The Faerie Queene · Book IV · Canto 4 8 (1/2)

Well said the Wiseman, now prov’d true by this

Which to this gentle Squire did happen late,

That the displeasure of the mighty is

Then death it selfe more dread and desperate;

For naught the same may calme ne mitigate,

Till time the tempest doe thereof delay

With sufferaunce soft, which rigour can abate,

And have the sterne remembrance wypt away

Of bitter thoughts, which deepe therein infixed lay.

Like as it fell to this unhappy boy,

Whose tender heart the faire Belphebe had

With one sterne looke so daunted, that no joy

In all his life, which afterwards he lad,

He ever tasted; but with penaunce sad

And pensive sorrow pind and wore away,

Ne ever laught, ne once shew’d countenance glad,

But alwaies wept and wailed night and day,

As blasted bloosme through heat doth languish and decay:

Till on a day, as in his wonted wise

His doole he made, there chaunst a turtle Dove

To come where he his dolors did devise,

That likewise late had lost her dearest love,

Which losse her made like passion also prove:

Who, seeing his sad plight, her tender heart

With deare compassion deeply did emmove,

That she gan mone his undeserved smart,

And with her dolefull accent beare with him a part.

Shee sitting by him, as on ground he lay,

Her mournefull notes full piteously did frame,

And thereof made a lamentable lay,

So sensibly compyld, that in the same

Him seemed oft he heard his owne right name.

With that he forth would poure so plenteous teares,

And beat his breast unworthy of such blame,

And knocke his head, and rend his rugged heares,

That could have perst the hearts of Tigres and of Beares.

Thus, long this gentle bird to him did use

Withouten dread of perill to repaire

Unto his wonne, and with her mournefull muse

Him to recomfort in his greatest care,

That much did ease his mourning and misfare:

And every day, for guerdon of her song,

He part of his small feast to her would share;

That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong

Companion she became, and so continued long.

Upon a day as she him sate beside,

By chance he certaine miniments forth drew,

Which yet with him as relickes did abide

Of all the bounty which Belphebe threw

On him, whilst goodly grace she him did shew:

Amongst the rest a Jewell rich he found,

That was a Ruby of right perfect hew,

Shap’d like a heart yet bleeding of the wound,

And with a litle golden chaine about it bound.

The same he tooke, and with a riband new,

In which his Ladies colours were, did bind

About the turtles necke, that with the vew

Did greatly solace his engrieved mind.

All unawares the bird, when she did find

Her selfe so deckt, her nimble wings displaid,

And flew away as lightly as the wind:

Which sodaine accident him much dismaid,

And looking after long did mark which way she straid.

But when as long he looked had in vaine,

Yet saw her forward still to make her flight,

His weary eie returnd to him againe,

Full of discomfort and disquiet plight,

That both his juell he had lost so light,

And eke his deare companion of his care.

But that sweet bird departing flew forthright,

Through the wide region of the wastfull aire,

Untill she came where wonned his Belphebe faire.

There found she her (as then it did betide)

Sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet,

After late wearie toile which she had tride

In salvage chase, to rest as seem’d her meet.

There she alighting fell before her feet,

And gan to her her mournfull plaint to make,

As was her wont, thinking to let her weet

The great tormenting griefe that for her sake

Her gentle Squire through her displeasure did pertake.

She, her beholding with attentive eye,

At length did marke about her purple brest

That precious juell, which she formerly

Had knowne right well, with colourd ribbands drest:

Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest

With ready hand it to have reft away;

But the swift bird obayd not her behest,

But swarv’d aside, and there againe did stay:

She follow’d her, and thought againe it to assay.

And ever, when she nigh approcht, the Dove

Would flit a litle forward, and then stay

Till she drew neare, and then againe remove;

So tempting her still to pursue the pray,

And still from her escaping soft away:

Till that at length into that forrest wide

She drew her far, and led with slow delay.

In th’end she her unto that place did guide,

Whereas that wofull man in langour did abide.

Eftsoones she flew unto his fearelesse hand,

And there a piteous ditty new deviz’d,

As if she would have made her understand

His sorrowes cause, to be of her despis’d:

Whom when she saw in wretched weedes disguiz’d,

With heary glib deform’d and meiger face,

Like ghost late risen from his grave agryz’d,

She knew him not, but pittied much his case,

And wisht it were in her to doe him any grace.

He her beholding at her feet downe fell,

And kist the ground on which her sole did tread,

And washt the same with water which did well

From his moist eies, and like two streames procead;

Yet spake no word, whereby she might aread

What mister wight he was, or what he ment;

But, as one daunted with her presence dread,

Onely few ruefull lookes unto her sent,

As messengers of his true meaning and intent.

