Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  Hath brought you hether into Fary Land,

  Aread, Prince Arthure, crowne of martiall band?’ 50

  ‘Full hard it is,’ quoth he, ‘to read aright

  The course of heavenly cause, or unerstand

  The secret meaning of th’ Eternall Might,

  That rules mens waies, and rules the thoughts of living wight.

  VII

  ‘For whether He through fatal deepe foresight 55

  Me hither sent, for cause to me unghest,

  Or that fresh bleeding wound, which day and night

  Whilome doth rancle in my riven brest,

  With forced fury following his behest,

  Me hether brought by wayes yet never found, 60

  You to have helpt I hold my selfe yet blest.’

  ‘Ah! courteous knight,’ quoth she, ‘what secret wound

  Could ever find to grieve the gentlest hart on ground?’

  VIII

  ‘Deare dame,’ quoth he, ‘you sleeping sparkes awake,

  Which, troubled once, into huge flames will grow, 65

  Ne ever will their fervent fury slake,

  Till living moysture into smoke do flow,

  And wasted life doe lye in ashes low.

  Yet sithens silence lesseneth not my fire,

  But, told, it flames, and, hidden, it does glow, 70

  I will revele what ye so much desire:

  Ah Love! lay down thy bow, the whiles I may respyre.

  IX

  ‘It was in freshest flowre of youthly yeares,

  When corage first does creepe in manly chest;

  Then first the cole of kindly heat appeares, 75

  To kindle love in every living brest:

  But me had warnd old Timons wise behest,

  Those creeping flames by reason to subdew,

  Before their rage grew to so great unrest,

  As miserable lovers use to rew, 80

  Which still wex old in woe, whiles wo stil wexeth new.

  X

  ‘That ydle name of love, and lovers life,

  As losse of time, and vertues enimy,

  I ever scornd, and joyd to stirre up strife

  In middest of their mournfull tragedy, 85

  Ay wont to laugh, when them I heard to cry,

  And blow the fire, which them to ashes brent:

  Their god himselfe, grievd at my libertie,

  Shott many a dart at me with fiers intent,

  But I them warded all with wary government. 90

  XI

  ‘But all in vaine: no fort can be so strong,

  Ne fleshly brest can armed be so sownd,

  But will at last be wonne with battrie long,

  Or unawares at disadvantage fownd:

  Nothing is sure that growes on earthly grownd: 95

  And who most trustes in arme of fleshly might,

  And boastes, in beauties chaine not to be bownd,

  Doth soonest fall in disaventrous fight,

  And yeeldes his caytive neck to victours most despight.

  XII

  ‘Ensample make of him your haplesse joy, 100

  And of my selfe now mated, as ye see;

  Whose prouder vaunt that proud avenging boy

  Did soone pluck downe, and curbd my libertee.

  For on a day, prickt forth with jollitee

  Of looser life, and heat of hardiment, 105

  Raunging the forest wide on courser free,

  The fields, the floods, the heavens, with one consent,

  Did seeme to laugh on me, and favour mine intent.

  XIII

  ‘Forwearied with my sportes, I did alight

  From loftie steed, and downe to sleepe me layd; 110

  The verdant gras my couch did goodly dight,

  And pillow was my helmett fayre displayd:

  Whiles every sence the humour sweet embayd,

  And slombring soft my hart did steale away,

  Me seemed, by my side a royall mayd 115

  Her daintie limbes full softly down did lay:

  So fayre a creature yet saw never sunny day.

  XIV

  ‘Most goodly glee and lovely blandishment

  She to me made, and badd me love her deare;

  For dearely sure her love was to me bent, 120

  As, when just time expired, should appeare.

  But whether dreames delude, or true it were,

  Was never hart so ravisht with delight,

  Ne living man like wordes did ever heare,

  As she to me delivered all that night; 125

  And at her parting said, she Queene of Faries hight.

  XV

  ‘When I awoke, and found her place devoyd,

  And nought but pressed gras where she had lyen,

  I sorrowed all so much as earst I joyd,

  And washed all her place with watry eyen. 130

  From that day forth I lov’d that face divyne;

  From that day forth I cast in carefull mynd,

  To seeke her out with labor and long tyne,

  And never vow to rest, till her I fynd:

  Nyne monethes I seek in vain, yet ni’ll that vow unbynd.’ 135

  XVI

  Thus as he spake, his visage wexed pale,

  And chaunge of hew great passion did bewray;

  Yett still he strove to cloke his inward bale,

  And hide the smoke that did his fire display;

  Till gentle Una thus to him gan say: 140

  ‘O happy Queene of Faries, that hast fownd,

  Mongst many, one that with his prowesse may

  Defend thine honour, and thy foes confownd!

  True loves are often sown, but seldom grow on grownd.’

  XVII

  ‘Thine, O then,’ said the gentle Redcrosse Knight, 145

  ‘Next to that ladies love, shalbe the place,

  O fayrest virgin, full of heavenly light,

  Whose wondrous faith, exceeding earthly race,

  Was firmest fixt in myne extremest case.

