The Faerie Queene · Book III · Canto 3 6 (2/2)

Great enimy to it, and to all the rest

That in the Gardin of Adonis springs,

Is wicked Tyme; who with his scyth addrest

Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things,

And all their glory to the ground downe flings,

Where they do wither, and are fowly mard:

He flyes about, and with his flaggy winges

Beates downe both leaves and buds without regard,

Ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard.

Yet pitty often did the gods relent,

To see so faire thinges mard and spoiled quight;

And their great mother Venus did lament

The losse of her deare brood, her deare delight:

Her hart was pierst with pitty at the sight,

When walking through the Gardin them she saw,

Yet no’te she find redresse for such despight:

For all that lives is subject to that law;

All things decay in time, and to their end doe draw.

But were it not that Time their troubler is,

All that in this delightfull Gardin growes

Should happy bee, and have immortall blis:

For here all plenty and all pleasure flowes;

And sweete love gentle fitts emongst them throwes,

Without fell rancor or fond gealosy.

Franckly each Paramor his leman knowes,

Each bird his mate; ne any does envy

Their goodly meriment and gay felicity.

There is continuall Spring, and harvest there

Continuall, both meeting at one tyme:

For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare,

And with fresh colours decke the wanton Pryme,

And eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme,

Which seeme to labour under their fruites lode:

The whiles the joyous birdes make their pastyme

Emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode,

And their trew loves without suspition tell abrode.

Right in the middest of that Paradise

There stood a stately Mount, on whose round top

A gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise,

Whose shady boughes sharp steele did never lop,

Nor wicked beastes their tender buds did crop,

But like a girlond compassed the hight;

And from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop,

That all the ground, with pretious deaw bedight,

Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight.

And in the thickest covert of that shade

There was a pleasaunt Arber, not by art

But of the trees owne inclination made,

Which knitting their rancke braunches, part to part,

With wanton yvie twine entrayld athwart,

And Eglantine and Caprifole emong,

Fashiond above within their inmost part,

That nether Phœbus beams could through them throng,

Nor Æolus sharp blast could worke them any wrong.

And all about grew every sort of flowre,

To which sad lovers were transformde of yore;

Fresh Hyacinthus, Phœbus paramoure

And dearest love;

Foolish Narcisse, that likes the watry shore;

Sad Amaranthus, made a flowre but late,

Sad Amaranthus, in whose purple gore

Me seemes I see Amintas wretched fate,

To whom sweet Poets verse hath given endlesse date.

There wont fayre Venus often to enjoy

Her deare Adonis joyous company,

And reape sweet pleasure of the wanton boy:

There yet, some say, in secret he does ly,

Lapped in flowres and pretious spycery,

By her hid from the world, and from the skill

Of Stygian Gods, which doe her love envy;

But she her selfe, when ever that she will,

Possesseth him, and of his sweetnesse takes her fill.

And sooth, it seemes, they say; for he may not

For ever dye, and ever buried bee

In balefull night where all thinges are forgot:

All be he subject to mortalitie,

Yet is eterne in mutabilitie,

And by succession made perpetuall,

Transformed oft, and chaunged diverslie;

For him the Father of all formes they call:

Therfore needs mote he live, that living gives to all.

There now he liveth in eternall blis,

Joying his goddesse, and of her enjoyd;

Ne feareth he henceforth that foe of his,

Which with his cruell tuske him deadly cloyd:

For that wilde Bore, the which him once annoyd,

She firmely hath emprisoned for ay,

That her sweet love his malice mote avoyd,

In a strong rocky Cave, which is, they say,

Hewen underneath that Mount, that none him losen may.

There now he lives in everlasting joy,

With many of the Gods in company

Which thither haunt, and with the winged boy,

Sporting him selfe in safe felicity:

Who when he hath with spoiles and cruelty

Ransackt the world, and in the wofull harts

Of many wretches set his triumphes hye,

Thither resortes, and, laying his sad dartes

Asyde, with faire Adonis playes his wanton partes.

And his trew love faire Psyche with him playes,

Fayre Psyche to him lately reconcyld,

After long troubles and unmeet upbrayes

With which his mother Venus her revyld,

And eke himselfe her cruelly exyld:

But now in stedfast love and happy state

She with him lives, and hath him borne a chyld,

Pleasure, that doth both gods and men aggrate,

Pleasure, the daughter of Cupid and Psyche late.

Hither great Venus brought this infant fayre,

The yonger daughter of Chrysogonee,

And unto Psyche with great trust and care

Committed her, yfostered to bee

And trained up in trew feminitee:

Who no lesse carefully her tendered

Then her owne daughter Pleasure, to whom shee

Made her companion, and her lessoned

In all the lore of love, and goodly womanhead.

In which when she to perfect ripenes grew,

Of grace and beautie noble Paragone,

She brought her forth into the worldes vew,

To be th’ensample of true love alone,

And Lodestarre of all chaste affection

To all fayre Ladies that doe live on grownd.

To Faery court she came; where many one

Admyrd her goodly haveour, and fownd

His feeble hart wide launched with loves cruel wownd.

But she to none of them her love did cast,

Save to the noble knight Sir Scudamore,

To whom her loving hart she linked fast

In faithfull love, t’abide for evermore;

And for his dearest sake endured sore

Sore trouble of an hainous enimy,

Who her would forced have to have forlore

Her former love and stedfast loialty,

As ye may elswhere reade that ruefull history.

But well I weene, ye first desire to learne

What end unto that fearefull Damozell,

Which fledd so fast from that same foster stearne

Whom with his brethren Timias slew, befell:

That was, to weet, the goodly Florimell;

Who wandring for to seeke her lover deare,

Her lover deare, her dearest Marinell,

Into misfortune fell, as ye did heare,

And from Prince Arthure fled with wings of idle feare.