The Faerie Queene

by Edmund Spenser

To spare her Knight, and rest with reason pacifyde.

  50 But he the more thereby enraged was,

  And with more eager felnesse him pursew’d,

  So that at length, after long weary chace,

  Hauing by chaunce a close aduantage vew’d,

  He ouer raught him, hauing long eschew’d

  His violence in vaine, and with his spere

  Stxooke through his shoulder, that the blood ensew’d

  In great aboundance, as a well it were,

  That forth out of an hill fresh gushing did appere.

  51 Yet ceast he not for all that cruell wound,

  But chaste him still, for all his Ladies cry,

  Not satisfyde till on the fatall ground

  He saw his life powrd forth dispiteously:

  The which was certes in great ieopardy,

  Had not a wondrous chaunce his reskue wrought,

  And saued from his cruell villany.

  Such chaunces oft exceed all humaine thought:

  That in another Canto shall to end be brought.

  CANTO IIII

  Calepine by a saluage man

  from Turpine reskewed is,

  And wkylest an Infant from a Bean

  he saues, his hue doth misse.

  1 Like as a ship with dreadfull storme long tost,

  Hauing spent all her mastes and her ground-hold,

  Now farre from harbour likely to be lost,

  At last some fisher barke doth neare behold,

  That giueth comfort to her courage cold.

  Such was the state of this most courteous knight

  Being oppressed by that faytour bold,

  That he remayned in most perilous plight,

  And his sad Ladie left in pitifull affright.

  2 Till that by fortune, passing all foresight,

  A saluage man, which in those woods did wonne,

  Drawne with that Ladies loud and piteous shright,

  Toward the same incessantly did ronne,

  To vnderstand what there was to be donne.

  There he this most discourteous crauen found,

  As fiercely yet, as when he first begonne,

  Chasing the gentle Calepine around,

  Ne sparing him the more for all his grieuous wound.

  3 The saluage man, that neuer till this houre

  Did taste of pittie, neither gentlesse knew,

  Seeing his sharpe assault and cruell stoure

  Was much emmoued at his perils vew,

  That euen his ruder hart began to rew,

  And feele compassion of his euill plight,

  Against his foe that did him so pursew:

  From whom he meant to free him, if he might,

  And him auenge of that so villenous despight.

  4 Yet armes or weapon had he none to fight,

  Ne knew the vse of warlike instruments,

  Saue such as sudden rage him lent to smite,

  But naked without needfull vestiments,

  To dad his corpse with meete habiliments,

  He cared not for dint of sword nor speere,

  No more then for the strokes of strawes or bents:

  For from his mothers wombe, which him did beare

  He was invulnerable made by Magicke leare.

  5 He stayed not to aduize, which way were best

  His foe t’assayle, or how himselfe to gard,

  But with fierce fury and with force infest

  Vpon him ran; who being well prepard,

  His first assault full warily did ward,

  And with the push of his sharp-pointed speare

  Full on the breast him strooke, so strong and hard,

  That forst him backe recoyle, and reele areare;

  Yet in his bodie made no wound nor bloud appeare.

  6 With that the wyld man more enraged grew,

  Like to a Tygre that hath mist his pray,

  And with mad mood againe vpon him flew,

  Regarding neither speare, that mote him slay,

  Nor his fierce steed, that mote him much dismay.

  The saluage nation doth all dread despize:

  Tho on his shield he griple hold did lay,

  And held the same so hard, that by no wize

  He could him force to loose, or leaue his enterprize.

  7 Long did he wrest and wring it to and fro,

  And euery way did try, but all in vaine:

  For he would not his greedie grype forgoe,

  But hayld and puld with all his might and maine,

  That from his steed him nigh he drew againe.

  Who hauing now no vse of his long speare,

  So nigh at hand, nor force his shield to straine,

  Both speare and shield, as things that needlesse were,

  He quite forsooke, and fled himselfe away for feare.

  8 But after him the wyld man ran apace,

  And him pursewed with importune speed,

  (For he was swift as any Bucke in chace)

  And had he not in his extreamest need,

  Bene helped through the swiftnesse of his steed,

  He had him ouertaken in his flight.

  “Who euer, as he saw him nigh succeed,

  Gan cry aloud with horrible affright,

  And shrieked out, a thing vncomely for a knight.

  9 But when the Saluage saw his labour vaine,

  In following of him, that fled so fast,

  He wearie woxe, and backe return’d againe

  With speede vnto the place, whereas he last

  Had left that couple, nere their vtmost cast.

  There he that knight full sorely bleeding found,

  And eke the Ladie fearefully aghast,

  Both for the perill of the present stound,

  And also for the sharpnesse of her rankling wound.

  10 For though she were right glad, so rid to bee

  From that vile lozell, which her late offended,

  Yet now no lesse encombrance she did see,

  And perill by this saluage man pretended;

  Gainst whom she saw no meanes to be defended,

  By reason that her knight was wounded sore.

  Therefore her selfe she wholy recommended

  To Gods sole grace, whom she did oft implore,

  To send her succour, being of all hope forlore.

