The Faerie Queene · Book II · Canto 2 1 (2/2)

With that a deadly shrieke she forth did throw

That through the wood re-echoed againe;

And after gave a grone so deepe and low

That seemd her tender heart was rent in twaine,

Or thrild with point of thorough-piercing paine:

As gentle Hynd, whose sides with cruell steele

Through launched, forth her bleeding life does raine,

Whiles the sad pang approching shee does feele,

Braies out her latest breath, and up her eies doth seele.

Which when that warriour heard, dismounting straict

From his tall steed, he rusht into the thick,

And soone arrived where that sad pourtraict

Of death and dolour lay, halfe dead, halfe quick;

In whose white alabaster brest did stick

A cruell knife that made a griesly wownd,

From which forth gusht a stream of gore blood thick,

That all her goodly garments staind arownd,

And into a deepe sanguine dide the grassy grownd.

Pitifull spectacle of deadly smart,

Beside a bubling fountaine low she lay,

Which shee increased with her bleeding hart,

And the cleane waves with purple gore did ray:

Als in her lap a lovely babe did play

His cruell sport, in stead of sorrow dew;

For in her streaming blood he did embay

His litle hands, and tender joints embrew:

Pitifull spectacle, as ever eie did vew!

Besides them both, upon the soiled gras

The dead corse of an armed knight was spred,

Whose armour all with blood besprincled was;

His ruddy lips did smyle, and rosy red

Did paint his chearefull cheekes, yett being ded;

Seemd to have beene a goodly personage,

Now in his freshest flowre of lustyhed,

Fitt to inflame faire Lady with loves rage,

But that fiers fate did crop the blossome of his age.

Whom when the good Sir Guyon did behold,

His hart gan wexe as starke as marble stone,

And his fresh blood did frieze with fearefull cold,

That all his sences seemd berefte attone:

At last his mighty ghost gan deepe to grone,

As Lion, grudging in his great disdaine,

Mournes inwardly, and makes to him selfe mone;

Til ruth and fraile affection did constraine

His stout courage to stoupe, and shew his inward paine.

Out of her gored wound the cruell steel

He lightly snatcht, and did the floodgate stop

With his faire garment; then gan softly feel

Her feeble pulse, to prove if any drop

Of living blood yet in her veynes did hop:

Which when he felt to move, he hoped faire

To call backe life to her forsaken shop.

So well he did her deadly wounds repaire,

That at the last shee gan to breath out living aire.

Which he perceiving greatly gan rejoice,

And goodly counsell, that for wounded hart

Is meetest med’cine, tempred with sweete voice:

“Ay me! deare Lady, which the ymage art

Of ruefull pitty and impatient smart,

What direfull chaunce, armd with avenging fate,

Or cursed hand, hath plaid this cruell part,

Thus fowle to hasten your untimely date?

Speake, O dear Lady, speake! help never comes too late.”

Therewith her dim eielids she up gan reare,

On which the drery death did sitt as sad

As lump of lead, and made darke clouds appeare:

But when as him, all in bright armour clad,

Before her standing she espied had,

As one out of a deadly dreame affright,

She weakely started, yet she nothing drad:

Streight downe againe herselfe, in great despight,

She groveling threw to ground, as hating life and light.

The gentle knight her soone with carefull paine

Uplifted light, and softly did uphold:

Thrise he her reard, and thrise she sunck againe,

Till he his armes about her sides gan fold,

And to her said: “Yet, if the stony cold

Have not all seized on your frozen hart,

Let one word fall that may your grief unfold,

And tell the secrete of your mortall smart:

He oft finds present helpe who does his griefe impart.”

Then, casting up a deadly looke, full low

Shee sight from bottome of her wounded brest;

And after, many bitter throbs did throw,

With lips full pale and foltring tong opprest,

These words she breathed forth from riven chest:

“Leave, ah! leave off, whatever wight thou bee,

To lett a weary wretch from her dew rest,

And trouble dying soules tranquilitee;

Take not away, now got, which none would give to me.”

“Ah! far be it,” (said he) “Deare dame, fro mee,

To hinder soule from her desired rest,

Or hold sad life in long captivitee;

For all I seeke is but to have redrest

The bitter pangs that doth your heart infest.

Tell then, O Lady! tell what fatall priefe

Hath with so huge misfortune you opprest;

That I may cast to compas your reliefe,

Or die with you in sorrow, and partake your griefe.”

With feeble hands then stretched forth on hye,

As heven accusing guilty of her death,

And with dry drops congealed in her eye,

In these sad wordes she spent her utmost breath:

“Heare then, O man! the sorrowes that uneath

My tong can tell, so far all sence they pas.

Loe! this dead corpse, that lies here underneath,

The gentlest knight, that ever on greene gras

Gay steed with spurs did pricke, the good Sir Mortdant was:

“Was, (ay the while, that he is not so now!)

