Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FAERIE QUEENE: BOOK 6, CANTOS 1-3, by EDMUND SPENSER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE FAERIE QUEENE: BOOK 6, CANTOS 1-3, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The waies, through which my weary steps I guyde
Last Line: That in another canto shall to end be brought.
Alternate Author Name(s): Clout, Colin
Subject(s): Chaucer, Geoffrey (1342-1400); Country Life; England; Fables; Knights & Knighthood; Language; Morality; Poetry & Poets; Sleep; Virtue; English; Allegories; Words; Vocabulary; Ethics


THE SIXTE BOOKE

OF THE FAERIE QUEENE
CONTAYNING
THE LEGEND OF SIR CALIDORE
OR
OF COURTESIE

I

THE waies, through which my weary steps I guyde,
In this delightfull land of Faery,
Are so exceeding spacious and wyde,
And sprinckled with such sweet variety
Of all that pleasant is to eare or eye,
That I, nigh ravisht with rare thoughts delight,
My tedious travell doe forget thereby;
And when I gin to feele decay of might,
It strength to me supplies, and chears my dulled spright.

II

Such secret comfort and such heavenly pleasures,
Ye sacred imps, that on Parnasso dwell,
And there the keeping have of learnings threasures,
Which doe all worldly riches farre excell,
Into the mindes of mortall men doe well,
And goodly fury into them infuse;
Guyde ye my footing, and conduct me well
In these strange waies, where never foote did use,
Ne none can find, but who was taught them by the Muse.

III

Revele to me the sacred noursery
Of Vertue, which with you doth there remaine,
Where it in silver bowre does hidden ly
From view of men, and wicked worlds disdaine;
Since it at first was by the gods with paine
Planted in earth, being deriv'd at furst
From heavenly seedes of bounty soveraine,
And by them long with carefull labour nurst,
Till it to ripenesse grew, and forth to honour burst.

IV

Amongst them all growes not a fayrer flowre,
Then is the bloosme of comely Courtesie,
Which, though it on a lowly stalke doe bowre,
Yet brancheth forth in brave nobilitie,
And spreds it selfe through all civilitie:
Of which though present age doe plenteous seeme,
Yet, being matcht with plaine antiquitie,
Ye will them all but fayned showes esteeme,
Which carry colours faire, that feeble eies misdeeme.

V

But in the triall of true Curtesie,
Its now so farre from that which then it was,
That it indeed is nought but forgerie,
Fashion'd to please the eies of them that pas,
Which see not perfect things but in a glas:
Yet is that glasse so gay that it can blynd
The wisest sight, to thinke gold that is bras.
But Vertues seat is deepe within the mynd,
And not in outward shows, but inward thoughts defynd.

VI

But where shall I in all antiquity
So faire a patterne finde, where may be seene
The goodly praise of princely Curtesie,
As in your selfe, O soveraine Lady Queene?
In whose pure minde, as in a mirrour sheene,
It showes, and with her brightnesse doth inflame
The eyes of all which thereon fixed beene;
But meriteth indeede an higher name:
Yet so from low to high uplifted is your fame.

VII

Then pardon me, most dreaded Soveraine,
That from your selfe I doe this vertue bring,
And to your selfe doe it returne againe:
So from the ocean all rivers spring,
And tribute backe repay as to their king:
Right so from you all goodly vertues well
Into the rest which round about you ring,
Faire lords and ladies, which about you dwell,
And doe adorne your court, where courtesies excell.

CANTO I

Calidore saves from Maleffort
A damzell used vylde:
Doth vanquish Crudor, and doth make
Briana wexe more mylde.

I

OF Court, it seemes, men Courtesie doe call,
For that it there most useth to abound;
And well beseemeth that in princes hall
That vertue should be plentifully found,
Which of all goodly manners is the ground,
And roote of civill conversation.
Right so in Faery court it did redound,
Where curteous knights and ladies most did won
Of all on earth, and made a matchlesse paragon.

II

But mongst them all was none more courteous knight
Then Calidore, beloved over all:
In whom it seemes that gentlenesse of spright
And manners mylde were planted naturall;
To which he adding comely guize withall,
And gracious speach, did steale mens hearts away.
Nathlesse thereto he was full stout and tall,
And well approv'd in batteilous affray,
That him did much renowme, and far his fame display.

III

Ne was there knight, ne was there lady found
In Faery court, but him did deare embrace
For his faire usage and conditions sound,
The which in all mens liking gayned place,
And with the greatest purchast greatest grace:
Which he could wisely use, and well apply,
To please the best, and th' evill to embase:
For he loathd leasing and base flattery,
And loved simple truth and stedfast honesty.

IV

And now he was in travell on his way,
Uppon an hard adventure sore bestad,
Whenas by chaunce he met uppon a day
With Artegall, returning yet halfe sad
From his late conquest which he gotten had.
Who whenas each of other had a sight,
They knew them selves, and both their persons rad:
When Calidore thus first: 'Haile, noblest knight
Of all this day on ground that breathen living spright!

V

'Now tell, if please you, of the good successe
Which ye have had in your late enterprize.'
To whom Sir Artegall gan to expresse
His whole exploite and valorous emprize,
In order as it did to him arize.
'Now, happy man!' sayd then Sir Calidore,
'Which have, so goodly as ye can devize,
Atchiev'd so hard a quest as few before;
That shall you most renowmed make for evermore.

VI

But where ye ended have, now I begin
To tread an endlesse trace, withouten guyde,
Or good direction how to enter in,
Or how to issue forth in waies untryde,
In perils strange, in labours long and wide,
In which although good fortune me befall,
Yet shall it not by none be testifyde.'
'What is that quest,' quoth then Sir Artegall,
'That you into such perils presently doth call?'

VII

'The Blattant Beast,' quoth he, 'I doe pursew,
And through the world incessantly doe chase,
Till I him overtake, or else subdew:
Yet know I not or how or in what place
To find him out, yet still I forward trace.'
'What is that blattant Beast?' then he replide.
'It is a monster bred of hellishe race,'
Then answerd he, 'which often hath annoyd
Good knights and ladies true, and many else destroyd.

VIII

'Of Cerberus whilome he was begot,
And fell Chimaera in her darkesome den,
Through fowle commixture of his filthy blot;
Where he was fostred long in Stygian fen,
Till he to perfect ripenesse grew, and then
Into this wicked world he forth was sent,
To be the plague and scourge of wretched men:
Whom with vile tongue and venemous intent
He sore doth wound, and bite, and cruelly torment.'

IX

'Then, since the Salvage Island I did leave,'
Sayd Artegall, 'I such a beast did see,
The which did seeme a thousand tongues to have,
That all in spight and malice did agree,
With which he bayd and loudly barkt at mee,
As if that he attonce would me devoure.
But I, that knew my selfe from perill free,
Did nought regard his malice nor his powre,
But he the more his wicked poyson forth did poure.'

X

'That surely is that beast,' saide Calidore,
'Which I pursue, of whom I am right glad
To heare these tidings, which of none afore
Through all my weary travell I have had:
Yet now some hope your words unto me add.'
'Now God you speed,' quoth then Sir Artegall,
'And keepe your body from the daunger drad:
For ye have much adoe to deale withall.'
So both tooke goodly leave, and parted severall.