  11 But the wyld man, contrarie to her feare,

  Came to her creeping like a fawning hound,

  And by rude tokens made to her appeare

  His deepe compassion of her dolerull stound,

  Kissing his hands, and crouching to the ground;

  For other language had he none nor speach,

  But a soft murmure, and confused sound

  Of senselesse words, which nature did him teach,

  T’expresse his passions, which his reason did empeach.

  12 And comming likewise to the wounded knight,

  When he beheld the streames of purple blood

  Yet flowing fresh, as moued with the sight,

  He made great mone after his saluage mood,

  And running streight into the thickest wood,

  A certaine herbe from thence vnto him brought,

  Whose vertue he by vse well vnderstood:

  The iuyce whereof into his wound he wrought,

  And stopt the bleeding straight, ere he it staunched thought.

  13 Then taking vp that Recreants shield and speare,

  Which earst he left, he signes vnto them made,

  With him to wend vnto his worming neare:

  To which he easily did them perswade.

  Farre in the forrest by a hollow glade,

  Couered with mossie shrubs, which spredding brode

  Did vnderneath them make a gloomy shade;

  There foot of liuing creature neuer trode,

  Ne scarse wyld beasts durst come, there was this wights abode.

  14 Thether he brought these vnacquainted guests;

  To whom faire semblance, as he could, he shewed


  By signes, by lookes, and all his other gests.

  But the bare ground, with hoarie mosse bestrowed,

  Must be their bed, their pillow was vnsowed,

  And the frutes of the forrest was their feast:

  For their bad Stuard neither plough’d nor sowed,

  Ne fed on flesh, ne euer of wyld beast

  Did taste the bloud, obaying natures first beheast.

  15 Yet howsoeuer base and meane it were,

  They tooke it well, and thanked God for all,

  Which had them freed from that deadly feare,

  And sau’d from being to that caytiue thrall.

  Here they of force (as fortune now did fall)

  Compelled were themselues a while to rest,

  Glad of that easement, though it were hut small;

  That hauing there their wounds awhile redrest,

  They mote the abler be to passe vnto the rest.

  16 During which time, that wyld man did apply

  His best endeuour, and his daily paine,

  In seeking all the woods both farre and nye

  For herbes to dresse their wounds; still seeming faine,

  When ought he did, that did their lyking gaine.

  So as ere long he had that knightes wound

  Recured well, and made him whole againe:

  But that same Ladies hurts no herbe he found,

  Which could redresse, for it was inwardly vnsound.

  17 Now when as Calepine was woxen strong,

  Vpon a day he cast abrode to wend,

  To take the ayre, and heare the thrushes song,

  Vnarm’d, as fearing neither foe nor frend,

  And without sword his person to defend,

  There him befell, vnlooked for before,

  An hard aduenture with vnhappie end,

  A cruell Beare, the which an infant bore

  Betwixt his bloodie iawes, besprinckled all with gore.

  18 The litle babe did loudly scrike and squall,

  And all the woods with piteous plaints did fill,

  As if his cry did meane for helpe to call

  To Calepine, whose eares those shrieches shrill

  Percing his hart with pities point did thrill;

  That after him, he ran with zealous haste,

  To rescue th’infant, ere he did him kill:

  Whom though he saw now somewhat ouerpast,

  Yet by the cry he follow’d, and pursewed fast.

  19 Well then him chaunst his heauy armes to want,

  Whose burden mote empeach his needfull speed,

  And hinder him from libertie to pant:

  For hauing long time, as his daily weed,

  Them wont to weare, and wend on foot for need,

  Now wanting them he felt himselfe so light,

  That like an Hauke, which feeling her selfe freed

  From bels and iesses, which did let her flight,

  Him seem’d his feet did fly, and in their speed delight.

  20 So well he sped him, that the wearie Beare

  Ere long he ouertooke, and forst to stay,

  And without weapon him assayling neare,

  Compeld him soone the spoyle adowne to lay.

  Wherewith the beast enrag’d to lose his pray,

  Vpon him turned, and with greedie force

  And furie, to be crossed in his way,

  Gaping full wyde, did thinke without remorse

  To be aueng’d on him, and to deuoure his corse.

  21 But the bold knight no whit thereat dismayd,

  But catching vp in hand a ragged stone,

  Which lay thereby (so fortune him did ayde)

  Vpon him ran, and thrust it all attone

  Into his gaping throte, that made him grone

  And gaspe for breath, that he nigh choked was,

  Being vnable to digest that bone;

  Ne could it vpward come, nor downward passe,

  Ne could he brooke the coldnesse of the stony masse.

  22 Whom when as he thus combred did behold,

  Stryuing in vaine that nigh his bowels brast,

  He with him closd, and laying mightie hold

  Vpon his throte, did gripe his gorge so fast,

  That wanting breath, him downe to ground he cast;

  And then oppressing him with vrgent paine,

  Ere long enforst to breath his vtmost blast,

  Gnashing his cruell teeth at him in vaine,

  And threatning his sharpe clawes, now wanting powre to

  [straine.

