Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  Ne wist whether above she were, or under ground.

  X

  With that she heard some one close by her side

  Sighing and sobbing sore, as if the paine

  Her tender hart in peeces would divide:

  Which she long listning, softly askt againe 85

  What mister wight it was that so did plaine?

  To whom thus aunswer’d was: ‘Ah, wretched wight!

  That seekes to know anothers griefe in vaine,

  Unweeting of thine owne like haplesse plight:

  Selfe to forget to mind another, is oversight.’ 90

  XI

  ‘Aye me!’ said she, ‘where am I, or with whom?

  Emong the living, or emong the dead?

  What shall of me, unhappy maid, become?

  Shall death be th’ end, or ought else worse, aread.’

  ‘Unhappy mayd,’ then answer’d she, ‘whose dread 95

  Untride is lesse then when thou shalt it try:

  Death is to him that wretched life doth lead,

  Both grace and gaine; but he in hell doth lie,

  That lives a loathed life, and wishing cannot die.

  XII

  ‘This dismall day hath thee a caytive made, 100

  And vassall to the vilest wretch alive,

  Whose cursed usage and ungodly trade

  The heavens abhorre, and into darkenesse drive.

  For on the spoile of women he doth live,

  Whose bodies chast, when ever in his powre 105

  He may them catch, unable to gainestrive,

  He with his shamefull lust doth first deflowre,

  And afterwards themselves doth cruelly devoure.

  XIII

  ‘Now twenty daies, by which the sonnes of men

  Divide their works, have past through heven sheene, 110

  Since I was brought into this dolefull den;

  During which space these sory eies have seen

  Seaven women by him slaine, and eaten clene.

  And now no more for him but I alone,

  And this old woman, here remaining beene; 115

  Till thou cam’st hither to augment our mone;

  And of us three to morrow he will sure eate one.’

  XIV

  ‘Ah! dreadfull tidings which thou doest declare,’

  Quoth she, ‘of all that ever hath bene knowen!

  Full many great calamities and rare 120

  This feeble brest endured hath, but none

  Equally to this, where ever I have gone.

  But what are you, whom like unlucky lot

  Hath linckt with me in the same chaine attone?’

  ‘To tell,’ quoth she, ‘that which ye see, needs not; 125

  A wofull wretched maid, of God and man forgot.

  XV

  ‘But what I was it irkes me to reherse;

  Daughter unto a lord of high degree,

  That joyd in happy peace, till Fates perverse

  With guilefull Love did secretly agree, 130

  To overthrow my state and dignitie.

  It was my lot to love a gentle swaine,

  Yet was he but a squire of low degree;

  Yet was he meet, unlesse mine eye did faine,

  By any ladies side for leman to have laine. 135

  XVI

  ‘But, for his meannesse and disparagement,

  My sire, who me too dearely well did love,

  Unto my choise by no meanes would assent,

  But often did my folly fowle reprove.

  Yet nothing could my fixed mind remove, 140

  But whether willed or nilled friend or foe,

  I me resolv’d the utmost end to prove,

  And rather then my love abandon so,

  Both sire, and friends, and all for ever to forgo.

  XVII

  ‘Thenceforth I sought by secret meanes to worke 145

  Time to my will, and from his wrathfull sight

  To hide th’ intent which in my heart did lurke,

  Till I thereto had all things ready dight.

  So on a day, unweeting unto wight,

  I with that squire agreede away to flit, 150

  And in a privy place, betwixt us hight,

  Within a grove appointed him to meete;

  To which I boldly came upon my feeble feete.

  XVIII

  ‘But ah! unhappy houre me thither brought:

  For in that place where I him thought to find, 155

  There was I found, contrary to my thought,

  Of this accursed earle of hellish kind,

  The shame of men, and plague of woman-kind;

  Who trussing me, as eagle doth his pray,

  Me hether brought with him, as swift as wind, 160

  Where yet untouched till this present day,

  I rest his wretched thrall, the sad Æmylia.’

  XIX

  ‘Ah! sad Æmylia,’ then sayd Amoret,

  ‘Thy ruefull plight I pitty as mine owne.

  But read to me, by what devise or wit 165

  Hast thou, in all this time, from him unknowne

  Thine honor sav’d, though into thraldome throwne?’

  ‘Through helpe,’ quoth she, ‘of this old woman here

  I have so done, as she to me hath showne:

  For ever, when he burnt in lustfull fire, 170

  She in my stead supplide his bestiall desire.’