XI

Sir Calidore thence travelled not long,
When as by chaunce a comely squire he found,
That thorough some more mighty enemies wrong
Both hand and foote unto a tree was bound:
Who, seeing him from farre, with piteous sound
Of his shrill cries him called to his aide.
To whom approching, in that painefull stound
When he him saw, for no demaunds he staide,
But first him losde, and afterwards thus to him saide:

XII

'Unhappy squire! what hard mishap thee brought
Into this bay of perill and disgrace?
What cruell hand thy wretched thraldome wrought,
And thee captyved in this shamefull place?'
To whom he answerd thus: 'My haplesse case
Is not occasiond through my misdesert,
But through misfortune, which did me abase
Unto this shame, and my young hope subvert,
Ere that I in her guilefull traines was well expert.

XIII

'Not farre from hence, uppon yond rocky hill,
Hard by a streight there stands a castle strong,
Which doth observe a custome lewd and ill,
And it hath long mayntaind with mighty wrong:
For may no knight nor lady passe along
That way, (and yet they needs must passe that way,
By reason of the streight, and rocks among,)
But they that ladies lockes doe shave away,
And that knights berd for toll, which they for passage pay.'

XIV

'A shamefull use as ever I did heare,'
Sayd Calidore, 'and to be overthrowne.
But by what meanes did they at first it reare,
And for what cause? tell, if thou have it knowne.'
Sayd then that squire: 'The lady which doth owne
This castle is by name Briana hight;
Then which a prouder lady liveth none:
She long time hath deare lov'd a doughty knight,
And sought to win his love by all the meanes she might.

XV

'His name is Crudor; who, through high disdaine
And proud despight of his selfe pleasing mynd,
Refused hath to yeeld her love againe,
Untill a mantle she for him doe fynd,
With beards of knights and locks of ladies lynd.
Which to provide, she hath this castle dight,
And therein hath a seneschall assynd,
Cald Maleffort, a man of mickle might,
Who executes her wicked will, with worse despight.

XVI

'He this same day, as I that way did come
With a faire damzell, my beloved deare,
In execution of her lawlesse doome,
Did set uppon us flying both for feare:
For little bootes against him hand to reare.
Me first he tooke, unhable to withstond,
And whiles he her pursued every where,
Till his returne unto this tree be bond:
Ne wote I surely, whether her he yet have fond.'

XVII

Thus whiles they spake, they heard a ruefull shrieke
Of one loud crying, which they streight way ghest
That it was she, the which for helpe did seeke.
Tho looking up unto the cry to lest,
They saw that carle from farre, with hand unblest
Hayling that mayden by the yellow heare,
That all her garments from her snowy brest,
And from her head her lockes he nigh did teare,
Ne would he spare for pitty, nor refraine for feare.

XVIII

Which haynous sight when Calidore beheld,
Eftsoones he loosd that squire, and so him left,
With hearts dismay and inward dolour queld,
For to pursue that villaine, which had reft
That piteous spoile by so injurious theft.
Whom overtaking, loude to him he cryde:
'Leave, faytor, quickely that misgotten weft
To him that hath it better justifyde,
And turne thee soone to him of whom thou art defyde.'

XIX

Who hearkning to that voice, him selfe upreard,
And seeing him so fiercely towardes make,
Against him stoutly ran, as nought afeard,
But rather more enrag'd for those words sake;
And with sterne count'naunce thus unto him spake:
'Art thou the caytive that defyest me,
And for this mayd, whose party thou doest take,
Wilt give thy beard, though it but little bee?
Yet shall it not her lockes for raunsome fro me free.'

XX

With that he fiercely at him flew, and layd
On hideous strokes with most importune might,
That oft he made him stagger as unstayd,
And oft recuile to shunne his sharpe despight.
But Calidore, that was well skild in fight,
Him long forbore, and still his spirite spar'd,
Lying in waite, how him he damadge might.
But when he felt him shrinke, and come to ward,
He greater grew, and gan to drive at him more hard.

XXI

Like as a water streame, whose swelling sourse
Shall drive a mill, within strong bancks is pent,
And long restrayned of his ready course;
So soone as passage is unto him lent,
Breakes forth, and makes his way more violent:
Such was the fury of Sir Calidore,
When once he felt his foeman to relent;
He fiercely him pursu'd, and pressed sore,
Who as he still decayd, so he encreased more.

XXII

The heavy burden of whose dreadfull might
When as the carle no longer could sustaine,
His heart gan faint, and streight he tooke his flight
Toward the castle, where, if need constraine,
His hope of refuge used to remaine.
Whom Calidore perceiving fast to flie,
He him pursu'd and chaced through the plaine,
That he for dread of death gan loude to crie
Unto the ward, to open to him hastilie.

XXIII

They from the wall him seeing so aghast,
The gate soone opened to receive him in,
But Calidore did follow him so fast,
That even in the porch he him did win,
And cleft his head asunder to his chin.
The carkasse, tumbling downe within the dore,
Did choke the entraunce with a lumpe of sin,
That it could not be shut, whilest Calidore
Did enter in, and slew the porter on the flore.

XXIV

With that the rest, the which the castle kept,
About him flockt, and hard at him did lay;
But he them all from him full lightly swept,
As doth a steare, in heat of sommers day,
With his long taile the bryzes brush away.
Thence passing forth, into the hall he came,
Where of the lady selfe in sad dismay
He was ymett, who with uncomely shame
Gan him salute, and fowle upbrayd with faulty blame.

XXV

'False traytor knight,' sayd she, 'no knight at all,
But scorne of armes, that hast with guilty hand
Murdred my men, and slaine my seneschall;
Now comest thou to rob my house unmand,
And spoile my selfe, that can not thee withstand?
Yet doubt thou not, but that some better knight
Then thou, that shall thy treason understand,
Will it avenge, and pay thee with thy right:
And if none do, yet shame shal thee with shame requight.'

XXVI

Much was the knight abashed at that word;
Yet answerd thus: 'Not unto me the shame,
But to the shamefull doer it afford.
Bloud is no blemish; for it is no blame
To punish those that doe deserve the same;
But they that breake bands of civilitie,
And wicked customes make, those doe defame
Both noble armes and gentle curtesie.
No greater shame to man then inhumanitie.

XXVII

'Then doe your selfe, for dread of shame, forgoe
This evill manner which ye here maintaine,
And doe in stead thereof mild curt'sie showe
To all that passe. That shall you glory gaine
More then his love, which thus ye seeke t' obtaine.'
Wherewith all full of wrath, she thus replyde:
'Vile recreant! know that I doe much disdaine
Thy courteous lore, that doest my love deride,
Who scornes thy ydle scoffe, and bids thee be defyde.'

XXVIII

'To take defiaunce at a ladies word,'
Quoth he, 'I hold it no indignity;
But were he here, that would it with his sword
Abett, perhaps he mote it deare aby.'
'Cowherd,' quoth she, 'were not that thou wouldst fly
Ere he doe come, he should be soone in place.'
'If I doe so,' sayd he, 'then liberty
I leave to you, for aye me to disgrace
With all those shames that erst ye spake me to deface.'

