Yet weend by secret signes of manlinesse, 400
Which close appeard in that rude brutishnesse,
That he whilome some gentle swaine had beene,
Traind up in feats of armes and knightlinesse;
Which he observ’d, by that he him had seene
To weld his naked sword, and try the edges keene; 405
XLVI
And eke by that he saw on every tree
How he the name of one engraven had,
Which likly was his liefest love to be,
For whom he now so sorely was bestad;
Which was by him BELPHEBE rightly rad. 410
Yet who was that Belphebe he ne wist;
Yet saw he often how he wexed glad,
When he it heard, and how the ground he kist,
Wherein it written was, and how himselfe he blist.
XLVII
Tho, when he long had marked his demeanor, 415
And saw that all he said and did was vaine,
Ne ought mote make him change his wonted tenor,
Ne ought mote ease or mitigate his paine,
He left him there in languor to remaine,
Till time for him should remedy provide, 420
And him restore to former grace againe.
Which for it is too long here to abide,
I will deferre the end untill another tide.
Faerie Queene Detailed Table of Contents
Glossary for ‘The Faerie Queene’
Canto VIII
The gentle squire recovers grace:
Sclaunder her guests doth staine:
Corflambo chaseth Placidas,
And is by Arthure slaine.
I
WELL said the wiseman, now prov’d true by this,
Which to this gentle squire did happen late,
That the displeasure of the mighty is
Then death it selfe more dread and desperate.
For naught the same may calme ne mitigate, 5
Till time the tempest doe thereof delay
With sufferaunce soft, which rigour can abate,
And have the sterne remembrance wypt away
Of bitter thoughts, which deepe therein infixed lay.
II
Like as it fell to this unhappy boy, 10
Whose tender heart the faire Belphebe had
With one sterne looke so daunted, that no joy
In all his life, which afterwards he lad,
He ever tasted; but with penaunce sad
And pensive sorrow pind and wore away, 15
Ne ever laught, ne once shew’d countenance glad;
But alwaies wept and wailed night and day,
As blasted bloosme through heat doth languish and decay.
III
Till on a day, as in his wonted wise
His doole he made, there chaunst a turtle dove 20
To come where he his dolors did devise,
That likewise late had lost her dearest love,
Which losse her made like passion also prove.
Who seeing his sad plight, her tender heart
With deare compassion deeply did emmove, 25
That she gan mone his undeserved smart,
And with her dolefull accent beare with him a part.
IV
Shee sitting by him, as on ground he lay,
Her mournefull notes full piteously did frame,
And thereof made a lamentable lay, 30
So sensibly compyld, that in the same
Him seemed oft he heard his owne right name.
With that he forth would poure so plenteous teares,
And beat his breast unworthy of such blame,
And knocke his head, and rend his rugged heares, 35
That could have perst the hearts of tigres and of beares.
V
Thus, long this gentle bird to him did use
Withouten dread of perill to repaire
Unto his wonne, and with her mournefull muse
Him to recomfort in his greatest care, 40
That much did ease his mourning and misfare:
And every day, for guerdon of her song,
He part of his small feast to her would share;
That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong
Companion she became, and so continued long. 45
VI
Upon a day, as she him sate beside,
By chance he certaine miniments forth drew,
Which yet with him as relickes did abide
Of all the bounty which Belphebe threw
On him, whilst goodly grace she did him shew: 50
Amongst the rest a jewell rich he found,
That was a ruby of right perfect hew,
Shap’d like a heart yet bleeding of the wound,
And with a litle golden chaine about it bound.
VII
The same he tooke, and with a riband new, 55
In which his ladies colours were, did bind
About the turtles necke, that with the vew
Did greatly solace his engrieved mind.
All unawares the bird, when she did find
Her selfe so deckt, her nimble wings displaid, 60
And flew away, as lightly as the wind:
Which sodaine accident him much dismaid,
And looking after long, did marke which way she straid.
VIII
But when as long he looked had in vaine,
Yet saw her forward still to make her flight, 65
His weary eie returnd to him againe,
Full of discomfort and disquiet plight,
That both his juell he had lost so light,
And eke his deare companion of his care.
But that sweet bird departing flew forth right 70
Through the wide region of the wastfull aire,
Untill she came where wonned his Belphebe faire.
IX
There found she her (as then it did betide)
Sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet,
After late weary toile, which she had tride 75
In salvage chase, to rest as seem’d her meet.
There she alighting, fell before her feet,
And gan to her her mournful plaint to make,
As was her wont, thinking to let her weet
The great tormenting griefe that for her sake 80
Her gentle squire through her displeasure did pertake.
