THE POETICAL WORKS OF
  EDMUND SPENSER

  IN THREE VOLUMES

  VOLUME II

  SPENSER’S
  FAERIE QUEENE

  EDITED BY
  J. C. SMITH

  VOLUME I: BOOKS I-III

  OXFORD
  AT THE CLARENDON PRESS

  _Oxford University Press, Amen House, London E.C.4_

  GLASGOW    NEW YORK    TORONTO    MELBOURNE    WELLINGTON
    BOMBAY   CALCUTTA  MADRAS  KARACHI   LAHORE   DACCA
      CAPE TOWN   SALISBURY  NAIROBI   IBADAN   ACCRA
                KUALA LUMPUR    HONG KONG

  FIRST PUBLISHED 1909
  REPRINTED LITHOGRAPHICALLY IN GREAT BRITAIN
  AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD
  FROM SHEETS OF THE FIRST IMPRESSION
  1961, 1964

INTRODUCTION.

I.

In these volumes I seek to present a true text of the _Faerie Queene_,
founded upon a fresh collation of the Quartos of 1590 and 1596 and the
Folio of 1609. I shall call these editions by their dates for short.

The fragmentary Seventh Book appeared first in 1609: for the rest the
text is based on 1596. Some typographical peculiarities--long s, &, ô,
and superscribed m and n (e.g. frõ, whẽ)--have not been reproduced, but
noted only where they first occur. With these exceptions, the readings
of 1596 if not adopted in the text are recorded in the notes; so that
text and notes together amount, in effect, to a complete reprint of
1596. No such completeness has been attempted in recording variants
from 1590 and 1609. But all verbal differences are recorded, and all
differences of punctuation that imply a different view of the meaning.
Mere changes of spelling that answer to no change of pronunciation are,
as a rule, ignored; but I have recorded such differences of spelling as
seemed likely to interest students of Elizabethan phonology, grammar,
and usage. The evidence of these variants must be used with caution in
view of Spenser’s deliberate archaism. Yet I believe that they have
some value. I give one instance in each kind:--

1. A fluid _e_-sound is indicated by the variants ‘seeldome’ 1590,
‘seldome’ 1596, ‘sildom’ 1609, at I. iv. 23, l. 5.

2. Syllabic _-es_ in possessives and plurals, which still lingered in
the early fifteen-nineties, has grown quite strange to the editor of
1609. To this point I shall return.

3. The conjunctions ‘since’ and ‘sith’ are used indifferently in 1590
and 1596, choice of one or other form being determined by euphony
alone. But 1609 makes a deliberate, though not quite consistent,
attempt to appropriate ‘since’ to the temporal, ‘sith’ to the causal
sense. The attempt unfortunately did not avail to save the more
primitive form.

I have departed from the punctuation of 1596 only where it seemed
likely to puzzle or mislead a modern reader. These departures, which
are all recorded, are not very numerous. Spenser’s punctuation, though
by no means sacrosanct, is less arbitrary than might at first appear;
but, as Mr. Gregory Smith says of the punctuation of Addison, it has a
rhetorical rather than a logical value. We feel its force best when we
read the poem aloud. Two peculiarities are so common that the reader
may be warned of them here. One is the absence of punctuation with
vocatives: the other is the single comma after qualifying phrases. With
this warning I leave these peculiarities, as a rule, unchanged.

In the treatment of capitals and in the distribution of roman and
italic type I have followed the same principle of adhering, wherever
possible, to the original text.

I have regularized the spelling of proper names wherever the variation
seemed to be due to the printer rather than the poet. And this is
generally the case with double letters. But for many variations in
proper names Spenser was himself responsible. He varied them sometimes
for the sake of the metre, as _Serena_, _Serene_; or of the rhyme,
as _Florimell_, _Florimele_. In two instances he seems actually to
have wavered or changed his mind. _Braggadocchio’s_ name is generally
spelt thus in Book II; in Books III and IV it varies; in V. iii it is
regularly _Braggadochio_. So we generally find _Arthegall_ in Book
III, but _Artegall_ regularly in Book V; 1609, however, returns to
_Arthegall_.

II.

Aiming not at a reprint but a true text, I have not hesitated to depart
from 1596 wherever I believed it to be in error and the error the
printer’s. But it is no part of an editor’s duty to correct, though he
may indicate, mistakes made by the author himself. There are many such
in the _Faerie Queene_.

(1) There are mistakes of fact, of literary allusion, of quantity
in classical names, hardly to be avoided by a poet writing far from
libraries.

(2) There are confusions of personages, or of names of personages,
within the poem itself. Sir _Guyon_ is confused with the _Redcrosse
Knight_ in III. ii. 4, and with Prince _Arthur_ in II. viii. 48 (but
not in 1609); _Æmylia_ with _Pœana_ in IV. ix. Arg.; _Calepine_ with
_Calidore_ in VI. vi. 17; while over _Serena_ Spenser’s confusion
becomes comical--he calls her _Crispina_ in VI. iii. 23,[1] and
_Matilda_ in VI. v. Arg.

(3) Some lines are hypermetrical; some are short by a foot; and there
are two or three broken lines. One of these last (III. iv. 39, l. 7)
is certainly intentional, and all may be so; the supposed example of
Virgil may have influenced Spenser in this.

(4) Imperfect rhymes and concords are numerous, especially in Books IV,
V, and VI.

(5) There is one form of imperfect rhyme so singular as to deserve a
fuller discussion. Its nature will be best seen in an example:--

    ‘Like two faire marble pillours they were seene,
      Which doe the temple of the Gods support,                      (2)
      Whom all the people decke with girlands greene,
      And honour in their festiuall resort;                          (4)
      Those same with stately grace, and princely port               (5)
      She taught to tread, when she her selfe would grace,
      But with the wooddie Nymphes when she did play,                (7)
      Or when the flying Libbard she did chace,
    She could them nimbly moue, and after fly apace.’

                                           (II. iii. 28.)

Here ‘play’ in l. 7 is rhymed to ‘support’, ‘resort’, ‘port’: ‘sport’
is the obvious correction. There are, in all, nine instances of this
singularity in the _Faerie Queene_. I subjoin them all, citing the
rhyme-words only: the number following each word shows the line that it
ends:--

  1. day (2), dismay (4), way (5), chace (7) (II. ii. 7)
  2. make (6), bold (8), told (9) (II. ii. 42)
  3. support (2), resort (4), port (5), play (7) (II. iii. 28)
  4. leaue (2), cleaue (4), bereaue (5), vpreare (7) (II. viii. 29)
  5. spyde (6), law (8), draw (9) (III. vi. 40)
  6. enclose (2), plaine (4), Maine (5), complaine (7) (III. vii. 34)
  7. times (6), equipage (8), parentage (9) (IV. xi. 17)
  8. place (2), aread (4), dread (5), read (7) (V. Proem 11)
  9. desyre (2), entyre (4), yre (5), meed (7) (V. xi. 61)

In every case the correction is obvious: ‘chace’ should be ‘pray’
(i.e. prey); ‘make’, ‘hold’; ‘play’, ‘sport’; ‘vpreare’, ‘vpheaue’;
‘spyde’, ‘saw’; ‘enclose’, ‘containe’; ‘times’, ‘age’; ‘place’, ‘stead’
(as in 1609); ‘meed’, ‘hyre’. The phenomenon may now be described
in general terms: in these nine places Spenser substitutes for a
rhyming word a metrically equivalent synonym which does not rhyme.
Our analysis shows further that, the rhyme-scheme of the Spenserian
stanza being _ababbcbcc_, this substitution occurs only in the first
or last of the _b_-group, or in the first of the _c_-group. It seems
as if, borne along on the swell of his metre and the easy flow of his
imagination, two words identical in sense and metre but different in
sound rose to the poet’s mind almost simultaneously; and the one which
he meant to reject slipped nevertheless from his pen, having been (we
infer) the first to occur. This explains why this phenomenon always
occurs either in the first word of a rhyme-group, where the rhyme is
still undetermined; or, if in the last, then only in the last of the
_b_-group, where the ear has already been satisfied with as many as
three rhymes; and why it never occurs in the _a_-group, where two
rhymeless endings would at once have alarmed the ear. I have dwelt
on this phenomenon at some length because it is, so far as I know,
peculiar to Spenser.[2]

(6) I must glance at another, though a rare, source of error. Our sage
and serious Spenser was a thoughtful, even a philosophic writer; but
his thought is large, simple, contemplative, not acute and analytic.
When he has to deal with a subtle or complex situation he sometimes
involves himself inextricably. If any lover of Spenser resent this
judgement, let him apply his devotion to explain or emend II. v. 12,
ll. 8 and 9; V. vi. 5, ll. 6 and 7; V. vi. 26, ll. 5 and 6: to me these
passages appear incorrigible.

III.

The first mention of the _Faerie Queene_ occurs in a letter of
Spenser’s to Gabriel Harvey, dated _Quarto Nonas Aprilis_ 1580. ‘I wil
in hande forthwith,’ he writes, ‘with my _Faery Queene_, whyche I praye
you hartily send me with al expedition: and your frendly Letters, and
long expected Judgement wythal.’ ‘I haue nowe sent hir home at the
laste,’ writes Harvey in reply. These phrases show that the parcel of
the _Faerie Queene_ had been in Harvey’s hands for some considerable
time. The poem must therefore have been begun not later than 1579. Now
in 1579 Spenser was an inmate of Leicester House, and the constant
associate of Sir Philip Sidney. There is therefore no reason to doubt
the assertion of W. L. in his commendatory verses that by Sidney the
poem was originally inspired.

Harvey’s long-expected judgement, when it came, was far from
favourable. But the poet was not discouraged, and doubtless took the
manuscript with him when he went to Ireland with Lord Grey in August,
1580. Though he afterwards spoke of the poem as ‘wilde fruit which
salvage soyl hath bred’, there is some reason to think that he had
actually written as much as a book and a half before he left England.
For though allusions to Ireland are not rare in the _Faerie Queene_,
the first of them occurs in II. ix. 16.[3] Moreover, the industry of
commentators has discovered in Book I only one imitation of Tasso’s
_Gierusalemme Liberata_, and that doubtful[4] (I. vii. 31); undoubted
imitations begin to appear in II. v, vi, vii, viii, and II. xii
blazes with spoils from the Garden of Armida. Now the _Gierusalemme
Liberata_ was published in 1581; an imperfect edition had been issued
surreptitiously in 1580.

Our next glimpse of the _Faerie Queene_ we owe to Lodovick Bryskett,
whose _Discourse of Civill Life_, though not published till 1606,
purports to record a conversation held in his cottage near Dublin as
early, it would seem, as the spring of 1583. Spenser is one of the
interlocutors. He is made to say that he has already undertaken a work
‘which is in _heroical verse_ under the title of a _Faerie Queene_’;
which work he has ‘already well entered into’. The company express an
‘extreme longing’ after this _Faerie Queene_, ‘whereof some parcels had
been by some of them seene’.

Parcels of the _Faerie Queene_ had been seen, it appears, not only
by Spenser’s friends in Dublin, but by his literary contemporaries
in London. I. v. 2 is imitated in Peele’s _David and Bethsabe_ (date
unknown, but probably before 1590). I. vii. 32 and I. viii. 11 are
imitated in Act IV, Sc. 4 and Act IV, Sc. 3 respectively of the second
part of Marlowe’s _Tamburlaine_ (published 1590, but acted some years
earlier). Finally, Abraham Fraunce in his _Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588)
quotes Spenser ‘in his _Fairie Queene_, 2 booke, cant. 4’. Fraunce’s
quotation is the more interesting inasmuch as it shows that by 1588[5]
the _F. Q._ had not only been composed, but disposed into its present
arrangement of books and cantos so far at least as II. iv. It is worth
remarking that all these imitations of and quotations from _F. Q._
before it was published are from that part of the poem which we have
seen some reason to think was written before Spenser left England.
Allusions in the poem shed no certain light on the progress of its
composition.

There is no reason to suppose that Spenser composed the whole of the
_F. Q._ in the order in which he gave it to the world. It is more
likely that he worked up many incidents and episodes as they occurred
to him, and afterwards placed them in the poem. We know that the
_Wedding of Thames and Medway_, which now forms IV. xi, is a redaction
of an _Epithalamium Thamesis_ which he originally undertook as an
experiment in quantitative metre before April, 1580. And it seems
probable that the _Legendes_ and _Court of Cupid_ mentioned by E. K. in
his preface to the _Shepheards Calender_, as well as the _Pageaunts_[6]
mentioned in the Glosse on _June_, were similarly worked over and
incorporated in the _F. Q._

Combining these pieces of evidence, we receive the impression that for
some time after he came to Ireland Spenser worked but intermittently
on the _F. Q._, resuming the regular composition and arrangement of
the poem about the time when he ceased to reside in Dublin.[7] By
1588--the date of Fraunce’s quotation--he may have already been settled
at Kilcolman. There, at least, Raleigh found him in 1589, and was shown
the poem; with the result that in the autumn of that year Spenser
accompanied Raleigh to London, and set about the publication of Books
I-III. The volume was licensed to William Ponsonbye on Dec. 1, 1589.
Spenser’s explanatory letter to Raleigh bears date Jan. 23, 1589 (i. e.
1590 N. S.). In the course of 1590, but not before March 25, the volume
was published. The printing shows some signs of haste; there is a long
list of errata or ‘Faults Escaped in the Print’. This list, though not
itself faultless, is of paramount authority in determining the text of
Books I-III; it is cited in the notes as _F. E._

In 1591 Spenser returned to Ireland, a disappointed man. I fear that
Burleigh had taken occasion of the Milesian tone of certain episodes
in Book III to stir the ashes of an old resentment: the second part
of _F. Q._ begins and ends with complaints of misconstruction by that
‘mighty Pere’. But once back at Kilcolman he resumed his task. At first
the stream of poetry flows languidly. The fable rambles, dispersing its
force in many channels, like a river choked with sand; the verse flags;
the play of alliteration is fitful; and Spenser essays a new, but to
my ear an unhappy, variation in the form of a feminine ending.[8] But
presently he gathers strength again under some new influence, which
one would fain associate with his courtship of Elizabeth Boyle. The
treatment of _Britomart_ in Book V has strong, dramatic touches beyond
anything in the earlier books; and in the lovely pastoral episodes of
Book VI the poet lives once more in Arcadia. But positive indications
of date are very rare. Book V Canto xi must be later than July 25,
1593, when Henri IV heard that mass which was the price of Paris: the
singular dislocation of the Argument to Canto xii--half of which refers
to the incidents of Canto xi--suggests that this _Burbon_ episode was
an afterthought; that it was inserted after Book V had been disposed
into Cantos; and that Spenser meant it to form part of Canto xii. On
the ordinary interpretation of the _Amoretti_,[9] all these books
were finished before, but not long before, his wedding on June 11,
1594 (_v. Sonnet_ 80); and on any interpretation they must have been
finished by 1595, when Sir Robert Needham brought the manuscript of the
_Amoretti_ to London. Yet Spenser may have added and retouched up to
the date of publication. For, in spite of _Sonnet_ 80, I have fancied
that when he wrote certain descriptions in Books V and VI Spenser was
not only a husband but a father. See especially V. v. 53 (simile of the
nurse and infant); V. vi. 14 (the child crying in the night); VI. iv.
18, 23, 24 (_Calepine’s_ treatment of the foundling, which should be
compared with _Guyon’s_ behaviour in a similar situation, II. ii. 1);
also VI. iv. 37, particularly line 8. Now Spenser’s eldest child was
born in 1595. This may be fanciful. What is certain is that towards the
close of 1595 Spenser followed Needham to London with the manuscript
of the second part of _F. Q._ It was licensed to Ponsonbye on Jan.
20, 1596, and published by autumn of that year. James VI took offence
at the treatment of _Duessa_, and had to be appeased by the English
Ambassador, whose letter detailing the incident is dated Nov. 12, 1596.
The new edition was in two volumes, the first being a reprint, with
alterations, of 1590.