XXIX

With that a dwarfe she cald to her in hast,
And taking from her hand a ring of gould,
A privy token which betweene them past,
Bad him to flie with all the speed he could
To Crudor, and desire him that he would
Vouchsafe to reskue her against a knight,
Who through strong powre had now her self in hould,
Having late slaine her seneschall in fight,
And all her people murdred with outragious might.

XXX

The dwarfe his way did hast, and went all night;
But Calidore did with her there abyde
The comming of that so much threatned knight;
Where that discourteous dame with scornfull pryde
And fowle entreaty him indignifyde,
That yron heart it hardly could sustaine:
Yet he, that could his wrath full wisely guyde,
Did well endure her womanish disdaine,
And did him selfe from fraile impatience refraine.

XXXI

The morrow next, before the lampe of light
Above the earth upreard his flaming head,
The dwarfe, which bore that message to her knight,
Brought aunswere backe, that ere he tasted bread
He would her succour, and alive or dead
Her foe deliver up into her hand:
Therefore he wild her doe away all dread;
And that of him she mote assured stand,
He sent to her his basenet, as a faithfull band.

XXXII

Thereof full blyth the lady streight became,
And gan t' augment her bitternesse much more:
Yet no whit more appalled for the same,
Ne ought dismayed was Sir Calidore,
But rather did more chearefull seeme therefore;
And having soone his armes about him dight,
Did issue forth, to meete his foe afore;
Where long he stayed not, when as a knight
He spide come pricking on with al his powre and might.

XXXIII

Well weend he streight, that he should be the same
Which tooke in hand her quarrell to maintaine;
Ne stayd to aske if it were he by name,
But coucht his speare, and ran at him amaine.
They bene ymett in middest of the plaine,
With so fell fury and dispiteous forse,
That neither could the others stroke sustaine,
But rudely rowld to ground both man and horse,
Neither of other taking pitty nor remorse.

XXXIV

But Calidore uprose againe full light,
Whiles yet his foe lay fast in sencelesse sound;
Yet would he not him hurt, although he might:
For shame he weend a sleeping wight to wound.
But when Briana saw that drery stound,
There where she stood uppon the castle wall,
She deem'd him sure to have bene dead on ground,
And made such piteous mourning therewithall,
That from the battlements she ready seem'd to fall.

XXXV

Nathlesse at length him selfe he did upreare
In lustlesse wise, as if against his will,
Ere he had slept his fill, he wakened were,
And gan to stretch his limbs; which feeling ill
Of his late fall, a while he rested still:
But when he saw his foe before in vew,
He shooke off luskishnesse, and courage chill
Kindling a fresh, gan battell to renew,
To prove if better foote then horsebacke would ensew.

XXXVI

There then began a fearefull cruell fray
Betwixt them two, for maystery of might:
For both were wondrous pratticke in that play,
And passing well expert in single fight,
And both inflam'd with furious despight:
Which as it still encreast, so still increast
Their cruell strokes and terrible affright;
Ne once for ruth their rigour they releast,
Ne once to breath a while their angers tempest ceast.

XXXVII

Thus long they trac'd and traverst to and fro,
And tryde all waies, how each mote entrance make
Into the life of his malignant foe;
They hew'd their helmes, and plates asunder brake,
As they had potshares bene; for nought mote slake
Their greedy vengeaunces, but goary blood;
That at the last like to a purple lake
Of bloudy gore congeal'd about them stood,
Which from their riven sides forth gushed like a flood.

XXXVIII

At length it chaunst that both their hands on hie
At once did heave, with all their powre and might,
Thinking the utmost of their force to trie,
And prove the finall fortune of the fight:
But Calidore, that was more quicke of sight,
And nimbler handed then his enemie,
Prevented him before his stroke could light,
And on the helmet smote him formerlie,
That made him stoupe to ground with meeke humilitie.

XXXIX

And ere he could recover foot againe,
He following that faire advantage fast,
His stroke redoubled with such might and maine,
That him upon the ground he groveling cast;
And leaping to him light, would have unlast
His helme, to make unto his vengeance way.
Who, seeing in what daunger he was plast,
Cryde out: 'Ah mercie, sir! doe me not slay,
But save my life, which lot before your foot doth lay.'

XL

With that his mortall hand a while he stayd,
And having somewhat calm'd his wrathfull heat
With goodly patience, thus he to him sayd:
'And is the boast of that proud ladies threat,
That menaced me from the field to beat,
Now brought to this? By this now may ye learne,
Strangers no more so rudely to intreat,
But put away proud looke, and usage sterne,
The which shal nought to you but foule dishonor yearne.

XLI

'For nothing is more blamefull to a knight
That court'sie doth as well as armes professe,
How ever strong and fortunate in fight,
Then the reproch of pride and cruelnesse.
In vaine he seeketh others to suppresse,
Who hath not learnd him selfe first to subdew:
All flesh is frayle, and full of ficklenesse,
Subject to fortunes chance, still chaunging new;
What haps to day to me to morrow may to you.

XLII

'Who will not mercie unto others shew,
How can he mercy ever hope to have?
To pay each with his owne is right and dew.
Yet since ye mercie now doe need to crave,
I will it graunt, your hopelesse life to save;
With these conditions, which I will propound:
First, that ye better shall your selfe behave
Unto all errant knights, whereso on ground;
Next, that ye ladies ayde in every stead and stound.'

XLIII

The wretched man, that all this while did dwell
In dread of death, his heasts did gladly heare,
And promist to performe his precept well,
And whatsoever else he would requere.
So suffring him to rise, he made him sweare
By his owne sword, and by the crosse thereon,
To take Briana for his loving fere,
Withouten dowre or composition;
But to release his former foule condition.

XLIV

All which accepting, and with faithfull oth
Bynding himselfe most firmely to obay,
He up arose, how ever liefe or loth,
And swore to him true fealtie for aye.
Then forth he cald from sorrowfull dismay
The sad Briana, which all this beheld:
Who comming forth yet full of late affray,
Sir Calidore upcheard, and to her teld
All this accord, to which he Crudor had compeld.

XLV

Whereof she now more glad then sory earst,
All overcome with infinite affect
For his exceeding courtesie, that pearst
Her stubborne hart with inward deepe effect,
Before his feet her selfe she did project,
And him adoring as her lives deare lord,
With all due thankes and dutifull respect,
Her selfe acknowledg'd bound for that accord,
By which he had to her both life and love restord.

XLVI

So all returning to the castle glad,
Most joyfully she them did entertaine,
Where goodly glee and feast to them she made,
To shew her thankefull mind and meaning faine,
By all the meanes she mote it best explaine:
And after all, unto Sir Calidore
She freely gave that castle for his paine,
And her selfe bound to him for evermore;
So wondrously now chaung'd from that she was afore.

XLVII

But Calidore himselfe would not retaine
Nor land nor fee, for hyre of his good deede,
But gave them streight unto that squire againe,
Whom from her seneschall he lately freed,
And to his damzell, as their rightfull meed,
For recompence of all their former wrong:
There he remaind with them right well agreed,
Till of his wounds he wexed hole and strong,
And then to his first quest he passed forth along.

CANTO II

Calidore sees young Tristram slay
A proud, discourteous knight:
He makes him squire, and of him learnes
His state and present plight.

