Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  At least eternall meede shall you abide.’ 95

  To whom the Prince: ‘Dwarfe, comfort to thee take;

  For till thou tidings learne, what her betide,

  I here avow thee never to forsake.

  Ill weares he armes, that nill them use for ladies sake.’

  XII

  So with the dwarfe he backe retourn’d againe, 100

  To seeke his lady, where he mote her finde;

  But by the way he greatly gan complaine

  The want of his good squire, late left behinde,

  For whom he wondrous pensive grew in minde,

  For doubt of daunger, which mote him betide; 105

  For him he loved above all mankinde,

  Having him trew and faithfull ever tride,

  And bold, as ever squyre that waited by knights side.

  XIII

  Who all this while full hardly was assayd

  Of deadly daunger, which to him betidd; 110

  For whiles his lord pursewd that noble mayd,

  After that foster fowle he fiercely ridd,

  To bene avenged of the shame he did

  To that faire damzell. Him he chaced long

  Through the thicke woods, wherein he would have hid 115

  His shamefull head from his avengement strong,

  And oft him threatned death for his outrageous wrong.

  XIV

  Nathlesse the villein sped himselfe so well,

  Whether through swiftnesse of his speedie beast,

  Or knowledge of those woods, where he did dwell, 120

  That shortly he from daunger was releast,

  And out of sight escaped at the least;

  Yet not escaped from the dew reward

  Of his bad deedes, which daily he increast,

  Ne ceased not, till him oppressed hard 125

  The heavie plague that for such leachours is prepard.

  XV

  For soone as he was vanisht out of sight,

  His coward courage gan emboldned bee,

  And cast t’ avenge him of that fowle despight,

  Which he had borne of his bold enimee. 130

  Tho to his brethren came; for they were three

  Ungratious children of one gracelesse syre;

  And unto them complayned how that he

  Had used beene of that foolehardie squyre:

  So them with bitter words he stird to bloodie yre. 135

  XVI

  Forthwith themselves with their sad instruments

  Of spoyle and murder they gan arme bylive,

  And with him foorth into the forrest went,

  To wreake the wrath, which he did earst revive

  In their sterne brests, on him which late did drive 140

  Their brother to reproch and shamefull flight:

  For they had vow’d, that never he alive

  Out of that forest should escape their might;

  Vile rancour their rude harts had fild with such despight.

  XVII

  Within that wood there was a covert glade, 145

  Foreby a narrow foord, to them well knowne,

  Through which it was uneath for wight to wade,

  And now by fortune it was overflowne:

  By that same way they knew that squyre unknowne

  Mote algates passe; forthy themselves they set 150

  There in await, with thicke woods over growne,

  And all the while their malice they did whet

  With cruell threats, his passage through the ford to let.

  XVIII

  It fortuned, as they devized had,

  The gentle squyre came ryding that same way, 155

  Unweeting of their wile and treason bad,

  And through the ford to passen did assay;

  But that fierce foster, which late fled away,

  Stoutly foorth stepping on the further shore,

  Him boldly bad his passage there to stay, 160

  Till he had made amends, and full restore

  For all the damage which he had him doen afore.

  XIX

  With that, at him a quiv’ring dart he threw,

  With so fell force and villeinous despite,

  That through his haberjeon the forkehead flew, 165

  And through the linked mayles empierced quite,

  But had no powre in his soft flesh to bite:

  That stroke the hardy squire did sore displease,

  But more that him he could not come to smite;

  For by no meanes the high banke he could sease, 170

  But labour’d long in that deepe ford with vaine disease.

  XX

  And still the foster with his long borespeare

  Him kept from landing at his wished will.

  Anone one sent out of the thicket neare

  A cruell shaft, headed with deadly ill, 175

  And fethered with an unlucky quill:

  The wicked steele stayd not, till it did light

  In his left thigh, and deepely did it thrill:

  Exceeding griefe that wound in him empight,

  But more that with his foes he could not come to fight. 180

  XXI

  At last, through wrath and vengeaunce making way,

  He on the bancke arryvd with mickle payne,

  Where the third brother him did sore assay,

  And drove at him with all his might and mayne

  A forest bill, which both his hands did strayne; 185

  But warily he did avoide the blow,

  And with his speare requited him agayne,

  That both his sides were thrilled with the throw,

  And a large streame of blood out of the wound did flow.

  XXII

  He, tombling downe, with gnashing teeth did bite 190

  The bitter earth, and bad to lett him in

  Into the balefull house of endlesse night,

  Where wicked ghosts doe waile their former sin.

  Tho gan the battaile freshly to begin;

  For nathemore for that spectacle bad 195

  Did th’ other two their cruell vengeaunce blin,

  But both attonce on both sides him bestad,

  And load upon him layd, his life for to have had.

  XXIII

  Tho when that villayn he aviz’d, which late

  Affrighted had the fairest Florimell, 200

  Full of fiers fury and indignant hate,

  To him he turned, and with rigor fell

  Smote him so rudely on the pannikell,

  That to the chin he clefte his head in twaine:

  Downe on the ground his carkas groveling fell; 205

  His sinfull sowle, with desperate disdaine,

  Out of her fleshly ferme fled to the place of paine.