  And you, my lord, the patrone of my life, 150

  Of that great Queene may well gaine worthie grace:

  For onely worthie you through prowes priefe,

  Yf living man mote worthie be, to be her liefe.’

  XVIII

  So diversly discoursing of their loves,

  The golden sunne his glistring head gan shew, 155

  And sad remembraunce now the Prince amoves

  With fresh desire his voyage to pursew:

  Als Una earnd her traveill to renew.

  Then those two knights, fast frendship for to bynd,

  And love establish each to other trew, 160

  Gave goodly gifts, the signes of gratefull mynd,

  And eke, as pledges firme, right hands together joynd.

  XIX

  Prince Arthur gave a boxe of diamond sure,

  Embowd with gold and gorgeous ornament,

  Wherein were closd few drops of liquor pure, 165

  Of wondrous worth, and vertue excellent,

  That any wownd could heale incontinent:

  Which to requite, the Redcrosse Knight him gave

  A booke, wherein his Saveours Testament

  Was writt with golden letters rich and brave; 170

  A worke of wondrous grace, and hable soules to save.

  XX

  Thus beene they parted, Arthur on his way

  To seeke his love, and th’ other for to fight

  With Unaes foe, that all her realme did pray.

  But she, now weighing the decayed plight 175

  And shrunken synewes of her chosen knight,

  Would not a while her forward course pursew,

  Ne bring him forth in face of dreadfull fight,

  Till he recovered had his former hew:

  For him to be yet weake and wearie well she knew. 180

  XXI

  So as they traveild, lo! they gan espy

  An armed knight towards them gallop fast,


  That seemed from some feared foe to fly,

  Or other griesly thing, that him aghast.

  Still as he fledd, his eye was backward cast, 185

  As if his feare still followed him behynd;

  Als flew his steed, as he his bandes had brast,

  And with his winged heeles did tread the wynd,

  As he had beene a fole of Pegasus his kynd.

  XXII

  Nigh as he drew, they might perceive his head 190

  To bee unarmd, and curld uncombed heares

  Upstaring stiffe, dismaid with uncouth dread;

  Nor drop of blood in all his face appeares,

  Nor life in limbe: and to increase his feares,

  In fowle reproch of knighthoodes fayre degree, 195

  About his neck an hempen rope he weares,

  That with his glistring armes does ill agree;

  But he of rope, or armes, has now no memoree.

  XXIII

  The Redcrosse Knight toward him crossed fast,

  To weet what mister wight was so dismayd: 200

  There him he findes all sencelesse and aghast,

  That of him selfe he seemd to be afrayd;

  Whom hardly he from flying forward stayd,

  Till he these wordes to him deliver might:

  ‘Sir knight, aread who hath ye thus arayd, 205

  And eke from whom make ye this hasty flight?

  For never knight I saw in such misseeming plight.’

  XXIV

  He answerd nought at all, but adding new

  Feare to his first amazment, staring wyde

  With stony eyes and hartlesse hollow hew, 210

  Astonisht stood, as one that had aspyde

  Infernall furies, with their chaines untyde.

  Him yett againe, and yett againe bespake

  The gentle knight; who nought to him replyde,

  But, trembling every joynt, did inly quake, 215

  And foltring tongue at last these words seemd forth to shake:

  XXV

  ‘For Gods deare love, sir knight, doe me not stay;

  For loe! he comes, he comes fast after mee!’

  Eft looking back, would faine have runne away;

  But he him forst to stay, and tellen free 220

  The secrete cause of his perplexitie:

  Yet nathemore by his bold hartie speach

  Could his blood frosen hart emboldened bee,

  But through his boldnes rather feare did reach;

  Yett, forst, at last he made through silence suddein breach. 225

  XXVI

  ‘And am I now in safetie sure,’ quoth he,

  ‘From him that would have forced me to dye?

  And is the point of death now turnd fro mee,

  That I may tell this haplesse history?’

  ‘Feare nought,’ quoth he, ‘no daunger now is nye.’ 230

  ‘Then shall I you recount a ruefull cace,’

  Said he, ‘the which with this unlucky eye

  I late beheld; and had not greater grace

  Me reft from it, had bene partaker of the place.

  XXVII

  ‘I lately chaunst (would I had never chaunst!) 235

  With a fayre knight to keepen companee,

  Sir Terwin hight, that well himselfe advaunst

  In all affayres, and was both bold and free,

  But not so happy as mote happy bee:

  He lov’d, as was his lot, a lady gent, 240

  That him againe lov’d in the least degree:

  For she was proud, and of too high intent,

  And joyd to see her lover languish and lament.

  XXVIII

  ‘From whom retourning sad and comfortlesse,

  As on the way together we did fare, 245

  We met that villen, (God from him me blesse!)

  That cursed wight, from whom I scapt whyleare,

  A man of hell, that calls himselfe Despayre:

  Who first us greets, and after fayre areedes

  Of tydinges straunge, and of adventures rare: 250

  So creeping close, as snake in hidden weedes,

  Inquireth of our states, and of our knightly deedes.

