, as also for your better light in
reading thereof, (being so, by you commanded) to discover unto you the
generall intention and meaning, which in the whole course thereof I have
fashioned, without expressing of any particular purposes, or by-accidents
therein occasioned. The generall end therefore of all the booke, is to
fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline.
Which for that I conceived shoulde be most plausible and pleasing, beeing
coloured with an historicall fiction, the which the most part of men
delight to read, rather for varietie of matter than for profit of the
ensample: I chose the historie of king Arthure, as most fit for the
excellencie of his person, beeing made famous by many mens former workes,
and also furthest from the danger of envie, and suspicion of present time.
In which I have followed all the antique poets historicall: first Homer,
who in the persons of Agamemnon and Ulysses hath ensampled a good governour
and a vertuous man, the one in his _Ilias_, the other in his _Odysseis_:
then Virgil, whose like intention was to doe in the person of _AEneas_:
after him Ariosto comprised them both in his _Orlando_: and lately Tasso
dissevered them againe, and formed both parts in two persons, namely, that
part which they in philosophy call _Ethice_, or vertues of a private man,
coloured in his _Rinaldo_: the other named _Politice_, in his _Godfredo_.
By ensample of which excellent Poets, I laboure to pourtraict in Arthure,
before he was king, the image of a brave knight, perfected in the twelve
private morall vertues, as Aristotle hath devised: which if I find to be
well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged to frame the other part of
pollitike vertues in his person, after he came to bee king.

To some I know this Methode will seem displeasant, which had rather have
good discipline delivered plainly in way of precepts, or sermoned at large,
as they use, then thus clowdily enwrapped in Allegoricall devises. But
such, mee seeme, should be satisfied with the use of these dayes, seeing
all things accounted by their showes, and nothing esteemed of, that is not
delightfull and pleasing to common sense. For this cause is Xenophon
preferred before Plato, for that the one, in the exquisite depth of his
judgement, formed a Commune-wealth, such as it should be; but the other, in
the person of Cyrus and the Persians, fashioned a government, such as might
best be: So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by ensample then
by rule. So have I laboured to do in the person of Arthure: whom I
conceive, after his long education by Timon (to whom he was by Merlin
delivered to be brought up, so soone as he was borne of the Lady Igrayne)
to have seen in a dreame or vision the Faerie Queene, with whose excellent
beautie ravished, hee awaking, resolved to seek her out: and so, being by
Merlin armed, and by Timon throughly instructed, he went to seeke her forth
in Faery land. In that Faery Queene I mean _Glory_ in my generall
intention: but in my particular I conceive the most excellent and glorious
person of our soveraine the Queene, and her kingdome in Faery land. And
yet, in some places else, I doe otherwise shadow her. For considering shee
beareth two persons, the one of a most royall Queene or Empresse, the other
of a most vertuous and beautifull lady, this latter part in some places I
doe expresse in Belphoebe, fashioning her name according to your owne
excellent conceipt of Cynthia,[2] (Phoebe and Cynthia being both names of
Diana). So in the person of Prince Arthure I sette forth magnificence in
particular, which vertue, for that (according to Aristotle and the rest) it
is the perfection of all the rest, and containeth in it them all, therefore
in the whole course I mention the deeds of Arthure appliable to the vertue,
which I write of in that booke. But of the twelve other vertues I make XII
other knights the patrons, for the more varietie of the historic: Of which
these three bookes containe three. The first, of the Knight of the Red
crosse, in whom I expresse Holinesse: the second of Sir Guyon, in whome I
set foorth Temperance: the third of Britomartis, a Lady knight, in whom I
picture Chastitie. But because the beginning of the whole worke seemeth
abrupt and as depending upon other antecedents, it needs that yee know the
occasion of these three knights severall adventures. For the Methode of a
Poet historicall is not such as of an Historiographer. For an
Historiographer discourseth of affaires orderly as they were done,
accounting as well the times as the actions; but a Poet thrusteth into the
middest, even where it most concerneth him, and there recoursing to the
things forepast, and divining of things to come, maketh a pleasing analysis
of all. The beginning therefore of my historie, if it were to be told by an
Historiographer, should be the twelfth booke, which is the last; where I
devise that the Faery Queene kept her annuall feast twelve daies; uppon
which twelve severall dayes, the occasions of the twelve severall
adventures hapned, which being undertaken by XII severall knights, are in
these twelve books severally handled and discoursed.

