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

“Sithens it hath infixed faster hold

Within my bleeding bowells, and so sore

Now ranckleth in this same fraile fleshly mould,

That all my entrailes flow with poisnous gore,

And th’ulcer groweth daily more and more;

Ne can my ronning sore finde remedee,

Other then my hard fortune to deplore,

And languish, as the leafe faln from the tree,

Till death make one end of my daies and miseree!”

“Daughter,” (said she) “what need ye be dismayd?

Or why make ye such Monster of your minde?

Of much more uncouth thing I was affrayd,

Of filthy lust, contrary unto kinde;

But this affection nothing straunge I finde;

For who with reason can you aye reprove

To love the semblaunt pleasing most your minde,

And yield your heart whence ye cannot remove?

No guilt in you, but in the tyranny of love.

“Not so th’Arabian Myrrhe did set her mynd,

Nor so did Biblis spend her pining hart;

But lov’d their native flesh against al kynd,

And to their purpose used wicked art:

Yet playd Pasiphaë a more monstrous part,

That lov’d a Bul, and learnd a beast to bee.

Such shamefull lustes who loaths not, which depart

From course of nature and of modestee?

Sweete love such lewdnes bands from his faire companee.

“But thine, my Deare, (welfare thy heart, my deare!)

Though straunge beginning had, yet fixed is

On one that worthy may perhaps appeare;

And certes seemes bestowed not amis:

Joy thereof have thou and eternall blis!”

With that, upleaning on her elbow weake,

Her alablaster brest she soft did kis,

Which all that while shee felt to pant and quake,

As it an Earthquake were: at last she thus bespake.

“Beldame, your words doe worke me litle ease;

For though my love be not so lewdly bent

As those ye blame, yet may it nought appease

My raging smart, ne ought my flame relent,

But rather doth my helpelesse griefe augment;

For they, how ever shamefull and unkinde,

Yet did possesse their horrible intent;

Short end of sorrowes they therby did finde;

So was their fortune good, though wicked were their minde.

“But wicked fortune mine, though minde be good,

Can have no ende nor hope of my desire,

But feed on shadowes whiles I die for food,

And like a shadowe wexe, whiles with entire

Affection I doe languish and expire.

I, fonder then Cephisus foolish chyld,

Who, having vewed in a fountaine shere

His face, was with the love thereof beguyld;

I, fonder, love a shade, the body far exyld.”

“Nought like,” (quoth shee) “for that same wretched boy

Was of him selfe the ydle Paramoure,

Both love and lover, without hope of joy,

For which he faded to a watry flowre:

But better fortune thine, and better howre,

Which lov’st the shadow of a warlike knight;

No shadow but a body hath in powre:

That body, wheresoever that it light,

May learned be by cyphers, or by Magicke might.

“But if thou may with reason yet represse

The growing evill, ere it strength have gott,

And thee abandond wholy do possesse,

Against it strongly strive, and yield thee nott

Til thou in open fielde adowne be smott:

But if the passion mayster thy fraile might,

So that needs love or death must bee thy lott,

Then, I avow to thee, by wrong or right

To compas thy desire, and find that loved knight.”

Her chearefull words much cheard the feeble spright

Of the sicke virgin, that her downe she layd

In her warme bed to sleepe, if that she might;

And the old-woman carefully displayd

The clothes about her round with busy ayd;

So that at last a litle creeping sleepe

Surprisd her sence: Shee, therewith well apayd,

The dronken lamp down in the oyl did steepe,

And sett her by to watch, and sett her by to weepe.

Earely, the morrow next, before that day

His joyous face did to the world revele,

They both uprose and tooke their ready way

Unto the Church, their praiers to appele

With great devotion, and with little zele:

For the faire Damzel from the holy herse

Her love-sicke hart to other thoughts did steale;

And that old Dame said many an idle verse,

Out of her daughters hart fond fancies to reverse.

Retourned home, the royall Infant fell

Into her former fitt; for-why no powre

Nor guidaunce of herselfe in her did dwell:

But th’aged Nourse, her calling to her bowre,

Had gathered Rew, and Savine, and the flowre

Of Camphora, and Calamint, and Dill;

All which she in a earthen Pot did poure,

And to the brim with Coltwood did it fill,

And many drops of milk and blood through it did spill.

Then, taking thrise three heares from off her head,

Them trebly breaded in a threefold lace,

And round about the Pots mouth bound the thread;

And, after having whispered a space

Certein sad words with hollow voice and bace,

Shee to the virgin sayd, thrise sayd she itt;

“Come daughter, come; come, spit upon my face;

Spitt thrise upon me, thrise upon me spitt;

Th’uneven nomber for this busines is most fitt.”

That sayd, her rownd about she from her turnd,

She turned her contrary to the Sunne;

Thrise she her turnd contrary, and returnd

All contrary; for she the right did shunne;

And ever what she did was streight undonne.

So thought she to undoe her daughters love;

But love, that is in gentle brest begonne,

No ydle charmes so lightly may remove:

That well can witnesse who by tryall it does prove.

Ne ought it mote the noble Mayd avayle,

Ne slake the fury of her cruell flame,

But that shee still did waste, and still did wayle,

That, through long languour and hart-burning brame,

She shortly like a pyned ghost became

Which long hath waited by the Stygian strond.

That when old Glaucè saw, for feare least blame

Of her miscarriage should in her be fond,

She wist not how t’amend, nor how it to withstond.