I

WHAT vertue is so fitting for a knight,
Or for a ladie whom a knight should love,
As curtesie, to beare themselves aright
To all of each degree, as doth behove?
For whether they be placed high above,
Or low beneath, yet ought they well to know
Their good, that none them rightly may reprove
Of rudenesse, for not yeelding what they owe:
Great skill it is such duties timely to bestow.

II

Thereto great helpe Dame Nature selfe doth lend:
For some so goodly gratious are by kind,
That every action doth them much commend,
And in the eyes of men great liking find;
Which others, that have greater skill in mind,
Though they enforce themselves, cannot attaine.
For everie thing, to which one is inclin'd,
Doth best become, and greatest grace doth gaine:
Yet praise likewise deserve good thewes, enforst with paine.

III

That well in courteous Calidore appeares,
Whose every deed and word that he did say
Was like enchantment, that through both the eares
And both the eyes did steale the hart away.
He now againe is on his former way,
To follow his first quest, when as he spyde
A tall young man from thence not farre away,
Fighting on foot, as well he him descryde,
Against an armed knight, that did on horsebacke ryde.

IV

And them beside, a ladie faire he saw,
Standing alone on foot, in foule array:
To whom himselfe he hastily did draw,
To weet the cause of so uncomely fray,
And to depart them, if so be he may.
But ere he came in place, that youth had kild
That armed knight, that low on ground he lay;
Which when he saw, his hart was inly child
With great amazement, and his thought with wonder fild.

V

Him stedfastly he markt, and saw to bee
A goodly youth of amiable grace,
Yet but a slender slip, that scarse did see
Yet seventeene yeares, but tall and faire of face,
That sure he deem'd him borne of noble race.
All in a woodmans jacket he was clad
Of Lincolne greene, belayd with silver lace;
And on his head an hood with aglets sprad,
And by his side his hunters horne he hanging had.

VI

Buskins he wore of costliest cordwayne,
Pinckt upon gold, and paled part per part,
As then the guize was for each gentle swayne;
In his right hand he held a trembling dart,
Whose fellow he before had sent apart;
And in his left he held a sharpe borespeare,
With which he wont to launch the salvage hart
Of many a lyon and of many a beare,
That first unto his hand in chase did happen neare.

VII

Whom Calidore a while well having vewed,
At length bespake: 'What meanes this, gentle swaine?
Why hath thy hand too bold it selfe embrewed
In blood of knight, the which by thee is slaine,
By thee no knight; which armes impugneth plaine?'
'Certes,' said he, 'loth were I to have broken
The law of armes; yet breake it should againe,
Rather then let my selfe of wight be stroken,
So long as these two armes were able to be wroken.

VIII

'For not I him, as this his ladie here
May witnesse well, did offer first to wrong,
Ne surely thus unarm'd I likely were;
But he me first, through pride and puissance strong
Assayld, not knowing what to armes doth long.'
'Perdie, great blame,' then said Sir Calidore,
'For armed knight a wight unarm'd to wrong.
But then aread, thou gentle chyld, wherefore
Betwixt you two began this strife and sterne uprore.'

IX

'That shall I sooth,' said he, 'to you declare.
I whose unryper yeares are yet unfit
For thing of weight, or worke of greater care,
Doe spend my dayes and bend my carelesse wit
To salvage chace, where I thereon may hit
In all this forrest and wyld wooddie raine:
Where, as this day I was enraunging it,
I chaunst to meete this knight, who there lyes slaine,
Together with this ladie, passing on the plaine.

X

'The knight, as ye did see, on horsebacke was,
And this his ladie, (that him ill became,)
On her faire feet by his horse side did pas
Through thicke and thin, unfit for any dame.
Yet not content, more to increase his shame,
When so she lagged, as she needs mote so,
He with his speare, that was to him great blame,
Would thumpe her forward, and inforce to goe,
Weeping to him in vaine, and making piteous woe.

XI

'Which when I saw, as they me passed by,
Much was I moved in indignant mind,
And gan to blame him for such cruelty
Towards a ladie, whom with usage kind
He rather should have taken up behind.
Wherewith he wroth, and full of proud disdaine,
Tooke in foule scorne, that I such fault did find,
And me in lieu thereof revil'd againe,
Threatning to chastize me, as doth t' a chyld pertaine.

XII

'Which I no lesse disdayning, backe returned
His scornefull taunts unto his teeth againe,
That he streight way with haughtie choler burned,
And with his speare strooke me one stroke or twaine;
Which I enforst to beare, though to my paine,
Cast to requite, and with a slender dart,
Fellow of this I beare, throwne not in vaine,
Strooke him, as seemeth, underneath the hart,
That through the wound his spirit shortly did depart.'

XIII

Much did Sir Calidore admyre his speach
Tempred so well, but more admyr'd the stroke
That through the mayles had made so strong a breach
Into his hart, and had so sternely wroke
His wrath on him that first occasion broke.
Yet rested not, but further gan inquire
Of that same ladie, whether what he spoke
Were soothly so, and that th' unrighteous ire
Of her owne knight had given him his owne due hire.

XIV

Of all which when as she could nought deny,
But cleard that stripling of th' imputed blame,
Sayd then Sir Calidore: 'Neither will I
Him charge with guilt, but rather doe quite clame:
For what he spake, for you he spake it, dame;
And what he did, he did him selfe to save:
Against both which that knight wrought knightlesse shame.
For knights and all men this by nature have,
Towards all womenkind them kindly to behave.

XV

'But sith that he is gone irrevocable,
Please it you, ladie, to us to aread,
What cause could make him so dishonourable,
To drive you so on foot, unfit to tread
And lackey by him, gainst all womanhead?'
'Certes, sir knight,' sayd she, 'full loth I were
To rayse a lyving blame against the dead:
But since it me concernes, my selfe to clere,
I will the truth discover, as it chaunst whylere.

XVI

'This day, as he and I together roade
Upon our way, to which we weren bent,
We chaunst to come foreby a covert glade
Within a wood, whereas a ladie gent
Sate with a knight in joyous jolliment
Of their franke loves, free from all gealous spyes:
Faire was the ladie sure, that mote content
An hart not carried with too curious eyes,
And unto him did shew all lovely courtesyes.

XVII

'Whom when my knight did see so lovely faire,
He inly gan her lover to envy,
And wish that he part of his spoyle might share.
Whereto when as my presence he did spy
To be a let, he bad me by and by
For to alight: but when as I was loth
My loves owne part to leave so suddenly,
He with strong hand down from his steed me throw'th,
And with presumpteous powre against that knight streight go'th.

XVIII

'Unarm'd all was the knight, as then more meete
For ladies service and for loves delight,
Then fearing any foeman there to meete:
Whereof he taking oddes, streight bids him dight
Himselfe to yeeld his love, or else to fight.
Whereat the other starting up dismayd,
Yet boldly answer'd, as he rightly might,
To leave his love he should be ill apayd,
In which he had good right gaynst all that it gainesayd.

XIX

'Yet since he was not presently in plight
Her to defend, or his to justifie,
He him requested, as he was a knight,
To lend him day his better right to trie,
Or stay till he his armes, which were thereby,
Might lightly fetch. But he was fierce and whot,
Ne time would give, nor any termes aby,
But at him flew, and with his speare him smot;
From which to thinke to save himselfe it booted not.