The first was this. In the beginning of the feast, there presented him
selfe a tall clownish younge man, who falling before the Queene of Faeries
desired a boone (as the manner then was) which during that feast she might
not refuse: which was that hee might have the atchievement of any
adventure, which during that feast should happen; that being granted, he
rested him selfe on the fioore, unfit through his rusticitie for a better
place. Soone after entred a faire Ladie in mourning weedes, riding on a
white Asse, with a dwarfe behind her leading a warlike steed, that bore the
Armes of a knight, and his speare in the dwarfes hand. She falling before
the Queene of Faeries, complayned that her father and mother, an ancient
King and Queene, had bene by an huge dragon many yeers shut up in a brazen
Castle, who thence suffered them not to issew: and therefore besought the
Faery Queene to assigne her some one of her knights to take on him that
exployt. Presently that clownish person upstarting, desired that adventure;
whereat the Queene much wondering, and the Lady much gaine-saying, yet he
earnestly importuned his desire. In the end the Lady told him, that unlesse
that armour which she brought would serve him (that is, the armour of a
Christian man specified by Saint Paul, V. Ephes. ) that he could not succeed
in that enterprise: which being forth with put upon him with due furnitures
thereunto, he seemed the goodliest man in al that company, and was well
liked of the Lady. And eftesoones taking on him knighthood, and mounting on
that straunge Courser, he went forth with her on that adventure: where
beginneth the first booke, viz.

A gentle knight was pricking on the playne, etc.

The second day there came in a Palmer bearing an Infant with bloody hands,
whose Parents he complained to have bene slaine by an enchauntresse called
Acrasia: and therefore craved of the Faery Queene, to appoint him some
knight to performe that adventure, which being assigned to Sir Guyon, he
presently went foorth with the same Palmer: which is the beginning of the
second booke and the whole subject thereof. The third day there came in a
Groome, who complained before the Faery Queene, that a vile Enchaunter,
called Busirane, had in hand a most faire Lady, called Amoretta, whom he
kept in most grevious torment. Whereupon Sir Scudamour, the lover of that
Lady, presently tooke on him that adventure. But beeing unable to performe
it by reason of the hard Enchauntments, after long sorrow, in the end met
with Britomartis, who succoured him, and reskewed his love.

But by occasion hereof, many other adventures are intermedled; but rather
as accidents then intendments. As the love of Britomart, the overthrow of
Marinell, the miserie of Florimell, the vertuousness of Belphoebe; and many
the like.

Thus much, Sir, I have briefly-over-run to direct your understanding to the
wel-head of the History, that from thence gathering the whole intention of
the conceit, ye may as in a handfull gripe all the discourse, which
otherwise may happely seem tedious and confused. So humbly craving the
continuance of your honourable favour towards me, and th' eternall
establishment of your happines, I humbly take leave.

Yours most humbly affectionate,

EDM. SPENSER.

23 Januarie, 1589.

[1] The letter served as an introduction to the first three books of the
_Faerie Queene_.

[2] An allusion to Sir Walter Raleigh's poem _Cynthia_.

* * * * *

_To the Right Noble and Valorous Knight_,

SIR WALTER RALEIGH,

_Lord Wardein of the Stanneryes, and Lieftenaunt of Cornewaile_,

To thee that art the sommers Nightingale,
Thy soveraigne Goddesses most deare delight,
Why doe I send this rustick Madrigale,
That may thy tunefull eare unseason quite?
Thou onely fit this argument to write
In whose high thoughts Pleasure hath built her bowre,
And dainty Love learnd sweetly to endite.
My rimes I know unsavory and sowre,
To taste the streames, that, like a golden showre,
Flow from thy fruitfull head, of thy Loves praise;
Fitter perhaps to thunder martiall stowre,
When so thee list thy loftie Muse to raise:
Yet, till that thou thy poeme wilt make knowne,
Let thy faire Cinthias praises be thus rudely showne.

E. S.

* * * * *

TO
THE MOST HIGH, MIGHTIE, AND MAGNIFICENT
EMPERESSE
RENOWNED FOR PIETIE, VERTVE, AND ALL GRATIOVS GOVERNMENT

ELIZABETH

BY THE GRACE OF GOD
Queen of England, Fraunce and Ireland, and of Virginia,
Defender of the Faith etc.

HER MOST HUMBLE SERVAUNT
EDMVND SPENSER
DOTH IN ALL HUMILITIE
DEDICATE, PRESENT, AND CONSECRATE THESE HIS LABOVRS
TO LIVE WITH THE ETERNITIE OF HER FAME.


* * * * *

THE FIRST BOOKE OF
THE FAERIE QUEENE

CONTAINING

THE LEGENDE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED
CROSSE, OR OF HOLINESSE


* * * * *

I

Lo I the man,? whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies? gentle deeds; 5
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize my song.

II

Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine,? 10
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will;
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie knights? and fairest Tanaquill,?
Whom that most noble Briton Prince? so long 15
Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill,
That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong.

III

And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove,?
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 20
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove,
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde;
Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart,? 25
In loves and gentle jollities arrayd,
After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd.