Late in 1596, or early in 1597, Spenser returned to Ireland. In 1598
Tyrone’s rebellion broke out. In October the rebels attacked and burned
Kilcolman Castle. Spenser fled to Cork, whence in December he made
his way to London; and there, on Jan. 16, 1599, he died. Ten years
after his death a folio edition of _F. Q._ was published by Mathew
Lownes, which added to the six books already published two Cantos
of _Mutabilitie_, ‘which, both for Forme and Matter, appeare to be
parcell of some following Booke of the _Faerie Queene_, vnder the
Legend of _Constancie_.’ These two cantos, with two stanzas of a third,
are all that remain of the third part of _F. Q._ Whether Spenser wrote
more is unknown. But the fact that the two cantos are numbered vi and
vii makes it fairly certain that he had at least sketched the whole
Seventh Book. I cannot accept the view that these two cantos are an
independent poem, in the sense that they were not designed to form part
of _F. Q._ The lines (VII. vi. 37)--

    ‘And, were it not ill fitting for this file,
      To sing of hilles and woods, mongst warres and Knights’--

show clearly that they were so designed. That they may have been
written independently, in the sense in which the _Wedding of Thames
and Medway_ was written independently, I am not concerned to deny. The
view that these cantos are spurious is unworthy of serious discussion.
If they are spurious, there must have been living in 1609 an unknown
poet who could write the Spenserian style and stanza as well as Spenser
at his best. For there is nothing of its kind in _F. Q._ superior
to the pageant[10] of the months and seasons; and no one who really
knows Spenser can doubt that the two stanzas which alone remain of the
‘vnperfite’ eighth canto came from his heart.

IV.

The chief critical problem that confronts an editor of _F. Q._ concerns
the text of Books I-III. Should the text of these books be based on
1590 or on 1596? I have chosen the latter. And I have done so, in the
main, for a quite general reason. 1596 was produced under Spenser’s
eye and by his authority. That authority must be held to cover both
volumes, not the second only. Behind this we cannot go. The case is
quite different with the later quartos of the _Shepheards Calender_,
which were produced in Spenser’s absence.

This general position is confirmed by a minute comparison of 1590
and 1596. To take the more massive changes first: in 1 596 Spenser
completely remodelled the conclusion of Book III. Instead of bringing
_Scudamour_ and _Amoret_ together, as in 1590, he left them still
parted, hoping thus to prolong the interest of their story into Book
IV, and so to form a link between the two volumes, which he desired to
be read as one continuous poem. For this he sacrificed five glorious
stanzas, one of them the most rapturous that he ever wrote. The
three stanzas which he substituted are far inferior, as he must have
known; but they served his purpose. He also added a new stanza at I.
xi. 3. He rewrote single lines, in the interests of sound or sense;
he altered single words or phrases; and he made--what is even more
significant--several minute changes of order designed to improve the
rhythm. Let me add that most of these changes are more happily inspired
than the second-thoughts of poets have sometimes been.

I hasten to make two admissions. The first volume of 1596 was not
reset afresh from Spenser’s manuscript. It was printed from a copy of
1590. In the nature of the case, while it escapes some of the blunders
of its original, it reproduces others, and perpetrates some new. Nor
did Spenser do more than glance at the proof. The 1596 volumes, as we
have seen, were printed rapidly; the poet was busy,[11] and such time
as he had for proof-reading was given to the new books. I infer that
the alterations which he made in 1590 were made not on the proof, but
on the copy. In no other way can we account for that combination of
author’s corrections with printer’s errors which marks the first volume
of 1596. And this conclusion is strengthened by another consideration.
It is one of the worst faults of 1596 that it so often ignores _F.
E._ But the significance of the fault has been overlooked. Making
corrections on the copy, Spenser did not trouble himself about errors
that he had already noted in _F. E._; had he made his corrections on
the proof, they could not have escaped him.

I believe this to be a true account of the relations of these two
texts. But when all is said there remain many places where we cannot
pronounce on mere inspection whether an alteration is the author’s or
the printer’s, but must be guided by a calculation of probabilities,
inclining (e. g.) to the author where there is clear evidence of his
hand in the neighbourhood of the vexed passage, to the printer where
the _ductus litterarum_ in both readings is suspiciously alike. The
most important of these places are discussed in the Critical Appendix
to Vol. III.

Has 1609 any independent authority? In the main a reprint of 1596, it
is certainly a respectable piece of work, in punctuation especially
far more logical and consistent than either of the quartos: the
editor seldom fails to show exactly how he understands his text. Our
respect for 1609 would be enhanced if we could believe that the editor
was Gabriel Harvey, as Todd at one time fancied. But that notion is
untenable, and Todd himself abandoned it. We may go further: the editor
of 1609 did not belong to the generation of Harvey and Spenser. For
this conclusion I will adduce only one piece of evidence, but it is
decisive. In the last decade of the sixteenth century syllabic _-es_ in
possessives and plurals still lingered even in verse not deliberately
archaic. But it was strange to the editor of 1609. Sometimes he remarks
it, and signalizes his discovery by printing it _-ez_, as ‘woundez’,
‘beastez’, ‘clothez’. Sometimes he fails to remark it, and fills up the
syllable by conjecture: thus ‘_Nightes_ children’ becomes ‘_Nights_
drad children’ (I. v. 23); ‘th’Earthes gloomy shade’ becomes ‘the
Earthes gloomy shade’ (III. x. 46). He seems, moreover, to have made
little or no use of 1590. When, as sometimes happens, a word has been
dropped in 1596, he emends by conjecture: thus at I. ii. 29:--

‘For the coole shade him thither hastly got’ 1590;

‘For the coole shade thither hastly got’ 1596;

‘For the coole shadow thither hast’ly got’ 1609.

Cf. also III. ix. 13, l. 9, III. xi. 26, l. 7, &c. The few instances
in which 1590 and 1609 agree as against 1596 may fairly be set down to
coincidence.

Yet I am disposed to assign some independent authority to 1609.[12] The
grounds for this view are slight, and may be stated in full:--

 (1) At I. x. 20, l. 5, 1609 adds the missing line, ‘Dry-shod to passe,
 she parts the flouds in tway.’

 (2) At II. viii. 48, l. 8, it corrects ‘Sir _Guyon_’ to ‘Prince
 _Arthur_’.

 (3) At III. iii. 50, l. 9, it completes the imperfect Alexandrine by
 adding ‘as earst’.

 (4) At III. vi. 45, l. 4, it adds a broken line, ‘And dearest loue,’
 to an eight-line stanza.

 (5) At IV. xii. 13, ll. 1, 2, 1596 reads:--

    ‘Thus whilst his stony heart with tender ruth
      Was toucht, and mighty courage mollifide’;

 1609 reads:--

    ‘Thus whilst his stony heart was toucht with tender ruth,
      And mighty courage something mollifide.’

 (6) At V. Proem 11, l. 2, it reads ‘stead’ for the non-rhyming ‘place’.

Of these changes, (2) and (3) are not beyond the capacity of an
ordinary editor; yet it is worth noting that 1609 does not correct
other confusions of names almost as obvious as (2). Even the missing
line (1), Spenserian as it sounds, might conceivably be editorial. But
to add a _broken_ line, like (4), seems to me a touch beyond an editor.
And (5) is most easily explained by supposing that Spenser altered
the text, meaning to omit ‘tender’, but left that word standing. (6)
is an instance of a phenomenon that has already been discussed. The
significant point is that this is the only instance of that phenomenon
which is corrected in 1609. An editor who corrected one of these
mistakes might be expected to correct others; but the author who
perpetrated these non-rhymes would more easily overlook them.

The addition of the _Mutabilitie_ cantos in 1609 must be allowed to
create a prejudice in favour of the view for which I argue. The editor
who recovered so much of Spenser’s manuscript may have recovered more:
parcels of _F. Q._, as we have seen, were handed about in London in
Spenser’s absence. Or--and the form of the variants at IV. xii. 13
makes this the more probable hypothesis--the editor of 1609 may have
had a copy of 1596 with some corrections by the author. Finally, it
is not impossible that these corrections were actually embodied in
exemplars of 1596 which no longer survive. Elizabethan writers were
in the habit of correcting sheets as they passed through the press:
in _F. Q._ itself I have noted more than a score of places in which
the readings of the copies used for this edition differ from those
of other copies in the Bodleian or the British Museum, or of copies
used by previous editors; and the notes of Church, Upton, and Todd
show that they had seen copies which differ in minute points from any
now available. As the sheets were probably bound indiscriminately, it
is possible that no two exemplars exactly correspond. The charges of
careless collation freely bandied among Spenser’s editors are sometimes
due to this cause.

It remains for me to acknowledge with gratitude the unwearied help
that I have received in preparing this edition, first, from my wife,
who read 1609 with me twice; next, from my friend Dr. Soutar, of
University College, Dundee, who revised the difficult proofs of Books
I-III; last, from an unknown coadjutor, Mr. Ostler of the Clarendon
Press, to whose skill and vigilance above all I owe whatever measure
of accuracy has been secured. An edition like this has little claim to
any higher virtue; yet perfect accuracy, even, is too much to hope for
in the reproduction, by ordinary typography, of the original spelling
and punctuation of a poem which runs to more than 35,000 lines. In
the Critical Appendix I have called attention to one or two places in
which I have noted what now seem to me to be errors, or on which I have
changed my mind since the sheets were printed.

I have also to thank Sir James Murray, Dr. Bradley, and Dr. Craigie for
information on points of lexicography; and Mr. Charles Cannan for the
protracted loan of his copy of the first folio.

                                          J. C. SMITH.

  ST. ANDREWS,
    _September, 1909_.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] But this was corrected as the sheet passed through the press. See
note _ad loc._ in the Critical Appendix.

[2] The peculiarity consists not in the occasional occurrence of a
rhymeless line--a thing that can easily be paralleled from Shelley or
any poet of equal fluency--but in the fact that the right word is in
every case so obvious that we cannot but believe it to have been in
Spenser’s mind.

[3] This argument loses some of its weight from the likelihood that
Spenser had been in Ireland before 1580. In his _View of the Present
State of Ireland_, Irenæus, who is Spenser’s mouthpiece, speaks of
himself as an eyewitness of the execution of Murrogh O’Brien, which
took place at Limerick in July, 1577. The statement, of course, is
not conclusive, as it would be if made in Spenser’s own person. Yet
Spenser’s account of this hideous incident has the stamp of personal
observation, and, taken with the evidence of Phillips’s _Theatrum
Poetarum Anglicorum_, points to the conclusion that in 1577 Spenser had
been sent to Ireland by Leicester with letters to Sir Henry Sidney. His
visit, however, must have been brief, and may well have left no trace
in his poetry.

Upton believed that the _Ruddymane_ episode in II. ii referred to the
O’Neills, whose badge was a bloody hand (_v._ the _View of the Present
State of Ireland_). If there be anything in this, it makes against
the view that a book and a half had been written by August, 1580; for
Spenser is not likely to have known the O’Neill ‘badge’ till he settled
in Ireland.

[4] The passage in Tasso (_G. L._ ix. 25) is itself an imitation of
Virgil, _Aen._ vii. 785. Yet the ‘greedie pawes’ and ‘golden wings’ of
Spenser’s picture seem due to Tasso’s ‘Sù le zampe s’inalza, e l’ali
spande.’

Both these arguments, then, are indecisive; and in the absence of
decisive proof I find it hard to believe that Harvey, who though a
pedant was no fool, can have seen anything like the whole of Book I
without recognizing its superlative merits.

[5] Fraunce’s book was licensed on June 11.

[6] From these _Pageaunts_ E. K. quotes a line:

    ‘An hundred Graces on her eyelidde sate,’

which appears, slightly altered, in _F. Q._ II. iii. 25.

[7] The ‘fennes of Allan’ (II. ix. 16) would be near New Abbey in Co.
Kildare, where Spenser seems to have occasionally resided in the years
1582-4.

[8] In the whole of Books I-III there is only one feminine ending, viz.
in II. ix. 47. In Books IV-VI such endings abound.

