The Faerie Queene

by Edmund Spenser

  His brode black wings had through the heauens wyde

  By this dispred, that was the tyme ordayned

  For such a dismall deed, their guilt to hyde:

  Of few greene turfes an altar soone they fayned,

  And deckt it all with flowres, which they nigh hand obtayned.

  45 Tho when as all things readie were aright,

  The Damzell was before the altar set,

  Being alreadie dead with fearefull fright.

  To whom the Priest with naked armes full net

  Approching nigh, and murdrous knife well whet,

  Gan mutter close a certaine secret charme,

  With other diuelish ceremonies met:

  Which doen he gan aloft t’aduance his arme,

  Whereat they shouted all, and made a loud alarme.

  46 Then gan the bagpypes and the homes to shrill,

  And shrieke aloud, that with the peoples voyce

  Confused, did the ayre with terror fill,

  And made the wood to tremble at the noyce:

  The whyles she wayld, the more they did reioyce.

  Now mote ye vnderstand that to this groue

  Sir Calepine by chaunce, more then by choyce,

  The selfe same euening fortune hether droue,

  As he to seeke Serena through the woods did roue.

  47 Long had he sought her, and through many a soyle

  Had traueld still on foot in heauie armes,

  Ne ought was tyred with his endlesse toyle,

  Ne ought was feared of his certaine harmes:

  And now all weedesse of the wretched stormes,

  In which his loue was lost, he slept full fast,

  Till being waked with these loud alarmes,

  He lightly started vp like one aghast,

  And catching vp his arms streight to the noise forth past.

  48 There by th’vncertaine glims of starry night,

  And by the twinkling of their sacred fire,

  He mote perceiue a litle dawning sight

  Of all, which there was doing in that quire:

  Mongst whom a woman spoyld of all attire

  He spyde, lamenting her vnluckie strife,

  And groning sore from grieued hart entire;

  Eftsoones he saw one with a naked knife

  Readie to launch her brest, and let out loued life.

  49 With that he thrusts into the thickest throng,

  And euen as his right hand adowne descends,

  He him preuenting, layes on earth along,

  And sacrifizeth to th’infernall feends.

  Then to the rest his wrathfull hand he bends,

  Of whom he makes such hauocke and such hew,

  That swarmes of damned soules to hell he sends:

  The rest that scape his sword and death eschew,

  Fly like a flocke of doues before a Faulcons vew.

  50 From them returning to that Ladie backe,

  Whom by the Altar he doth sitting find,

  Yet fearing death, and next to death the lacke

  Of clothes to couer, what they ought by kind,

  He first her hands beginneth to vnbind;

  And then to question of her present woe;

  And afterwards to cheare with speaches kind.

  But she for nought that he could say or doe,

  One word durst speake, or answere him awhit thereto.

  51 So inward shame of her vncomely case

  She did conceiue, through care of womanhood,

  That though the night did couer her disgrace,

  Yet she in so vnwomanly a mood,

  Would not bewray the state in which she stood.

  So all that night to him vnknowen she past.

  But day, that doth discouer bad and good,

  Ensewing, made her knowen to him at last:

  The end whereof Ile keepe vntill another cast.

  CANTO IX

  Calidore hostes with Melibce

  and loues fayre Pastorell;

  Coridon enuies him, yet he

  for ill rewards him well.

  1 Now turne againe my teme thou iolly swayne,

  Backe to the furrow which I lately left;

  I lately left a furrow, one or twayne

  Vnplough’d, the which my coulter hath not cleft:

  Yet seem’d the soyle both fayre and frutefull eft,

  As I it past, that were too great a shame,

  That so rich frute should be from vs bereft;

  Besides the great dishonour and defame,

  Which should befall to Calidores immortall name.

  2 Great trauell hath the gentle Calidore

  And toyle endured, sith I left him last

  Sewing the Blatant beast, which I forbore

  To finish then, for other present hast.

  Full many pathes and perils he hath past,

  Through hils, through dales, throgh forests, & throgh plaines

  In that same quest which fortune on him cast,

  Which he atchieued to his owne great gaines,

  Reaping eternall glorie of his restlesse paines.

  3 So sharply he the Monster did pursew,

  That day nor night he suffred him to rest,

  Ne rested he himselfe but natures dew,

  For dread of daunger, not to be redrest,

  If he for slouth forslackt so famous quest.

  Him first from court he to the citties coursed,

  And from the citties to the townes him prest,

  And from the townes into the countrie forsed,

  And from the country back to priuate farmes he scorsed.

  4 From thence into the open fields he fled,

  Whereas the Heardes were keeping of their neat,

  And shepheards singing to their flockes, that fed,

  Layes of sweete loue and youthes delightfull heat:

  Him thether eke for all his fearefull threat

  He followed fast, and chaced him so nie,

  That to the folds, where sheepe at night doe seat,

  And to the litle cots, where shepherds lie

  In winters wrathfull time, he forced him to flie.