XX

'Meane while his ladie, which this outrage saw,
Whilest they together for the quarrey strove,
Into the covert did her selfe withdraw,
And closely hid her selfe within the grove.
My knight hers soone, as seemes, to daunger drove
And left sore wounded: but when her he mist,
He woxe halfe mad, and in that rage gan rove
And range through all the wood, where so he wist
She hidden was, and sought her so long as him list.

XXI

'But when as her he by no meanes could find,
After long search and chauff, he turned backe
Unto the place where me he left behind:
There gan he me to curse and ban, for lacke
Of that faire bootie, and with bitter wracke
To wreake on me the guilt of his owne wrong.
Of all which I yet glad to beare the packe,
Strove to appease him, and perswaded long:
But still his passion grew more violent and strong.

XXII

'Then as it were t' avenge his wrath on mee,
When forward we should fare, he flat refused
To take me up (as this young man did see)
Upon his steed, for no just cause accused,
But forst to trot on foot, and foule misused,
Pounching me with the butt end of his speare,
In vaine complayning to be so abused;
For he regarded neither playnt nor teare,
But more enforst my paine, the more my plaints to heare.

XXIII

'So passed we, till this young man us met,
And being moov'd with pittie of my plight,
Spake, as was meet, for ease of my regret:
Whereof befell what now is in your sight.'
'Now sure,' then said Sir Calidore, 'and right
Me seemes, that him befell by his owne fault:
Who ever thinkes through confidence of might,
Or through support of count'nance proud and hault,
To wrong the weaker, oft falles in his owne assault.'

XXIV

Then turning backe unto that gentle boy,
Which had himselfe so stoutly well acquit;
Seeing his face so lovely sterne and coy,
And hearing th' answeres of his pregnant wit,
He praysd it much, and much admyred it;
That sure he weend him borne of noble blood,
With whom those graces did so goodly fit:
And when he long had him beholding stood,
He burst into these words, as to him seemed good:

XXV

'Faire gentle swayne, and yet as stout as fayre,
That in these woods amongst the nymphs dost wonne,
Which daily may to thy sweete lookes repayre,
As they are wont unto Latonaes sonne,
After his chace on woodie Cynthus donne:
Well may I certes such an one thee read,
As by thy worth thou worthily hast wonne,
Or surely borne of some heroicke sead,
That in thy face appeares and gratious goodlyhead.

XXVI

'But should it not displease thee it to tell,
(Unlesse thou in these woods thy selfe conceale
For love amongst the woodie gods to dwell,)
I would thy selfe require thee to reveale,
For deare affection and unfayned zeale,
Which to thy noble personage I beare,
And wish thee grow in worship and great weale.
For since the day that armes I first did reare,
I never saw in any greater hope appeare.'

XXVII

To whom then thus the noble youth: 'May be,
Sir knight, that, by discovering my estate,
Harme may arise unweeting unto me;
Nathelesse, sith ye so courteous seemed late,
To you I will not feare it to relate.
Then wote ye that I am a Briton borne,
Sonne of a king, how ever thorough fate
Or fortune I my countrie have forlorne,
And lost the crowne which should my head by right adorne.

XXVIII

'And Tristram is my name, the onely heire
Of good King Meliogras, which did rayne
In Cornewale, till that he through lives despeire
Untimely dyde, before I did attaine
Ripe yeares of reason, my right to maintaine.
After whose death, his brother seeing mee
An infant, weake a kingdome to sustaine,
Upon him tooke the roiall high degree,
And sent me, where him list, instructed for to bee.

XXIX

'The widow queene, my mother, which then hight
Faire Emiline, conceiving then great feare
Of my fraile safetie, resting in the might
Of him that did the kingly scepter beare,
Whose gealous dread induring not a peare
Is wont to cut off all that doubt may breed,
Thought best away me to remove somewhere
Into some forrein land, where as no need
Of dreaded daunger might his doubtfull humor feed.

XXX

'So taking counsell of a wise man red,
She was by him adviz'd to send me quight
Out of the countrie wherein I was bred,
The which the fertile Lionesse is hight,
Into the land of Faerie, where no wight
Should weet of me, nor worke me any wrong.
To whose wise read she hearkning, sent me streight
Into this land, where I have wond thus long,
Since I was ten yeares old, now growen to stature strong.

XXXI

'All which my daies I have not lewdly spent,
Nor spilt the blossome of my tender yeares
In ydlesse, but, as was convenient,
Have trayned bene with many noble feres
In gentle thewes, and such like seemely leres.
Mongst which my most delight hath alwaies been,
To hunt the salvage chace amongst my peres,
Of all that raungeth in the forrest greene;
Of which none is to me unknowne, that ev'r was seene.

XXXII

'Ne is there hauke which mantleth her on pearch,
Whether high towring, or accoasting low,
But I the measure of her flight doe search,
And all her pray, and all her diet know.
Such be our joyes, which in these forrests grow:
Onely the use of armes, which most I joy,
And fitteth most for noble swayne to know,
I have not tasted yet, yet past a boy,
And being now high time these strong joynts to imploy.

XXXIII

'Therefore, good sir, sith now occasion fit
Doth fall, whose like hereafter seldome may,
Let me this crave, unworthy though of it,
That ye will make me squire without delay,
That from henceforth in batteilous array
I may beare armes, and learne to use them right;
The rather since that fortune hath this day
Given to me the spoile of this dead knight,
These goodly gilden armes, which I have won in fight.'

XXXIV

All which when well Sir Calidore had heard,
Him much more now then earst he gan admire,
For the rare hope which in his yeares appear'd,
And thus replide: 'Faire chyld, the high desire
To love of armes, which in you doth aspire,
I may not certes without blame denie;
But rather wish that some more noble hire
(Though none more noble then is chevalrie)
I had, you to reward with greater dignitie.'

XXXV

There him he causd to kneele, and made to sweare
Faith to his knight, and truth to ladies all,
And never to be recreant, for feare
Of perill, or of ought that might befall:
So he him dubbed, and his squire did call.
Full glad and joyous then young Tristram grew,
Like as a flowre, whose silken leaves small,
Long shut up in the bud from heavens vew,
At length breakes forth, and brode displayes his smyling hew.

XXXVI

Thus when they long had treated to and fro,
And Calidore betooke him to depart,
Chyld Tristram prayd that he with him might goe
On his adventure, vowing not to start,
But wayt on him in every place and part.
Whereat Sir Calidore did much delight,
And greatly joy'd at his so noble hart,
In hope he sure would prove a doughtie knight:
Yet for the time this answere he to him behight:

XXXVII

'Glad would I surely be, thou courteous squire,
To have thy presence in my present quest,
That mote thy kindled courage set on fire,
And flame forth honour in thy noble brest:
But I am bound by vow, which I profest
To my dread Soveraine, when I it assayd,
That in atchievement of her high behest
I should no creature joyne unto mine ayde;
Forthy I may not graunt that ye so greatly prayde.