  XX

  Thus of their evils as they did discourse,

  And each did other much bewaile and mone,

  Loe! where the villaine selfe, their sorrowes sourse,

  Came to the cave, and rolling thence the stone, 175

  Which wont to stop the mouth thereof, that none

  Might issue forth, came rudely rushing in,

  And spredding over all the flore alone,

  Gan dight him selfe unto his wonted sinne;

  Which ended, then his bloudy banket should beginne. 180

  XXI

  Which when as fearefull Amoret perceoved,

  She staid not the utmost end thereof to try,

  But like a ghastly gelt, whose wits are reaved,

  Ran forth in hast with hideous outcry,

  For horrour of his shamefull villany. 185

  But after her full lightly he uprose,

  And her pursu’d as fast as she did flie:

  Full fast she flies, and farre afore him goes,

  Ne feeles the thorns and thickets pricke her tender toes.

  XXII

  Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor hill, nor dale she staies, 190

  But overleapes them all, like robucke light,

  And through the thickest makes her nighest waies;

  And evermore when with regardfull sight

  She, looking backe, espies that griesly wight

  Approching nigh, she gins to mend her pace, 195

  And makes her feare a spur to hast her flight:

  More swift then Myrrh’ or Daphne in her race,

  Or any of the Thracian Nimphes in salvage chase.

  XXIII

  Long so she fled, and so he follow’d long;

  Ne living aide for her on earth appeares, 200

  But if the heavens helpe to redresse her wrong,

  Moved with pity of her plenteous teares.

  It fortuned, Belphebe with her peares,

  The woody nimphs, and with that lovely boy,

  Was hunting then the libbards and the beares, 205

  In these wild woods, as was her wonted joy,

  To banish sloth, that oft doth noble mindes annoy.

  XXIV

  It so befell, as oft it fals in chace,

  That each of them from other sundred were,

  And that same gentle squire arriv’d in place 210

  Where this same cursed caytive did appeare,

  Pursuing that faire lady full of feare;

  And now he her quite overtaken had;

  And now he her away with him did beare

&nbs
p; Under his arme, as seeming wondrous glad, 215

  That by his greuning laughter mote farre off be rad.

  XXV

  Which drery sight the gentle squire espying,

  Doth hast to crosse him by the nearest way,

  Led with that wofull ladies piteous crying,

  And him assailes with all the might he may: 220

  Yet will not he the lovely spoile downe lay,

  But with his craggy club in his right hand

  Defends him selfe, and saves his gotten pray.

  Yet had it bene right hard him to with-stand,

  But that he was full light and nimble on the land. 225

  XXVI

  Thereto the villaine used craft in fight;

  For ever when the squire his javelin shooke,

  He held the lady forth before him right,

  And with her body, as a buckler, broke

  The puissance of his intended stroke. 230

  And if it chaunst, (as needs it must in fight)

  Whilest he on him was greedy to be wroke,

  That any little blow on her did light,

  Then would he laugh aloud, and gather great delight.

  XXVII

  Which subtill sleight did him encumber much, 235

  And made him oft, when he would strike, forbeare;

  For hardly could he come the carle to touch,

  But that he her must hurt, or hazard neare:

  Yet he his hand so carefully did beare,

  That at the last he did himselfe attaine, 240

  And therein left the pike head of his speare.

  A streame of coleblacke bloud thence gusht amaine,

  That all her silken garments did with bloud bestaine.

  XXVIII

  With that he threw her rudely on the flore,

  And laying both his hands upon his glave, 245

  With dreadfull strokes let drive at him so sore,

  That forst him flie abacke, himselfe to save:

  Yet he therewith so felly still did rave,

  That scarse the squire his hand could once upreare,

  But, for advantage, ground unto him gave, 250

  Tracing and traversing, now here, now there;

  For bootlesse thing it was to think such blowes to beare.

  XXIX

  Whilest thus in battell they embusied were,

  Belphebe, raunging in that forrest wide,

  The hideous noise of their huge strokes did heare, 255

  And drew thereto, making her eare her guide.

  Whom when that theefe approching nigh espide,

  With bow in hand, and arrowes ready bent,

  He by his former combate would not bide,

  But fled away with ghastly dreriment, 260

  Well knowing her to be his deaths sole instrument.