  5 There on a day as he pursew’d the chace,

  He chaunst to spy a sort of shepheard groomes,

  Playing on pypes, and caroling apace,

  The whyles their beasts there in the budded broomes

  Beside them fed, and nipt the tender bloomes:

  For other worldly wealth they cared nought.

  To whom Sir Calidore yet sweating comes,

  And them to tell him courteously besought,

  If such a beast they saw, which he had thether brought.

  6 They answer’d him, that no such beast they saw,

  Nor any wicked feend, that mote offend

  Their happie flockes, nor daunger to them draw:

  But if that such there were (as none they kend)

  They prayd high God him farre from them to send.

  Then one of them him seeing so to sweat,

  After his rusticke wise, that well he weend,

  Offred him drinke, to quench his thirstie heat,

  And if he hungry were, him offred eke to eat.

  7 The knight was nothing nice, where was no need,

  And tooke their gentle offer: so adowne

  They prayd him sit, and gaue him for to feed

  Such homely what, as semes the simple clowne,

  That doth despise the dainties of the towne.

  Tho hauing fed his fill, he there besyde

  Saw a faire damzell, which did weare a crowne

  Of sundry flowres, with silken ribbands tyde,

  Yclad in home-made greene that her owne hands had dyde.

  8 Vpon a litle hillocke she was placed

  Higher then all the rest, and round about

  Enuiron’d with a girland, goodly graced,

  Of louely lasses, and them all without

  The lustie shepheard swaynes sate in a rout,

  The which did pype and
sing her prayses dew,

  And oft reioyce, and oft for wonder shout,

  As if some miracle of heauenly hew

  Were downe to them descended in that earthly vew.

  9 And soothly sure she was full fayre of face,

  And perfectly well shapt in euery lim,

  Which she did more augment with modest grace,

  And comely carriage of her count’nance trim,

  That all the rest like lesser lamps did dim:

  Who her admiring as some heauenly wight,

  Did for their soueraine goddesse her esteeme,

  And caroling her name both day and night,

  The fayrest Pastorella her by name did hight.

  10 Ne was there heard, ne was there shepheards swayne

  But her did honour, and eke many a one

  Burnt in her loue, and with sweet pleasing payne

  Full many a night for her did sigh and grone:

  But most of all die shepheard Condon

  For her did languish, and his deare life spend;

  Yet neither she for him, nor other none

  Did care a whit, ne any liking lend:

  Though meane her lot, yet higher did her mind ascend.

  11 Her whyles Sir Calidore there vewed well,

  And markt her rare demeanure, which him seemed

  So farre die meane of shepheards to excell,

  As that he in his mind her worthy deemed,

  To be a Princes Paragone esteemed,

  He was vnwares surprisd in subtile bands

  Of the blynd boy, ne thence could be redeemed

  By any skill out of his cruell hands,

  Caught like the bird, which gazing still on others stands.

  12 So stood he still long gazing thereupon,

  Ne any will had thence to moue away,

  Although his quest were farre afore him gon;

  But after he had fed, yet did he stay,

  And sate there still, vntill the flying day

  Was farre forth spent, discoursing diuersly

  Of sundry things, as fell to worke delay;

  And euermore his speach he did apply

  To th’heards, but meant them to the damzels fantazy.

  13 By this the moystie night approching fast,

  Her deawy humour gan on th’earth to shed,

  That warn’d the shepheards to their homes to hast

  Their tender flocks, now being fully fed,

  For feare of wetting them before their bed;

  Then came to them a good old aged syre,

  Whose siluer lockes bedeckt his beard and hed,

  With shepheards hooke in hand, and fit attyre,

  That wild the damzell rise; the day did now expyre.

  14 He was to weet by common voice esteemed

  The father of the fayrest Pastorell,

  And of her selfe in very deede so deemed;

  Yet was not so, but as old stories tell

  Found her by fortune, which to him befell,

  Tn th’open fields an Infant left alone,

  And taking vp brought home, and noursed well

  As his owne chyld; for other he had none,

  That she in tract of time accompted was his owne.

  15 She at his bidding meekely did arise,

  And streight vnto her litle flocke did fare:

  Then all the rest about her rose likewise,

  And each his sundrie sheepe with seuerall care

  Gathered together, and them homeward bare:

  Whylest euerie one with helping hands did striue

  Amongst themselues, and did their labours share,

  To helpe faire Pastorella, home to driue

  Her fleecie flocke; but Coridon most helpe did giue.

  16 But Melibœe (so bight that good old man)

  Now seeing Calidore left all alone,

  And night arriued hard at hand, began

  Him to inuite vnto bis simple home;

  Which though it were a cottage clad with lome,

  And all things therein meane, yet better so

  To lodge, then in the saluage fields to rome.

  The knight full gladly soone agreed thereto,

  Being his harts owne wish, and home with him did go.

  17 There he was welcom’d of that honest syre,

  And of his aged Beldame homely well;

  Who him besought himselfe to disattyre,

  And rest himselfe, till supper time befell.

  By which home came the fayrest Pastorell,

  After her flocke she in their fold had tyde,

  And supper readie dight, they to it fell

  With small adoe, and nature satisfyde,

  The which doth litle craue contented to abyde.