  XXIX

  ‘Which when he knew, and felt our feeble harts

  Embost with bale, and bitter byting griefe,

  Which love had launched with his deadly darts, 255

  With wounding words, and termes of foule repriefe,

  He pluckt from us all hope of dew reliefe,

  That earst us held in love of lingring life:

  Then hopelesse hartlesse, gan the cunning thiefe

  Perswade us dye, to stint all further strife: 260

  To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife.

  XXX

  ‘With which sad instrument of hasty death,

  That wofull lover, loathing lenger light,

  A wyde way made to let forth living breath.

  But I, more fearefull or more lucky wight, 265

  Dismayd with that deformed dismall sight,

  Fledd fast away, halfe dead with dying feare;

  Ne yet assur’d of life by you, sir knight,

  Whose like infirmity like chaunce may beare:

  But God you never let his charmed speaches heare.’ 270

  XXXI

  ‘How may a man,’ said he, ‘with idle speach

  Be wonne to spoyle the castle of his health?’

  ‘I wote,’ quoth he, ‘whom tryall late did teach,

  That like would not for all this worldes wealth:

  His subtile tong, like dropping honny, mealt’h 275

  Into the heart, and searcheth every vaine,

  That ere one be aware, by secret stealth

  His powre is reft, and weaknes doth remaine.

  O never, sir, desire to try his guilefull traine.’

  XXXII

  ‘Certes,’ sayd he, ‘hence shall I never rest, 280

  Till I that treachours art have heard and tryde;

  And you, sir knight, whose name mote I request,

  Of grace do me unto his cabin guyde.’

  ‘I that hight Trevisan,’ quoth he, ‘will ryde

  Against my liking backe, to doe you grace: 285

  But nor for gold nor glee will I abyde

  By you, when ye arrive in that same place;

  For lever had I die, then see his deadly face.’

  XXXIII

  Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight

  His dwelling has, low in an hollow cave, 290

  Far underneath a craggy clift ypight,

  Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave,

  That still for carrion carcases doth crave:

  On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owle,

  Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave 295

  Far from that haunt all other chearefull fowle;

  And all about it wandring ghostes did wayle and howle.

  XXXIV

  And all about old stockes and stubs of trees,

  Whereon nor fruite nor leafe was ever seene,

  Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees; 300

  On which had many wretches hanged beene,

  Whose carcases were scattred on the greene,

  And throwne about the cliffs. Arrived there,

  That bare-head knight, for dread and dolefull teene,

  Would faine have fled, ne durst approchen neare, 305

  But th’ other forst him staye, and comforted in feare.

  XXXV

  That darkesome cave they enter, where they find

  That cursed man, low sitting on the ground,

  Musing full sadly in his sullein mind:

  His griesie lockes, long growen and unbound, 310

  Disordred hong about his shoulders round,

  And hid his face; through which his hollow eyne

  Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound;

  His raw-bone cheekes, through penurie and pine,

  Were s
hronke into his jawes, as he did never dyne. 315

  XXXVI

  His garment nought but many ragged clouts.

  With thornes together pind and patched was,

  The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts;

  And him beside there lay upon the gras

  A dreary corse, whose life away did pas, 320

  All wallowd in his own yet luke-warme blood,

  That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas!

  In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood,

  And made an open passage for the gushing flood.

  XXXVII

  Which piteous spectacle, approving trew 325

  The wofull tale that Trevisan had told,

  When as the gentle Redcrosse Knight did vew,

  With firie zeale he burnt in courage bold,

  Him to avenge, before his blood were cold;

  And to the villein sayd: ‘Thou damned wight, 330

  The authour of this fact we here behold,

  What justice can but judge against thee right,

  With thine owne blood to price his blood, here shed in sight?’

  XXXVIII

  ‘What franticke fit,’ quoth he, ‘hath thus distraught

  Thee, foolish man, so rash a doome to give? 335

  What justice ever other judgement taught,

  But he should dye, who merites not to live?

  None els to death this man despayring drive,

  But his owne guiltie mind deserving death.

  Is then unjust to each his dew to give? 340

  Or let him dye, that loatheth living breath?

  Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath?

  XXXIX

  ‘Who travailes by the wearie wandring way,

  To come unto his wished home in haste,

  And meetes a flood, that doth his passage stay, 345

  Is not great grace to helpe him over past,

  Or free his feet, that in the myre sticke fast?

  Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours good,

  And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast!

  Why wilt not let him passe, that long hath stood 350

  Upon the bancke, yet wilt thy selfe not pas the flood?

  XL

  ‘He there does now enjoy eternall rest

  And happy ease, which thou doest want and crave,

  And further from it daily wanderest:

  What if some little payne the passage have, 355

  That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave?

  Is not short payne well borne, that bringes long ease,

  And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave?

  Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas,

  Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.’ 360

  XLI

  The knight much wondred at his suddeine wit,

  And sayd: ‘The terme of life is limited,

  Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it:

  The souldier may not move from watchfull sted,