My Lord, my love, my deare Lord, my deare love!

So long as hevens just with equall brow

Vouchsafed to behold us from above.

One day, when him high corage did emmove,

As wont ye knightes to seeke adventures wilde,

He pricked forth his puissant force to prove.

Me then he left enwombed of this childe,

This luckles childe, whom thus ye see with blood defild.

“Him fortuned (hard fortune ye may ghesse)

To come, where vile Acrasia does wonne;

Acrasia, a false enchaunteresse,

That many errant knightes hath fowle fordonne;

Within a wandring Island, that doth ronne

And stray in perilous gulfe, her dwelling is.

Fayre Sir, if ever there ye travell, shonne

The cursed land where many wend amis,

And know it by the name: it hight the Bowre of blis.

“Her blis is all in pleasure, and delight,

Wherewith she makes her lovers dronken mad;

And then with words, and weedes, of wondrous might,

On them she workes her will to uses bad:

My liefest Lord she thus beguiled had;

For he was flesh: (all flesh doth frayltie breed)

Whom when I heard to beene so ill bestad,

Weake wretch, I wrapt myselfe in Palmers weed,

And cast to seek him forth through danger and great dreed.

“Now had fayre Cynthia by even tournes

Full measured three quarters of her yeare,

And thrise three tymes had fild her crooked hornes,

Whenas my wombe her burdein would forbeare,

And bad me call Lucina to me neare.

Lucina came; a manchild forth I brought:

The woods, the nymphes, my bowres, my midwives, weare:

Hard help at need! So deare thee, babe, I bought;

Yet nought too dear I deemd, while so my deare I sought.

“Him so I sought; and so at last I fownd,

Where him that witch had thralled to her will,

In chaines of lust and lewde desyres ybownd,

And so transformed from his former skill,

That me he knew not, nether his owne ill;

Till, through wise handling and faire governaunce,

I him recured to a better will,

Purged from drugs of fowle intemperaunce:

Then meanes I gan devise for his deliveraunce.

“Which when the vile Enchaunteresse perceiv’d,

How that my Lord from her I would reprive,

With cup thus charmd him parting she deceivd;

‘Sad verse, give death to him that death does give,

And losse of love to her that loves to live,

So soone as Bacchus with the Nymphe does lincke!’

So parted we, and on our journey drive;

Till, coming to this well, he stoupt to drincke:

The charme fulfild, dead suddeinly he downe did sincke.

“Which when I, wretch”⁠—Not one word more she sayd,

But breaking off the end for want of breath,

And slyding soft, as downe to sleepe her layd,

And ended all her woe in quiet death.

That seeing, good Sir Guyon could uneath

From teares abstayne; for griefe his hart did grate,

And from so heavie sight his head did wreath,

Accusing fortune, and too cruell fate,

Which plonged had faire Lady in so wretched state.

Then turning to his Palmer said; “Old syre,

Behold the ymage of mortalitie,

And feeble nature cloth’d with fleshly tyre.

When raging passion with fierce tyranny

Robs reason of her dew regalitie,

And makes it servaunt to her basest part,

The strong it weakens with infirmitie,

And with bold furie armes the weakest hart:

The strong through pleasure soonest falles, the weake through smart.”

“But temperaunce” (said he) “with golden squire

Betwixt them both can measure out a meane;

Nether to melt in pleasures whott desyre,

Nor frye in hartlesse griefe and dolefull tene:

Thrise happy man, who fares them both atweene!

But sith this wretched woman overcome

Of anguish, rather then of crime, hath bene,

Reserve her cause to her eternall doome;

And, in the meane, vouchsafe her honorable toombe.”

“Palmer,” quoth he, “death is an equall doome

To good and bad, the common In of rest;

But after death the tryall is to come,

When best shall bee to them that lived best;

But both alike, when death hath both supprest,

Religious reverence doth buriall teene;

Which whoso wants, wants so much of his rest:

For all so great shame after death I weene,

As selfe to dyen bad, unburied bad to beene.”

So both agree their bodies to engrave:

The great earthes wombe they open to the sky,

And with sad Cypresse seemely it embrave;

Then, covering with a clod their closed eye,

They lay therein their corses tenderly,

And bid them sleepe in everlasting peace.

But, ere they did their utmost obsequy,

Sir Guyon, more affection to increace,

Bynempt a sacred vow, which none should ay releace.

The dead knights sword out of his sheath he drew,

With which he cutt a lock of all their heare,

Which medling with their blood and earth he threw

Into the grave, and gan devoutly sweare;

“Such and such evil God on Guyon reare,

And worse and worse, young Orphane, be thy payne,

If I, or thou, dew vengeaunce doe forbeare,

Till guiltie blood her guerdon doe obtayne!”

So shedding many teares they closd the earth agayne.