The Faerie Queene · Book II · Canto 2 6 (2/2)

Tho him she brought abord, and her swift bote

Forthwith directed to that further strand;

The which on the dull waves did lightly flote,

And soone arrived on the shallow sand,

Where gladsome Guyon salied forth to land,

And to that Damsell thankes gave for reward.

Upon that shore he spyed Atin stand,

There by his maister left, when late he far’d

In Phædrias flitt barck over that perlous shard.

Well could he him remember, sith of late

He with Pyrochles sharp debatement made:

Streight gan he him revyle, and bitter rate,

As Shepheardes curre, that in darke eveninges shade

Hath tracted forth some salvage beastes trade:

“Vile Miscreaunt,” (said he) “whither dost thou flye

The shame and death, which will thee soone invade?

What coward hand shall doe thee next to dye,

That art thus fowly fledd from famous enimy?”

With that he stifly shooke his steelhead dart:

But sober Guyon, hearing him so rayle,

Though somewhat moved in his mightie hart,

Yet with strong reason maistred passion fraile,

And passed fayrely forth. He, turning taile,

Back to the strond retyrd, and there still stayd,

Awaiting passage which him late did faile;

The whiles Cymochles with that wanton mayd

The hasty heat of his avowd revenge delayd.

Whylest there the varlet stood, he saw from farre

An armed knight that towardes him fast ran;

He ran on foot, as if in lucklesse warre

His forlorne steed from him the victour wan:

He seemed breathlesse, hartlesse, faint, and wan;

And all his armour sprinckled was with blood,

And soyld with durtie gore, that no man can

Discerne the hew thereof. He never stood,

But bent his hastie course towardes the ydle flood.

The varlett saw, when to the flood he came,

How without stop or stay he fiersly lept,

And deepe him selfe beducked in the same,

That in the lake his loftie crest was stept,

Ne of his safetie seemed care he kept;

But with his raging armes he rudely flasht

The waves about, and all his armour swept,

That all the blood and filth away was washt;

Yet still he bet the water, and the billowes dasht.

Atin drew nigh to weet what it mote bee,

For much he wondred at that uncouth sight:

Whom should he but his owne deare Lord there see,

His owne deare Lord Pyrochles in sad plight,

Ready to drowne him selfe for fell despight:

“Harrow now out, and well away!” he cryde,

“What dismall day hath lent this cursed light,

To see my Lord so deadly damnifyde?

Pyrochles, O Pyrochles! what is thee betyde?”

“I burne, I burne, I burne!” then lowd he cryde,

“O! how I burne with implacable fyre;

Yet nought can quench mine inly flaming syde,

Nor sea of licour cold, nor lake of myre:

Nothing but death can doe me to respyre.”

“Ah! be it,” (said he) “from Pyrochles farre

After pursewing death once to requyre,

Or think, that ought those puissant hands may marre:

Death is for wretches borne under unhappy starre.”

“Perdye, then is it fitt for me,” (said he)

“That am, I weene, most wretched man alive;

Burning in flames, yet no flames can I see,

And dying dayly, dayly yet revive.

O Atin! helpe to me last death to give.”

The varlet at his plaint was grieved so sore,

That his deepe wounded hart in two did rive;

And, his owne health remembring now no more,

Did follow that ensample which he blam’d afore.

Into the lake he lept his Lord to ayd,

(So Love the dread of daunger doth despise)

And of him catching hold him strongly stayd

From drowning. But more happy he then wise,

Of that seas nature did him not avise:

The waves thereof so slow and sluggish were,

Engrost with mud which did them fowle agrise,

That every weighty thing they did upbeare,

Ne ought mote ever sinck downe to the bottom there.

Whiles thus they strugled in that ydle wave,

And strove in vaine, the one him selfe to drowne,

The other both from drowning for to save,

Lo! to that shore one in an auncient gowne,

Whose hoary locks great gravitie did crowne,

Holding in hand a goodly arming sword,

By fortune came, ledd with the troublous sowne:

Where drenched deepe he fownd in that dull ford

The carefull servaunt stryving with his raging Lord.

Him Atin spying knew right well of yore,

And lowdly cald; “Help, helpe! O Archimage!

To save my Lord in wretched plight forlore;

Helpe with thy hand, or with thy counsell sage:

Weake handes, but counsell is most strong in age.”

Him when the old man saw, he wondred sore

To see Pyrochles there so rudely rage;

Yet sithens helpe, he saw, he needed more

Then pitty, he in hast approched to the shore,

And cald; “Pyrochles! what is this I see?

What hellish fury hath at earst thee hent?

Furious ever I thee knew to bee,

Yet never in this straunge astonishment.”

“These flames, these flames” (he cryde) “doe me torment.”

“What flames,” (quoth he) “when I thee present see

In daunger rather to be drent then brent?”

“Harrow! the flames which me consume,” (said hee)

“Ne can be quencht, within my secret bowelles bee.”

“That cursed man, that cruel feend of hell,

Furor, oh! Furor hath me thus bedight:

His deadly woundes within my liver swell,

And his whott fyre burnes in mine entralles bright,

Kindled through his infernall brond of spight,

Sith late with him I batteill vaine would boste;

That now, I weene, Joves dreaded thunder light

Does scorch not halfe so sore, nor damned ghoste

In flaming Phlegeton does not so felly roste.”

Which when as Archimago heard, his griefe

He knew right well, and him attonce disarm’d;

Then searcht his secret woundes, and made a priefe

Of every place that was with bruzing harmd,

Or with the hidden fire too inly warmd.

Which doen, he balmes and herbes thereto applyde,

And evermore with mightie spels them charmd;

That in short space he has them qualifyde,

And him restor’d to helth that would have algates dyde.