IV

And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright,?
Mirrour of grace and Majestie divine,
Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light 30
Like Phoebus lampe? throughout the world doth shine,
Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne,
And raise my thoughts, too humble and too vile,
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,?
The argument of mine afflicted stile:? 35
The which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest dred,? a-while.

* * * * *

CANTO I

The Patron of true Holinesse
foule Errour doth defeate;
Hypocrisie him to entrappe
doth to his home entreate.

I

A GENTLE Knight? was pricking on the plaine,
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde,
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
The cruel markes of many'a bloudy fielde;
Yet armes till that time did he never wield: 5
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.

II

And on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore, 10
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead as living ever him ador'd:
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,
For soveraine hope,? which in his helpe he had: 15
Right faithfull true he was in deede and word,
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

III

Upon a great adventure he was bond,
That greatest Gloriana? to him gave, 20
That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond,
To winne him worship, and her grace to have,
Which of all earthly things he most did crave;
And ever as he rode, his hart did earne
To prove his puissance in battell brave 25
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne;
Upon his foe, a Dragon? horrible and stearne.

IV

A lovely Ladie? rode him faire beside,
Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow,
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide 30
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low,
And over all a blacke stole she did throw,
As one that inly mournd: so was she sad,
And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow;
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, 35
And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad.

V

So pure and innocent, as that same lambe,
She was in life and every vertuous lore,
And by descent from Royall lynage came
Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore 40
Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore,
And all the world in their subjection held;
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore
Forwasted all their land, and them expeld:
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld. 45

VI

Behind her farre away a Dwarfe? did lag,
That lasie seemd in being ever last,
Or wearied with bearing of her bag
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past,
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 50
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine
Did poure into his Lemans lap so fast,
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain,
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain.

VII

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 55
A shadie grove? not far away they spide,
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand:
Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide,
Not perceable with power of any starre: 60
And all within were pathes and alleies wide,
With footing worne, and leading inward farre:
Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they entred arre.

VIII

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, 65
Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred,
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky.
Much can they prayse the trees so straight and hy,
The sayling Pine,? the Cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar never dry,? 70
The builder Oake,? sole king of forrests all,
The Aspine good for staves, the Cypresse funerall. ?

IX

The Laurell,? meed of mightie Conquerours
And Poets sage, the firre that weepeth still,?
The Willow? worne of forlorne Paramours, 75
The Eugh? obedient to the benders will,
The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill,
The Mirrhe? sweete bleeding in the bitter wound,
The warlike Beech,? the Ash for nothing ill,?
The fruitfull Olive, and the Platane round, 80
The carver Holme,? the Maple seeldom inward sound.

X

Led with delight, they thus beguile the way,
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne;
When weening to returne, whence they did stray,
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 85
But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne,
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene,
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne:
So many pathes, so many turnings seene,
That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. 90

XI

At last resolving forward still to fare,
Till that some end they finde or in or out,
That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare,
And like to lead the labyrinth about;
Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, 95
At length it brought them to a hollow cave
Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout
Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave,
And to the Dwarfe awhile his needlesse spere he gave.

XII

Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie milde, 100
Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke:
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde,
Breedes dreadfull doubts: Oft fire is without smoke,
And perill without show: therefore your stroke,
Sir Knight, with-hold, till further triall made. 105
Ah Ladie, (said he) shame were to revoke?
The forward footing for an hidden shade:
Vertue gives her selfe light, through darkenesse for to wade.

XIII

Yea but (quoth she) the perill of this place
I better wot then you, though now too late 110
To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace,
Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate,
To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate.
This is the wandring wood,? this Errours den,
A monster vile, whom God and man does hate: 115
Therefore I read beware. Fly fly (quoth then
The fearefull Dwarfe) this is no place for living men.
XIV

But full of fire and greedy hardiment,
The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide,
But forth unto the darksome hole he went, 120
And looked in: his glistring armor made
A litle glooming light, much like a shade,
By which he saw the ugly monster? plaine,
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide,
But th'other halfe did womans shape retaine, 125
Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. ?

XV

And as she lay upon the durtie ground,
Her huge long taile her den all overspred,
Yet was in knots and many boughtes upwound,
Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred? 130
A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed,
Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, eachone
Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored:
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone,
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. 135

XVI

Their dam upstart, out of her den effraide,
And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile
About her cursed head, whose folds displaid
Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile.
She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle 140
Armed to point,? sought backe to turne againe;
For light she hated as the deadly bale,
Ay wont in desert darknesse to remaine,
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine.

XVII

Which when the valiant Elfe? perceiv'd, he lept 145
As Lyon fierce upon the flying pray,
And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept
From turning backe, and forced her to stay:
Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray,
And turning fierce, her speckled taile advaunst, 150
Threatning her angry sting, him to dismay:
Who nought aghast his mightie hand enhaunst:
The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst.