[9] ‘On the ordinary interpretation,’ I say; for an attempt has
recently been made (_Mod. Lang. Rev._ 1908) to prove that the lady of
the _Amoretti_ and the ‘countrey lasse’ of _F. Q._ VI was not Elizabeth
Boyle, but Lady Elizabeth Carey.

[10] The occurrence of feminine endings makes it very unlikely that
this was among the _Pageaunts_ mentioned by E. K. The greater part of
the _Mutabilitie_ cantos was certainly written in Ireland, probably in
1597-8.

[11] The scene of the dialogue on the _Present State of Ireland_ is
laid in England; so that, unless this is a mere literary device, the
tract must have been written, or at least begun, during this visit in
1596.

[12] No such authority, I think, belongs to the ‘Second Folio’, though
it sometimes corrects printer’s errors. In the Critical Appendix I have
cited some of its characteristic variants in support of this view.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

Of the copies collated for this edition, three are in the Bodleian,
viz.:--

  (1) Malone 615, Books I-III, 1590.
  (2) Malone 616, Books IV-VI, 1596.
  (3) 4^o Art. Seld. S. 22, Books I-VI, 1596 (collated for Books I-III).
  For 1609 I have used (4) a copy belonging to Mr. Charles Cannan.

The following copies, though not collated _verbatim_, have been
examined for variants:--

   (5) Malone 7, 1609                    }
   (6) M. 4. 5 Art. { Books I-III, 1611  }
                    { Books IV-VII, 1612 } in the Bodleian.
   (7) Douce S. 817 { Books I-III, 1609  }
                    { Books IV-VII, 1613 }

   (8) G. 11535, 6 { Books I-III, 1590      }
                   { Books IV-VI, 1596      }
   (9) C. 12. h. 17, 18 { Books I-III, 1590 }
                        { Books IV-VI, 1596 }
  (10) 686 g. 21, 22, 1596                  }
  (11) G. 11537, 1596                       } in the British Museum.
  (12) C. 57. f. 6, 1609                    }
  (13) 78 g. 13 { Books I-III, 1609         }
                { Books IV-VII, 1613        }
  (14) 79 h. 23 { Books I-III, 1611         }
                { Books IV-VII, 1613        }

The bibliographical note on Spenser in the _Dictionary of National
Biography_ appears to ignore 4^o Art. Seld. S. 22.

The 1590, 1596, 1609 editions of _F. Q._ have been described already.
In 1611 Lownes (the publisher of the 1609 _F. Q._) set about a complete
edition of Spenser’s poems. But having on hand unsold copies of 1609,
he incorporated parts of these under the new title-page.[13] This has
happened to (6), the first part of which is identical with 1609, except
for the title-page and dedication. The genuine 1611 edition of _F. Q._
I-III is represented by the first part of (14). The second part of
(6), bearing date 1612, has been reset: it is identical with the second
parts of (7), (13), (14), which bear date 1613. No 1611 edition of _F.
Q._ IV-VII is known to me. But in the footnotes I have followed the
custom of citing this ‘Second Folio’ as 1611, except where readings
not found by me in editions prior to 1612-13 have been attributed to
1609 by previous editors, misled perhaps by the omission from the
British Museum catalogue of the second title to (13). In the Critical
Appendix on Books IV-VII I cite this Second Folio (for these Books) as
16(11)-12-13.

Subsequent editions of Spenser’s works:--The folios of 1617, 1679 (the
latter said to have been overseen by Dryden); ed. J. Hughes, 1715; H.
J. Todd, 1805; F. J. Child, 1855; J. P. Collier, 1862; R. Morris, 1869;
A. B. Grosart, 1882-4.

Separate editions of _Faerie Queene_:--ed. J. Upton, 1758; R. Church,
1758-9; Kate M. Warren, 1897-1900.

  Commentaries:--_Remarks on Spenser’s Poems_, by J. Jortin, 1734.
                 _Observations on the Faerie Queene_, by T. Warton,
                 1754.

[For the matter of this note I am largely indebted to Mr. Ostler and
Mr. Percy Simpson.]

FOOTNOTES:

[13] From a MS. note of Malone’s I learn that Ponsonbye had played the
same trick in 1596; and even of the 1617 folio Church avers that some
copies are made up with sheets of the old 1611.

CONTENTS.

THE FAERIE QVEENE.

                                                       PAGE

  DEDICATION TO QVEEN ELIZABETH                           2

  BOOK I.

  THE LEGENDE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE, OR OF
    HOLINESSE                                             3

  BOOK II.

  THE LEGEND OF SIR GVYON, OR OF TEMPERAVNCE            165

  BOOK III.

  THE LEGEND OF BRITOMARTIS, OR OF CHASTITIE            342

  APPENDIX.

  STANZAS OMITTED IN THE SECOND EDITION (1596)          517

  THE FAERIE
  QVEENE.

  _Disposed into twelue bookes,
  Fashioning_

  XII. Morall vertues.

  LONDON
  Printed for VVilliam Ponsonbie.
  1596.

  TO
  THE MOST HIGH,
  MIGHTIE
  And
  MAGNIFICENT
  EMPRESSE RENOVVMED
  FOR PIETIE, VERTVE,
  AND ALL GRATIOVS
  GOVERNMENT ELIZABETH BY
  THE GRACE OF GOD QVEENE
  OF ENGLAND FRAVNCE AND
  IRELAND AND OF VIRGINIA,
  DEFENDOVR OF THE
  FAITH, &c. HER MOST
  HVMBLE SERVAVNT
  EDMVND SPENSER
  DOTH IN ALL HVMILITIE
  DEDICATE,
  PRESENT
  AND CONSECRATE THESE
  HIS LABOVRS TO LIVE
  VVITH THE ETERNITIE
  OF HER
  FAME.

  THE FIRST
  BOOKE OF THE
  FAERIE QVEENE.

  _Contayning_

  THE LEGENDE OF THE
  KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE,

  _OR_

  OF HOLINESSE.

    Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,                        i
      As time her taught[14], in lowly Shepheards weeds,
      Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske,
      For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
      And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
      Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long,
      Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
      To blazon broad emongst[15] her learned throng:
    Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song.

    Helpe then, O[16] holy Virgin chiefe of nine,                     ii
      Thy weaker Nouice to performe thy will,
      Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
      The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
      Of Faerie knights and fairest _Tanaquill_,
      Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
      Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill,
      That I must rue his vndeserued wrong:
    O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong.

    And thou most dreaded impe of highest _Ioue_,                    iii
      Faire _Venus_ sonne, that with thy cruell dart
      At that good knight so cunningly didst roue,
      That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
      Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
      And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
      Come both, and with you bring triumphant _Mart_,
      In loues and gentle iollities arrayd,
    After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd.

    And with them eke, O Goddesse heauenly bright,                    iv
      Mirrour of grace and Maiestie diuine,
      Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
      Like _Phœbus_ lampe throughout the world doth shine,
      Shed thy faire beames into my[17] feeble eyne,
      And raise my thoughts too humble and too vile,
      To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,
      The argument of mine afflicted stile:
    The which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest dred a-while.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] i 2 taught _1596_

[15] 8 ’broad, amongst _1609_

[16] ii 1 O] ô _1596_, _1609 passim_

[17] iv 5 my] mine _1590_

_Canto I._

    _The Patron of true Holinesse,
      Foule Errour doth defeate:
    Hypocrisie him to entrapp’[18],
      Doth to his home entreate._
]

    A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,                        i
      Y cladd in mightie armes and siluer shielde,
      Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
      The cruell markes of many’ a bloudy[19] fielde;
      Yet armes till that time did he neuer wield:
      His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
      As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
      Full iolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
    As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.

    But[20] on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,                    ii
      The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
      For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
      And dead as liuing euer him ador’d:
      Vpon his shield the like was also scor’d,
      For soueraine hope, which in his helpe he had:
      Right faithfull true he was in deede and word,
      But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;
    Yet nothing did he dread, but euer was ydrad.

    Vpon a great aduenture he was bond,                              iii
      That greatest _Gloriana_ to him gaue,
      That greatest Glorious Queene of _Faerie_ lond,
      To winne him worship, and her grace to haue,
      Which of all earthly things he most did craue;
      And euer as he rode, his hart did earne
      To proue his puissance in battell braue
      Vpon his foe, and his new force to learne;
    Vpon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne.

    A louely Ladie rode him faire beside,                             iv
      Vpon a lowly Asse more white then snow,
      Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
      Vnder a vele, that wimpled was full low,
      And ouer all a blacke stole she did throw,
      As one that inly mournd: so was she sad,
      And heauie sat[21] vpon her palfrey slow:
      Seemed in heart some hidden care she had,
    And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad.

    So pure an innocent[22], as that same lambe,                       v
      She was in life and euery vertuous lore,
      And by descent from Royall lynage came
      Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore
      Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore,
      And all the world in their subiection held;
      Till that infernall feend with foule vprore
      Forwasted all their land, and them expeld:
    Whom to auenge, she had this Knight from far compeld[23].

    Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag,                           vi
      That lasie seemd in being euer last,
      Or wearied with bearing of her bag
      Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past,
      The day with cloudes was suddeine ouercast,
      And angry _Ioue_ an hideous storme of raine
      Did poure into his Lemans lap so fast,
      That euery wight to shrowd it did constrain,
    And this faire couple eke to shroud themselues were fain.

    Enforst to seeke some couert nigh at hand,                       vii
      A shadie groue not far away they spide,
      That promist ayde the tempest to withstand:
      Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride,
      Did spred so broad, that heauens light did hide,
      Not perceable with power of any starre:
      And all within were pathes and alleies wide,
      With footing worne, and leading inward farre:
    Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they entred arre.

    And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led,               viii
      Ioying to heare the birdes sweete harmony,
      Which therein shrouded from the tempest[24] dred,
      Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky.
      Much can they prayse the trees so straight and hy,
      The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall,
      The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar neuer dry,
      The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all,
    The Aspine good for staues, the Cypresse funerall.

    The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours                          ix
      And Poets sage, the Firre that weepeth still,
      The Willow worne of forlorne Paramours,
      The Eugh obedient to the benders will,
      The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill,
      The Mirrhe sweete[25] bleeding in the bitter wound,
      The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill,
      The fruitfull Oliue, and the Platane round,
    The caruer Holme, the Maple seeldom[26] inward sound.

    Led with delight, they thus beguile the way,                       x
      Vntill the blustring storme is ouerblowne;
      When weening to returne, whence they did stray,
      They[27] cannot finde that path, which first was showne,
      But wander too and fro in wayes vnknowne,
      Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene,
      That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne:
      So many pathes, so many turnings seene,
    That which of them to take, in diuerse doubt they been.

    At last resoluing forward still to fare,                          xi
      Till that some end they finde or in or out,
      That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare,
      And like to lead the labyrinth about;
      Which when by tract they hunted had throughout,
      At length it brought them to a hollow caue,
      Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout
      Eftsoones dismounted from his courser braue,
    And to the Dwarfe a while his needlesse spere he gaue.

    Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie milde,                      xii
      Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash prouoke:
      The danger hid, the place vnknowne and wilde,
      Breedes dreadfull doubts: Oft fire is without smoke,
      And perill without show: therefore your stroke[28]
      Sir knight with-hold, till further triall made.
      Ah Ladie (said he) shame were to reuoke
      The forward footing for an hidden shade:
    Vertue giues her selfe light, through darkenesse for to wade.

    Yea but (quoth she) the perill of this place                    xiii
      I better wot then you, though now too late[29]
      To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace,
      Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate,
      To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate.
      This is the wandring wood, this _Errours den_,
      A monster vile, whom God and man does hate:
      Therefore I read beware. Fly fly (quoth then
    The fearefull Dwarfe:) this is no place for liuing men.

    But full of fire and greedy hardiment,                           xiv
      The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide,
      But forth vnto the darksome hole he went,
      And looked in: his glistring armor made
      A litle glooming light, much like a shade,
      By which he saw the vgly monster plaine,
      Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide,
      But th’other halfe did womans shape retaine,
    Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine.

    And as she lay vpon the durtie ground,                            xv
      Her huge long taile her den all ouerspred,
      Yet was in knots and many boughtes vpwound,
      Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred
      A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed,
      Sucking vpon her poisonous[30] dugs, eachone
      Of sundry shapes, yet all ill fauored:
      Soone as that vncouth light vpon them shone,
    Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone.

    Their dam vpstart, out of her den effraide,                      xvi
      And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile
      About her cursed head, whose folds displaid
      Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile.
      She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle
      Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe;
      For light she hated as the deadly bale,
      Ay wont in desert darknesse to remaine,
    Where plaine none might her see, nor she see any plaine.

    Which when the valiant Elfe perceiu’d[31], he lept              xvii
      As Lyon fierce vpon the flying pray,
      And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept
      From turning backe, and forced her to stay:
      Therewith enrag’d she loudly gan to bray,
      And turning fierce, her speckled taile aduaunst,
      Threatning her angry sting, him to dismay:
      Who nought aghast, his mightie hand enhaunst:
    The stroke down from her head vnto her shoulder glaunst.

    Much daunted with that dint, her sence was dazd,               xviii
      Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round,
      And all attonce her beastly body raizd
      With doubled forces high aboue the ground:
      Tho wrapping vp her wrethed sterne arownd,
      Lept fierce vpon his shield, and her huge traine
      All suddenly about his body wound,
      That hand or foot to stirre he stroue in vaine:
    God helpe the man so wrapt in _Errours_ endlesse traine.

    His Lady sad to see his sore constraint,                         xix
      Cride out, Now now Sir knight, shew what ye[32] bee,
      Add faith vnto your force, and be not faint:
      Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee.
      That when he heard, in great perplexitie,
      His gall did grate for griefe and high disdaine,
      And knitting all his force got one hand free,
      Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine,
    That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine.

    Therewith she spewd out of her filthy maw                         xx
      A floud of poyson horrible and blacke,
      Full of great lumpes of flesh and gobbets raw,
      Which stunck so vildly[33], that it forst him slacke
      His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe:
      Her vomit full of bookes and papers was,
      With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke,
      And creeping sought way in the weedy gras:
    Her filthy parbreake all the place defiled has.