Yet nathemore his meaning she ared,

But wondred much at his so selcouth case;

And by his persons secret seemlyhed

Well weend that he had beene some man of place,

Before misfortune did his hew deface;

That being mov’d with ruth she thus bespake:

“Ah! wofull man, what heavens hard disgrace,

Or wrath of cruell wight on thee ywrake,

Or selfe-disliked life, doth thee thus wretched make?

“If heaven, then none may it redresse or blame,

Sith to his powre we all are subject borne:

If wrathfull wight, then fowle rebuke and shame

Be theirs that have so cruell thee forlorne!

But if through inward griefe or wilfull scorne

Of life it be, then better doe advise:

For he, whose daies in wilfull woe are worne,

The grace of his Creator doth despise,

That will not use his gifts for thanklesse nigardise.”

When so he heard her say, eftsoones he brake

His sodaine silence which he long had pent,

And, sighing inly deepe, her thus bespake:

“Then have they all themselves against me bent:

For heaven, first author of my languishment,

Envying my too great felicity,

Did closely with a cruell one consent

To cloud my daies in dolefull misery,

And make me loath this life, still longing for to die.

“Ne any but your selfe, O dearest dred,

Hath done this wrong, to wreake on worthlesse wight

Your high displesure, through misdeeming bred:

That, when your pleasure is to deeme aright,

Ye may redresse, and me restore to light!”

Which sory words her mightie hart did mate

With mild regard to see his ruefull plight,

That her inhuming wrath she gan abate,

And him receiv’d againe to former favours state.

In which he long time afterwards did lead

An happie life with grace and good accord,

Fearlesse of fortunes chaunge or envies dread,

And eke all mindlesse of his owne deare Lord

The noble Prince, who never heard one word

Of tydings what did unto him betide,

Or what good fortune did to him afford;

But through the endlesse world did wander wide,

Him seeking evermore, yet no where him descride.

Till on a day, as through that wood he rode,

He chaunst to come where those two Ladies late,

Æmylia and Amoret, abode,

Both in full sad and sorrowfull estate:

The one right feeble through the evill rate

Of food which in her duresse she had found;

The other almost dead and desperate

Through her late hurts, and through that haplesse wound

With which the Squire, in her defence, her sore astound.

Whom when the Prince beheld, he gan to rew

The evill case in which those Ladies lay;

But most was moved at the piteous vew

Of Amoret, so neare unto decay,

That her great daunger did him much dismay.

Eftsoones that pretious liqueur forth he drew,

Which he in store about him kept alway,

And with few drops thereof did softly dew

Her wounds, that unto strength restor’d her soone anew.

Tho, when they both recovered were right well,

He gan of them inquire, what evill guide

Them thether brought, and how their harmes befell?

To whom they told all that did them betide,

And how from thraldome vile they were untide,

Of that same wicked Carle, by Virgins hond;

Whose bloudie corse they shew’d him there beside,

And eke his cave in which they both were bond:

At which he wondred much when all those signes he fond.

And evermore he greatly did desire

To know what Virgin did them thence unbind,

And oft of them did earnestly inquire,

Where was her won, and how he mote her find.

But, when as nought according to his mind

He could out-learne, he them from ground did reare,

No service lothsome to a gentle kind,

And on his warlike beast them both did beare,

Himselfe by them on foot to succour them from feare.

So when that forrest they had passed well,

A litle cotage farre away they spide,

To which they drew ere night upon them fell;

And entring in found none therein abide,

But one old woman sitting there beside

Upon the ground in ragged rude attyre,

With filthy lockes about her scattered wide,

Gnawing her nayles for felnesse and for yre,

And there out sucking venime to her parts entyre.

A foule and loathly creature sure in sight,

And in conditions to be loath’d no lesse;

For she was stuft with rancour and despight

Up to the throat, that oft with bitternesse

It forth would breake, and gush in great excesse,

Pouring out streames of poyson and of gall

Gainst all that truth or vertue doe professe;

Whom she with leasings lewdly did miscall

And wickedly backbite: Her name men Sclaunder call.

Her nature is all goodnesse to abuse,

And causelesse crimes continually to frame,

With which she guiltlesse persons may accuse,

And steale away the crowne of their good name:

Ne ever Knight so bold, ne ever Dame

So chast and loyall liv’d, but she would strive

With forged cause them falsely to defame;

Ne ever thing so well was doen alive,

But she with blame would blot, and of due praise deprive.