XVIII

Much daunted with that dint, her sence was dazd,
Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round, 155
And all attonce her beastly body raizd
With doubled forces high above the ground:
Tho wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd,
Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine
All suddenly about his body wound, 160
That hand or foot to stirre he strove in vaine:
God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine.

XIX

His Lady sad to see his sore constraint,
Cride out, Now now Sir knight, shew what ye bee,
Add faith unto your force, and be not faint: 165
Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee.
That when he heard, in great perplexitie,
His gall did grate for griefe? and high disdaine,
And knitting all his force got one hand free,
Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, 170
That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine.

XX

Therewith she spewd out of her filthy maw
A floud of poyson horrible and blacke,
Full of great lumpes of flesh and gobbets raw,
Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke 175
His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe:
Her vomit full of bookes? and papers was,
With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke,
And creeping sought way in the weedy gras:
Her filthy parbreake all the place defiled has. 180

XXI

As when old father Nilus? gins to swell
With timely pride above the Aegyptian vale,
His fattie waves do fertile slime outwell,
And overflow each plaine and lowly dale:
But when his later spring gins to avale, 185
Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherein there breed
Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male
And partly female of his fruitful seed;
Such ugly monstrous shapes elswhere may no man reed.

XXII

The same so sore annoyed has the knight, 190
That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke,
His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight.
Whose corage when the feend perceiv'd to shrinke,
She poured forth out of her hellish sinke
Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, 195
Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke,
With swarming all about his legs did crall,
And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all.

XXIII

As gentle Shepheard? in sweete even-tide,
When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west, 200
High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide,
Markes which do byte their hasty supper best,
A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest,
All striving to infixe their feeble stings,
That from their noyance he no where can rest, 205
But with his clownish hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.

XXIV

Thus ill bestedd,? and fearefull more of shame,
Then of the certeine perill he stood in,
Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 210
Resolv'd in minde all suddenly to win,
Or soone to lose, before he once would lin
And strooke at her with more then manly force,
That from her body full of filthie sin
He raft her hatefull head without remorse; 215
A streame of cole black bloud forth gushed from her corse.

XXV

Her scattred brood,? soone as their Parent deare
They saw so rudely falling to the ground,
Groning full deadly, all with troublous feare,
Gathred themselves about her body round, 220
Weening their wonted entrance to have found
At her wide mouth: but being there withstood
They flocked all about her bleeding wound,
And sucked up their dying mothers blood,
Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. 225

XXVI

That detestable sight him much amazde,
To see th' unkindly Impes, of heaven accurst,
Devoure their dam; on whom while so he gazd,
Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst,
Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst, 230
And bowels gushing forth: well worthy end
Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst;?
Now needeth him no lenger labour spend,
His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. ?

XXVII

His Ladie seeing all that chaunst, from farre 235
Approcht in hast to greet his victorie,
And said, Faire knight, borne under happy starre,?
Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye:
Well worthie be you of that Armorie,?
Wherin ye have great glory wonne this day, 240
And proov'd your strength on a strong enimie,
Your first adventure: many such I pray,
And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it may. ?

XXVIII

Then mounted he upon his Steede againe,
And with the Lady backward sought to wend; 245
That path he kept which beaten was most plaine,
Ne ever would to any by-way bend,
But still did follow one unto the end,
The which at last out of the wood them brought.
So forward on his way (with God to frend)? 250
He passed forth, and new adventure sought;
Long way he travelled, before he heard of ought.

XXIX

At length they chaunst to meet upon the way
An aged Sire,? in long blacke weedes yclad,
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray 255
And by his belt his booke he hanging had;
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad,
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent,
Simple in shew, and voyde of malice bad,
And all the way he prayed, as he went, 260
And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent.

XXX

He faire the knight saluted, louting low,
Who faire him quited, as that courteous was:
And after asked him, if he did know
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas. 265
Ah my deare Sonne (quoth he) how should, alas,
Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell,
Bidding his beades all day for his trespas,
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell?
With holy father sits not with such things to mell. 270

XXXI

But if of daunger which hereby doth dwell,
And homebred evil ye desire to heare,
Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell,
That wasteth all this countrey farre and neare.
Of such (said he) I chiefly do inquere, 275
And shall you well reward to shew the place,
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare:
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace,
That such a cursed creature lives so long a space.

XXXII

Far hence (quoth he) in wastfull wildernesse 280
His dwelling is, by which no living wight
May ever passe, but thorough great distresse.
Now (sayd the Lady) draweth toward night,
And well I wote, that of your later fight
Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong, 285
But wanting rest will also want of might?
The Sunne that measures heaven all day long,
At night doth baite his steedes the Ocean waves emong.

XXXIII

Then with the Sunne take Sir, your timely rest,
And with new day new worke at once begin: 290
Untroubled night they say gives counsell best.
Right well Sir knight ye have advised bin,
(Quoth then that aged man;) the way to win
Is wisely to advise: now day is spent;
Therefore with me ye may take up your In? 295
For this same night. The knight was well content:
So with that godly father to his home they went.