    As when old father _Nilus_ gins to swell                         xxi
      With timely pride aboue the _Ægyptian_ vale,
      His fattie waues do fertile slime outwell,
      And ouerflow each plaine and lowly dale:
      But when his later spring[34] gins to auale[35],
      Huge heapes of mudd he leaues, wherein there breed
      Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male
      And partly female of his fruitfull seed;
    Such vgly monstrous shapes elswhere may no man reed.

    The same so sore annoyed has the knight,                        xxii
      That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke,
      His forces fade, ne can no longer[36] fight.
      Whose corage when the feend perceiu’d to shrinke,
      She poured forth out of her hellish sinke
      Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small,
      Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke,
      Which swarming all about his legs did crall,
    And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all.

    As gentle Shepheard in sweete euen-tide,                       xxiii
      When ruddy _Phœbus_[37] gins to welke in west,
      High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide,
      Markes which do byte their hasty supper best;
      A cloud of combrous[38] gnattes do him molest,
      All striuing to infixe their feeble stings,
      That from their noyance he no where can rest,
      But with his clownish hands their tender wings
    He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.

    Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull more of shame,                  xxiv
      Then of the certaine perill he stood in,
      Halfe furious vnto his foe he came,
      Resolv’d in minde all suddenly to win,
      Or soone to lose, before he once would lin;
      And strooke[39] at her with more then manly force,
      That from her body full of filthie sin
      He raft[40] her hatefull head without remorse;
    A streame of cole black bloud forth gushed from her corse.

    Her scattred brood, soone as their Parent deare                  xxv
      They saw so rudely falling to the ground,
      Groning full deadly, all with troublous feare,
      Gathred themselues about her body round,
      Weening their wonted entrance to haue found
      At her wide mouth: but being there withstood
      They flocked all about her bleeding wound[41],
      And sucked vp their dying mothers blood,
    Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good.

    That detestable sight him much amazde,                          xxvi
      To see th’vnkindly Impes of heauen accurst,
      Deuoure their dam; on whom while so he gazd,
      Hauing all satisfide their bloudy thurst,
      Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst,
      And bowels gushing forth: well worthy end
      Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst;
      Now needeth him no lenger[42] labour spend,
    His foes haue slaine themselues, with whom he should contend.

    His Ladie seeing all, that chaunst, from farre                 xxvii
      Approcht in hast[43] to greet his victorie,
      And said, Faire knight, borne vnder happy starre,
      Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye:
      Well worthy be you of that Armorie,
      Wherein ye haue great glory wonne this day,
      And proou’d your strength on a strong enimie,
      Your first aduenture: many such I pray,
    And henceforth euer wish, that like succeed it may.

    Then mounted he vpon his Steede againe,                       xxviii
      And with the Lady backward sought to wend;
      That path he kept, which beaten was most plaine,
      Ne euer would to any by-way bend,
      But still did follow one vnto the end,
      The which at last out of the wood them brought.
      So forward on his way (with God to frend)
      He passed[44] forth, and new aduenture sought;
    Long way he trauelled, before he heard of ought.

    At length they chaunst to meet vpon the way                     xxix
      An aged Sire, in long blacke weedes yclad,
      His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray,
      And by his belt his booke he hanging had;
      Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad,
      And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent,
      Simple in shew, and voyde of malice bad,
      And all the way he prayed, as he went,
    And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent.

    He faire the knight saluted, louting low,                        xxx
      Who faire him quited, as that courteous was:
      And after asked him, if he did know
      Of straunge aduentures, which abroad did pas.
      Ah my deare Sonne (quoth he) how should, alas,
      Silly old man, that liues in hidden cell,
      Bidding his beades all day for his trespas,
      Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell?
    With holy father sits[45] not with such things to mell.

    But if of daunger[46] which hereby doth dwell,                  xxxi
      And homebred euill[47] ye desire to heare,
      Of a straunge[48] man I can you tidings tell,
      That wasteth all this countrey farre and neare.
      Of such (said he) I chiefly do inquere,
      And shall you[49] well reward to shew the place,
      In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare:
      For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace,
    That such a cursed creature liues so long a space.

    Far hence (quoth he) in wastfull wildernesse                   xxxii
      His dwelling is, by which no liuing wight
      May euer passe, but thorough great distresse.
      Now (sayd the Lady) draweth toward night,
      And well I wote, that of your later fight
      Ye all forwearied[50] be: for what so strong,
      But wanting rest will also want of might?
      The Sunne that measures heauen all day long,
    At night doth baite his steedes the _Ocean_ waues emong.

    Then with the Sunne take Sir, your timely rest,               xxxiii
      And with new day new worke at once begin:
      Vntroubled night they say giues counsell best.
      Right well Sir knight ye haue aduised bin,
      (Quoth then that aged man;) the way to win
      Is wisely to aduise: now day is spent;
      Therefore with me ye may take vp your In
      For this same night. The knight was well content:
    So with that godly father to his home they went.

    A little lowly Hermitage it was,                               xxxiv
      Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side,
      Far from resort of people, that did pas
      In trauell to and froe: a little wyde
      There was an holy Chappell edifyde,
      Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say
      His holy things each morne and euentyde:
      Thereby a Christall streame did gently play,
    Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway.

    Arriued there, the little house they fill,                      xxxv
      Ne looke for entertainement, where none was:
      Rest is their feast, and all things at their will;
      The noblest mind the best contentment has.
      With faire discourse the euening so they pas:
      For that old man of pleasing wordes had store,
      And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas;
      He told of Saintes and Popes, and euermore[51]
    He strowd an _Aue-Mary_ after and before.

    The drouping Night thus creepeth on them fast,                 xxxvi
      And the sad humour loading their eye liddes,
      As messenger of _Morpheus_ on them cast
      Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleepe them biddes.
      Vnto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes:
      Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes,
      He to his study goes, and there amiddes
      His Magick bookes and artes of sundry kindes,
    He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble sleepy mindes.

    Then choosing out few wordes most horrible,                   xxxvii
      (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame,
      With which and other spelles like terrible,
      He bad awake blacke _Plutoes_ griesly Dame,
      And cursed heauen, and spake reprochfull shame
      Of highest God, the Lord of life and light;
      A bold bad man, that dar’d to call by name
      Great _Gorgon_, Prince of darknesse and dead night,
    At which _Cocytus_ quakes, and _Styx_ is put to flight.

    And forth he cald out of deepe darknesse dred                xxxviii
      Legions of Sprights, the which like little flyes
      Fluttring about his euer damned hed,
      A-waite whereto their seruice he applyes,
      To aide his friends, or fray his enimies:
      Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo,
      And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes;
      The one of them he gaue a message too,
    The other by him selfe staide other worke to doo.

    He making speedy way through spersed ayre,                     xxxix
      And through the world of waters wide and deepe,
      To _Morpheus_ house doth hastily repaire.
      Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe,
      And low, where dawning day doth neuer peepe,
      His dwelling is; there _Tethys_ his wet bed
      Doth euer wash, and _Cynthia_ still doth steepe
      In siluer deaw his euer-drouping hed,
    Whiles sad Night ouer him her mantle black doth spred.

    Whose double gates he findeth locked fast,                        xl
      The one faire fram’d of burnisht Yuory,
      The other all with siluer ouercast;
      And wakefull dogges before them farre do lye,
      Watching to banish Care their enimy,
      Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe[52].
      By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly,
      And vnto _Morpheus_ comes, whom drowned deepe
    In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes keepe.

    And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,                      xli
      A trickling streame from high rocke tumbling downe
      And euer-drizling[53] raine vpon the loft,
      Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
      Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne:
      No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
      As still are wont t’annoy the walled towne,
      Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes,
    Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.

    The messenger approching to him spake,                          xlii
      But his wast[54] wordes returnd[55] to him in vaine:
      So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake.
      Then rudely he him thrust[56], and pusht with paine,
      Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe
      Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake.
      As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine
      Is tost with troubled sights[57] and fancies weake,
    He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake.

    The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake,                   xliii
      And threatned vnto him the dreaded name
      Of _Hecate_: whereat he gan to quake,
      And lifting vp his lumpish[58] head, with blame
      Halfe angry asked him, for what he came.
      Hither[59] (quoth he) me _Archimago_ sent,
      He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame,
      He bids thee to him send for his intent
    A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent.

    The God obayde, and calling forth straight way                  xliv
      A diuerse dreame out of his prison darke,
      Deliuered it to him, and downe did lay
      His heauie head, deuoide of carefull carke,
      Whose sences all were straight benumbd and starke.
      He backe returning by the Yuorie dore,
      Remounted vp as light as chearefull Larke,
      And on his litle winges the dreame he bore
    In hast vnto his Lord, where he him left afore.

    Who all this while with charmes and hidden artes,                xlv
      Had made a Lady of that other Spright,
      And fram’d of liquid ayre her tender partes
      So liuely, and so like in all mens sight,
      That weaker sence it could haue rauisht quight:
      The maker selfe for all his wondrous witt,
      Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight:
      Her all in white he clad, and ouer it
    Cast a blacke stole, most like to seeme for _Vna_ fit.

    Now when that ydle dreame was to him brought,                   xlvi
      Vnto that Elfin knight he bad him fly,
      Where he slept soundly void of euill thought,
      And with false shewes abuse his fantasy,
      In sort as he him schooled priuily:
      And that new creature borne without her dew,
      Full of the makers guile, with vsage[60] sly
      He taught to imitate that Lady trew,
    Whose semblance she did carrie vnder feigned hew.

    Thus well instructed, to their worke they hast,                xlvii
      And comming where the knight in slomber lay,
      The one vpon his hardy head him plast,
      And made him dreame of loues and lustfull play,
      That nigh his manly hart did melt away,
      Bathed in wanton blis and wicked ioy:
      Then seemed him his Lady by him lay,
      And to him playnd, how that false winged boy[61]
    Her chast hart had subdewd, to learne Dame pleasures toy.

    And she her selfe of beautie soueraigne Queene,               xlviii
      Faire _Venus_ seemde vnto his bed to bring
      Her, whom he waking euermore did weene[62]
      To be the chastest flowre, that ay did spring
      On earthly braunch, the daughter of a king,
      Now a loose Leman to vile seruice bound:
      And eke the _Graces_ seemed all to sing,
      _Hymen iõ Hymen_, dauncing all around,
    Whilst freshest _Flora_ her with[63] Yuie girlond crownd.

    In this great passion of vnwonted lust,                         xlix
      Or wonted feare of doing ought amis,
      He started[64] vp, as seeming to mistrust[65]
      Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his:
      Lo there before his face his Lady is,
      Vnder blake stole hyding her bayted hooke,
      And as halfe blushing offred him to kis,
      With gentle blandishment and louely looke,
    Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took.

    All cleane dismayd to see so vncouth sight,                        l
      And halfe enraged at her shamelesse guise,
      He thought haue[66] slaine her in his fierce despight:
      But hasty heat tempring with sufferance wise,
      He stayde his hand, and gan himselfe aduise
      To proue his sense, and tempt her faigned truth.
      Wringing her hands in wemens[67] pitteous wise,
      Tho can she weepe, to stirre vp gentle ruth,
    Both for her noble bloud, and for her tender youth.

    And said, Ah Sir, my liege Lord and my loue,                      li
      Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate,
      And mightie causes wrought in heauen aboue,
      Or the blind God, that doth me thus amate,
      For hoped loue to winne me certaine hate?
      Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die.
      Die is my dew: yet rew my wretched state
      You, whom my hard auenging destinie
    Hath made iudge of my life or death indifferently.

    Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leaue                  lii
      My Fathers kingdome, There she stopt with teares;
      Her swollen hart her speach seemd to bereaue,
      And then againe begun[68], My weaker yeares
      Captiu’d to fortune and frayle worldly feares,
      Fly to your faith for succour and sure ayde:
      Let me not dye in languor and long teares.
      Why Dame (quoth he) what hath ye thus dismayd?
    What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me affrayd?

    Loue of your selfe, she said, and deare constraint              liii
      Lets me not sleepe, but wast the wearie night
      In secret anguish and vnpittied plaint,
      Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight.
      Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knight
      Suspect her truth: yet since no’vntruth[69] he knew,
      Her fawning loue with foule disdainefull spight
      He would not shend, but said, Deare dame I rew,
    That for my sake vnknowne such griefe vnto you grew.

    Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground;                    liv
      For all so deare as life is to my hart,
      I deeme your loue, and hold me to you bound;
      Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart,
      Where cause is none, but to your rest depart.
      Not all content, yet seemd she to appease
      Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art,
      And fed with words, that could not chuse[70] but please,
    So slyding softly forth, she turnd as to her ease.

