The Faerie Queene

by Edmund Spenser

  She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile,

  Yet wist, she was not well at ease perdy,

  Yet thought it was not loue, but some melancholy.

  28 So soone as Night had with her pallid hew

  Defast the beautie of the shining sky,

  And reft from men the worlds desired vew,

  She with her Nourse adowne to sleepe did lye;

  But sleepe full farre away from her did fly:

  In stead thereof sad sighes, and sorrowes deepe

  Kept watch and ward about her warily,

  That nought she did but wayle, and often steepe

  Her daintie couch with teares, which closely she did weepe.

  29 And if that any drop of slombring rest

  Did chaunce to still into her wearie spright,

  When feeble nature felt her selfe opprest,

  Streight way with dreames, and with fantasticke sight

  Of dreadfull things the same was put to flight.

  That oft out of her bed she did astart,

  As one with vew of ghastly feends affright:

  Tho gan she to renew her former smart,

  And thinke of that faire visage, written in her hart.

  30 One night, when she was tost with such vnrest,

  Her aged Nurse, whose name was Glauce bight,

  Feeling her leape out of her loathed nest,

  Betwixt her feeble armes her quickly keight,

  And downe againe in her warme bed her dight;

  Ah my deare daughter, ah my dearest dread,

  What vncouth fit (said she) what euill plight

  Hath thee opprest, and with sad drearyhead

  Chaunged thy liuely cheare, and liuing made thee dead?

  31 For not of nought these suddeine ghastly feares

  All night afflict thy naturall repose,

  And all the day, when as thine equall peares

  Their fit disports with faire delight doe chose,

  Thou in dull corners doest thy selfe inclose,

  Ne tastest Princes pleasures, ne doest spred

  Abroad thy fresh youthes fairest flowre, but lose

  Both leafe and fruit, both too vntimely shed,

  As one in wilfull bale for euer buried.

  32 The time, that mortall men their weary cares

  Do lay away, and all wilde beastes do rest,

  And euery riuer eke his course forbeares

  Then doth this wicked euill thee infest,

  And riue with thousand throbs thy thrilled brest;

  Like an huge Aetn’ of deepe engulfed griefe,

  Sorrow is heaped in thy hollow chest,

  Whence forth it breakes in sighes and anguish rife,

  As smoke and sulphure mingled with confused strife.

  33 Aye me, how much I feare, least loue it bee;

  But if that loue it be, as sure I read

  By knowen signes and passions, which I see,

  Be it worthy of thy race and royall sead,

  Then I auow by this most sacred head

  Of my deare foster child, to ease thy griefe,

  And win thy will: Therefore away doe dread;

  For death nor daunger from thy dew reliefe

  Shall me debarre, tell me therefore my liefest liefe.

  34 So hauing said, her twixt her armes twaine

  She straightly straynd, and colled tenderly,

  And euery trembling ioynt, and euery vaine

  She softly felt, and rubbed busily,

  To doe the frosen cold away to fly;

  And her faire deawy eies with kisses deare

  She oft did bath, and oft againe did dry;

  And euer her iniportund, not to feare

  To let the secret of her hart to her appeare.

  35 The Damzell pauzd, and then thus fearefully;

  Ah Nurse, what needeth thee to eke my paine?

  Is not enough, that I alone doe dye,

  But it must doubled be with death of twaine?

  For nought for me but death there doth remaine.

  O daughter deare (said she) despaire no whit;

  For neuer sore, but might a salue obtaine:

  That blinded God, which hath ye blindly smit,

  Another arrow hath your louers hart to hit.

  36 But mine is not (quoth she) like others wound;

  For which no reason can find remedy.

  Was neuer such, but mote the like be found,

  (Said she) and though no reason may apply

  Salue to your sore, yet loue can higher stye,

  Then reasons reach, and oft hath wonders donne.

  But neither God of loue, nor God of sky

  Can doe (said she) that, which cannot be donne.