  18 Tho when they had their hunger slaked well,

  And the fayre mayd the table ta’ne away,

  The gentle knight, as he that did excell

  In courtesie, and well could doe and say,

  For so great kindnesse as he found that day,

  Gan greatly thanke his host and his good wife;

  And drawing thence his speach another way,

  Gan highly to commend the happie life,

  Which Shepheards lead, without debate or bitter strife.

  19 How much (sayd he) more happie is the state,

  In which ye father here doe dwell at ease,

  Leading a life so free and fortunate,

  From all the tempests of these worldly seas,

  Which tosse the rest in daungerous disease?

  Where warres, and wreckes, and wicked enmitie

  Doe them afflict, which no man can appease,

  That certes I your happinesse enuie,

  And wish my lot were plast in such felicitie.

  20 Surely my sonne (then answer’d he againe)

  If happie, then it is in this intent,

  That hauing small, yet doe I not complaine

  Of want, ne wish for more it to augment,

  But doe my selfe, with that I haue, content;

  So taught of nature, which doth litle need

  Of forreine helpes to lifes due nourishment:

  The fields my food, my flocke my rayment breed;

  No better doe I weare, no better doe I feed.

  21 Therefore I doe not any one enuy,

  Nor am enuyde of any one therefore;

  They that haue much, feare much to lose thereby,

  And store of cares doth follow riches store.

  The litle that I haue, growes dayly more

  Without my care, but onely to attend it;

  My lambes doe euery yeare increase their score,

  And my flockes father daily doth amend it.

  What haue I, but to praise th’Ahnighty, that doth send it?

  22 To them, that list, the worlds gay showes I leaue,

  And to great ones such follies doe forgiue,

  Which oft through pride do their owne perill weaue,

  And through ambition downe themselues doe driue

  To sad decay, that might contented liue.

  Me no such cares nor combrous thoughts offend,

  Ne once my minds vnmoued quiet grieue,

  But all the night in siluer sleepe I spend,

  And all the day, to what I list, I doe attend.

  23 Sometimes I hunt the Fox, the vowed foe

  Vnto my Lambes, and him. dislodge away;

  Sometime the fawne I practise from the Doe,

  Or from the Goat her kidde how to conuay;

  Another while I baytes and nets display,

  The birds to catch, or fishes to beguyle:

  And when I wearie am, I downe doe lay

  My limbes in euery shade, to rest from toyle,

  And drinke of euery brooke, when thirst my throte doth boyle.

  24 The time was once, in my first prime of yeares,

  When pride of youth forth pricked my desire,

  That I disdain’d amongst mine equall peares

  To follow sheepe, and shepheards bas
e attire:

  For further fortune then I would inquire.

  And leauing home, to roiall court I sought;

  Where I did sell my selfe for yearely hire,

  And in the Princes gardin daily wrought:

  There I beheld such vainenesse, as I neuer thought.

  25 With sight whereof soone cloyd, and long deluded

  With idle hopes, which them doe entertaine,

  After I had ten yeares my selfe excluded

  From natiue home, and spent my youth in vaine,

  I gan my follies to my selfe to plaine,

  And this sweet peace, whose lacke did then appeare.

  Tho backe returning to my sheepe againe,

  I from thenceforth haue learn’d to loue more deare

  This lowly quiet life, which I inherite here.

  26 Whylest thus he talkt, the knight with greedy eare

  Hong still vpon his melting mouth at tent;

  Whose sensefull words empierst his hart so neare,

  That he was rapt with double rauishment,

  Both of his speach that wrought him great content,

  And also of the obiect of his vew,

  On which his hungry eye was alwayes bent;

  That twixt his pleasing tongue, and her faire hew,

  He lost himselfe, and like one halfe entraunced grew.

  27 Yet to occasion meanes, to worke his mind,

  And to insinuate his harts desire,

  He thus replyde; Now surely syre, I find,

  That all this worlds gay showes, which we admire,

  Be but vaine shadowes to this safe retyre

  Of life, which here in lowlinesse ye lead,

  Fearelesse of foes, or fortunes wrackfull yre,

  Which tosseth states, and vnder foot doth tread

  The mightie ones, affrayd of euery chaunges dread.

  28 That euen I which daily doe behold

  The glorie of the great, mongst whom I won,

  And now haue prou’d, what happinesse ye hold

  In this small plot of your dominion,

  Now loath great Lordship and ambition;

  And wish th’heauens so much had graced mee,

  As graunt me liue in like condition;

  Or that my fortunes might transposed bee

  From pitch of higher place, vnto this low degree.

  29 In vaine (said then old Melibœ) doe men

  The heauens of their fortunes fault accuse,

  Sith they know best, what is the best for them:

  For they to each such fortune doe diffuse,

  As they doe know each can most aptly vse.

  For not that, which men couet most, is best,

  Nor that thing worst, which men do most refuse;

  But fittest is, that all contented rest

  With that they hold: each hath his fortune in his brest,

  30 It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill,