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

Here have I cause in men just blame to find,

That in their proper praise too partiall bee,

And not indifferent to woman kind,

To whom no share in armes and chevalree

They doe impart, ne maken memoree

Of their brave gestes and prowesse martiall:

Scarse do they spare to one, or two, or three,

Rowme in their writtes; yet the same writing small

Does all their deedes deface, and dims their glories all.

But by record of antique times I finde

That wemen wont in warres to beare most sway,

And to all great exploites them selves inclind,

Of which they still the girlond bore away;

Till envious Men, fearing their rules decay,

Gan coyne streight lawes to curb their liberty:

Yet sith they warlike armes have laide away,

They have exceld in artes and pollicy,

That now we foolish men that prayse gin eke t’envy.

Of warlike puissaunce in ages spent,

Be thou, faire Britomart, whose prayse I wryte;

But of all wisedom bee thou precedent,

O soveraine Queene! whose prayse I would endyte,

Endite I would as dewtie doth excyte;

But ah! my rymes too rude and rugged arre,

When in so high an object they do lyte,

And, striving fit to make, I feare, doe marre:

Thy selfe thy prayses tell, and make them knowen farre.

She, traveiling with Guyon, by the way

Of sondry thinges faire purpose gan to find,

T’abridg their journey long, and lingring day;

Mongst which it fell into that Fairies mind

To aske this Briton Maid, what uncouth wind

Brought her into those partes, and what inquest

Made her dissemble her disguised kind?

Faire Lady she him seemd, like Lady drest,

But fairest knight alive, when armed was her brest.

Thereat she sighing softly had no powre

To speake a while, ne ready answere make;

But with hart-thrilling throbs and bitter stowre,

As if she had a fever fitt, did quake,

And every daintie limbe with horrour shake;

And ever and anone the rosy red

Flasht through her face, as it had beene a flake

Of lightning through bright heven fulmined:

At last, the passion past, she thus him answered.

“Faire Sir, I let you weete, that from the howre

I taken was from nourses tender pap,

I have been trained up in warlike stowre,

To tossen speare and shield, and to affrap

The warlike ryder to his most mishap:

Sithence I loathed have my life to lead,

As Ladies wont, in pleasures wanton lap,

To finger the fine needle and nyce thread,

Me lever were with point of foemans speare be dead.

“All my delight on deedes of armes is set,

To hunt out perilles and adventures hard,

By sea, by land, where so they may be met,

Onely for honour and for high regard,

Without respect of richesse or reward:

For such intent into these partes I came,

Withouten compasse or withouten card,

Far fro my native soyle, that is by name

The greater Brytayne, here to seek for praise and fame.

“Fame blazed hath, that here in Faery lond

Doe many famous Knightes and Ladies wonne,

And many straunge adventures to bee fond,

Of which great worth and worship may be wonne;

Which to prove, I this voyage have begonne.

But mote I weet of you, right courteous knight,

Tydings of one that hath unto me donne

Late foule dishonour and reprochfull spight,

The which I seeke to wreake, and Arthegall he hight.”

The worde gone out she backe againe would call,

As her repenting so to have missayd,

But that he, it uptaking ere the fall,

Her shortly answered: “Faire martiall Mayd,

Certes ye misavised beene t’upbrayd

A gentle knight with so unknightly blame;

For, weet ye well, of all that ever playd

At tilt or tourney, or like warlike game,

The noble Arthegall hath ever borne the name.

“Forthy great wonder were it, if such shame

Should ever enter in his bounteous thought,

Or ever doe that mote deserven blame:

The noble corage never weeneth ought

That may unworthy of it selfe be thought.

Therefore, faire Damzell, be ye well aware,

Least that too farre ye have your sorrow sought:

You and your countrey both I wish welfare,

And honour both; for each of other worthy are.”

The royall Maid woxe inly wondrous glad,

To heare her Love so highly magnifyde;

And joyd that ever she affixed had

Her hart on knight so goodly glorifyde,

How ever finely she it faind to hyde.

The loving mother, that nine monethes did beare

In the deare closett of her painefull syde

Her tender babe, it seeing safe appeare,

Doth not so much rejoyce as she rejoyced theare.

But to occasion him to further talke,

To feed her humor with his pleasing style,

Her list in stryfull termes with him to balke,

And thus replyde: “How ever, Sir, ye fyle

Your courteous tongue his prayses to compyle,

It ill beseemes a knight of gentle sort,

Such as ye have him boasted, to beguyle

A simple maide, and worke so hainous tort,

In shame of knighthood, as I largely can report.

“Let bee therefore my vengeaunce to disswade,

And read where I that faytour false may find.”

“Ah! bat if reason faire might you perswade

To slake your wrath, and mollify your mind,”

(Said he) “perhaps ye should it better find:

For hardie thing it is, to weene by might

That man to hard conditions to bind,

Or ever hope to match in equall fight,

Whose prowesse paragone saw never living wight.

“Ne soothlich is it easie for to read

Where now on earth, or how, he may be fownd;

For he ne wonneth in one certeine stead,

But restlesse walketh all the world arownd,

Ay doing thinges that to his fame redownd,

Defending Ladies cause and Orphans right,

Whereso he heares that any doth confownd

Them comfortlesse through tyranny or might:

So is his soveraine honour raisde to hevens hight.”

His feeling wordes her feeble sence much pleased,

And softly sunck into her molten hart:

Hart that is inly hurt is greatly eased

With hope of thing that may allegge his smart;

For pleasing wordes are like to Magick art,

That doth the charmed Snake in slomber lay.

Such secrete ease felt gentle Britomart,

Yet list the same efforce with faind gainesay;

So dischord ofte in Musick makes the sweeter lay:⁠—

And sayd; “Sir knight, these ydle termes forbeare;

And, sith it is uneath to finde his haunt,

Tell me some markes by which he may appeare,

If chaunce I him encounter paravaunt;

For perdy one shall other slay, or daunt:

What shape, what shield, what armes, what steed, what stedd,

And what so else his person most may vaunt?”

All which the Redcrosse knight to point aredd,

And him in everie part before her fashioned.

Yet him in everie part before she knew,

However list her now her knowledge fayne,

Sith him whylome in Britayne she did vew,

To her revealed in a mirrhour playne;

Whereof did grow her first engraffed payne,

Whose root and stalke so bitter yet did taste,

That but the fruit more sweetnes did contayne,

Her wretched dayes in dolour she mote waste,

And yield the pray of love to lothsome death at last.

By straunge occasion she did him behold,

And much more straungely gan to love his sight,

As it in bookes hath written beene of old.

In Deheubarth, that now South-wales is hight,

What time king Ryence raign’d and dealed right,

The great Magitien Merlin had deviz’d,

By his deepe science and hell-dreaded might,

A looking glasse, right wondrously aguiz’d,

Whose vertues through the wyde worlde soone were solemniz’d.

It vertue had to shew in perfect sight

Whatever thing was in the world contaynd,

Betwixt the lowest earth and hevens hight,

So that it to the looker appertaynd:

Whatever foe had wrought, or frend had faynd,

Therein discovered was, ne ought mote pas,

Ne ought in secret from the same remaynd;

Forthy it round and hollow shaped was,

Like to the world itselfe, and seemd a world of glas.

Who wonders not, that reades so wonderous worke?

But who does wonder, that has red the Towre

Wherein th’Aegyptian Phao long did lurke

From all mens vew, that none might her discoure,

Yet she might all men vew out of her bowre?

Great Ptolomæe it for his lemans sake

Ybuilded all of glasse, by Magicke powre,

And also it impregnable did make;

Yet when his love was false he with a peaze it brake.

Such was the glassy globe that Merlin made,

And gave unto king Ryence for his gard,

That never foes his kingdome might invade,

But he it knew at home before he hard

Tydings thereof, and so them still debar’d.

It was a famous Present for a Prince,

And worthy worke of infinite reward,

That treasons could bewray, and foes convince:

Happy this Realme, had it remayned ever since!

One day it fortuned fayre Britomart

Into her fathers closet to repayre;

For nothing he from her reserv’d apart,

Being his onely daughter and his hayre;

Where when she had espyde that mirrhour fayre,

Her selfe awhile therein she vewd in vaine:

Tho, her avizing of the vertues rare

Which thereof spoken were, she gan againe

Her to bethinke of that mote to her selfe pertaine.

But as it falleth, in the gentlest harts

Imperious Love hath highest set his throne,

And tyrannizeth in the bitter smarts

Of them that to him buxome are and prone:

So thought this Mayd (as maydens use to done)

Whom fortune for her husband would allot:

Not that she lusted after any one,

For she was pure from blame of sinfull blott;

Yet wist her life at last must lincke in that same knot.

Eftsoones there was presented to her eye

A comely knight; all arm’d in complete wize,

Through whose bright ventayle, lifted up on hye,

His manly face, that did his foes agrize,

And frends to termes of gentle truce entize,

Lookt foorth, as Phœbus face out of the east

Betwixt two shady mountaynes doth arize:

Portly his person was, and much increast

Through his Heroicke grace and honorable gest.

His crest was covered with a couchant Hownd,

And all his armour seem’d of antique mould,

But wondrous massie and assured sownd,

And round about yfretted all with gold,

In which there written was, with cyphres old,

Achilles armes, which Arthegall did win:

And on his shield enveloped sevenfold

He bore a crowned little Ermelin,

That deckt the azure field with her fayre pouldred skin.

The Damzell well did vew his Personage

And liked well, ne further fastned not,

But went her way; ne her unguilty age

Did weene, unwares, that her unlucky lot

Lay hidden in the bottome of the pot.