  Things oft impossible (quoth she) seeme, ere begonne.

  37 These idle words (said she) doe nought asswage

  My stubborne smart, but more annoyance breed,

  For no no vsuall fire, no vsuall rage

  It is, ô Nurse, which on my life doth feed,

  And suckes the bloud, which from my hart doth bleed.

  But since thy faithfull zeale lets me not hyde

  My crime, (if crime it be) I will it reed.

  Nor Prince, nor pere it is, whose loue hath gryde

  My feeble brest of late, and launched this wound wyde.

  38 Nor man it is, nor other liuing wight:

  For then some hope I might vnto me draw,

  But th’only shade and semblant of a knight,

  Whose shape or person yet I neuer saw,

  Hath me subiected to loues cruell law:

  The same one day, as me misfortune led,

  I in my fathers wondrous mirrhour saw,

  And pleased with that seeming goodly-hed,

  Vnwares the hidden hooke with baite I swallowed.

  39 Sithens it hath infixed faster hold

  Within my bleeding bowels, and so sore

  Now ranckleth in this same fraile fleshly mould,

  That all mine entrailes flow with poysnous gore.

  And th’vlcer groweth daily more and more;

  Ne can my running sore find remedie,

  Other then my hard fortune to deplore,

  And languish as the leafe falne from the tree,

  Till death make one end of my dayes and miserie.

  40 Daughter (said she) what need ye be dismayd,

  Or why make ye such Monster of your mind?

  Of much more vncouth thing I was affrayd;

  Of filthy lust, contrarie vnto kind:

  But this affection nothing straunge I find;

  For who with reason can you aye reproue,

  To loue the semblant pleasing most your mind,

  And yield your heart, whence ye cannot remoue?

  No guilt in you, but in the tyranny of loue.

  41 Not so th’Arabian Myrrhe did set her mind;

  Nor so did Biblis spend her pining hart,

  But lou’d their natiue flesh against all kind,

  And to their purpose vsed wicked art:

  Yet playd Pasiphaë a more monstrous part,

  That lou’d a Bull, and learnd a beast to bee;

  Such shamefull lusts who loaths not, which depart

  From course of nature and of modestie?

  Sweet loue such lewdnes bands from his faire companie.

  42 But thine my Deare (welfare thy heart my deare)

  Though strange beginning had, yet fixed is

  On one, that worthy may perhaps appeare;

  And certes seemes bestowed not amis:

  Ioy thereof haue thou and eternall blis.

  With that vpleaning on her elbow weake,

  Her alablaster brest she soft did kis,

  Which all that while she felt to pant and quake,

  As it an Earth-quake were; at last she thus bespake.

  43 Beldame, your words doe worke me litle ease;

  For though my loue be not so lewdly bent,

  As those ye blame, yet may it nought appease


  My raging smart, ne ought my flame relent,

  But rather doth my helpelesse griefe augment.

  For they, how euer shamefull and vnkind,

  Yet did possesse their horrible intent:

  Short end of sorrowes they thereby did find;

  So was their fortune good, though wicked were their mind.

  44 But wicked fortune mine, though mind be good,

  Can haue no end, nor hope of my desire,

  But feed on shadowes, whiles I die for food,

  And like a shadow wexe, whiles with entire

  Affection, I doe languish and expire.

  I fonder, then Cephisus foolish child,

  Who hauing vewed in a fountaine shere

  His face, was with the loue thereof beguild;

  I fonder loue a shade, the bodie farre exild.

  45 Nought like (quoth she) for that same wretched boy

  Was of himselfe the idle Paramoure;

  Both loue and louer, without hope of ioy,

  For which he faded to a watry flowre.

  But better fortune thine, and better howre,

  Which lou’st the shadow of a warlike knight;

  No shadow, but a bodie hath in powre:

  That bodie, wheresoeuer that it light,

  May learned be by cyphers, or by Magicke might.