XXXVIII

'But since this ladie is all desolate,
And needeth safegard now upon her way,
Ye may doe well in this her needfull state
To succour her from daunger of dismay;
That thankfull guerdon may to you repay.'
The noble ympe, of such new service fayne,
It gladly did accept, as he did say.
So taking courteous leave, they parted twayne,
And Calidore forth passed to his former payne.

XXXIX

But Tristram, then despoyling that dead knight
Of all those goodly implements of prayse,
Long fed his greedie eyes with the faire sight
Of the bright mettall, shyning like sunne rayes;
Handling and turning them a thousand wayes.
And after having them upon him dight,
He tooke that ladie, and her up did rayse
Upon the steed of her owne late dead knight,
So with her marched forth, as she did him behight.

XL

There to their fortune leave we them awhile,
And turne we backe to good Sir Calidore;
Who, ere he thence had traveild many a mile,
Came to the place, whereas ye heard afore
This knight, whom Tristram slew, had wounded sore
Another knight in his despiteous pryde;
There he that knight found lying on the flore,
With many wounds full perilous and wyde,
That all his garments and the grasse in vermeill dyde.

XLI

And there beside him sate upon the ground
His wofull ladie, piteously complayning
With loud laments that most unluckie stound,
And her sad selfe with carefull hand constrayning
To wype his wounds, and ease their bitter payning.
Which sorie sight when Calidore did vew
With heavie eyne, from teares uneath refrayning,
His mightie hart their mournefull case can rew,
And for their better comfort to them nigher drew.

XLII

Then speaking to the ladie, thus he sayd:
'Ye dolefull dame, let not your griefe empeach
To tell what cruell hand hath thus arayd
This knight unarm'd, with so unknightly breach
Of armes, that if I yet him nigh may reach,
I may avenge him of so foule despight.'
The ladie, hearing his so courteous speach,
Gan reare her eyes as to the chearefull light,
And from her sory hart few heavie words forth sight:

XLIII

In which she shew'd, how that discourteous knight
(Whom Tristram slew) them in that shadow found,
Joying together in unblam'd delight,
And him unarm'd, as now he lay on ground,
Charg'd with his speare and mortally did wound,
Withouten cause, but onely her to reave
From him, to whom she was for ever bound:
Yet when she fled into that covert greave,
He, her not finding, both them thus nigh dead did leave.

XLIV

When Calidore this ruefull storie had
Well understood, he gan of her demand,
What manner wight he was, and how yclad,
Which had this outrage wrought with wicked hand.
She then, like as she best could understand,
Him thus describ'd, to be of stature large,
Clad all in gilden armes, with azure band
Quartred athwart, and bearing in his targe
A ladie on rough waves row'd in a sommer barge.

XLV

Then gan Sir Calidore to ghesse streight way,
By many signes which she described had,
That this was he whom Tristram earst did slay,
And to her said: 'Dame, be no longer sad:
For he that hath your knight so ill bestad
Is now him selfe in much more wretched plight;
These eyes him saw upon the cold earth sprad,
The meede of his desert for that despight,
Which to your selfe he wrought, and to your loved knight.

XLVI

'Therefore, faire lady, lay aside this griefe,
Which ye have gathered to your gentle hart,
For that displeasure; and thinke what reliefe
Were best devise for this your lovers smart,
And how ye may him hence, and to what part,
Convay to be recur'd.' She thankt him deare,
Both for that newes he did to her impart,
And for the courteous care which he did beare
Both to her love and to her selfe in that sad dreare.

XLVII

Yet could she not devise by any wit,
How thence she might convay him to some place.
For him to trouble she it thought unfit,
That was a straunger to her wretched case;
And him to beare, she thought it thing too base.
Which when as he perceiv'd, he thus bespake:
'Faire lady, let it not you seeme disgrace,
To beare this burden on your dainty backe;
My selfe will beare a part, coportion of your packe.'

XLVIII

So off he did his shield, and downeward layd
Upon the ground, like to an hollow beare;
And powring balme, which he had long purvayd,
Into his wounds, him up thereon did reare,
And twixt them both with parted paines did beare,
Twixt life and death, not knowing what was donne.
Thence they him carried to a castle neare,
In which a worthy auncient knight did wonne:
Where what ensu'd shall in next canto be begonne.

CANTO III

Calidore brings Priscilla home;
Pursues the Blatant Beast;
Saves Serena, whilest Calepine
By Turpine is opprest.

I

TRUE is, that whilome that good poet sayd,
The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne:
For a man by nothing is so well bewrayd
As by his manners, in which plaine is showne
Of what degree and what race he is growne.
For seldome seene, a trotting stalion get
An ambling colt, that is his proper owne:
So seldome seene, that one in basenesse set
Doth noble courage shew, with curteous manners met.

II

But evermore contrary hath bene tryde,
That gentle bloud will gentle manners breed;
As well may be in Calidore descryde,
By late ensample of that courteous deed
Done to that wounded knight in his great need,
Whom on his backe he bore, till he him brought
Unto the castle where they had decreed.
There of the knight, the which that castle ought,
To make abode that night he greatly was besought.

III

He was to weete a man of full ripe yeares,
That in his youth had beene of mickle might,
And borne great sway in armes amongst his peares:
But now weake age had dimd his candle light.
Yet was he courteous still to every wight,
And loved all that did to armes incline;
And was the father of that wounded knight,
Whom Calidore thus carried on his chine;
And Aldus was his name, and his sonnes Aladine.

IV

Who, when he saw his sonne so ill bedight
With bleeding wounds, brought home upon a beare
By a faire lady and a straunger knight,
Was inly touched with compassion deare,
And deare affection of so dolefull dreare,
That he these words burst forth: 'Ah, sory boy!
Is this the hope that to my hoary heare
Thou brings? aie me! is this the timely joy,
Which I expected long, now turnd to sad annoy?

V

'Such is the weakenesse of all mortall hope;
So tickle is the state of earthly things,
That ere they come unto their aymed scope,
They fall too short of our fraile reckonings,
And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings,
In stead of comfort, which we should embrace:
This is the state of keasars and of kings.
Let none therefore, that is in meaner place,
Too greatly grieve at any his unlucky case.'

VI

So well and wisely did that good old knight
Temper his griefe, and turned it to cheare,
To cheare his guests, whom he had stayd that night,
And make their welcome to them well appeare:
That to Sir Calidore was easie geare;
But that faire lady would be cheard for nought,
But sigh'd and sorrow'd for her lover deare,
And inly did afflict her pensive thought,
With thinking to what case her name should now be brought.

VII

For she was daughter to a noble lord,
Which dwelt thereby, who sought her to affy
To a great pere; but she did disaccord,
Ne could her liking to his love apply,
But lov'd this fresh young knight, who dwelt her ny,
The lusty Aladine, though meaner borne
And of lesse livelood and hability,
Yet full of valour, the which did adorne
His meanesse much, and make her th' others riches scorne.

VIII

So having both found fit occasion,
They met together in that luckelesse glade;
Where that proud knight in his presumption
The gentle Aladine did earst invade,
Being unarm'd and set in secret shade.
Whereof she now bethinking, gan t' advize,
How great a hazard she at earst had made
Of her good fame, and further gan devize,
How she the blame might salve with coloured disguize.