Her words were not, as common words are ment,

T’expresse the meaning of the inward mind,

But noysome breath, and poysnous spirit sent

From inward parts, with cancred malice lind,

And breathed forth with blast of bitter wind;

Which passing through the eares would pierce the hart,

And wound the soule it selfe with griefe unkind;

For, like the stings of aspes that kill with smart,

Her spightfull words did pricke and wound the inner part.

Such was that Hag, unmeet to host such guests,

Whom greatest Princes court would welcome fayne;

But neede, that answers not to all requests,

Bad them not looke for better entertayne;

And eke that age despysed nicenesse vaine,

Enur’d to hardnesse and to homely fare,

Which them to warlike discipline did trayne,

And manly limbs endur’d with litle care

Against all hard mishaps and fortunelesse misfare.

Then all that evening (welcommed with cold

And chearelesse hunger) they together spent;

Yet found no fault, but that the Hag did scold

And rayle at them with grudgefull discontent,

For lodging there without her owne consent:

Yet they endured all with patience milde,

And unto rest themselves all onely lent,

Regardlesse of that queane so base and vilde

To be unjustly blamd, and bitterly revilde.

Here, well I weene, when as these rimes be red

With misregard, that some rash-witted wight,

Whose looser thought will lightly be misled,

These gentle Ladies will misdeeme too light

For thus conversing with this noble Knight;

Sith now of dayes such temperance is rare

And hard to finde, that heat of youthfull spright

For ought will from his greedie pleasure spare:

More hard for hungry steed t’abstaine from pleasant lare.

But antique age, yet in the infancie

Of time, did live then like an innocent,

In simple truth and blamelesse chastitie,

Ne then of guile had made experiment;

But, void of vile and treacherous intent,

Held vertue for it selfe in soveraine awe:

Then loyall love had royall regiment,

And each unto his lust did make a lawe,

From all forbidden things his liking to withdraw.

The Lyon there did with the Lambe consort,

And eke the Dove sate by the Faulcons side;

Ne each of other feared fraud or tort,

But did in safe securitie abide,

Withouten perill of the stronger pride:

But when the world woxe old, it woxe warre old,

(Whereof it hight) and, having shortly tride

The traines of wit, in wickednesse woxe bold,

And dared of all sinnes the secrets to unfold.

Then beautie, which was made to represent

The great Creatours owne resemblance bright,

Unto abuse of lawlesse lust was lent,

And made the baite of bestiall delight:

Then faire grew foule, and foule grew faire in sight;

And that, which wont to vanquish God and man,

Was made the vassall of the victors might;

Then did her glorious flowre wax dead and wan,

Despisd and troden downe of all that overran.

And now it is so utterly decayd,

That any bud thereof doth scarse remaine,

But-if few plants, preserv’d through heavenly ayd,

In Princes Court doe hap to sprout againe,

Dew’d with her drops of bountie Soveraine,

Which from that goodly glorious flowre proceed,

Sprung of the auncient stocke of Princes straine,

Now th’onely remnant of that royall breed,

Whose noble kind at first was sure of heavenly seed.

Tho, soone as day discovered heavens face

To sinfull men with darknes overdight,

This gentle crew gan from their eyelids chace

The drowzie humour of the dampish night,

And did themselves unto their journey dight.

So forth they yode, and forward softly paced,

That them to view had bene an uncouth sight,

How all the way the Prince on footpace traced,

The Ladies both on horse, together fast embraced.

Soone as they thence departed were afore,

That shamefull Hag, the slaunder of her sexe,

Them follow’d fast, and them reviled sore,

Him calling theefe, them whores; that much did vexe

His noble hart: thereto she did annex

False crimes and facts, such as they never ment,

That those two Ladies much asham’d did wexe:

The more did she pursue her lewd intent,

And rayl’d and rag’d, till she had all her poyson spent.

At last, when they were passed out of sight,

Yet she did not her spightfull speach forbeare,

But after them did barke, and still backbite,

Though there were none her hatefull words to heare.

Like as a curre doth felly bite and teare

The stone which passed straunger at him threw:

So she, them seeing past the reach of eare,

Against the stones and trees did rayle anew,

Till she had duld the sting which in her tongs end grew.

They passing forth kept on their readie way,

With easie steps so soft as foot could stryde,

Both for great feeblesse, which did oft assay

Faire Amoret that scarcely she could ryde,

And eke through heavie armes which sore annoyd

The Prince on foot, not wonted so to fare;

Whose steadie hand was faine his steede to guyde,

And all the way from trotting hard to spare;

So was his toyle the more, the more that was his care.