  46 But if thou may with reason yet represse

  The growing euill, ere it strength haue got,

  And thee abandond wholly doe possesse,

  Against it strongly striue, and yield thee not,

  Till thou in open field adowne be smot.

  But if the passion mayster thy fraile might,

  So that needs loue or death must be thy lot,

  Then I auow to thee, by wrong or right

  To compasse thy desire, and find that loued knight.

  47 Her chearefull words much cheard the feeble spright

  Of the sicke virgin, that her downe she layd

  In her warme bed to sleepe, if that she might;

  And the old-woman carefully displayd

  The clothes about her round with busie ayd;

  So that at last a little creeping sleepe

  Surprisd her sense: She therewith well apayd,

  The drunken lampe downe in the oyle did steepe,

  And set her by to watch, and set her by to weepe.

  48 Earely the morrow next, before that day

  His ioyous face did to the world reueale,

  They both vprose and tooke their readie way

  Vnto the Church, their prayers to appeale,

  With great deuotion, and with litle zeale:

  For the faire Damzell from the holy herse

  Her loue-sicke hart to other thoughts did steale;

  And that old Dame said many an idle verse,

  Out of her daughters hart fond fancies to reuerse.

  49 Returned home, the royall Infant fell

  Into her former fit; for why, no powre

  Nor guidance of her selfe in her did dwell.

  But th’aged Nurse her calling to her bowre,

  Had gathered Rew, and Sauine, and the flowre

  Of Camphora, and Calamint, and Dill,

  All which she in a earthen Pot did poure,

  And to the brim with Colt wood did it fill,

  And many drops of milke and bloud through it did spill.

  50 Then taking thrise three haires from off her head,

  Them trebly breaded in a threefold lace,

  And round about the pots mouth, bound the thread,

  And after hauing whispered a space

  Certaine sad words, with hollow voice and bace,

  She to the virgin said, thrise said she it;

  Come daughter come, come; spit vpon my face,

  Spit thrise vpon me, thrise vpon me spit;

  Th’vneuen number for this businesse is most fit.

  51 That sayd, her round about she from her turnd,

  She turned her contrarie to the Sunne,

  Thrise she her turnd contrary, and returnd,

  All contrary, for she the right did shunne,

  And euer what she did, was streight vndonne.

  So thought she to vndoe her daughters loue:

  But loue, that is in gentle brest begonne,

  No idle charmes so lightly may remoue,

  That well can witnesse, who by triall it does proue.

  52 Ne ought it mote the noble Mayd auayle,

  Ne slake the furie of her cruell flame,

  But that she still did waste, and still did wayle,

  That through long languour, and hart-burning branie

  She shortly like a pyned ghost became,

  Which long hath waited by the Stygian strond.

  That when old Glauce saw, for feare least blame

  Of her miscarriage should in her be fond,

  She wist not how t’amend, nor how it to withstond.

  CANTO III

  Merlin bewrayes to Britomart,

  the state of Artegall.

  And shewes the famous Progeny

  which from them springen shall.

  1 Most sacred fire, that burnest mightily

  In liuing brests, ykindled first aboue,

  Emongst th’eternall spheres and lamping sky,

  And thence pourd into men, which men call Loue;

  Not that same, which doth base affections moue

  In brutish minds, and filthy lust inflame,

  But that sweet fit, that doth true beautie loue,

  And choseth vertue for his dearest Dame,

  Whence spring all noble deeds and neuer dying fame:

  2 Well did Antiquitie a God thee deeme,

  That ouer mortall minds hast so great might,

  To order them, as best to thee doth seeme,

  And all their actions to direct aright;

  The fatall purpose of diuine foresight,

  Thou doest effect in destined descents,

  Through deepe impression of thy secret might,

  And stirredst vp th’Heroes high intents,

  Which the late world admyres for wondrous moniments.