    Long after lay he musing at her mood,                             lv
      Much grieu’d to thinke that gentle Dame so light,
      For whose defence he was to shed his blood.
      At last dull wearinesse of former fight
      Hauing yrockt a sleepe his irkesome spright,
      That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine,
      With bowres, and beds, and Ladies deare delight:
      But when he saw his labour all was vaine,
    With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Arg. 3 _entrape_ _1596_: _entrap_ _1609_

[19] i 4 bloody _1590 passim_

[20] ii 1 But] And _1590_

[21] iv 7 sat] sate _1590_

[22] v 1 and innocent _1590_: an Innocent _1609_

[23] 9 cõpeld _1590_, _1596 passim_

[24] viii 3 tempests _1609_

[25] ix 6 sweet, _1609_

[26] 9 sildom _1609 passim_

[27] x 4 They] The _1596_

[28] xii 5 your hardy stroke _1590 &c._: _corr. F. E._

[29] xiii 2 late, _1596_

[30] xv 6 poisnous _1590_

[31] xvii 1 perceiu’ed _1596_

[32] xix 2 ye] you _1609_

[33] xx 4 vilely _1609_

[34] xxi 5 spring] ebbe _1590 &c._: _corr. F. E._

[35] t’auale _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[36] xxii 3 lenger _1590_

[37] xxiii 2 _Phebus_ _1590_

[38] 5 cumbrous _1590_

[39] xxiv 6 stroke _1590_

[40] 8 reft _1609_

[41] xxv 7 wound. _1596_

[42] xxvi 8 longer _1609_

[43] xxvii 2 haste _1609_

[44] xxviii 8 passeth _1596_, _1609_

[45] xxx 9 fits _1609_

[46] xxxi 1 danger _1609_

[47] 2 euill _bis 1596_

[48] 3 strange _1609_

[49] 6 you] thee _1590_

[50] xxxii 6 for wearied _1596_

[51] xxxv 8 euemore _1596_

[52] xl 6 sleepe _1596_: sleep _1609_

[53] xli 3 euer] euery _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[54] xlii 2 waste _1590_, _1609_

[55] retournd _1590_

[56] 4 thrust] trust _1596_

[57] 8 sights] sighes _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[58] xliii 4 lompish _1590_

[59] 6 Hether _1590_

[60] xlvi 7 vsage] visage _1609_

[61] xlvii 8 boy, _1590_, _1596_

[62] xlviii 3 weene, _1590_, _1596_

[63] 9 with om. _1596_, _1609_

[64] xlix 3 starteth _1590_

[65] mistrust, _1590_, _1596_

[66] l 3 t’haue _1609_

[67] 7 womens _1609_

[68] lii 4 begonne _1590_

[69] liii 6 sith n’vntruth _1609_

[70] liv 8 chose _1590_

_Cant. II._

    _The guilefull great Enchaunter parts
      The Redcrosse Knight from Truth:
    Into whose stead[71] faire falshood steps,
      And workes him wofull ruth._
]

    By this the Northerne wagoner had set                              i
      His seuenfold teme behind the stedfast starre,
      That was in Ocean waues yet neuer wet,
      But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre
      To all, that in the wide deepe wandring arre:
      And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill
      Had warned once, that _Phœbus_ fiery carre
      In hast was climbing vp the Easterne hill,
    Full enuious that night so long his roome did fill.

    When those accursed messengers of hell,                           ii
      That feigning dreame, and that faire-forged Spright
      Came to their wicked maister, and gan tell
      Their bootelesse paines, and ill succeeding night:
      Who all in rage to see his skilfull might
      Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine
      And sad _Proserpines_ wrath, them to affright.
      But when he saw his threatning was but vaine,
    He cast about, and searcht his balefull bookes againe.

    Eftsoones he tooke that miscreated faire,                        iii
      And that false other Spright, on whom he spred
      A seeming body of the subtile aire,
      Like a young Squire, in loues and lusty-hed[72]
      His wanton dayes that euer loosely led,
      Without regard of armes and dreaded fight:
      Those two he tooke, and in a secret bed,
      Couered with darknesse and misdeeming night,
    Them both together laid, to ioy in vaine delight.

    Forthwith he runnes with feigned faithfull hast                   iv
      Vnto his guest, who after troublous sights
      And dreames, gan now to take more sound repast,
      Whom suddenly he wakes with fearefull frights,
      As one aghast with feends or damned sprights,
      And to him cals, Rise rise vnhappy Swaine,
      That here wex old in sleepe, whiles wicked wights
      Haue knit themselues in _Venus_ shamefull chaine;
    Come see, where your false Lady doth her honour[73] staine.

    All in amaze he suddenly vp start                                  v
      With sword in hand, and with the old man went;
      Who soone him brought into a secret part,
      Where that false couple were full closely ment
      In wanton lust and lewd embracement[74]:
      Which when he saw, he burnt with gealous fire,
      The eye of reason was with rage yblent,
      And would haue slaine them in his furious ire,
    But hardly was restreined of that aged sire.

    Returning to his bed in torment great,                            vi
      And bitter anguish of his guiltie sight,
      He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat,
      And wast his inward gall with deepe despight,
      Yrkesome of life, and too long lingring night.
      At last faire _Hesperus_ in highest skie
      Had spent his lampe, and[75] brought forth dawning light,
      Then vp he rose, and clad him hastily;
    The Dwarfe him brought his steed: so both away do fly.

    Now when the rosy-fingred Morning faire,                         vii
      Weary of aged _Tithones_ saffron bed,
      Had spred her purple robe through deawy aire,
      And the high hils _Titan_ discouered,
      The royall virgin shooke off drowsy-hed,
      And rising forth out of her baser bowre,
      Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled,
      And for her Dwarfe, that wont to wait each houre;
    Then gan she waile and[76] weepe, to see that woefull stowre.

    And after him she rode with so much speede                      viii
      As her slow beast could make; but all in vaine:
      For him so far had borne his light-foot steede,
      Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce disdaine,
      That him to follow was but fruitlesse paine;
      Yet she her weary limbes would neuer rest,
      But euery hill and dale, each wood and plaine
      Did search, sore grieued in her gentle brest,
    He so vngently left her, whom she loued[77] best.

    But subtill _Archimago_ when his guests                           ix
      He saw diuided into double parts,
      And _Vna_ wandring in woods and forrests,
      Th’end of his drift, he praisd his diuelish arts,
      That had such might ouer true meaning harts;
      Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make,
      How he may worke vnto her further smarts:
      For her he hated as the hissing snake,
    And in her many troubles did most pleasure take.

    He then deuisde himselfe how to disguise;                          x
      For by his mightie science he could take
      As many formes and shapes in seeming wise,
      As euer _Proteus_ to himselfe could make:
      Sometime a fowle, sometime a fish in lake,
      Now like a foxe, now like a dragon fell,
      That of himselfe he oft for feare would quake,
      And oft would flie away. O who can tell
    The hidden power of herbes, and might of Magicke spell?

    But now seemde best, the person to put on                         xi
      Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest:
      In mighty armes he was yclad anon[78],
      And siluer shield[79]: vpon his coward brest
      A bloudy crosse, and on his crauen crest
      A bounch of haires[80] discolourd diuersly:
      Full iolly knight he seemde, and well addrest,
      And when he sate vpon his courser free,
    _Saint George_ himself ye would haue deemed him to be.

    But he the knight, whose semblaunt he did beare,                 xii
      The true _Saint George_ was wandred far away,
      Still flying from his thoughts and gealous feare;
      Will was his guide, and griefe led him astray.
      At last him chaunst to meete vpon the way
      A faithlesse Sarazin all arm’d to point,
      In whose great shield was writ with letters gay
      _Sans foy_: full large of limbe and euery ioint
    He was, and cared not for God or man a point.

    He had a faire companion of his way,                            xiii
      A goodly Lady clad in scarlot red,
      Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay,
      And like a _Persian_ mitre on her hed
      She wore, with crownes and owches garnished,
      The which her lauish louers to her gaue;
      Her wanton palfrey all was ouerspred
      With tinsell trappings, wouen like a waue,
    Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses braue.

    With faire disport and courting dalliaunce                       xiv
      She intertainde her louer all the way:
      But when she saw the knight his speare aduaunce,
      She soone left off[81] her mirth and wanton play,
      And bad her knight addresse him to the fray:
      His foe was nigh at hand. He prickt with pride
      And hope to winne his Ladies heart that day,
      Forth spurred fast: adowne his coursers side
    The red bloud trickling staind the way, as he did ride.

    The knight of the _Redcrosse_ when him he spide,                  xv
      Spurring so hote with rage dispiteous[82],
      Gan fairely couch his speare, and towards ride:
      Soone meete they both, both fell and furious,
      That daunted with their forces hideous,
      Their steeds do stagger, and amazed stand,
      And eke themselues too rudely rigorous,
      Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand,
    Do backe rebut, and each to other yeeldeth land.

    As when two rams stird with ambitious pride,                     xvi
      Fight for the rule of the rich fleeced flocke,
      Their horned fronts so fierce on either side
      Do meete, that with the terrour[83] of the shocke
      Astonied both, stand sencelesse[84] as a blocke,
      Forgetfull of the hanging victory:
      So stood these twaine, vnmoued as a rocke,
      Both staring fierce, and holding idely[85]
    The broken reliques of their former cruelty.

    The _Sarazin_ sore daunted with the buffe                       xvii
      Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies;
      Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff:
      Each others equall puissaunce enuies,
      And through their iron sides with cruell[86] spies
      Does seeke to perce: repining courage yields
      No foote to foe. The flashing fier flies
      As from a forge out of their burning shields,
    And streames of purple bloud new dies[87] the verdant fields.

    Curse on that Crosse (quoth[88] then the _Sarazin_)            xviii
      That keepes thy body from the bitter fit;
      Dead long ygoe I wote thou haddest bin,
      Had not that charme from thee forwarned it:
      But yet I warne thee now assured sitt,
      And hide thy head. Therewith vpon his crest
      With rigour[89] so outrageous he smitt,
      That a large share it hewd out of the rest,
    And glauncing downe his shield, from blame him fairely blest.

    Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark                   xix
      Of natiue vertue gan eftsoones reuiue,
      And at his haughtie helmet making mark,
      So hugely stroke[90], that it the steele did riue,
      And cleft his head. He tumbling downe aliue,
      With bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis,
      Greeting his graue: his grudging ghost did striue
      With the fraile flesh; at last it flitted is,
    Whither[91] the soules do fly of men, that liue amis.

    The Lady when she saw her champion fall,                          xx
      Like the old ruines of a broken towre,
      Staid not to waile his woefull funerall,
      But from him fled away with all her powre;
      Who after her as hastily gan scowre,
      Bidding the Dwarfe with him to bring away
      The _Sarazins_ shield, signe of the conqueroure.
      Her soone he ouertooke, and bad to stay,
    For present cause was none of dread her to dismay.

    She turning backe with ruefull countenaunce,                     xxi
      Cride, Mercy mercy Sir vouchsafe to show
      On silly Dame, subiect to hard mischaunce,
      And to your mighty will. Her humblesse low
      In so ritch weedes and seeming glorious show,
      Did much emmoue his stout heroïcke heart,
      And said, Deare dame, your suddein ouerthrow
      Much rueth me; but now put feare apart,
    And tell, both who ye be, and who that tooke your part.

    Melting in teares, then gan she thus lament;                    xxii
      The wretched[92] woman, whom vnhappy howre
      Hath now made thrall to your commandement,
      Before that angry heauens list to lowre,
      And fortune false betraide me to your[93] powre,
      Was, (O what now auaileth that I was![94])
      Borne the sole daughter of an Emperour,
      He that the wide West vnder his rule has,
    And high hath set his throne, where _Tiberis_ doth pas.

    He in the first flowre of my freshest age,                     xxiii
      Betrothed me vnto the onely haire
      Of a most mighty king, most rich and sage;
      Was neuer Prince so faithfull and so faire,
      Was neuer Prince so meeke and debonaire;
      But ere my hoped day of spousall shone,
      My dearest Lord fell from high honours staire,
      Into the hands of his accursed fone,
    And cruelly was slaine, that shall I euer mone.

    His blessed body spoild of liuely breath,                       xxiv
      Was afterward, I know not how, conuaid
      And fro me hid: of whose most innocent death
      When tidings came to me vnhappy maid,
      O how great sorrow my sad soule assaid.
      Then forth I went his woefull corse to find,
      And many yeares throughout the world I straid,
      A virgin widow, whose deepe wounded mind
    With loue, long time did languish as the striken hind.

    At last it chaunced this proud _Sarazin_[95]                     xxv
      To meete me wandring, who perforce me led
      With him away, but yet could neuer win
      The Fort, that Ladies hold in soueraigne dread.
      There lies he now with foule dishonour dead,
      Who whiles he liu’de, was called proud _Sans foy_,
      The eldest of three brethren, all three bred
      Of one bad sire, whose youngest is _Sans ioy_,
    And twixt them both was borne the bloudy bold _Sans loy_.

    In this sad plight, friendlesse, vnfortunate,                   xxvi
      Now miserable I _Fidessa_ dwell,
      Crauing of you in pitty of my state,
      To do none ill, if please ye not do well.
      He in great passion all this while did dwell,
      More busying his quicke eyes, her face to view,
      Then his dull eares, to heare what she did tell;
      And said, Faire[96] Lady hart of flint would rew
    The vndeserued woes and sorrowes, which ye shew.

    Henceforth in safe assuraunce may ye rest,                     xxvii
      Hauing both found a new friend you to aid,
      And lost an old foe, that did you molest:
      Better new friend then an old foe is said.
      With chaunge of cheare the seeming simple maid
      Let fall her eyen, as shamefast to the earth,
      And yeelding soft, in that she nought gain-said,
      So forth they rode, he feining seemely merth,
    And she coy lookes: so dainty[97] they say maketh derth.

    Long time they thus together traueiled,                       xxviii
      Till weary of their way, they came at last,
      Where grew two goodly trees, that faire did spred
      Their armes abroad, with gray mosse ouercast,
      And their greene leaues trembling with euery blast,
      Made a calme shadow far in compasse round:
      The fearefull Shepheard often there aghast
      Vnder them neuer sat, ne wont there sound
    His mery oaten pipe, but shund th’vnlucky ground.

    But this good knight soone as he them can spie,                 xxix
      For the coole shade him[98] thither hastly got:
      For golden _Phœbus_ now ymounted[99] hie,
      From fiery wheeles of his faire chariot
      Hurled his beame so scorching cruell hot,
      That liuing creature mote it not abide;
      And his new Lady it endured not.
      There they alight, in hope themselues to hide
    From the fierce heat, and rest their weary limbs a tide.

    Faire seemely pleasaunce each to other makes,                    xxx
      With goodly purposes there as they sit:
      And in his falsed fancy he her takes
      To be the fairest wight, that liued yit;
      Which to expresse, he bends his gentle wit,
      And thinking of those braunches greene to frame
      A girlond for her dainty forehead fit,
      He pluckt a bough; out of whose rift there came
    Small drops of gory bloud, that trickled downe the same.