X
She her beholding with attentive eye,
At length did marke about her purple brest
That precious juell, which she formerly
Had knowne right well, with colourd ribbands drest: 85
Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest
With ready hand it to have reft away:
But the swift bird obayd not her behest,
But swarv’d aside, and there againe did stay;
She follow’d her, and thought againe it to assay. 90
XI
And ever when she nigh approcht, the dove
Would flit a litle forward, and then stay,
Till she drew neare, and then againe remove;
So tempting her still to pursue the pray,
And still from her escaping soft away: 95
Till that at length into that forrest wide
She drew her far, and led with slow delay.
In th’ end she her unto that place did guide,
Whereas that wofull man in languor did abide.
XII
Eftsoones she flew unto his fearelesse hand, 100
And there a piteous ditty new deviz’d,
As if she would have made her understand
His sorrowes cause, to be of her despis’d.
Whom when she saw in wretched weedes disguiz’d,
With heary glib deform’d, and meiger face, 105
Like ghost late risen from his grave agryz’d,
She knew him not, but pittied much his case,
And wisht it were in he
r to doe him any grace.
XIII
He her beholding, at her feet downe fell,
And kist the ground on which her sole did tread, 110
And washt the same with water, which did well
From his moist eies, and like two streames procead;
Yet spake no word whereby she might aread
What mister wight he was, or what he ment;
But as one daunted with her presence dread, 115
Onely few ruefull lookes unto her sent,
As messengers of his true meaning and intent.
XIV
Yet nathemore his meaning she ared,
But wondred much at his so selcouth case,
And by his persons secret seemlyhed 120
Well weend that he had beene some man of place,
Before misfortune did his hew deface:
That, being mov’d with ruth, she thus bespake:
‘Ah, wofull man! what Heavens hard disgrace,
Or wrath of cruell wight on thee ywrake, 125
Or selfe disliked life, doth thee thus wretched make?
XV
‘If Heaven, then none may it redresse or blame,
Sith to his powre we all are subject borne;
If wrathfull wight, then fowle rebuke and shame
Be theirs, that have so cruell thee forlorne; 130
But if through inward griefe or wilfull scorne
Of life it be, then better doe advise;
For he whose daies in wilfull woe are worne,
The grace of his Creator doth despise,
That will not use his gifts for thanklesse nigardise.’ 135
XVI
When so he heard her say, eftsoones he brake
His sodaine silence, which he long had pent,
And sighing inly deepe, her thus bespake:
‘Then have they all themselves against me bent:
For Heaven, first author of my languishment, 140
Envying my too great felicity,
Did closely with a cruell one consent
To cloud my daies in dolefull misery,
And make me loath this life, still longing for to die.
XVII
‘Ne any but your selfe, O dearest dred, 145
Hath done this wrong, to wreake on worthlesse wight
Your high displesure, through misdeeming bred:
That, when your pleasure is to deeme aright,
Ye may redresse, and me restore to light.’
Which sory words her mightie hart did mate 150
With mild regard, to see his ruefull plight,
That her inburning wrath she gan abate,
And him receiv’d againe to former favours state.
XVIII
In which he long time afterwards did lead
An happie life with grace and good accord, 155
Fearlesse of fortunes chaunge or envies dread,
And eke all mindlesse of his owne deare lord,
The noble Prince, who never heard one word
Of tydings, what did unto him betide,
Or what good fortune did to him afford, 160
But through the endlesse world did wander wide,
Him seeking evermore, yet no where him descride.
XIX
Till on a day, as through that wood he rode,
He chaunst to come where those two ladies late,
Æmylia and Amoret, abode, 165
Both in full sad and sorrowfull estate;
The one right feeble through the evill rate
Of food, which in her duresse she had found:
The other almost dead and desperate
Through her late hurts, and through that haplesse wound 170
With which the squire in her defence her sore astound.
XX
Whom when the Prince beheld, he gan to rew
The evill case in which those ladies lay;
But most was moved at the piteous vew,
Of Amoret, so neare unto decay, 175
That her great daunger did him much dismay.
Eftsoones that pretious liquour forth he drew,
Which he in store about him kept alway,
And with few drops thereof did softly dew
Her wounds, that unto strength restor’d her soone anew. 180
XXI
Tho, when they both recovered were right well,
He gan of them inquire, what evill guide
Them thether brought, and how their harmes befell.
To whom they told all that did them betide,
And how from thraldome vile they were untide 185
Of that same wicked carle, by virgins hond;
Whose bloudie corse they shew’d him there beside,
And eke his cave, in which they both were bond:
At which he wondred much, when all those signes he fond.