  23 Then tooke he vp betwixt his armes twaine

  The litle babe, sweet relickes of his pray;

  Whom pitying to heare so sore complaine,

  From his soft eyes the teares he wypt away,

  And from his face the filth that did it ray,

  And euery litle limbe he searcht around,

  And euery part, that vnder sweathbands lay,

  Least that the beasts sharpe teeth had any wound

  Made in his tender flesh, but whole them all he found.

  24 So hauing all his bands againe vptyde,

  He with him thought backe to returne againe:

  But when he lookt about on euery syde,

  To weet which way were best to entertaine,

  To bring him to the place, where he would faine,

  He could no path nor tract of foot descry,

  Ne by inquirie learne, nor ghesse by ayme.

  For nought but woods and forrests farre and nye,

  That all about did close the compasse of his eye.

  25 Much was he then encombred, ne could tell

  Which way to take: now West he went a while,

  Then Norm; then neither, but as fortune fell.

  So vp and downe he wandred many a mile,

  With wearie trauell and vncertaine toile,

  Yet nought the nearer to his iourneys end;

  And euermore his louely litle spoile

  Crying for food, did greatly him offend.

  So all that day in wandring vainely he did spend.

  26 At last about the setting of the Sunne,

  Him selfe out of the forest he did wynd,

  And by good fortune the plaine champion wonne:

  Where looking all about, where he mote fynd

  Some place of succour to content his mynd,

  At length he heard vnder the forrests syde

  A voice, that seemed of some woman kynd,

  Which to her selfe lamenting loudly cryde,

  And oft complayn’d of fate, and fortune oft defyde.

  27 To whom approching, when as she perceiued

  A stranger wight in place, her plaint she stayd,

  As if she doubted to haue bene deceiued,

  Or loth to let her sorrowes be bewrayd.

  Whom when as Calepine saw so dismayd,

  He to her drew, and with faire blandishment

  Her chearing vp, thus gently to her sayd;

  What be you wofull Dame, which thus lament,

  And for what cause declare, so mote ye not repent.

  28 To whom she thus, what need me Sir to tell,

  That which your selfe haue earst ared so right?

  A wofull dame ye haue me termed well;

  So much more wofull, as my wofull plight

  Cannot redressed be by liuing wight.

  Nathlesse (quoth he) if need doe not you bynd,

  Doe it disclose, to ease your grieued spright:

  Oftimes it haps, that sorrowes of the mynd

  Find remedie vnsought, which seeking cannot fynd.

  29 Then thus began the lamentable Dame;

  Sith then ye needs will know-the griefe I hoord,

  I am th’vnfortunate Matilde by name,

  The wife of bold Sir Bruin, who is Lord

  Of all this land, late conquer’d by his sword

  From a great Gyant, called Cormoraunt;

  Whom he did ouerthrow by yonder foord,

  And in three battailes did so deadl
y daunt,

  That he dare not returne for all his daily vaunt.

  30 So is my Lord now seiz’d of all the land,

  As in his fee, with peaceable estate,

  And quietly doth hold it in his hand,

  Ne any dares with him for it debate.

  But to these happie fortunes, cruell fate

  Hath ioyn’d one euill, which doth ouerthrow

  All these our ioyes, and all our blisse abate;

  And like in time to further ill to grow,

  And all this land with endlesse losse to ouerflow.

  31 For th’heauens enuying our prosperitie,

  Haue not vouchsaft to graunt vnto vs twaine

  The gladfull blessing of posteritie,

  Which we might see after our selues remaine

  In tb’heritage of our vnhappie paine:

  So that for want of heires it to defend,

  All is in time like to returne againe

  To that foule feend, who dayly doth attend

  To leape into the same after our liues end.

  32 But most my Lord is grieued herewithall,

  And makes exceeding mone, when he does thinke

  That all this land vnto his foe shall fall,

  For which he long in vaine did sweat and swinke,

  That now the same he greatly doth forthinke.

  Yet was it sayd, there should to him a sonne

  Be gotten, not begotten, which should drinke

  And dry vp all the water, which doth ronne

  In the next brooke, by whom that feend shold be fordonne.

  33 Well hop’t he then, when this was propheside,

  That from his sides some noble chyld should rize,

  The which through fame should farre be magnifide,

  And this proud gyant should with braue emprize

  Quite ouerthrow, who now ginnes to despize

  The good Sir Bruin, growing farre in yeares;

  Who thinkes from me his sorrow all doth rize.

  Lo this my cause of griefe to you appeares;

  For which I thus doe mourne, and poure forth ceaselesse teares.

  34 Which when he heard, he inly touched was

  With tender ruth for her vnworthy griefe,

  And when he had deuized of her case,

  He gan in mind conceiue a fit reliefe

  For all her paine, if please her make the priefe.

  And hauing cheared her, thus said; faire Dame,

  In euils counsell is the comfort chiefe,

  Which though I be not wise enough to frame,

  Yet as I well it meane, vouchsafe it without blame.

  35 If that the cause of this your languishment

  Be lacke of children, to supply your place,

  Low how good fortune doth to you present

  This litle babe, of sweete and louely face,

  And spotlesse spirit, in which ye may enchace

  What euer formes ye list thereto apply,