XXXIV

A little lowly Hermitage it was,
Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side,
Far from resort of people, that did pas 300
In travell to and froe: a little wyde?
There was an holy Chappell edifyde,
Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say
His holy things each morne and eventyde:
Thereby a Christall streame did gently play, 305
Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway.

XXXV

Arrived there, the little house they fill,
Ne looke for entertainement, where none was:
Rest is their feast, and all things at their will:
The noblest mind the best contentment has. 310
With faire discourse the evening so they pas:
For that old man of pleasing wordes had store,
And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas,
He told of Saintes and Popes, and evermore
He strowd an _Ave-Mary_? after and before. 315

XXXVI

The drouping Night thus creepeth on them fast,
And the sad humour? loading their eye liddes,
As messenger of Morpheus? on them cast
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleepe them biddes.
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes: 320
Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes,
He to this study goes, and there amiddes
His Magick bookes and artes? of sundry kindes,
He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble sleepy mindes.

XXXVII

Then choosing out few words most horrible, 325
(Let none them read) thereof did verses frame,
With which and other spelles like terrible,
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame,?
And cursed heaven and spake reprochfull shame
Of highest God, the Lord of life and light; 330
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name
Great Gorgon,? Prince of darknesse and dead night,
At which Cocytus? quakes, and Styx is put to flight.

XXXVIII

And forth he cald out of deepe darknesse dred
Legions of Sprights,? the which like little flyes 335
Fluttring about his ever damned hed,
Awaite whereto their service he applyes,
To aide his friends, or fray his enimies:
Of those he chose? out two, the falsest twoo,
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes; 340
The one of them he gave a message too,
The other by him selfe staide other worke to doo.

XXXIX

He making speedy way through spersed ayre,
And through the world of waters wide and deepe,
To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 345
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe,
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe,
His dwelling is; there Tethys? his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia? still doth steepe
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 350
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred.

XL

Whose double gates? he findeth locked fast,
The one faire fram'd of burnisht Yvory,
The other all with silver overcast;
And wakeful dogges before them farre do lye, 355
Watching to banish Care their enimy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe.
By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe
In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes keepe. 360

XLI

And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,?
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne: 365
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne,
Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes,
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.

XLII

The messenger approching to him spake, 370
But his wast wordes returnd to him in vaine:
So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake.
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine
Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe
Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. 375
As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine?
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake,
He mumbled soft, but would not all? his silence breake.

XLIII

The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake,
And threatned unto him the dreaded name 380
Of Hecate? : whereat he gan to quake,
And lifting up his lumpish head, with blame
Halfe angry asked him, for what he came.
Hither (quoth he) me Archimago sent,
He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame, 385
He bids thee to him send for his intent
A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent. ?

XLIV

The God obayde, and, calling forth straightway
A diverse dreame out of his prison darke,
Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 390
His heavie head, devoide of carefull carke,
Whose sences all were straight benumbed and starke.
He backe returning by the Yvorie dore,
Remounted up as light as chearefull Larke,
And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 395
In hast unto his Lord, where he him left afore.

XLV

Who all this while with charmes and hidden artes,
Had made a Lady of that other Spright,
And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes
So lively, and so like in all mens sight, 400
That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight:
The maker selfe, for all his wondrous witt,
Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight:
Her all in white he clad, and over it
Cast a black stole, most like to seeme? for Una fit. 405

XLVI

Now when that ydle dreame was to him brought,
Unto that Elfin knight he bad him fly,
Where he slept soundly void of evill thought,
And with false shewes abuse his fantasy,
In sort as he him schooled privily: 410
And that new creature, borne without her dew,?
Full of the makers guile, with usage sly
He taught to imitate that Lady trew,
Whose semblance she did carrie under feigned hew.

XLVII

Thus well instructed, to their worke they hast, 415
And coming where the knight in slomber lay,
The one upon his hardy head him plast
And made him dreame of loves and lustfull play,
That nigh his manly hart did melt away,
Bathed in wanton blis and wicked joy: 420
Then seemed him his Lady by him lay,
And to him playnd, how that false winged boy,
Her chast hart had subdewd, to learne Dame Pleasures toy.

XLVIII

And she herselfe of beautie soveraigne Queene,
Fayre Venus? seemde unto his bed to bring 425
Her, whom he waking evermore did weene,
To bee the chastest flowre, that ay did spring
On earthly braunch, the daughter of a king,
Now a loose Leman to vile service bound:
And eke the Graces? seemed all to sing, 430
_Hymen Io Hymen_? dauncing all around,
Whilst freshest Flora? her with Yvie girlond crownd.