  XXIV

  That seeing now the only last of three,

  Who with that wicked shafte him wounded had,

  Trembling with horror, as that did foresee 210

  The fearefull end of his avengement sad,

  Through which he follow should his brethren bad,

  His bootelesse bow in feeble hand upcaught,

  And therewith shott an arrow at the lad;

  Which, fayntly fluttring, scarce his helmet raught, 215

  And glauncing fel to ground, but him annoyed naught.

  XXV

  With that he would have fled into the wood;

  But Timias him lightly overhent,

  Right as he entring was into the flood,

  And strooke at him with force so violent, 220

  That headlesse him into the foord he sent;

  The carcas with the streame was carried downe,

  But th’ head fell backeward on the continent.

  So mischief fel upon the meaners crowne;

  They three be dead with shame, the squire lives with renowne. 225

  XXVI

  He lives, but takes small joy of his renowne;

  For of that cruell wound he bled so sore,

  That from
his steed he fell in deadly swowne;

  Yet still the blood forth gusht in so great store,

  That he lay wallowd all in his owne gore. 230

  Now God thee keepe, thou gentlest squire alive,

  Els shall thy loving lord thee see no more,

  But both of comfort him thou shalt deprive,

  And eke thy selfe of honor, which thou didst atchive.

  XXVII

  Providence hevenly passeth living thought, 235

  And doth for wretched mens reliefe make way;

  For loe! great grace or fortune thether brought

  Comfort to him that comfortlesse now lay.

  In those same woods, ye well remember may

  How that a noble hunteresse did wonne, 240

  Shee that base Braggadochio did affray,

  And made him fast out of the forest ronne;

  Belphœbe was her name, as faire as Phæbus sunne.

  XXVIII

  She on a day, as shee pursewd the chace

  Of some wilde beast, which with her arrowes keene 245

  She wounded had, the same along did trace

  By tract of blood, which she had freshly seene

  To have besprinckled all the grassy greene;

  By the great persue, which she there perceav’d,

  Well hoped shee the beast engor’d had beene, 250

  And made more haste, the life to have bereav’d:

  But ah! her expectation greatly was deceav’d.

  XXIX

  Shortly she came whereas that woefull squire,

  With blood deformed, lay in deadly swownd:

  In whose faire eyes, like lamps of quenched fire, 255

  The christall humor stood congealed rownd;

  His locks, like faded leaves fallen to grownd,

  Knotted with blood in bounches rudely ran;

  And his sweete lips, on which before that stownd

  The bud of youth to blossome faire began, 260

  Spoild of their rosy red, were woxen pale and wan.

  XXX

  Saw never living eie more heavy sight,

  That could have made a rocke of stone to rew,

  Or rive in twaine: which when that lady bright,

  Besides all hope, with melting eies did vew, 265

  All suddeinly abasht shee chaunged hew,

  And with sterne horror backward gan to start:

  But when shee better him beheld, shee grew

  Full of soft passion and unwonted smart:

  The point of pitty perced through her tender hart. 270

  XXXI

  Meekely shee bowed downe, to weete if life

  Yett in his frosen members did remaine;

  And feeling by his pulses beating rife

  That the weake sowle her seat did yett retaine,

  She cast to comfort him with busy paine: 275

  His double folded necke she reard upright,

  And rubd his temples and each trembling vaine;

  His mayled haberjeon she did undight,

  And from his head his heavy burganet did light.

  XXXII

  Into the woods thenceforth in haste shee went, 280

  To seeke for hearbes that mote him remedy;

  For shee of herbes had great intendiment,

  Taught of the nymphe, which from her infancy

  Her nourced had in trew nobility:

  There, whether yt divine tobacco were, 285

  Or panachæa, or polygony,

  Shee fownd, and brought it to her patient deare,

  Who al this while lay bleding out his hart-blood neare.

  XXXIII

  The soveraine weede betwixt two marbles plaine

  Shee pownded small, and did in peeces bruze, 290

  And then atweene her lilly handes twaine

  Into his wound the juice thereof did scruze,

  And round about, as she could well it uze,

  The flesh therewith shee suppled and did steepe,

  T’ abate all spasme and soke the swelling bruze, 295

  And after having searcht the intuse deepe,

  She with her scarf did bind the wound from cold to keepe.

  XXXIV

  By this he had sweet life recur’d agayne,

  And, groning inly deepe, at last his eies,

  His watry eies, drizling like deawy rayne, 300

  He up gan lifte toward the azure skies,

  From whence descend all hopelesse remedies:

  Therewith he sigh’d, and turning him aside,

  The goodly maide ful of divinities

  And gifts of heavenly grace he by him spide, 305

  Her bow and gilden quiver lying him beside.

