Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  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,