  XXX

  Whom seeing flie, she speedily poursewed

  With winged feete, as nimble as the winde,

  And ever in her bow she ready shewed

  The arrow to his deadly marke desynde: 265

  As when Latonaes daughter, cruell kynde,

  In vengement of her mothers great disgrace,

  With fell despight her cruell arrowes tynde

  Gainst wofull Niobes unhappy race,

  That all the gods did mone her miserable case. 270

  XXXI

  So well she sped her and so far she ventred,

  That ere unto his hellish den he raught,

  Even as he ready was there to have entred,

  She sent an arrow forth with mighty draught,

  That in the very dore him overcaught, 275

  And in his nape arriving, through it thrild

  His greedy throte, therewith in two distraught,

  That all his vitall spirites thereby spild,

  And all his hairy brest with gory bloud was fild.

  XXXII

  Whom when on ground she groveling saw to rowle, 280

  She ran in hast his life to have bereft:

  But ere she could him reach, the sinfull sowle,

  Having his carrion corse quite sencelesse left,

  Was fled to hell, surcharg’d with spoile and theft.

  Yet over him she there long gazing stood, 285

  And oft admir’d his monstrous shape, and oft

  His mighty limbs, whilest all with filthy bloud

  The place there overflowne seemd like a sodaine flood.

  XXXIII

  Thenceforth she past into his dreadfull den,

  Where nought but darkesome drerinesse she found, 290

  Ne creature saw, but hearkned now and then

  Some litle whispering, and soft groning sound.

  With that she askt, what ghosts there under ground

  Lay hid in horrour of eternall night;

  And bad them, if so be they were not bound, 295

  To come and shew themselves before the light,

  Now freed from feare and danger of that dismall wight.

  XXXIV

  Then forth the sad Æmylia issewed,

  Yet trembling every joynt through former feare;

  And after her the hag, there with her mewed, 300

  A foule and lothsome creature, did appeare;

  A leman fit for such a lover deare:

  That mov’d Belphebe her no lesse to hate,

  Then for to rue the others heavy cheare;

  Of whom she gan enquire of her estate: 305

  Who all to her at large, as hapned, did relate.

  XXXV

  Thence she them brought toward the place where late

  She left the gentle squire with Amoret:

  There she him found by that new lovely mate,

  Who lay the whiles in swoune, full sadly set, 310

  From her faire eyes wiping the deawy wet,

  Which softly stild, and kissing them atweene,

  And handling soft the hurts which she did get:

  For of that carle she sorely bruz’d had beene,

  Als of his owne rash hand one wound was to be seene. 315

  XXXVI

  Which when she saw, with sodaine glauncing eye,

  Her noble heart with sight thereof was fild

  With deepe disdaine, and great indignity,

  That in her wrath she thought them both have thrild

  With that selfe arrow which the carle had kild: 320

  Yet held her wrathfull hand from vengeance sore,

  But drawing nigh, ere he her well beheld,

  ‘Is this the faith?’ she said, — and said no more,

  But turnd her face, and fled away for evermore.

  XXXVII

  He, seeing her depart, arose up light, 325

  Right sore agrieved at her sharpe reproofe,

  And follow’d fast: but when he came in sight,

  He durst not nigh approch, but kept aloofe,

  For dread of her displeasures utmost proofe.

  And evermore, when he did grace entreat, 330

  And framed speaches fit for his behoofe,

  Her mortall arrowes she at him did threat,

  And forst him backe with fowle dishonor to retreat.

  XXXVIII

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

  Yet found no ease of griefe, nor hope of grace, 335

  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, 340

  For mossy trees, which covered all with shade

  And sad melancholy: there he his cabin made.

  XXXIX

  His wonted warlike weapons all he broke,

  And threw away, with vow to use no more,

  Ne thenceforth ever strike in battell stroke, 345

  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; 350

  So on him selfe to wreake his follies owne despight.

  XL

  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, 355

  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. 360

  XLI

  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, 365

  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.

  XLII

  For on a day, by fortune as it fell, 370

  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; 375

  Weening therein some holy hermit lay,

  That did resort of sinfull people shonne;

  Or else some woodman shrowded there from scorching sunne.

  XLIII

  Arriving there, he found this wretched man,

  Spending his daies in dolour and despaire, 380

  And through long fasting woxen pale and wan,

  All overgrowen with rude and rugged haire;

  That albeit his owne deare squire he were,

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

  But like strange wight, whom he had seene no where, 385

  Saluting him, gan into speach to fall,

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

  XLIV

  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, 390

  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, 395

  Midst sorrow shewing joyous semblance for his sake.

  XLV

  At which his uncouth guise and usage quaint

  The Prince did wonder much, yet could not ghesse

  The cause of that his sorrowfull constraint;