The Faerie Queene · Book IV · Canto 4 4 (2/2)

Ne was there Knight that ever thought of armes,

But that his utmost prowesse there made knowen;

That, by their many wounds and carelesse harmes,

By shivered speares, and swords all under strowen,

By scattered shields, was easie to be showen.

There might ye see loose steeds at randon ronne,

Whose lucklesse riders late were overthrowen;

And squiers make hast to helpe their Lords fordonne.

But still the Knights of Maidenhead the better wonne;

Till that there entered on the other side

A straunger knight, from whence no man could reed,

In quyent disguise, full hard to be descride:

For all his armour was like salvage weed

With woody mosse bedight, and all his steed

With oaken leaves attrapt, that seemed fit

For salvage wight; and thereto well agreed

His word, which on his ragged shield was writ,

Salvagesse sans finesse, shewing secret wit.

He, at his first incomming, charg’d his spere

At him that first appeared in his sight;

That was to weet the stout Sir Sangliere,

Who well was knowen to be a valiant Knight,

Approved oft in many a perlous fight.

Him at the first encounter downe he smote,

And overbore beyond his crouper quight;

And after him another Knight, that hote

Sir Brianor, so sore that none him life behote.

Then, ere his hand he reard, he overthrew

Seven Knights, one after other as they came:

And, when his speare was brust, his sword he drew,

The instrument of wrath, and with the same

Far’d like a lyon in his bloodie game,

Hewing and slashing shields and helmets bright,

And beating downe what ever nigh him came,

That every one gan shun his dreadfull sight,

No lesse then death it selfe, in daungerous affright.

Much wondred all men what or whence he came,

That did amongst the troupes so tyrannize,

And each of other gan inquire his name.

But when they could not learne it by no wize,

Most answerable to his wyld disguize

It seemed him to terme the Salvage Knight;

But certes his right name was otherwize,

Though knowne to few, that Arthegall he hight,

The doughtiest knight that liv’d that day, and most of might.

Thus was Sir Satyrane with all his band

By his sole manhood and atchievement stout

Dismay’d, that none of them in field durst stand,

But beaten were and chased all about.

So he continued all that day throughout,

Till evening that the Sunne gan downward bend.

Then rushed forth out of the thickest rout

A stranger knight, that did his glorie shend:

So nought may be esteemed happie till the end.

He at his entrance charg’d his powrefull speare

At Artegall, in middest of his pryde,

And therewith smote him on his Umbriere

So sore, that tombling backe he downe did slyde

Over his horses taile above a stryde;

Whence litle lust he had to rise againe:

Which Cambell seeing much the same envyde,

And ran at him with all his might and maine;

But shortly was likewise seene lying on the plaine.

Whereat full inly wroth was Triamond,

And cast t’avenge the shame doen to his freend:

But by his friend himselfe eke soone he fond

In no lesse neede of helpe then him, he weend.

All which when Blandamour from end to end

Beheld, he woxe therewith displeased sore,

And thought in mind it shortly to amend:

His speare he feutred, and at him it bore,

But with no better fortune then the rest afore.

Full many others at him likewise ran,

But all of them likewise dismounted were;

Ne certes wonder, for no powre of man

Could bide the force of that enchaunted speare,

The which this famous Britomart did beare;

With which she wondrous deeds of arms atchieved,

And overthrew what ever came her neare,

That all those stranger knights full sore agrieved,

And that late weaker band of chalengers relieved.

Like as in sommers day, when raging heat

Doth burne the earth and boyled rivers drie,

That all brute beasts, forst to refraine fro meat,

Doe hunt for shade, where shrowded they may lie,

And, missing it, faine from themselves to flie;

All travellers tormented are with paine:

A watry cloud doth overcast the skie,

And poureth forth a sudden shoure of raine,

That all the wretched world recomforteth againe.

So did the warlike Britomart restore

The prize to knights of Maydenhead that day,

Which else was like to have bene lost, and bore

The prayse of prowesse from them all away.

Then shrilling trompets loudly gan to bray,

And bad them leave their labours and long toyle

To joyous feast and other gentle play,

Where beauties prize shold win that pretious spoyle:

Where I with sound of trompe will also rest a whyle.