Of hurt unwist most daunger doth redound;

But the false Archer, which that arrow shot

So slyly that she did not feele the wound,

Did smyle full smoothly at her weetlesse wofull stound.

Thenceforth the fether in her lofty crest,

Ruffed of love, gan lowly to availe;

And her prowd portaunce and her princely gest,

With which she earst tryumphed, now did quaile:

Sad, solemne, sowre, and full of fancies fraile,

She woxe; yet wist she nether how, nor why.

She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile,

Yet wist she was not well at ease perdy;

Yet thought it was not love, but some melancholy.

So soone as Night had with her pallid hew

Defaste the beautie of the shyning skye,

And refte from men the worldes desired vew,

She with her Nourse adowne to sleepe did lye;

But sleepe full far away from her did fly:

In stead thereof sad sighes and sorrowes deepe

Kept watch and ward about her warily,

That nought she did but wayle, and often steepe

Her dainty couch with teares which closely she did weepe.

And if that any drop of slombring rest

Did chaunce to still into her weary spright,

When feeble nature felt her selfe opprest,

Streightway with dreames, and with fantastick sight

Of dreadfull things, the same was put to flight;

That oft out of her bed she did astart,

As one with vew of ghastly feends affright:

Tho gan she to renew her former smart,

And thinke of that fayre visage written in her hart.

One night, when she was tost with such unrest,

Her aged Nourse, whose name was Glaucè hight,

Feelmg her leape out or her loathed nest,

Betwixt her feeble armes her quickly keight,

And downe againe her in her warme bed dight:

“Ah! my deare daughter, ah! my dearest dread,

What uncouth fit,” (sayd she) “what evill plight

Hath thee opprest, and with sad drearyhead

Chaunged thy lively cheare, and living made thee dead?

“For not of nought these suddein ghastly feares

All night afflict thy naturall repose;

And all the day, when as thine equall peares

Their fit disports with faire delight doe chose,

Thou in dull corners doest thy selfe inclose;

Ne tastest Princes pleasures, ne doest spred

Abroad thy fresh youths fayrest flowre, but lose

Both leafe and fruite, both too untimely shed,

As one in wilfull bale for ever buried.

“The time that mortall men their weary cares

Do lay away, and all wilde beastes do rest,

And every river eke his course forbeares,

Then doth this wicked evill thee infest,

And rive with thousand throbs thy thrilled brest:

Like an huge Aetn’ of deepe engulfed gryefe,

Sorrow is heaped in thy hollow chest,

Whence foorth it breakes in sighes and anguish ryfe,

As smoke and sulphure mingled with confused stryfe.

“Ay me! how much I feare least love it bee!

But if that love it be, as sure I read

By knowen signes and passions which I see,

Be it worthy of thy race and royall sead,

Then I avow, by this most sacred head

Of my deare foster childe, to ease thy griefe

And win thy will: Therefore away doe dread;

For death nor daunger from thy dew reliefe

Shall me debarre: tell me therefore, my liefest liefe!”

So having sayd, her twixt her armes twaine

Shee streightly straynd, and colled tenderly;

And every trembling joynt and every vaine

Shee softly felt, and rubbed busily,

To doe the frosen cold away to fly;

And her faire deawy eies with kisses deare

Shee ofte did bathe, and ofte againe did dry;

And ever her importund not to feare

To let the secret of her hart to her appeare.

The Damzell pauzd; and then thus fearfully:

“Ah! Nurse, what needeth thee to eke my payne?

Is not enough that I alone doe dye,

But it must doubled bee with death of twaine?

For nought for me but death there doth remaine.”

“O daughter deare!” (said she) “despeire no whit;

For never sore but might a salve obtaine:

That blinded God, which hath ye blindly smit,

Another arrow hath your lovers hart to hit.”

“But mine is not” (quoth she) “like other wownd;

For which no reason can finde remedy.”

“Was never such, but mote the like be fownd,”

(Said she) “and though no reason may apply

Salve to your sore, yet love can higher stye

Then reasons reach, and oft hath wonders donne.”

“But neither God of love nor God of skye

Can doe” (said she) “that which cannot be donne.”

“Things ofte impossible” (quoth she) “seeme, ere begonne.”

“These idle wordes” (said she) “doe nought aswage

My stubborne smart, but more annoiaunce breed:

For no, no usuall fire, no usuall rage

Yt is, O Nourse! which on my life doth feed,

And sucks the blood which from my hart doth bleed:

But since thy faithful zele lets me not hyde

My crime, (if crime it be) I will it reed.

Nor Prince nor pere it is, whose love hath gryde

My feeble brest of late, and launched this wound wyde.

“Nor man it is, nor other living wight,

For then some hope I might unto me draw;

But th’only shade and semblant of a knight,

Whose shape or person yet I never saw,

Hath me subjected to loves cruell law:

The same one day, as me misfortune led,

I in my fathers wondrous mirrhour saw,

And, pleased with that seeming goodlyhed,

Unwares the hidden hooke with baite I swallowed.