  XXXV

  ‘Mercy! deare Lord,’ said he, ‘what grace is this,

  That thou hast shewed to me, sinfull wight,

  To send thine angell from her bowre of blis,

  To comfort me in my distressed plight? 310

  Angell, or goddesse doe I call thee right?

  What service may I doe unto thee meete,

  That hast from darkenes me returnd to light,

  And with thy hevenly salves and med’cines sweete

  Hast drest my sinfull wounds? I kisse thy blessed feete. 315

  XXXVI

  Thereat she blushing said: ‘Ah! gentle squire,

  Nor goddesse I, nor angell, but the mayd

  And daughter of a woody nymphe, desire

  No service but thy safety and ayd;

  Which if thou gaine, I shalbe well apayd. 320

  Wee mortall wights, whose lives and fortunes bee

  To commun accidents stil open layd,

  Are bownd with commun bond of frailtee,

  To succor wretched wights, whom we captived see.’

  XXXVII

  By this her damzells, which the former chace 325

  Had undertaken after her, arryv’d,

  As did Belphœbe, in the bloody place,

  And thereby deemd the beast had bene depriv’d

  Of life, whom late their ladies arrow ryv’d:

  Forthy the bloody tract they followd fast, 330

  And every one to ronne the swiftest stryv’d;

  But two of them the rest far overpast,

  And where their lady was arrived at the last.

  XXXVIII

  Where when they saw that goodly boy, with blood

  Defowled, and their lady dresse his wownd, 335

  They wondred much, and shortly understood

  How him in deadly case theyr lady fownd,

  And reskewed out of the heavy stownd.

  Eftsoones his warlike courser, which was strayd

  Farre in the woodes, whiles that he lay in swownd, 340

  She made those damzels search, which being stayd,

  They did him set theron, and forth with them convayd.

  XXXIX

  Into that forest farre they thence him led,

  Where was their dwelling, in a pleasant glade

  With mountaines rownd about environed, 345

  And mightie woodes, which did the valley shade,

  And like a stately theatre it made,

  Spreading it selfe into a spatious plaine;

  And in the midst a little river plaide

  Emongst the pumy stones, which seemd to plaine 350

  With gentle murmure that his cours they did restraine.

  XL

  Beside the same a dainty place there lay,

  Planted with mirtle trees and laurells greene,

  In which the birds song many a lovely lay

  Of Gods high praise, and of their loves sweet teene, 355

  As it an earthly paradize had beene:

  In whose enclosed shadow there was pight

  A faire pavilion, scarcely to be seene,

  The which was al within most richly dight,

  That greatest princes living it mote well delight. 360

  XLI

  Thether they brought that wounded squyre, and layd

  In e
asie couch his feeble limbes to rest.

  He rested him a while, and then the mayd

  His readie wound with better salves new drest:

  Daily she dressed him, and did the best, 365

  His grievous hurt to guarish, that she might,

  That shortly she his dolour hath redrest,

  And his foule sore reduced to faire plight:

  It she reduced, but himselfe destroyed quight.

  XLII

  O foolish physick, and unfruitfull paine, 370

  That heales up one and makes another wound!

  She his hurt thigh to him recurd againe,

  But hurt his hart, the which before was sound,

  Through an unwary dart, which did rebownd

  From her faire eyes and gratious countenaunce. 375

  What bootes it him from death to be unbownd,

  To be captived in endlesse duraunce

  Of sorrow and despeyre without aleggeaunce?

  XLIII

  Still as his wound did gather, and grow hole,

  So still his hart woxe sore, and health decayd: 380

  Madnesse to save a part, and lose the whole!

  Still whenas he beheld the heavenly mayd,

  Whiles dayly playsters to his wownd she layd,

  So still his malady the more increast,

  The whiles her matchlesse beautie him dismayd. 385

  Ah God! what other could he doe at least,

  But love so fayre a lady, that his life releast?

  XLIV

  Long while he strove in his corageous brest,

  With reason dew the passion to subdew,

  And love for to dislodge out of his nest: 390

  Still when her excellencies he did vew,

  Her soveraine bountie and celestiall hew,

  The same to love he strongly was constraynd:

  But when his meane estate he did revew,

  He from such hardy boldnesse was restraynd, 395

  And of his lucklesse lott and cruell love thus playnd.

  XLV

  ‘Unthankfull wretch,’ said he, ‘is this the meed,

  With which her soverain mercy thou doest quight?

  Thy life she saved by her gratious deed,

  But thou doest weene with villeinous despight 400

  To blott her honour and her heavenly light.

  Dye rather, dye, then so disloyally

  Deeme of her high desert, or seeme so light:

  Fayre death it is, to shonne more shame, to dy:

  Dye rather, dy, then ever love disloyally. 405

  XLVI

  ‘But if to love disloyalty it bee,

  Shall I then hate her, that from deathes dore

  Me brought? ah! farre be such reproch fro mee!

  What can I lesse doe, then her love therefore,

  Sith I her dew reward cannot restore? 410

  Dye rather, dye, and dying doe her serve,

  Dying her serve, and living her adore;

  Thy life she gave, thy life she doth deserve: