The Faerie Queene · Book IV · Canto 4 7 (2/2)

At last, when long he follow’d had in vaine,

Yet found no ease of griefe nor hope of grace,

Unto those woods he turned backe againe,

Full of sad anguish and in heavy case:

And, finding there fit solitary place

For wofull wight, chose out a gloomy glade,

Where hardly eye mote see bright heavens face

For mossy trees, which covered all with shade

And sad melancholy: there he his cabin made.

His wonted warlike weapons all he broke

And threw away, with vow to use no more,

Ne thenceforth ever strike in battell stroke,

Ne ever word to speake to woman more;

But in that wildernesse, of men forlore,

And of the wicked world forgotten quight,

His hard mishap in dolor to deplore,

And wast his wretched daies in wofull plight;

So on him selfe to wreake his follies owne despight.

And eke his garment, to be thereto meet,

He wilfully did cut and shape anew;

And his faire lockes, that wont with ointment sweet

To be embaulm’d, and sweat out dainty dew,

He let to grow and griesly to concrew,

Uncomb’d, uncurl’d, and carelesly unshed;

That in short time his face they overgrew,

And over all his shoulders did dispred,

That who he whilome was uneath was to be red.

There he continued in this carefull plight,

Wretchedly wearing out his youthly yeares,

Through wilfull penury consumed quight,

That like a pined ghost he soone appeares:

For other food then that wilde forrest beares,

Ne other drinke there did he ever tast

Then running water tempred with his teares,

The more his weakened body so to wast,

That out of all: mens knowledge he was worne at last.

For on a day, by fortune as it fell,

His owne deare Lord Prince Arthure came that way,

Seeking adventures where he mote heare tell;

And, as he through the wandring wood did stray,

Having espide this Cabin far away,

He to it drew, to weet who there did wonne;

Weening therein some holy Hermit lay,

That did resort of sinfull people shonne,

Or else some woodman shrowded there from scorching sunne.

Arriving there he found this wretched man

Spending his daies in dolour and despaire,

And through long fasting woxen pale and wan,

All overgrowen with rude and rugged haire;

That albeit his owne dear Squire he were,

Yet he him knew not, ne aviz’d at all,

But like strange wight, whom he had seene no where,

Saluting him gan into speach to fall,

And pitty much his plight, that liv’d like outcast thrall.

But to his speach he aunswered no whit,

But stood still mute, as if he had beene dum,

Ne signe of sence did shew, ne common wit,

As one with griefe and anguishe overcum,

And unto every thing did aunswere mum:

And ever, when the Prince unto him spake,

He louted lowly, as did him becum,

And humble homage did unto him make,

Midst sorrow shewing joyous semblance for his sake.

At which his uncouth guise and usage quaint

The Prince did wonder much, yet could not ghesse

The cause of that his sorrowfull constraint;

Yet weend, by secret signes of manlinesse

Which close appeard in that rude brutishnesse,

That he whilome some gentle swaine had beene,

Traind up in feats of armes and knightlinesse;

Which he observ’d, by that he him had seene

To weld his naked sword, and try the edges keene.

And eke by that he saw on every tree,

How he the name of one engraven had

Which likly was his liefest love to be,

From whom he now so sorely was bestad,

Which was by him Belphebe rightly rad.

Yet who was that Belphebe he ne wist;

Yet saw he often how he wexed glad

When he it heard, and how the ground he kist

Wherein it written was, and how himselfe he blist.

Tho, when he long had marked his demeanor,

And saw that all he said and did was vaine,

Ne ought mote make him change his wonted tenor,

Ne ought mote ease or mitigate his paine,

He left him there in langour to remaine,

Till time for him should remedy provide,

And him restore to former grace againe:

Which, for it is too long here to abide,

I will deferre the end untill another tide.