IX

But Calidore with all good courtesie
Fain'd her to frolicke, and to put away
The pensive fit of her melancholie;
And that old knight by all meanes did assay
To make them both as merry as he may.
So they the evening past, till time of rest,
When Calidore in seemly good array
Unto his bowre was brought, and, there undrest,
Did sleepe all night through weary travell of his quest.

X

But faire Priscilla (so that lady hight)
Would to no bed, nor take no kindely sleepe,
But by her wounded love did watch all night,
And all the night for bitter anguish weepe,
And with her teares his wounds did wash and steepe.
So well she washt them, and so well she wacht him,
That of the deadly swound, in which full deepe
He drenched was, she at the length dispacht him,
And drove away the stound which mortally attacht him.

XI

The morrow next, when day gan to uplooke,
He also gan uplooke with drery eye,
Like one that out of deadly dreame awooke:
Where when he saw his faire Priscilla by,
He deepely sigh'd, and groaned inwardly,
To thinke of this ill state in which she stood,
To which she for his sake had weetingly
Now brought her selfe, and blam'd her noble blood:
For first, next after life, he tendered her good.

XII

Which she perceiving, did with plenteous teares
His care more then her owne compassionate,
Forgetfull of her owne, to minde his feares:
So both conspiring, gan to intimate
Each others griefe with zeale affectionate,
And twixt them twaine with equall care to cast,
How to save hole her hazarded estate;
For which the onely helpe now left them last
Seem'd to be Calidore: all other helpes were past.

XIII

Him they did deeme, as sure to them he seemed,
A courteous knight, and full of faithfull trust:
Therefore to him their cause they best esteemed
Whole to commit, and to his dealing just.
Earely, so soone as Titans beames forth brust
Through the thicke clouds, in which they steeped lay
All night in darkenesse, duld with yron rust,
Calidore, rising up as fresh as day,
Gan freshly him addresse unto his former way.

XIV

But first him seemed fit, that wounded knight
To visite, after this nights perillous passe,
And to salute him, if he were in plight,
And eke that lady, his faire lovely lasse.
There he him found much better then he was,
And moved speach to him of things of course,
The anguish of his paine to overpasse:
Mongst which he namely did to him discourse
Of former daies mishap, his sorrowes wicked sourse.

XV

Of which occasion Aldine taking hold,
Gan breake to him the fortunes of his love,
And all his disadventures to unfold;
That Calidore it dearly deepe did move.
In th' end, his kyndly courtesie to prove,
He him by all the bands of love besought,
And as it mote a faithfull friend behove,
To safeconduct his love, and not for ought
To leave, till to her fathers house he had her brought.

XVI

Sir Calidore his faith thereto did plight,
It to performe: so after little stay,
That she her selfe had to the journey dight,
He passed forth with her in faire array,
Fearelesse, who ought did thinke or ought did say,
Sith his own thought he knew most cleare from wite.
So as they past together on their way,
He can devize this counter-cast of slight,
To give faire colour to that ladies cause in sight.

XVII

Streight to the carkasse of that knight he went,
The cause of all this evill, who was slaine
The day before by just avengement
Of noble Tristram, where it did remaine:
There he the necke thereof did cut in twaine,
And tooke with him the head, the signe of shame.
So forth he passed thorough that daies paine,
Till to that ladies fathers house he came,
Most pensive man, through feare, what of his childe became.

XVIII

There he arriving boldly, did present
The fearefull lady to her father deare,
Most perfect pure, and guiltlesse innocent
Of blame, as he did on his knighthood sweare,
Since first he saw her, and did free from feare
Of a discourteous knight, who her had reft,
And by outragious force away did beare:
Witnesse thereof he shew'd his head there left,
And wretched life forlorne for vengement of his theft.

XIX

Most joyfull man her sire was, her to see,
And heare th' adventure of her late mischaunce;
And thousand thankes to Calidore for fee
Of his large paines in her deliveraunce
Did yeeld; ne lesse the lady did advaunce.
Thus having her restored trustily,
As he had vow'd, some small continuaunce
He there did make, and then most carefully
Unto his first exploite he did him selfe apply.

XX

So as he was pursuing of his quest,
He chaunst to come whereas a jolly knight
In covert shade him selfe did safely rest,
To solace with his lady in delight:
His warlike armes he had from him undight;
For that him selfe he thought from daunger free,
And far from envious eyes that mote him spight.
And eke the lady was full faire to see,
And courteous withall, becomming her degree.

XXI

To whom Sir Calidore approaching nye,
Ere they were well aware of living wight,
Them much abasht, but more him selfe thereby,
That he so rudely did uppon them light,
And troubled had their quiet loves delight.
Yet since it was his fortune, not his fault,
Him selfe thereof he labour'd to acquite,
And pardon crav'd for his so rash default,
That he gainst courtesie so fowly did default.

XXII

With which his gentle words and goodly wit
He soone allayd that knights conceiv'd displeasure,
That he besought him downe by him to sit,
That they mote treat of things abrode at leasure;
And of adventures, which had in his measure
Of so long waies to him befallen late.
So downe he sate, and with delightfull pleasure
His long adventures gan to him relate,
Which he endured had through daungerous debate.

XXIII

Of which whilest they discoursed both together,
The faire Serena (so his lady hight)
Allur'd with myldnesse of the gentle wether,
And pleasaunce of the place, the which was dight
With divers flowres distinct with rare delight,
Wandred about the fields, as liking led
Her wavering lust after her wandring sight,
To make a garland to adorne her hed,
Without suspect of ill or daungers hidden dred.

XXIV

All sodainely out of the forrest nere
The Blatant Beast forth rushing unaware,
Caught her thus loosely wandring here and there,
And in his wide great mouth away her bare,
Crying aloud in vaine, to shew her sad misfare
Unto the knights, and calling oft for ayde,
Who with the horrour of her haplesse care
Hastily starting up, like men dismayde,
Ran after fast to reskue the distressed mayde.

XXV

The Beast, with their pursuit incited more,
Into the wood was bearing her apace
For to have spoyled her, when Calidore,
Who was more light of foote and swift in chace,
Him overtooke in middest of his race:
And fiercely charging him with all his might,
Forst to forgoe his pray there in the place,
And to betake him selfe to fearefull flight;
For he durst not abide with Calidore to fight.

XXVI

Who nathelesse, when he the lady saw
There left on ground, though in full evill plight,
Yet knowing that her knight now neare did draw,
Staide not to succour her in that affright,
But follow'd fast the monster in his flight:
Through woods and hils he follow'd him so fast,
That he nould let him breath nor gather spright,
But forst him gape and gaspe, with dread aghast,
As if his lungs and lites were nigh a sunder brast.

XXVII

And now by this, Sir Calepine (so hight)
Came to the place, where he his lady found
In dolorous dismay and deadly plight,
All in gore bloud there tumbled on the ground,
Having both sides through grypt with griesly wound.
His weapons soone from him he threw away,
And stouping downe to her in drery swound,
Uprear'd her from the ground, whereon she lay,
And in his tender armes her forced up to stay.

XXVIII

So well he did his busie paines apply,
That the faint sprite he did revoke againe
To her fraile mansion of mortality.
Then up he tooke her twixt his armes twaine,
And setting on his steede, her did sustaine
With carefull hands, soft footing her beside,
Till to some place of rest they mote attaine,
Where she in safe assuraunce mote abide,
Till she recured were of those her woundes wide.