    Therewith a piteous yelling voyce was heard,                    xxxi
      Crying, O spare with guilty hands to teare
      My tender sides in this rough rynd embard,
      But fly, ah fly far hence away, for feare
      Least to you hap, that happened to me heare,
      And to this[100] wretched Lady, my deare loue,
      O too deare loue, loue bought with death too deare.
      Astond he stood, and vp his haire did houe,
    And with that suddein horror could no member moue.

    At last whenas the dreadfull passion                           xxxii
      Was ouerpast, and manhood well awake,
      Yet musing at the straunge occasion,
      And doubting much his sence, he thus bespake;
      What voyce of damned Ghost from _Limbo_ lake,
      Or guilefull spright wandring in empty aire,
      Both which fraile men do oftentimes mistake,
      Sends to my doubtfull eares these speaches rare,
    And ruefull[101] plaints[102], me bidding guiltlesse[103] bloud to
      spare?

    Then groning deepe, Nor damned Ghost, (quoth he,)             xxxiii
      Nor guilefull sprite to thee these wordes doth speake,
      But once a man _Fradubio_, now a tree,
      Wretched man, wretched tree; whose nature weake,
      A cruell witch her cursed will to wreake,
      Hath thus transformd, and plast in open plaines,
      Where _Boreas_ doth blow full bitter bleake,
      And scorching Sunne does dry my secret vaines:
    For though a tree I seeme, yet cold and heat me paines.

    Say on _Fradubio_ then, or man, or tree,                       xxxiv
      Quoth then the knight, by whose mischieuous arts
      Art thou misshaped thus, as now I see?
      He oft finds med’cine, who his griefe imparts;
      But double griefs afflict concealing harts,
      As raging flames who striueth to suppresse.
      The author then (said he) of all my smarts,
      Is one _Duessa_ a false sorceresse,
    That many errant knights hath brought to wretchednesse.

    In prime of youthly yeares, when corage hot                     xxxv
      The fire of loue and ioy of cheualree
      First kindled in my brest, it was my lot
      To loue this gentle Lady, whom ye see,
      Now not a Lady, but a seeming tree;
      With whom as once I rode accompanyde,
      Me chaunced of a knight encountred bee,
      That had a like faire Lady by his syde,
    Like a faire Lady, but did fowle _Duessa_ hyde.

    Whose forged beauty he did take in hand,                       xxxvi
      All other Dames to haue exceeded farre;
      I in defence of mine did likewise stand,
      Mine, that did then shine as the Morning starre:
      So both to battell[104] fierce arraunged arre,
      In which his harder fortune was to fall
      Vnder my speare: such is the dye of warre:
      His Lady left as a prise martiall,
    Did yield her comely person, to be at my call.

    So doubly lou’d of Ladies vnlike faire,                       xxxvii
      Th’one seeming such, the other such indeede,
      One day in doubt I cast for to compare,
      Whether in beauties glorie did exceede;
      A Rosy girlond was the victors meede:
      Both seemde to win, and both seemde won to bee,
      So hard the discord was to be agreede.
      _Frælissa_ was as faire, as faire mote bee,
    And euer false _Duessa_ seemde as faire as shee.

    The wicked witch now seeing all this while                   xxxviii
      The doubtfull ballaunce equally to sway,
      What not by right, she cast to win by guile,
      And by her hellish science raisd streight way
      A foggy mist, that ouercast the day,
      And a dull blast, that breathing on her face,
      Dimmed her former beauties shining ray,
      And with foule vgly forme did her disgrace:
    Then was she faire alone, when none was faire in place.

    Then cride she out, Fye[105], fye, deformed wight,             xxxix
      Whose borrowed beautie now appeareth plaine
      To haue before bewitched all mens sight;
      O leaue her soone, or let her soone be slaine.
      Her loathly visage viewing with disdaine,
      Eftsoones I thought her such, as she me told,
      And would haue kild her; but with faigned paine,
      The false witch did my wrathfull hand with-hold;
    So left her, where she now is turnd to treen mould.

    Thens forth[106] I tooke _Duessa_ for my Dame,                    xl
      And in the witch vnweeting ioyd long time,
      Ne euer wist, but that she was the same,
      Till on a day (that day is euery Prime,
      When Witches wont do penance for their crime)
      I chaunst to see her in her proper hew,
      Bathing her selfe in origane and thyme:
      A filthy foule old woman I did vew,
    That euer to haue toucht her, I did deadly rew.

    Her neather partes misshapen, monstruous,                        xli
      Were hidd in water, that I could not see,
      But they did seeme more foule and hideous,
      Then womans shape man would beleeue to bee.
      Thens forth[107] from her most beastly companie
      I gan refraine, in minde to slip away,
      Soone as appeard safe opportunitie[108]:
      For danger great, if not assur’d decay
    I saw before mine eyes, if I were knowne to stray.

    The diuelish hag by chaunges of my cheare                       xlii
      Perceiu’d my thought, and drownd in sleepie night,
      With wicked herbes and ointments did besmeare
      My bodie all, through charmes and magicke might,
      That all my senses were bereaued quight:
      Then brought she me into this desert waste,
      And by my wretched louers side me pight,
      Where now enclosd in wooden wals full faste,
    Banisht from liuing wights, our wearie dayes we waste.

    But how long time, said then the Elfin knight,                 xliii
      Are you in this misformed house to dwell?
      We may not chaunge (quoth he) this euil plight,
      Till we be bathed in a liuing well;
      That is the terme prescribed by the spell.
      O how, said he, mote I that well out find,
      That may restore you to your wonted well?
      Time and suffised fates to former kynd
    Shall vs restore, none else from hence may vs vnbynd.

    The false _Duessa_, now _Fidessa_ hight,                        xliv
      Heard how in vaine _Fradubio_ did lament,
      And knew well all was true. But the good knight
      Full of sad feare and ghastly dreriment,
      When all this speech the liuing tree had spent,
      The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground,
      That from the bloud he might be innocent,
      And with fresh clay did close the wooden wound:
    Then turning to his Lady, dead with feare her found.

    Her seeming dead he found with feigned feare,                    xlv
      As all vnweeting of that well she knew,
      And paynd himselfe with busie care to reare
      Her out of carelesse swowne. Her eylids blew
      And dimmed sight with pale and deadly hew
      At last she vp gan lift: with trembling cheare
      Her vp he tooke, too simple and too trew,
      And oft her kist. At length all passed feare,
    He set her on her steede, and forward forth did beare.

FOOTNOTES:

[71] Arg. 3 _stead_] _steps_ _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[72] iii 4 lusty-hed. _1596_

[73] iv 9 honor _1590_

[74] v 5 enbracement _1590_

[75] vi 7 and] & _1596 passim_

[76] vii 9 and] & _1596 passim_

[77] viii 9 louest _1596_

[78] xi 3 anon: _1590_, _1596_

[79] 4 shield. _1590_, _1596_

[80] 6 heares _1590_

[81] xiv 4 off] of _1590 passim_

[82] xv 2 dispighteous _1609_

[83] xvi 4 terror _1590_

[84] 5 stands fencelesse _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[85] 8 idely, _1590_, _1596_: idlely _1609_

[86] xvii 5 cruelties _1590 &c._: _corr. F. E._

[87] 9 die _1609_

[88] xviii 1 quoth] qd. _1590 passim_

[89] rigor _1590_

[90] xix 4 strooke, _1609_

[91] 9 Whether _1590 passim_

[92] xxii 2 wreched _1590_

[93] 5 your] thy _1590_

[94] 6 I was? _1590_

[95] xxv 1 _Sarazin_, _1590_, _1596_

[96] xxvi 8 faire _1590_, _1596_

[97] xxvii 9 so, Dainty _1609_

[98] xxix 2 shade him] shade _1596_: shadow _1609_

[99] 3 ymounted] that mounted _1590 &c._: _corr. F. E._

[100] xxxi 6 this] his _1609_

[101] xxxii 9 tuefull _1590_: _corr. F. E._

[102] plants _1590_

[103] guitlesse _1596_

[104] xxxvi 5 batteill _1590 passim_

[105] xxxix 1 fye _1590_, _1596_

[106] xl 1 Then forth _1590_, _1596_: _corr. F. E._: Thenceforth _1609_

[107] xli 5 Then forth _1590_, _1596_: _corr. F. E._: Thenceforth _1609_

[108] xli 7 oportunitie _1596_

_Cant. III._

    _Forsaken Truth long seekes her loue,
      And makes the Lyon mylde,
    Marres blind Deuotions mart, and fals
      In hand of leachour vylde._
]

    Nought is there vnder heau’ns wide hollownesse,                    i
      That moues more deare compassion of mind,
      Then beautie brought t’vnworthy wretchednesse
      Through enuies snares or fortunes freakes vnkind:
      I, whether lately through her brightnesse[109] blind,
      Or through alleageance and fast fealtie,
      Which I do owe vnto all woman kind,
      Feele my heart perst with so great agonie,
    When such I see, that all for pittie I could die.

    And now it is empassioned so deepe,                               ii
      For fairest _Vnaes_ sake, of whom I sing,
      That my fraile eyes these lines with teares do steepe,
      To thinke how she through guilefull handeling,
      Though true as touch, though daughter of a king,
      Though faire as euer liuing wight was faire,
      Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting,
      Is from her knight diuorced in despaire
    And her due loues deriu’d to that vile witches share.

    Yet she most faithfull Ladie all this while                      iii
      Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd
      Farre from all peoples prease, as in exile,
      In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd,
      To seeke her knight; who subtilly betrayd
      Through that late vision, which th’Enchaunter wrought,[110]
      Had her abandond. She of nought affrayd,
      Through woods and wastnesse wide him daily sought;
    Yet wished tydings none of him vnto her brought.

    One day nigh wearie of the yrkesome way,                          iv
      From her vnhastie beast she did alight,
      And on the grasse her daintie limbes did lay
      In secret shadow, farre from all mens sight:
      From her faire head her fillet she vndight,
      And laid her stole aside. Her angels face
      As the great eye of heauen shyned bright,
      And made a sunshine in the shadie place;
    Did neuer mortall eye behold such heauenly grace.

    It fortuned out of the thickest wood                               v
      A ramping Lyon rushed suddainly,
      Hunting full greedie after saluage blood;
      Soone as the royall virgin he did spy,
      With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,
      To haue attonce deuour’d her tender corse:
      But to the pray when as he drew more ny,
      His bloudie rage asswaged with remorse,
    And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse.

    In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet,                         vi
      And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong,
      As he her wronged innocence did weet.
      O how can beautie maister the most strong,
      And simple truth subdue auenging wrong?
      Whose yeelded pride and proud submission,
      Still dreading death, when she had marked long,
      Her hart gan melt in great compassion,
    And drizling teares did shed for pure affection.

    The Lyon Lord of euerie beast in field,[111]                     vii
      Quoth she, his princely puissance doth abate,
      And mightie proud to humble weake does yield,
      Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late
      Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate:
      But he my Lyon, and my noble Lord,[112]
      How does he find in cruell hart to hate
      Her that him lou’d, and euer most adord,
    As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord?

    Redounding teares did choke th’end of her plaint,               viii
      Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood;
      And sad to see her sorrowfull constraint
      The kingly beast vpon her gazing stood;
      With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood.
      At last in close hart shutting vp her paine,
      Arose the virgin borne of heauenly brood,
      And to her snowy Palfrey got againe,
    To seeke her strayed Champion, if she might attaine.

    The Lyon would not leaue her desolate,                            ix
      But with her went along, as a strong gard
      Of her chast person, and a faithfull mate
      Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
      Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,
      And when she wakt, he waited diligent,
      With humble seruice to her will prepard:
      From her faire eyes he tooke commaundement,
    And euer by her lookes conceiued her intent.

    Long she thus traueiled through deserts wyde,                      x
      By which she thought her wandring knight shold pas,
      Yet neuer shew of liuing wight espyde;
      Till that at length she found the troden gras,
      In which the tract of peoples footing was,
      Vnder the steepe foot of a mountaine hore;
      The same she followes, till at last she has
      A damzell spyde slow footing her before,
    That on her shoulders sad a pot of water bore.

    To whom[113] approching she to her gan call,                      xi
      To weet, if dwelling place were nigh at hand;
      But the rude wench her answer’d nought at all,
      She could not heare, nor speake, nor vnderstand;
      Till seeing by her side the Lyon stand,
      With suddaine feare her pitcher downe she threw,
      And fled away: for neuer in that land
      Face of faire Ladie she before did vew,
    And that dread[114] Lyons looke her cast in deadly hew.

    Full fast she fled, ne euer lookt behynd,                        xii
      As if her life vpon the wager lay,
      And home she came, whereas her mother blynd
      Sate in eternall night: nought could she say,
      But suddaine catching hold, did her dismay
      With quaking hands, and other signes of feare:
      Who full of ghastly fright and cold affray,
      Gan shut the dore. By this arriued there
    Dame _Vna_, wearie Dame, and entrance did requere.

    Which when none yeelded, her vnruly Page                        xiii
      With his rude clawes the wicket open rent,
      And let her in; where of his cruell rage
      Nigh dead with feare, and faint astonishment,
      She found them both in darkesome corner pent;
      Where that old woman day and night did pray
      Vpon her beades deuoutly penitent;
      Nine hundred _Pater nosters_ euery day,
    And thrise nine hundred _Aues_ she was wont to say.

    And to augment her painefull pennance[115] more,                 xiv
      Thrise euery weeke in ashes she did sit,
      And next her wrinkled skin rough sackcloth wore,
      And thrise three times did fast from any bit:
      But now for feare her beads she did forget.
      Whose needlesse dread for to remoue away,
      Faire _Vna_ framed words and count’nance fit:
      Which hardly doen, at length she gan them pray,
    That in their cotage small, that night she rest her may.

    The day is spent, and commeth drowsie night,                      xv
      When euery creature shrowded is in sleepe;
      Sad _Vna_ downe her laies in wearie plight,
      And at her feet the Lyon watch doth keepe:
      In stead of rest, she does lament, and weepe
      For the late losse of her deare loued knight,
      And sighes, and grones, and euermore does steepe
      Her tender brest in bitter teares all night,
    All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light.