  3 But thy dread darts in none doe triumph more,

  Ne brauer proofe in any, of thy powre

  Shew’dst thou, then in this royall Maid of yore,

  Making her seeke an vnknowne Paramoure,

  From the worlds end, through many a bitter stowre:

  From whose two loynes thou afterwards did rayse

  Most famous fruits of matrimoniall bowre,

  Which through the earth haue spred their liuing prayse,

  That fame in trompe of gold eternally displayes

  4 Begin then, ô my dearest sacred Dame,

  Daughter of Phoebus and of Memorie,

  That doest ennoble with immortall name

  The warlike Worthies, from antiquitie,

  In thy great volume of Eternitie:

  Begin, ô Clio, and recount from hence

  My glorious Soueraines goodly auncestrie,

  Till that by dew degrees and long protense,

  Thou haue it lastly brought vnto her Excellence.

  5 Full many wayes within her troubled mind,

  Old Glance cast, to cure this Ladies griefe:

  Full many waies she sought, but none could find,

  Nor herbes, nor charmes, nor counsell, that is chiefe

  And choisest med’cine for sicke harts reliefe;

  For thy great care she tooke, and greater feare,

  Least that it should her turne to foule repriefe,

  And sore reproch, when so her father deare

  Should of his dearest daughters hard misfortune heare.

  6 At last she her auisd, that he, which made

  That mirrhour, wherein the sicke Damosell

  So straungely vewed her straunge louers shade,

  To weet, the learned Merlin, well could tell,

  Vnder what coast of heauen the man did dwell,

  And by what meanes his loue might best be wrought:


  For though beyond the Africk lsmaell,

  Or th’Indian Peru he were, she thought

  Him forth through infinite endeuour to haue sought

  7 Forthwith themselues disguising both in straunge

  And base attyre, that none might them bewray,

  To Maridunum, that is now by chaunge

  Of name Cayr-Merdin cald, they tooke their way:

  There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say)

  To make his wonne, low vnderneath the ground,

  In a deepe delue, farre from the vew of day,

  That of no liuing wight he mote be found,

  When so he counseld with his sprights encompast round.

  8 And if thou euer happen that same way

  To trauell, goe to see that dreadfull place:

  It is an hideous hollow caue (they say)

  Vnder a rocke that lyes a litle space

  From the swift Barry, tombling downe apace,

  Emongst the woodie hilles of Dyneuowre:

  But dare thou not, I charge, in any cace,

  To enter into that same balefull Bowre,

  For fear the cruell Feends should thee vnwares deuowre.

  9 But standing high aloft, low lay thine eare,

  And there such ghastly noise of yron chaines,

  And brasen Caudrons thou shalt rombling heare,

  Which thousand sprights with long enduring paines

  Doe tosse, that it will stonne thy feeble braines,

  And oftentimes great grones, and grieuous stounds,

  When too huge toile and labour them constraines:

  And oftentimes loud strokes, and ringing sounds

  From vnder that deepe Rocke most horribly rebounds.

  10 The cause some say is this: A litle while

  Before that Merlin dyde, he did intend,

  A brasen wall in compas to compile

  About Cairmardin, and did it commend

  Vnto these Sprights, to bring to perfect end.

  During which worke the Ladie of the Lake,

  Whom long he lou’d, for him in hast did send,

  Who thereby forst his workemen to forsake,

  Them bound till his returne, their labour not to slake.

  11 In the meane time through that false Ladies traine,

  He was surprisd, and buried vnder beare,

  Ne euer to his worke returnd againe:

  Nath’lesse those feends may not their worke forbeare,

  So greatly bis commaundement they feare,

  But there doe toyle and trauell day and night,

  Vntill that brasen wall they vp doe reare:

  For Merlin had in Magicke more insight,

  Then euer him before or after liuing wight.

  12 For he by words could call out of the sky

  Both Sunne and Moone, and make them him obay:

  The land to sea, and sea to maineland dry,