XLIX

In this great passion of unwonted lust,
Or wonted feare of doing ought amis,
He started up, as seeming to mistrust 435
Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his:
Lo there before his face his Lady is,
Under blake stole hyding her bayted hooke;
And as halfe blushing offred him to kis,
With gentle blandishment and lovely looke, 440
Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took.

L

All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight,
And half enraged at her shamelesse guise,
He thought have slaine her in his fierce despight:
But hasty heat tempring with suffrance wise, 445
He stayde his hand, and gan himselfe advise
To prove his sense,? and tempt her faigned truth.
Wringing her hands in womans pitteous wise,
Tho can she weepe,? to stirre up gentle ruth,
Both for her noble bloud, and for her tender youth. 450

LI

And said, Ah Sir, my liege Lord and my love,
Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate,
And mightie causes wrought in heaven above,
Or the blind God,? that doth me thus amate,
For hoped love to winne me certaine hate? 455
Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die.
Die is my dew; yet rew my wretched state
You, whom my hard avenging destinie
Hath made judge of my life or death indifferently.

LII

Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leave 460
My Fathers kingdome--There she stopt with teares;
Her swollen hart her speech seemd to bereave,
And then againe begun; My weaker yeares
Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares,
Fly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde: 465
Let me not dye in languor and long teares.
Why Dame (quoth he) what hath ye thus dismayd?
What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me affrayd?

LIII

Love of your selfe, she saide, and deare constraint,
Lets me not sleepe, but wast the wearie night 470
In secret anguish and unpittied plaint,
Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight.
Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knight
Suspect her truth: yet since no' untruth he knew,
Her fawning love with foule disdainefull spight 475
He would not shend; but said, Deare dame I rew,
That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew.

LIV

Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground;?
For all so deare as life is to my hart,
I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound: 480
Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart,
Where cause is none, but to your rest depart.
Not all content, yet seemd she to appease
Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art,
And fed with words that could not chuse but please, 485
So slyding softly forth, she turned as to her ease.

LV

Long after lay he musing at her mood,
Much griev'd to thinke that gentle Dame so light,
For whose defence he was to shed his blood.
At last, dull wearinesse of former fight 490
Having yrockt asleepe his irkesome spright,
That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine,
With bowres, and beds, and Ladies deare delight:
But when he saw his labour all was vaine,
With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe. 495

* * * * *

CANTO II

The guilefull great Enchaunter parts
the Redcrosse Knight from truth,
Into whose stead faire Falshood steps,
and workes him wofull ruth.

I

By this the Northerne wagoner? had set
His sevenfold teme? behind the stedfast starre,?
That was in Ocean waves yet never wet,
But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre
To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre: 5
And chearefull Chaunticlere? with his note shrill
Had warned once, that Phoebus fiery carre?
In hast was climbing up the Easterne hill,
Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.

II

When those accursed messengers of hell, 10
That feigning dreame, and that faire-forged Spright?
Came to their wicked maister, and gan tell
Their bootelesse paines, and ill succeeding night:
Who all in rage to see his skilfull might
Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine 15
And sad Proserpines wrath, them to affright.
But when he saw his threatning was but vaine,
He cast about, and searcht his baleful bookes againe.

III

Eftsoones he tooke that miscreated faire,
And that false other Spright, on whom he spred 20
A seeming body of the subtile aire,
Like a young Squire, in loves and lustybed
His wanton dayes that ever loosely led,
Without regard of armes and dreaded fight:
Those two he tooke, and in a secret bed, 25
Coverd with darknesse and misdeeming night,
Them both together laid, to joy in vaine delight.

IV

Forthwith he runnes with feigned faithfull hast
Unto his guest, who after troublous sights
And dreames, gan now to take more sound repast, 30
Whom suddenly he wakes with fearfull frights,
As one aghast with feends or damned sprights,
And to him cals, Rise, rise, unhappy Swaine
That here wex old in sleepe, whiles wicked wights
Have knit themselves in Venus shameful chaine, 35
Come see where your false Lady doth her honour staine.

V

All in amaze he suddenly upstart
With sword in hand, and with the old man went
Who soone him brought into a secret part
Where that false couple were full closely ment 40
In wanton lust and leud embracement:
Which when he saw, he burnt with gealous fire,
The eye of reason was with rage yblent,
And would have slaine them in his furious ire,
But hardly was restreined of that aged sire. 45

VI

Returning to his bed in torment great,
And bitter anguish of his guiltie sight,
He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat,
And wast his inward gall with deepe despight,
Yrkesome of life, and too long lingring night. 50
At last faire Hesperus? in highest skie
Had spent his lampe and brought forth dawning light,
Then up he rose, and clad him hastily;
The Dwarfe him brought his steed: so both away do fly.

