The Faerie Queene · Book I · Canto 1 3 (2/2)

Her piteous wordes might not abate his rage,

But, rudely rending up his helmet, would

Have slayne him streight; but when he sees his age,

And hoarie head of Archimago old,

His hasty hand he doth amased hold,

And halfe ashamed wondred at the sight:

For the old man well knew he, though untold,

In charmes and magick to have wondrous might,

Ne ever wont in field, ne in round lists, to fight:

And said, “Why Archimago, lucklesse syre,

What doe I see? what hard mishap is this,

That hath thee hether 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 cloude 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

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 fiers servant, full of kingly aw

And high disdaine, whenas his soveraine Dame

So rudely handled by her foe he saw,

With gaping jawes full greedy at him came,

And, ramping on his shield, did weene the same

Have reft away with his sharp rending clawes:

But he was stout, and lust did now inflame

His corage more, that from his griping pawes

He hath his shield redeemd, and forth his swerd he drawes.

O! then, too weake and feeble was the forse

Of salvage beast his puissance to withstand;

For he was strong, and of so mightie corse,

As ever wielded speare in warlike hand,

And feates of armes did wisely understand.

Eft soones he perced through his chaufed chest

With thrilling point of deadly yron brand,

And launcht his Lordly hart: with death opprest

He ror’d aloud, whiles life forsooke his stubborne brest.

Who now is left to keepe the forlorne maid

From raging spoile of lawlesse victors will?

Her faithfull gard remov’d, her hope dismaid,

Her selfe a yielded pray to save or spill:

He now, Lord of the field, his pride to fill,

With foule reproches and disdaineful spight

Her vildly entertaines; and, will or nill,

Beares her away upon his courser light:

Her prayers nought prevaile, his rage is more of might.

And all the way, with great lamenting paine,

And piteous plaintes, she filleth his dull eares,

That stony hart could riven have in twaine;

And all the way she wetts with flowing teares;

But he, enrag’d with rancor, nothing heares.

Her servile beast yet would not leave her so,

But followes her far off, ne ought he feares

To be partaker of her wandring woe;

More mild in beastly kind then that her beastly foe.