    Now when _Aldeboran_ was mounted hie                             xvi
      Aboue the shynie _Cassiopeias_ chaire,
      And all in deadly sleepe did drowned lie,
      One knocked at the dore, and in would fare;
      He knocked fast, and often curst, and sware,
      That readie entrance was not at his call:
      For on his backe a heauy load he bare
      Of nightly stelths and pillage seuerall,
    Which he had got abroad by purchase[116] criminall.

    He was to weete a stout and sturdie thiefe,                     xvii
      Wont to robbe Churches of their ornaments,
      And poore mens boxes of their due reliefe,
      Which giuen was to them for good intents;
      The holy Saints of their rich vestiments
      He did disrobe, when all men carelesse slept,
      And spoild the Priests of their habiliments,
      Whiles none the holy things in safety kept;
    Then he by cunning[117] sleights in at the window crept.

    And all that he by right or wrong could find,                  xviii
      Vnto this house he brought, and did bestow
      Vpon the daughter of this woman blind,
      _Abessa_ daughter of _Corceca_ slow,
      With whom he whoredome vsd, that few did know,
      And fed her fat with feast of offerings,
      And plentie, which in all the land did grow;
      Ne spared he to giue her gold and rings:
    And now he to her brought part of his stolen things.

    Thus long the dore with rage and threats he bet,                 xix
      Yet of those fearefull women none durst rize,
      The Lyon frayed them, him in to let:
      He would no longer stay him to aduize,
      But open breakes the dore in furious wize,
      And entring is; when that disdainfull beast
      Encountring fierce, him suddaine doth surprize,
      And seizing cruell clawes on trembling brest,
    Vnder his Lordly foot him proudly hath supprest.

    Him booteth not resist, nor succour call,                         xx
      His bleeding hart is in the vengers hand,
      Who streight him rent in thousand peeces small,
      And quite dismembred hath: the thirstie land
      Drunke[118] vp his life; his corse left on the strand.
      His fearefull friends[119] weare out the wofull night,
      Ne dare to weepe, nor seeme to vnderstand
      The heauie hap, which on them is alight,
    Affraid, least to themselues the like mishappen might.

    Now when broad day the world discouered has,                     xxi
      Vp _Vna_ rose, vp rose the Lyon eke,
      And on their former iourney forward pas,
      In wayes vnknowne, her wandring knight to seeke,
      With paines farre passing that long wandring _Greeke_,
      That for his loue refused deitie;
      Such were the labours of this Lady meeke,
      Still seeking him, that from her still did flie,
    Then furthest from her hope, when most she weened nie.

    Soone as she parted thence, the fearefull twaine,               xxii
      That blind old woman and her daughter deare
      Came forth, and finding _Kirkrapine_ there slaine,
      For anguish great they gan to rend their heare,
      And beat their brests, and naked flesh to teare.
      And when they both had wept and wayld their fill,
      Then forth they ranne like two amazed deare,
      Halfe mad through malice, and reuenging will,
    To follow her, that was the causer of their ill.

    Whom ouertaking, they gan loudly bray,                         xxiii
      With hollow howling, and lamenting cry,
      Shamefully at her rayling all the way,
      And her accusing of dishonesty,
      That was the flowre of faith and chastity;
      And still amidst her rayling, she did pray,
      That plagues, and mischiefs, and long misery
      Might fall on her, and follow all the way,
    And that in endlesse error she might euer stray.

    But when she saw her prayers nought preuaile,                   xxiv
      She backe returned with some labour lost;
      And in the way as she did weepe and waile,
      A knight her met in mighty armes embost,
      Yet knight was not for all his bragging bost,
      But subtill _Archimag_, that _Vna_ sought
      By traynes into new troubles to haue tost:
      Of that old woman tydings he besought,
    If that of such a Ladie she could tellen ought.

    Therewith she gan her passion to renew,                          xxv
      And cry, and curse, and raile, and rend her heare,
      Saying, that harlot she too lately knew,
      That causd her shed so many a bitter teare,
      And so forth told the story of her feare:
      Much seemed he to mone her haplesse chaunce,
      And after for that Ladie did inquere[120];
      Which being taught, he forward gan aduaunce
    His fair enchaunted steed, and eke his charmed launce.

    Ere long he came, where _Vna_ traueild slow,                    xxvi
      And that wilde Champion wayting her besyde:
      Whom seeing such, for dread he durst not show
      Himselfe too nigh at hand, but turned wyde
      Vnto an hill; from whence when she him spyde,
      By his like seeming shield, her knight by name
      She weend it was, and towards him gan ryde:
      Approching nigh, she wist it was the same,
    And with faire fearefull humblesse towards him shee came.

    And weeping said, Ah my long lacked Lord,                      xxvii
      Where haue ye bene thus long out of my sight?
      Much feared I to haue bene quite abhord,
      Or ought haue done, that ye displeasen might,
      That should as death vnto my deare hart light:
      For since mine eye your ioyous sight did mis,
      My chearefull day is turnd to chearelesse night,
      And eke my night of death the shadow is;
    But welcome now my light, and shining lampe of blis.

    He thereto meeting said, My dearest Dame,                     xxviii
      Farre be it from your thought, and fro my will,
      To thinke that knighthood I so much should shame,
      As you to leaue, that haue me loued still,
      And chose in Faery court of meere goodwill,
      Where noblest knights were to be found on earth:
      The earth shall sooner leaue her kindly skill
      To bring forth fruit, and make eternall derth,
    Then I leaue you, my liefe, yborne of heauenly berth.

    And sooth to say, why I left you so long,                       xxix
      Was for to seeke aduenture in strange[121] place,
      Where _Archimago_ said a felon strong
      To many knights did daily worke disgrace;
      But knight he now shall neuer more deface:
      Good cause of mine excuse; that mote ye please
      Well to accept, and euermore embrace
      My faithfull seruice, that by land and seas
    Haue vowd you to defend, now then your plaint appease.

    His louely words her seemd due recompence                        xxx
      Of all her passed paines: one louing howre
      For many yeares of sorrow can dispence:
      A dram of sweet is worth a pound of sowre:
      She has forgot, how many a wofull stowre
      For him she late endur’d; she speakes no more
      Of past: true is, that true loue hath no powre
      To looken backe; his eyes be fixt before.
    Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore.

    Much like, as when the beaten marinere,                         xxxi
      That long hath wandred in the _Ocean_ wide,
      Oft soust in swelling _Tethys_ saltish teare,
      And long time hauing tand his tawney hide
      With blustring breath of heauen, that none can bide,
      And scorching flames of fierce _Orions_ hound,
      Soone as the port from farre he has espide,
      His chearefull whistle merrily doth sound,
    And _Nereus_ crownes with cups; his mates him pledg around.

    Such ioy made _Vna_, when her knight she found;                xxxii
      And eke th’enchaunter ioyous seemd no lesse,
      Then the glad marchant, that does vew from ground
      His ship farre come from watrie wildernesse,
      He hurles out vowes, and _Neptune_ oft doth blesse:
      So forth they past, and all the way they spent
      Discoursing of her dreadfull late distresse,
      In which he askt her, what the Lyon ment:
    †Who told[122] her all that fell[123] in iourney as she went.

    They had not ridden farre, when they might see                xxxiii
      One pricking towards them with hastie heat,
      Full strongly armd, and on a courser free,
      That through his fiercenesse fomed all with sweat,
      And the sharpe yron did for anger eat,
      When his hot ryder spurd his chauffed side;
      His looke was sterne, and seemed still to threat
      Cruell reuenge, which he in hart did hyde,
    And on his shield _Sans loy_ in bloudie lines was dyde.

    When nigh he drew vnto this gentle payre                       xxxiv
      And saw the Red-crosse, which the knight did beare,
      He burnt in fire, and gan eftsoones prepare
      Himselfe to battell with his couched speare.
      Loth was that other, and did faint through feare,[124]
      To taste th’vntryed dint of deadly steele;
      But yet his Lady did so well him cheare,
      That hope of new good hap he gan to feele;
    So bent his speare, and spurnd[125] his horse with yron heele.

    But that proud Paynim forward came so fierce[126],              xxxv
      And full of wrath, that with his sharp-head speare
      Through vainely crossed shield he quite did pierce[127],
      And had his staggering steede not shrunke[128] for feare,
      Through shield and bodie eke he should him beare:
      Yet so great was the puissance of his push,
      That from his saddle quite he did him beare:
      He tombling rudely downe to ground did rush,
    And from his gored wound a well of bloud did gush.

    Dismounting lightly from his loftie steed,                     xxxvi
      He to him lept, in mind to reaue his life,
      And proudly said, Lo there the worthie meed
      Of him, that slew _Sansfoy_ with bloudie knife;
      Henceforth his ghost freed from repining strife,
      In peace may passen ouer _Lethe_ lake,
      When morning[129] altars purgd with enemies life,
      The blacke infernall _Furies_ doen aslake:
    Life from _Sansfoy_ thou tookst, _Sansloy_ shall from thee take.

    Therewith in haste his helmet gan vnlace,                     xxxvii
      Till _Vna_ cride, O hold that heauie hand,
      Deare Sir, what euer that thou be in place:
      Enough is, that thy foe doth vanquisht stand
      Now at thy mercy: Mercie not withstand:
      For he is one the truest knight aliue,
      Though conquered now he lie on lowly land,
      And whilest him fortune fauourd, faire did thriue
    In bloudie field: therefore of life him not depriue.

    Her piteous words might not abate his rage,                  xxxviii
      But rudely rending vp his helmet, would
      Haue slaine him straight[130]: but when he sees his age,
      And hoarie head of _Archimago_ old,
      His hastie hand he doth amazed hold,
      And halfe ashamed, wondred at the sight:
      For the[131] old man well knew he, though vntold,
      In charmes and magicke to haue wondrous might,
    Ne euer wont in field, ne in round lists to fight.

    And said, Why _Archimago_, lucklesse syre,                     xxxix
      What doe I see? what hard mishap is this,
      That hath thee hither brought to taste mine yre?
      Or thine the fault, or mine the error is,
      In stead of foe to wound my friend amis?
      He answered nought, but in a traunce still lay,
      And on those guilefull dazed eyes of his
      The cloud of death did sit. Which doen away,
    He left him lying so, ne would no lenger stay.

    But to the virgin comes, who all this while                       xl
      Amased stands, her selfe so mockt to see
      By him, who has the guerdon of his guile,
      For so misfeigning her true knight to bee:
      Yet is she now in more perplexitie,
      Left in the hand of that same Paynim bold,
      From whom her booteth not at all to flie;
      Who by her cleanly garment catching hold,
    Her from her Palfrey pluckt, her visage to behold.

    But her fierce seruant full of kingly awe                        xli
      And high disdaine, whenas his soueraine Dame
      So rudely handled by her foe he sawe,
      With gaping iawes full greedy at him came,
      And ramping on his shield, did weene the same
      Haue reft away with his sharpe rending clawes:
      But he was stout, and lust did now inflame
      His corage more, that from his griping pawes
    He hath his shield redeem’d, and foorth[132] his swerd he drawes.

    O then too weake and feeble was the forse                       xlii
      Of saluage beast, his puissance to withstand:
      For he was strong, and of so mightie corse,
      As euer wielded speare in warlike hand,
      And feates of armes did wisely vnderstand.
      Eftsoones he perced through his chaufed chest
      With thrilling point of deadly yron brand,
      And launcht his Lordly hart: with death opprest
    He roar’d aloud, whiles life forsooke his stubborne brest.

    Who now is left to keepe the forlorne maid                     xliii
      From raging spoile of lawlesse victors will?
      Her faithfull gard remou’d, her hope dismaid,
      Her selfe a yeelded pray to saue or spill.
      He now Lord of the field[133], his pride to fill,
      With foule reproches, and disdainfull spight
      Her vildly entertaines, and will or nill,
      Beares her away vpon his courser light:
    Her prayers nought preuaile, his rage is more of might.

    And all the way, with great lamenting paine,                    xliv
      And piteous plaints she filleth his dull eares,
      That stony hart could riuen haue in twaine,
      And all the way she wets with flowing teares:
      But he enrag’d with rancor, nothing heares.
      Her seruile beast yet would not leaue her so,
      But followes her farre off, ne ought he feares,
      To be partaker of her wandring woe,
    More mild in beastly kind, then that her beastly foe.

FOOTNOTES:

[109] i 5 brightne _1590_: brightnes _F. E._

[110] iii 6 wrought _1590_

[111] vii 1 field _1590_, _1596_

[112] 6 Lord _1590_, _1596_

[113] xi 1 Whom _1596_

[114] 9 dredd _1590_

[115] xiv 1 penaunce _1590_

[116] xvi 9 purchas _1590_

[117] xvii 9 conning _1590_

[118] xx 5 Dronke _1590_

[119] 6 freends _1590_

[120] xxv 7 inquire _1596_

[121] xxix 2 straunge _1590_

[122] xxxii 9 told, _1609_

[123] all that her fell _sugg. ed._

[124] xxxiv 5 feare,] fea, _1596_

[125] 9 spurd _1590_

[126] xxxv 1 ferce _1590_

[127] 3 perce _1590_

[128] 4 shronke _1590_

[129] xxxvi 7 mourning _1590_

[130] xxxviii 3 streight _1590_

[131] 7 the] that _F. E. referring probably to this line_

[132] xli 9 forth _1590_

[133] xliii 5 fied _1596_

_Cant. IIII._

    _To sinfull house of Pride, Duessa
      guides the faithfull knight,
    Where brothers death to wreak Sansioy
      doth chalenge him to fight._
]

    Young knight, what euer that dost armes professe,                  i
      And through long labours huntest after fame,
      Beware of fraud, beware of ficklenesse,
      In choice, and change of thy deare loued Dame,
      Least thou of her beleeue too lightly blame,
      And rash misweening doe thy hart remoue:
      For vnto knight there is no greater shame,
      Then lightnesse and inconstancie in loue;
    That doth this _Redcrosse_ knights ensample plainly proue.