VII

Now when the rosy-fingred Morning? faire, 55
Weary of aged Tithones? saffron bed,
Had spread her purple robe through deawy aire,
And the high hils Titan? discovered,
The royall virgin shooke off drowsy-hed;
And rising forth out of her baser bowre, 60
Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled,
And for her Dwarfe, that wont to wait each houre:
Then gan she waile and weepe, to see that woefull stowre.

VIII

And after him she rode with so much speede
As her slow beast could make; but all in vaine: 65
For him so far had borne his light-foot steede,
Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce disdaine,
That him to follow was but fruitlesse paine;
Yet she her weary limbes would never rest,
But every hill and dale, each wood and plaine, 70
Did search, sore grieved in her gentle brest,
He so ungently left her, whom she loved best.

IX

But subtill Archimago, when his guests
He saw divided into double parts,
And Una wandring in woods and forrests, 75
Th' end of his drift, he praisd his divelish arts,
That had such might over true meaning harts:
Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make,
How he may worke unto her further smarts:
For her he hated as the hissing snake, 80
And in her many troubles did most pleasure take.

X

He then devisde himselfe how to disguise;
For by his mightie science he could take
As many formes and shapes in seeming wise,
As ever Proteus? to himselfe could make: 85
Sometime a fowle, sometime a fish in lake,
Now like a foxe, now like a dragon fell,
That of himselfe he ofte for feare would quake,
And oft would flie away. O who can tell
The hidden power of herbes? and might of Magicke spell? 90

XI

But now seemde best the person to put on
Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest:
In mighty armes he was yclad anon:
And silver shield, upon his coward brest
A bloudy crosse, and on his craven crest 95
A bounch of haires discolourd diversly:
Full jolly knight he seemde, and well addrest,
And when he sate upon his courser free,
Saint George himself ye would have deemed him to be.

XII

But he the knight, whose semblaunt he did beare, 100
The true Saint George, was wandred far away,
Still flying from his thoughts and gealous feare;
Will was his guide, and griefe led him astray.
At last him chaunst to meete upon the way
A faithless Sarazin? all arm'd to point, 105
In whose great shield was writ with letters gay
_Sans foy:_ full large of limbe and every joint
He was, and cared not for God or man a point.

XIII

He had a faire companion? of his way,
A goodly Lady clad in scarlot red, 110
Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay,
And like a Persian mitre on her hed
She wore, with crowns and owches garnished,
The which her lavish lovers to her gave;
Her wanton palfrey all was overspred 115
With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave,
Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses brave.

XIV

With faire disport and courting dalliaunce
She intertainde her lover all the way:
But when she saw the knight his speare advaunce, 120
She soone left off her mirth and wanton play,
And bade her knight addresse him to the fray:
His foe was nigh at hand. He prickt with pride
And hope to winne his Ladies heart that day,
Forth spurred fast: adowne his coursers side 125
The red bloud trickling staind the way, as he did ride.

XV

The knight of the Redcrosse when him he spide,
Spurring so hote with rage dispiteous,
Gan fairely couch his speare, and towards ride:
Soone meete they both, both fell and furious, 130
That daunted with their forces hideous,
Their steeds do stagger, and amazed stand,
And eke themselves, too rudely rigorous,
Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand
Doe backe rebut, and each to other yeeldeth land. 135

XVI

As when two rams? stird with ambitious pride,
Fight for the rule of the rich fleeced flocke,
Their horned fronts so fierce on either side
Do meete, that with the terrour of the shocke
Astonied both, stand sencelesse as a blocke, 140
Forgetfull of the hanging victory:?
So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke,
Both staring fierce, and holding idely
The broken reliques? of their former cruelty.

XVII

The Sarazin sore daunted with the buffe 145
Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies;
Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff:
Each others equall puissaunce envies,?
And through their iron sides? with cruell spies
Does seeke to perce: repining courage yields 150
No foote to foe. The flashing fier flies
As from a forge out of their burning shields,
And streams of purple bloud new dies the verdant fields.

XVIII

Curse on that Crosse (quoth then the Sarazin),
That keepes thy body from the bitter fit;? 155
Dead long ygoe I wote thou haddest bin,
Had not that charme from thee forwarned it:
But yet I warne thee now assured sitt,?
And hide thy head. Therewith upon his crest
With rigour so outrageous? he smitt, 160
That a large share? it hewd out of the rest,
And glauncing down his shield from blame him fairly blest. ?

XIX

Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark
Of native vertue gan eftsoones revive,
And at his haughtie helmet making mark, 165
So hugely stroke, that it the steele did rive,
And cleft his head. He tumbling downe alive,
With bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis.
Greeting his grave: his grudging? ghost did strive
With the fraile flesh; at last it flitted is, 170
Whither the soules do fly of men that live amis.

