The Faerie Queene · Book III · Canto 3 11 (2/2)

He loved Isse for his dearest Dame,

And for her sake her cattell fedd awhile,

And for her sake a cowheard vile became:

The servant of Admetus, cowheard vile,

Whiles that from heaven he suffered exile.

Long were to tell each other lovely fitt;

Now, like a Lyon hunting after spoile;

Now, like a stag; now, like a faulcon flit:

All which in that faire arras was most lively writ.

Next unto him was Neptune pictured,

In his divine resemblance wondrous lyke:

His face was rugged, and his hoarie hed

Dropped with brackish deaw; his threeforkt Pyke

He stearnly shooke, and therewith fierce did stryke

The raging billowes, that on every syde

They trembling stood, and made a long broad dyke,

That his swift charet might have passage wyde

Which foure great Hippodames did draw in temewise tyde.

His seahorses did seeme to snort amayne,

And from their nosethrilles blow the brynie streame,

That made the sparckling waves to smoke agayne,

And flame with gold; but the white fomy creame

Did shine with silver, and shoot forth his beame.

The God himselfe did pensive seeme and sad,

And hong adowne his head as he did dreame;

For privy love his brest empierced had,

Ne ought but deare Bisaltis ay could make him glad.

He loved eke Iphimedia deare,

And Æolus faire daughter, Arnè hight,

For whom he turnd him selfe into a Steare,

And fedd on fodder to beguile her sight.

Also to win Deucalions daughter bright,

He turnd him selfe into a Dolphin fayre;

And like a winged horse he tooke his flight

To snaky-locke Medusa to repayre,

On whom he got faire Pegasus that flitteth in the ayre.

Next Saturne was, (but who would ever weene

That sullein Saturne ever weend to love?

Yet love is sullein, and Saturnlike seene,

As he did for Erigone it prove)

That to a Centaure did him selfe transmove.

So proov’d it eke that gratious God of wine,

When for to compasse Philliras hard love,

He turnd himselfe into a fruitfull vine,

And into her faire bosome made his grapes decline.

Long were to tell the amorous assayes,

And gentle pangues, with which he maked meeke

The mightie Mars, to learne his wanton playes;

How oft for Venus, and how often eek

For many other Nymphes, he sore did shreek,

With womanish teares, and with unwarlike smarts,

Privily moystening his horrid cheeke:

There was he painted full of burning dartes,

And many wide woundes launched through his inner partes.

Ne did he spare (so cruell was the Elfe)

His owne deare mother, (ah! why should he so?)

Ne did he spare sometime to pricke himselfe,

That he might taste the sweet consuming woe,

Which he had wrought to many others moe.

But, to declare the mournfull Tragedyes

And spoiles wherewith he all the ground did strow,

More eath to number with how many eyes

High heven beholdes sad lovers nightly theeveryes.

Kings, Queenes, Lords, Ladies, knights, and Damsels gent,

Were heap’d together with the vulgar sort,

And mingled with the raskall rablement,

Without respect of person or of port,

To shew Dan Cupids powre and great effort:

And round about a border was entrayld

Of broken bowes and arrowes shivered short;

And a long bloody river through them rayld,

So lively and so like that living sence it fayld.

And at the upper end of that faire rowme

There was an Altar built of pretious stone

Of passing valew and of great renowme,

On which there stood an Image all alone

Of massy gold, which with his owne light shone;

And winges it had with sondry colours dight,

More sondry colours then the proud Pavone

Beares in his boasted fan, or Iris bright,

When her discolourd bow she spreds through hevens hight.

Blyndfold he was; and in his cruell fist

A mortall bow and arrowes keene did hold,

With which he shot at randon, when him list,

Some headed with sad lead, some with pure gold;

(Ah man! beware how thou those dartes behold.)

A wounded Dragon under him did ly,

Whose hideous tayle his lefte foot did enfold,

And with a shaft was shot through either eye,

That no man forth might draw, ne no man remedye.

And underneath his feet was written thus,

Unto the Victor of the Gods this bee:

And all the people in that ample hous

Did to that image bowe their humble knee,

And oft committed fowle Idolatree.

That wondrous sight faire Britomart amazd,

Ne seeing could her wonder satisfie,

But ever more and more upon it gazd,

The whiles the passing brightnes her fraile sences dazd.

Tho, as she backward cast her busie eye

To search each secrete of that goodly sted,

Over the dore thus written she did spye,

Bee bold: she oft and oft it over-red,

Yet could not find what sence it figured:

But what so were therein or writ or ment,

She was no whit thereby discouraged

From prosecuting of her first intent,

But forward with bold steps into the next roome went.

Much fayrer then the former was that roome,

And richlier by many partes arayd;

For not with arras made in painefull loome,

But with pure gold it all was overlayd,

Wrought with wilde Antickes, which their follies playd

In the rich metall as they living were.

A thousand monstrous formes therein were made,

Such as false love doth oft upon him weare;

For love in thousand monstrous formes doth oft appeare.

And all about the glistring walles were hong

With warlike spoiles and with victorious prayes

Of mightie Conquerours and Captaines strong,

Which were whilome captived in their dayes

To cruell love, and wrought their owne decayes.

Their swerds and speres were broke, and hauberques rent,

And their proud girlonds of tryumphant bayes

Troden in dust with fury insolent,

To shew the victors might and mercilesse intent.

The warlike Mayd, beholding earnestly

The goodly ordinaunce of this rich Place,

Did greatly wonder; ne could satisfy

Her greedy eyes with gazing a long space:

But more she mervaild that no footings trace

Nor wight appeard, but wastefull emptinesse

And solemne silence over all that place:

Straunge thing it seem’d, that none was to possesse

So rich purveyaunce, ne them keepe with carefulnesse.

And, as she lookt about, she did behold

How over that same dore was likewise writ,

Be bolde, be bolde, and every where, Be bold;

That much she muz’d, yet could not construe it

By any ridling skill, or commune wit.

At last she spyde at that rowmes upper end

Another yron dore, on which was writ,

Be not too bold; whereto though she did bend

Her earnest minde, yet wist not what it might intend.

Thus she there wayted untill eventyde,

Yet living creature none she saw appeare.

And now sad shadowes gan the world to hyde

From mortall vew, and wrap in darkenes dreare;

Yet nould she d’off her weary armes, for feare

Of secret daunger, ne let sleepe oppresse

Her heavy eyes with natures burdein deare,

But drew her selfe aside in sickernesse,

And her wel-pointed wepons did about her dresse.