    Who after that he had faire _Vna_ lorne,                          ii
      Through light misdeeming of her loialtie,
      And false _Duessa_ in her sted had borne,
      Called _Fidess’_, and so supposd to bee;
      Long with her traueild, till at last they see
      A goodly building, brauely garnished,
      The house of mightie Prince it seemd to bee:
      And towards it a broad high way that led,
    All bare through peoples feet, which thither traueiled.

    Great troupes of people traueild thitherward                     iii
      Both day and night, of each degree and place,
      But few returned, hauing scaped hard,
      With balefull beggerie, or foule disgrace,
      Which euer after in most wretched case[134],
      Like loathsome lazars, by the hedges lay.
      Thither _Duessa_ bad him bend his pace:
      For she is wearie of the toilesome way,
    And also nigh consumed is the lingring day.

    A stately Pallace built of squared bricke,                        iv
      Which cunningly was without morter laid,
      Whose wals were high, but nothing strong, nor thick,
      And golden foile all ouer them displaid,
      That purest skye with brightnesse they dismaid:
      High lifted vp were many loftie towres,
      And goodly galleries farre ouer laid,
      Full of faire windowes, and delightfull bowres;
    And on the top a Diall told the timely howres.

    It was a goodly heape for to behould,                              v
      And spake the praises of the workmans wit;
      But full great pittie, that so faire a mould
      Did on so weake foundation euer sit:
      For on a sandie hill, that still did flit,
      And fall away, it mounted was full hie,
      That euery breath of heauen shaked it:
      And all the hinder parts, that few could spie,
    Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly.

    Arriued there they passed in forth right;                         vi
      For still to all the gates stood open wide,
      Yet charge of them was to a Porter hight
      Cald _Maluenù_, who entrance none denide:
      Thence to the hall, which was on euery side
      With rich array and costly arras dight:
      Infinite sorts of people did abide
      There waiting long, to win the wished sight
    Of her, that was the Lady of that Pallace bright.

    By them they passe, all gazing on them round,                    vii
      And to the Presence mount; whose glorious vew
      Their frayle amazed senses did confound:
      In liuing Princes court none euer knew
      Such endlesse richesse, and so sumptuous[135] shew;
      Ne _Persia_ selfe, the nourse of pompous pride
      Like euer saw. And there a noble crew
      Of Lordes and Ladies stood on euery side,
    Which with their presence faire, the place much beautifide.

    High aboue all a cloth of State was spred,                      viii
      And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day,
      On which there sate most braue embellished
      With royall robes and gorgeous array,
      A mayden Queene, that shone as _Titans_ ray,
      In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone:
      Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay
      To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne,
    As enuying her selfe, that too exceeding shone.

    Exceeding shone, like _Phœbus_ fairest childe,                    ix
      That did presume his fathers firie wayne,
      And flaming mouthes of steedes vnwonted wilde
      Through highest heauen with weaker hand to rayne;
      Proud of such glory and aduancement vaine,
      While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen,
      He leaues the welkin way most beaten plaine,
      And rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen,
    With fire not made to burne, but fairely for to shyne.

    So proud she shyned in her Princely state,                         x
      Looking to heauen; for earth she did disdayne,
      And sitting high; for lowly she did hate:
      Lo vnderneath her scornefull feete, was layne
      A dreadfull Dragon with an hideous trayne,
      And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright,
      Wherein her face she often vewed fayne,
      And in her selfe-lou’d semblance tooke delight;
    For she was wondrous faire, as any liuing wight.

    Of griesly _Pluto_ she the daughter was,                          xi
      And sad _Proserpina_ the Queene of hell;
      Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth[136] to pas
      That parentage, with pride so did she swell,
      And thundring _Ioue_, that high in heauen doth dwell,
      And wield the world, she claymed for her syre,
      Or if that any else did _Ioue_ excell:
      For to the highest she did still aspyre,
    Or if ought higher were then that, did it desyre.

    And proud _Lucifera_ men did her call,                           xii
      That made her selfe a[137] Queene, and crownd to be,
      Yet rightfull kingdome she had none at all,
      Ne heritage of natiue soueraintie,
      But did vsurpe with wrong and tyrannie
      Vpon the scepter, which she now did hold:
      Ne ruld her Realmes[138] with lawes, but pollicie,
      And strong aduizement of six wisards old,
    That with their counsels bad her kingdome did vphold.

    Soone as the Elfin[139] knight in presence came,                xiii
      And false _Duessa_ seeming Lady faire,
      A gentle Husher, _Vanitie_ by name
      Made rowme, and passage for them did prepaire:
      So goodly brought them to the lowest staire
      Of her high throne, where they on humble knee
      Making obeyssance[140], did the cause declare,
      Why they were come, her royall state to see,
    To proue the wide report of her great Maiestee.

    With loftie eyes, halfe loth to looke so low,                    xiv
      She thanked them in her disdainefull wise,
      Ne other grace vouchsafed them to show
      Of Princesse worthy, scarse them bad arise.
      Her Lordes and Ladies all this while deuise
      Themselues to setten forth to straungers sight:
      Some frounce their curled haire in courtly guise,
      Some prancke their ruffes, and others trimly dight
    Their gay attire: each others greater pride does spight.

    Goodly they all that knight do entertaine,                        xv
      Right glad with him to haue increast their crew:
      But to _Duess’_ each one himselfe did paine
      All kindnesse and faire courtesie to shew;
      For in that court whylome her well they knew:
      Yet the stout Faerie monist the middest crowd
      Thought all their glorie vaine in knightly vew,
      And that great Princesse too exceeding prowd,
    That to strange knight no better countenance allowd.

    Suddein vpriseth from her stately place                          xvi
      The royall Dame, and for her coche doth call:
      All hurtlen[141] forth, and she with Princely pace,
      As faire _Aurora_ in her purple pall,
      Out of the East the dawning day doth call:
      So forth she comes: her brightnesse brode doth blaze;
      The heapes of people thronging in the hall,
      Do ride each other, vpon her to gaze:
    Her glorious glitterand[142] light doth all mens eyes amaze.

    So forth she comes, and to her coche does clyme,                xvii
      Adorned all with gold, and girlonds gay,
      That seemd as fresh as _Flora_ in her prime,
      And stroue to match, in royall rich array,
      Great _Iunoes_ golden chaire, the which they say
      The Gods stand gazing on, when she does ride
      To _Ioues_ high house through heauens bras-paued way
      Drawne of faire Pecocks, that excell in pride,
    And full of _Argus_ eyes their tailes dispredden wide.

    But this was drawne of six vnequall beasts,                    xviii
      On which her six sage Counsellours did ryde,
      Taught to obay their bestiall beheasts,
      With like conditions to their kinds applyde:
      Of which the first, that all the rest did guyde,
      Was sluggish _Idlenesse_ the nourse of sin;
      Vpon a slouthfull Asse he chose to ryde,
      Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin,
    Like to an holy Monck, the seruice to begin.

    And in his hand his Portesse still he bare,                      xix
      That much was worne, but therein little red,
      For of deuotion he had little care,
      Still drownd in sleepe, and most of his dayes ded;
      Scarse could he once vphold his heauie hed,
      To looken, whether it were night or day:
      May seeme the wayne was very euill led,
      When such an one had guiding of the way,
    That knew not, whether right he went, or else astray.

    From worldly cares himselfe he did esloyne,                       xx
      And greatly shunned manly exercise,
      From[143] euery worke he chalenged essoyne,
      For contemplation sake: yet otherwise,
      His life he led in lawlesse riotise;
      By which he grew to grieuous malady;
      For in his lustlesse limbs through euill guise
      A shaking feuer raignd continually:
    Such one was _Idlenesse_, first of this company.

    And by his side rode loathsome _Gluttony_,                       xxi
      Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne,
      His belly was vp-blowne with luxury,
      And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne,
      And like a Crane his necke was long and fyne,
      With which he swallowd vp excessiue feast,
      For want whereof poore people oft did pyne;
      And all the way, most like a brutish beast,
    He spued vp his gorge, that all did him deteast.

    In greene vine leaues he was right fitly clad;                  xxii
      For other clothes he could not weare for heat,
      And on his head an yuie girland had,
      From vnder which fast trickled downe the sweat:
      Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat,
      And in his hand did beare a bouzing can,
      Of which he supt so oft, that on his seat
      His dronken corse[144] he scarse vpholden can,
    In shape and life more like a monster, then a man.

    Vnfit he was for any worldly[145] thing,                       xxiii
      And eke vnhable[146] once to stirre or go,
      Not meet to be of counsell to a king,
      Whose mind in meat and drinke was drowned so,
      That from his friend he seldome[147] knew his fo:
      Full of diseases was his carcas blew,
      And a dry dropsie through his flesh did flow:
      Which by misdiet daily greater grew:
    Such one was _Gluttony_, the second of that crew.

    And next to him rode lustfull _Lechery_,                        xxiv
      Vpon a bearded Goat, whose rugged haire,
      And whally eyes (the signe of gelosy,)
      Was like the person selfe, whom he did beare:
      Who rough, and blacke, and filthy did appeare,
      Vnseemely man to please faire Ladies eye;
      Yet he of Ladies oft was loued deare,
      When fairer faces were bid standen by:
    O who does know the bent of womens fantasy?

    Ina greene gowne he clothed was full faire,                      xxv
      Which vnderneath did hide his filthinesse,
      And in his hand a burning hart he bare,
      Full of vaine follies, and new fanglenesse:
      For he was false, and fraught with ficklenesse,
      And learned had to loue with secret lookes,
      And well could daunce, and sing with ruefulnesse,
      And fortunes tell, and read in louing bookes,
    And thousand other wayes, to bait his fleshly hookes.

    Inconstant man, that loued all he saw,                          xxvi
      And lusted after all, that he did loue,
      Ne would his looser life be tide to law,
      But ioyd weake wemens hearts to tempt[148] and proue
      If from their loyall loues he might then moue;
      Which lewdnesse fild him with reprochfull paine
      Of that fowle euill, which all men reproue,
      That rots the marrow, and consumes the braine:
    Such one was _Lecherie_, the third of all this traine.

    And greedy _Auarice_ by him did ride,                          xxvii
      Vpon a Camell loaden all with gold;
      Two iron coffers[149] hong on either side,
      With precious mettall full, as they might hold,
      And in his lap an heape of coine he told;
      For of his wicked pelfe[150] his God he made,
      And vnto hell him selfe for money sold;
      Accursed vsurie was all his trade,
    And right and wrong ylike in equall ballaunce waide.

    His life was nigh vnto deaths doore yplast,                   xxviii
      And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes he ware,
      Ne scarse good morsell all his life did tast,
      But both from backe and belly still did spare,
      To fill his bags, and richesse to compare;
      Yet chylde ne kinsman liuing had he none
      To leaue them to; but thorough daily care
      To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne,
    He led a wretched life vnto him selfe vnknowne.

    Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffise,                xxix
      Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest store,
      Whose need had end, but no end couetise,
      Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him pore,
      Who had enough, yet wished euer more[151];
      A vile disease, and eke in foote and hand
      A grieuous gout tormented him full sore,
      That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand:
    Such one was _Auarice_, the fourth[152] of this faire band.

    And next to him malicious _Enuie_ rode,                          xxx
      Vpon a rauenous wolfe, and still did chaw
      Betweene his cankred teeth a venemous tode,
      That all the poison ran about his chaw[153];
      But inwardly he chawed his owne maw
      At neighbours[154] wealth, that made him euer sad;
      For death it was, when any good he saw,
      And wept, that cause of weeping none he had,
    But when he heard of harme, he wexed wondrous glad.

    All in a kirtle of discolourd say                               xxxi
      He clothed was, ypainted full of eyes;
      And in his bosome secretly there lay
      An hatefull Snake, the which his taile vptyes
      In many folds, and mortall sting implyes.
      Still as he rode, he gnasht his teeth, to see
      Those heapes of gold with griple Couetyse,
      And grudged at the great felicitie
    Of proud _Lucifera_, and his owne companie.

    He hated all good workes and vertuous deeds,                   xxxii
      And him no lesse, that any like did vse,
      And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds,
      His almes for want of faith he doth accuse;
      So euery good to bad he doth abuse:
      And eke the verse of famous Poets witt
      He does backebite, and spightfull poison spues
      From leprous mouth on all, that euer writt:
    Such one vile _Enuie_ was, that fifte[155] in row did sitt.

    And him beside rides fierce reuenging _Wrath_,                xxxiii
      Vpon a Lion, loth for to be led;
      And in his hand a burning brond he hath,
      The which he brandisheth about his hed;
      His eyes did hurle forth sparkles fiery red,
      And stared sterne on all, that him beheld,
      As ashes pale of hew and seeming ded;
      And on his dagger still his hand he held,
    Trembling through hasty rage, when choler in him sweld.

    His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood,                  xxxiv
      Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent,
      Through vnaduized rashnesse woxen wood;
      For of his hands he had no gouernement,
      Ne car’d for bloud in his auengement:
      But when the furious fit was ouerpast,
      His cruell facts he often would repent;
      Yet wilfull man he neuer would forecast,
    How many mischieues should ensue his heedlesse hast.

    Full many mischiefes follow cruell _Wrath_;                     xxxv
      Abhorred bloudshed, and tumultuous strife,
      Vnmanly murder, and vnthrifty scath,
      Bitter despight, with rancours rusty knife,
      And fretting griefe the enemy of life;
      All these, and many euils moe haunt ire,
      The swelling Splene, and Frenzy raging rife,
      The shaking Palsey, and Saint _Fraunces_ fire:
    Such one was _Wrath_, the last of this vngodly tire.

    And after all, vpon the wagon beame                            xxxvi
      Rode _Sathan_[156], with a smarting whip in hand,
      With which he forward lasht the laesie teme,
      So oft as _Slowth_ still in the mire did stand.
      Huge routs of people did about them band,
      Showting for ioy, and still before their way
      A foggy mist had couered all the land;
      And vnderneath their feet, all scattered lay