XXII
And evermore he greatly did desire 190
To know, what virgin did them thence unbind;
And oft of them did earnestly inquire,
Where was her won, and how he mote her find.
But when as nought according to his mind
He could outlearne, he them from ground did reare, 195
(No service lothsome to a gentle kind)
And on his warlike beast them both did beare,
Himselfe by them on foot, to succour them from feare.
XXIII
So when that forrest they had passed well,
A litle cotage farre away they spide, 200
To which they drew, ere night upon them fell;
And entring in, found none therein abide,
But one old woman sitting there beside,
Upon the ground, in ragged rude attyre,
With filthy lockes about her scattered wide, 205
Gnawing her nayles for felnesse and for yre,
And there out sucking venime to her parts entyre.
XXIV
A foule and loathly creature sure in sight,
And in conditions to be loath’d no lesse:
For she was stuft with rancour and despight 210
Up to the throat; that oft with bitternesse
It forth would breake, and gush in great excesse,
Pouring out streames of poyson and of gall
Gainst all that truth or vertue doe professe;
Whom she with leasings lewdly did miscall, 215
And wickedly backbite: her name men Sclaunder call.
XXV
Her nature is, all goodnesse to abuse,
And causelesse crimes continually to frame,
With which she guiltlesse persons may accuse,
And steale away the crowne of their good name; 220
Ne ever knight so bold, ne ever dame
So chast and loyall liv’d, but she would strive
With forged cause them falsely to defame;
Ne ever thing so well was doen alive,
But she with blame would blot, and of due praise deprive. 225
XXVI
Her words were not, as common words are ment,
T’ expresse the meaning of the inward mind,
But noysome breath, and poysnous spirit sent
From inward parts, with cancred malice lind,
And breathed forth with blast of bitter wind; 230
Which passing through the eares would pierce the hart,
And wound the soule it selfe with griefe unkind:
For like the stings of aspes, that kill with smart,
Her spightfull words did pricke and wound the inner part.
XXVII
Such was that hag, unmeet to host such guests, 235
Whom greatest princes court would welcome fayne;
But neede, that answers not to all requests,
Bad them not looke for better entertayne;
And eke that age despysed nicenesse vaine,
Enur’d to hardnesse and to homely fare, 240
Which them to warlike discipline did trayne,
A
nd manly limbs endur’d with litle care
Against all hard mishaps and fortunelesse misfare.
XXVIII
Then all that evening, welcommed with cold
And chearelesse hunger, they together spent; 245
Yet found no fault, but that the hag did scold
And rayle at them with grudgefull discontent,
For lodging there without her owne consent:
Yet they endured all with patience milde,
And unto rest themselves all onely lent; 250
Regardlesse, of that queane so base and vilde
To be unjustly blamd, and bitterly revilde.
XXIX
Here well I weene, when as these rimes be red
With misregard, that some rash witted wight,
Whose looser thought will lightly be misled, 255
These gentle ladies will misdeeme too light,
For thus conversing with this noble knight;
Sith now of dayes such temperance is rare
And hard to finde, that heat of youthfull spright
For ought will from his greedie pleasure spare: 260
More hard for hungry steed t’ abstaine from pleasant lare.
XXX
But antique age, yet in the infancie
Of time, did live then like an innocent,
In simple truth and blamelesse chastitie,
Ne then of guile had made experiment, 265
But voide of vile and treacherous intent,
Held vertue for it selfe in soveraine awe:
Then loyall love had royall regiment,
And each unto his lust did make a lawe,
From all forbidden things his liking to withdraw. 270
XXXI
The lyon there did with the lambe consort,
And eke the dove sate by the faulcons side,
Ne each of other feared fraud or tort,
But did in safe securitie abide,
Withouten perill of the stronger pride: 275
But when the world woxe old, it woxe warre old
(Whereof it hight) and having shortly tride
The traines of wit, in wickednesse woxe bold,
And dared of all sinnes the secrets to unfold.
XXXII
Then beautie, which was made to represent 280
The great Creatours owne resemblance bright,
Unto abuse of lawlesse lust was lent,
And made the baite of bestiall delight:
Then faire grew foule, and foule grew faire in sight,
And that which wont to vanquish God and man 285
Was made the vassall of the victors might;
Then did her glorious flowre wex dead and wan,
Despisd and troden downe of all that overran.
XXXIII
And now it is so utterly decayd,
That any bud thereof doth scarse remaine, 290
But if few plants, preserv’d through heavenly ayd,
In princes court doe hap to sprout against,
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