XX

The Lady when she saw her champion fall,
Like the old ruines of a broken towre,
Staid not to waile his woefull funerall,
But from him fled away with all her powre; 175
Who after her as hastily gan scowre,
Bidding the Dwarfe with him to bring away
The Sarazins shield, signe of the conqueroure.
Her soone he overtooke, and bad to stay,
For present cause was none of dread her to dismay. 180

XXI

She turning backe with ruefull countenaunce,
Cride, Mercy mercy Sir vouchsafe to show
On silly Dame, subject to hard mischaunce,
And to your mighty will. Her humblesse low
In so ritch weedes and seeming glorious show, 185
Did much emmove his stout heroicke heart,
And said, Deare dame, your suddin overthrow
Much rueth me; but now put feare apart,
And tell, both who ye be, and who that tooke your part.

XXII

Melting in teares, then gan she thus lament; 190
The wretched woman, whom unhappy howre
Hath now made thrall to your commandement,
Before that angry heavens list to lowre,
And fortune false betraide me to your powre,
Was, (O what now availeth that I was! ) 195
Borne the sole daughter of an Emperour,?
He that the wide West under his rule has,
And high hath set his throne, where Tiberis doth pas.

XXIII

He in the first flowre of my freshest age,
Betrothed me unto the onely haire? 200
Of a most mighty king, most rich and sage;
Was never Prince so faithfull and so faire,
Was never Prince so meeke and debonaire;
But ere my hoped day of spousall shone,
My dearest Lord fell from high honours staire 205
Into the hands of his accursed fone,
And cruelly was slaine, that shall I ever mone.

XXIV

His blessed body spoild of lively breath,
Was afterward, I know not how, convaid
And fro me hid: of whose most innocent death 210
When tidings came to me, unhappy maid,
O how great sorrow my sad soule assaid.
Then forth I went his woefull corse to find,
And many yeares throughout the world I straid,
A virgin widow, whose deepe wounded mind 215
With love long time did languish as the striken hind.

XXV

At last it chaunced this proud Sarazin
To meete me wandring, who perforce me led
With him away, but yet could never win
The Fort, that Ladies hold in soveraigne dread; 220
There lies he now with foule dishonour dead,
Who whiles he livde, was called proud Sansfoy,
The eldest of three brethren, all three bred
Of one bad sire, whose youngest is Sansjoy;
And twixt them both was born the bloudy bold Sansloy. 225

XXVI

In this sad plight, friendlesse, unfortunate,
Now miserable I Fidessa dwell,
Craving of you in pitty of my state,
To do none ill, if please ye not do well.
He in great passion all this while did dwell, 230
More busying his quicke eyes, her face to view,
Then his dull eares, to heare what she did tell;
And said, Faire Lady hart of flint would rew
The undeserved woes and sorrowes which ye shew.

XXVII

Henceforth in safe assuraunce may ye rest, 235
Having both found a new friend you to aid,
And lost an old foe that did you molest:
Better new friend then an old foe is said.
With chaunge of cheare the seeming simple maid
Let fall her eyen, as shamefast to the earth, 240
And yeelding soft, in that she nought gain-said,
So forth they rode, he feining seemely merth,
And she coy lookes: so dainty they say maketh derth. ?

XXVIII

Long time they thus together traveiled,
Till weary of their way, they came at last 245
Where grew two goodly trees, that faire did spred
Their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcast,
And their greene leaves trembling with every blast,
Made a calme shadow far in compasse round:
The fearfull Shepheard often there aghast 250
Under them never sat, ne wont there sound?
His mery oaten pipe, but shund th' unlucky ground.

XXIX

But this good knight soone as he them can spie,
For the cool shade? him thither hastly got:
For golden Phoebus now ymounted hie, 255
From fiery wheeles of his faire chariot
Hurled his beame so scorching cruell hot,
That living creature mote it not abide;
And his new Lady it endured not.
There they alight, in hope themselves to hide 260
From the fierce heat, and rest their weary limbs a tide.

XXX

Faire seemely pleasaunce? each to other makes,
With goodly purposes? there as they sit:
And in his falsed fancy he her takes
To be the fairest wight that lived yit; 265
Which to expresse he bends his gentle wit,
And thinking of those braunches greene to frame
A girlond for her dainty forehead fit,
He pluckt a bough;? out of whose rift there came
Small drops of gory bloud, that trickled down the same. 270

XXXI

Therewith a piteous yelling voyce was heard,
Crying, O spare with guilty hands? to teare
My tender sides in this rough rynd embard,
But fly, ah fly far hence away, for feare
Least to you hap, that happened to me heare, 275
And to this wretched Lady, my deare love,
O too deare love, love bought with death too deare.
Astond he stood, and up his haire did hove,
And with that suddein horror could no member move.

XXXII

At last whenas the dreadfull passion 280
Was overpast, and manhood well awake,
Yet musing at the straunge occasion,
And doubting much his sence, he thus bespake;
What voyce of damned Ghost from Limbo lake,?