The Faerie Queene · Book I · Canto 1 9 (2/2)

“What franticke fit,” (quoth he) “hath thus distraught

Thee, foolish man, so rash a doome to give?

What justice ever other judgement taught,

But he should dye who merites not to live?

None els to death this man despayring drive

But his owne guiltie mind, deserving death.

Is then unjust to each his dew to give?

Or let him dye, that loatheth living breath,

Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath?

“Who travailes by the wearie wandring way,

To come unto his wished home in haste,

And meetes a flood that doth his passage stay,

Is not great grace to helpe him over past,

Or free his feet that in the myre sticke fast?

Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours good;

And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast!

Why wilt not let him passe, that long hath stood

Upon the bancke, yet wilt thy selfe not pas the flood?

“He there does now enjoy eternall rest

And happy ease, which thou doest want and crave,

And further from it daily wanderest:

What if some little payne the passage have,

That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave,

Is not short payne well borne, that bringes long ease,

And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave?

Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas,

Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.”

The knight much wondred at his suddeine wit,

And sayd; “The terme of life is limited,

Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten, it:

The souldier may not move from watchfull sted,

Nor leave his stand untill his Captaine bed.”

“Who life did limit by almightie doome,”

(Quoth he) “knowes best the termes established;

And he, that points the Centonell his roome,

Doth license him depart at sound of morning droome.

“Is not his deed, what ever thing is donne

In heaven and earth? Did not he all create

To die againe? All ends that was begonne:

Their times in his eternall booke of fate

Are written sure, and have their certein date.

Who then can strive with strong necessitie,

That holds the world in its still chaunging state,

Or shunne the death ordaynd by destinie?

When houre of death is come, let none aske whence, nor why.

“The lenger life, I wote, the greater sin;

The greater sin, the greater punishment:

All those great battels, which thou boasts to win

Through strife, and bloodshed, and avengement,

Now praysd, hereafter deare thou shalt repent;

For life must life, and blood must blood, repay.

Is not enough thy evill life forespent?

For he that once hath missed the right way,

The further he doth goe, the further he doth stray.

“Then doe no further goe, no further stray,

But here ly downe, and to thy rest betake,

Th’ill to prevent, that life ensewen may;

For what hath life that may it loved make,

And gives not rather cause it to forsake?

Feare, sicknesse, age, losse, labour, sorrow, strife,

Payne, hunger, cold that makes the hart to quake,

And ever fickle fortune rageth rife;

All which, and thousands mo, do make a loathsome life.

“Thou, wretched man, of death hast greatest need,

If in true ballaunce thou wilt weigh thy state;

For never knight, that dared warlike deed,

More luckless dissaventures did amate:

Witnes the dungeon deepe, wherein of late

Thy life shutt up for death so oft did call;

And though good lucke prolonged hath thy date,

Yet death then would the like mishaps forestall,

Into the which hereafter thou maist happen fall.

“Why then doest thou, O man of sin! desire

To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree?

Is not the measure of thy sinfull hire

High heaped up with huge iniquitee,

Against the day of wrath to burden thee?

Is not enough, that to this Lady mild

Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjuree,

And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vild,

With whom in al abuse thou hast thy selfe defild?

“Is not he just, that all this doth behold

From highest heven, and beares an equall eie?

Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold,

And guilty be of thine impietie?

Is not his lawe, Let every sinner die;

Die shall all flesh? What then must needs be donne,

Is it not better to doe willinglie,

Then linger till the glas be all out ronne?

Death is the end of woes: die soone, O faeries sonne!”

The knight was much enmoved with his speach,

That as a swords poynt through his hart did perse,

And in his conscience made a secrete breach,

Well knowing trew all that he did reherse,

And to his fresh remembraunce did reverse

The ugly vew of his deformed crimes;

That all his manly powres it did disperse,

As he were charmed with inchaunted rimes;

That oftentimes he quakt, and fainted oftentimes.

In which amazement when the Miscreaunt

Perceived him to waver, weake and fraile,

Whiles trembling horror did his conscience daunt,

And hellish anguish did his soule assaile;

To drive him to despaire, and quite to quaile,

Hee shewd him, painted in a table plaine,

The damned ghosts that doe in torments waile;

And thousand feends that doe them endlesse paine

With fire and brimstone, which for ever shall remaine.

The sight whereof so throughly him dismaid,

That nought but death before his eies he saw,

And ever burning wrath before him laid,

By righteous sentence of th’Almighties law.

Then gan the villein him to overcraw,

And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fire,

And all that might him to perdition draw;

And bad him choose what death he would desire;

For death was due to him that had provokt Gods ire.

But, whenas none of them he saw him take,

He to him raught a dagger sharpe and keene,

And gave it him in hand: his hand did quake

And tremble like a leafe of Aspin greene,

And troubled blood through his pale face was seene

To come and goe with tidings from the heart,

As it a ronning messenger had beene.

At last, resolv’d to work his finall smart,

He lifted up his hand, that backe againe did start.

Which whenas Una saw, through every vaine

The crudled cold ran to her well of life,

As in a swowne: but, soone reliv’d againe,

Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,

And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,

And to him said; “Fie, fie, faint hearted Knight!

What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?

Is this the battaile which thou vauntst to fight

With that fire-mouthed Dragon, horrible and bright?

“Come; come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight,

Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart,

Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright:

In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part?

Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?

Where justice growes, there grows eke greater grace,

The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,

And that accurst hand-writing doth deface.

Arise, sir Knight; arise, and leave this cursed place.”

So up he rose, and thence amounted streight.

Which when the carle beheld, and saw his guest

Would safe depart, for all his subtile sleight,

He chose an halter from among the rest,

And with it hong him selfe, unbid, unblest.

But death he could not worke himselfe thereby;

For thousand times he so him selfe had drest,

Yet nathelesse it could not doe him die,

Till he should die his last, that is, eternally.