XXIX

Now when as Phoebus with his fiery waine
Unto his inne began to draw apace,
Tho, wexing weary of that toylesome paine,
In travelling on foote so long a space,
Not wont on foote with heavy armes to trace,
Downe in a dale forby a rivers syde,
He chaunst to spie a faire and stately place,
To which he meant his weary steps to guyde,
In hope there for his love some succour to provyde.

XXX

But comming to the rivers side he found
That hardly passable on foote it was:
Therefore there still he stood as in a stound,
Ne wist which way he through the foord mote pas.
Thus whilest he was in this distressed case,
Devising what to doe, he nigh espyde
An armed knight approaching to the place,
With a faire lady lincked by his syde,
The which themselves prepard thorough the foord to ride.

XXXI

Whom Calepine saluting (as became)
Besought of courtesie, in that his neede,
For safe conducting of his sickely dame
Through that same perillous foord with better heede,
To take him up behinde upon his steed:
To whom that other did this taunt returne:
'Perdy, thou peasant knight, mightst rightly reed
Me then to be full base and evill borne,
If I would beare behinde a burden of such scorne.

XXXII

'But as thou hast thy steed forlorne with shame,
So fare on foote till thou another gayne,
And let thy lady likewise doe the same,
Or beare her on thy backe with pleasing payne,
And prove thy manhood on the billowes vayne.'
With which rude speach his lady much displeased,
Did him reprove, yet could him not restrayne,
And would on her owne palfrey him have eased,
For pitty of his dame, whom she saw so diseased.

XXXIII

Sir Calepine her thanckt, yet, inly wroth
Against her knight, her gentlenesse refused,
And carelesly into the river goth,
As in despight to be so fowle abused
Of a rude churle, whom often he accused
Of fowle discourtesie, unfit for knight;
And strongly wading through the waves unused,
With speare in th' one hand, stayd him selfe upright,
With th' other staide his lady up with steddy might.

XXXIV

And all the while, that same discourteous knight
Stood on the further bancke beholding him,
At whose calamity, for more despight,
He laught, and mockt to see him like to swim.
But when as Calepine came to the brim,
And saw his carriage past that perill well,
Looking at that same carle with count'nance grim,
His heart with vengeaunce inwardly did swell,
And forth at last did breake in speaches sharpe and fell:

XXXV

'Unknightly knight, the blemish of that name,
And blot of all that armes uppon them take,
Which is the badge of honour and of fame,
Loe! I defie thee, and here challenge make,
That thou for ever doe those armes forsake,
And be for ever held a recreant knight,
Unlesse thou dare for thy deare ladies sake,
And for thine owne defence, on foote alight,
To justifie thy fault gainst me in equall fight.'

XXXVI

The dastard, that did heare him selfe defyde,
Seem'd not to weigh his threatfull words at all,
But laught them out, as if his greater pryde
Did scorne the challenge of so base a thrall:
Or had no courage, or else had no gall.
So much the more was Calepine offended,
That him to no revenge he forth could call,
But both his challenge and him selfe contemned,
Ne cared as a coward so to be condemned.

XXXVII

But he, nought weighing what he sayd or did,
Turned his steede about another way,
And with his lady to the castle rid,
Where was his won; ne did the other stay,
But after went directly as he may,
For his sicke charge some harbour there to seeke;
Where he arriving with the fall of day,
Drew to the gate, and there with prayers meeke,
And myld entreaty, lodging did for her beseeke.

XXXVIII

But the rude porter, that no manners had,
Did shut the gate against him in his face,
And entraunce boldly unto him forbad.
Nathelesse the knight, now in so needy case,
Gan him entreat even with submission base,
And humbly praid to let them in that night:
Who to him aunswer'd, that there was no place
Of lodging fit for any errant knight,
Unlesse that with his lord he formerly did fight.

XXXIX

'Full loth am I,' quoth he, 'as now at earst,
When day is spent, and rest us needeth most,
And that this lady, both whose sides are pearst
With wounds, is ready to forgo the ghost:
Ne would I gladly combate with mine host,
That should to me such curtesie afford,
Unlesse that I were thereunto enforst.
But yet aread to me, how hight thy lord,
That doth thus strongly ward the castle of the ford.'

XL

'His name,' quoth he, 'if that thou list to learne,
Is hight Sir Turpine, one of mickle might
And manhood rare, but terrible and stearne
In all assaies to every errant knight,
Because of one that wrought him fowle despight.'
'Ill seemes,' sayd he, 'if he so valiaunt be,
That he should be so sterne to stranger wight:
For seldome yet did living creature see
That curtesie and manhood ever disagree.

XLI

'But go thy waies to him, and fro me say,
That here is at his gate an errant knight,
That house-rome craves, yet would be loth t' assay
The proofe of battell, now in doubtfull night,
Or curtesie with rudenesse to requite:
Yet if he needes will fight, crave leave till morne,
And tell with all the lamentable plight
In which this lady languisheth forlorne,
That pitty craves, as he of woman was yborne.'

XLII

The groome went streight way in, and to his lord
Declar'd the message, which that knight did move;
Who sitting with his lady then at bord,
Not onely did not his demaund approve,
But both himselfe revil'd, and eke his love;
Albe his lady, that Blandina hight,
Him of ungentle usage did reprove,
And earnestly entreated that they might
Finde favour to be lodged there for that same night.

XLIII

Yet would he not perswaded be for ought,
Ne from his currish will a whit reclame.
Which answer when the groome returning brought
To Calepine, his heart did inly flame
With wrathfull fury for so foule a shame,
That he could not thereof avenged bee:
But most for pitty of his dearest dame,
Whom now in deadly daunger he did see;
Yet had no meanes to comfort, nor procure her glee.

XLIV

But all in vaine; forwhy no remedy
He saw, the present mischiefe to redresse,
But th' utmost end perforce for to aby,
Which that nights fortune would for him addresse.
So downe he tooke his lady in distresse,
And layd her underneath a bush to sleepe,
Cover'd with cold, and wrapt in wretchednesse,
Whiles he him selfe all night did nought but weepe,
And wary watch about her for her safegard keepe.

XLV

The morrow next, so soone as joyous day
Did shew it selfe in sunny beames bedight,
Serena full of dolorous dismay,
Twixt darkenesse dread and hope of living light,
Uprear'd her head to see that chearefull sight.
Then Calepine, how ever inly wroth,
And greedy to avenge that vile despight,
Yet for the feeble ladies sake, full loth
To make there lenger stay, forth on his journey goth.

XLVI

He goth on foote all armed by her side,
Upstaying still her selfe uppon her steede,
Being unhable else alone to ride;
So sore her sides, so much her wounds did bleede:
Till that at length, in his extreamest neede,
He chaunst far off an armed knight to spy,
Pursuing him apace with greedy speede,
Whom well he wist to be some enemy,
That meant to make advantage of his misery.

XLVII

Wherefore he stayd, till that he nearer drew,
To weet what issue would thereof betyde:
Tho, whenas he approched nigh in vew,
By certaine signes he plainely him descryde
To be the man that with such scornefull pryde
Had him abusde and shamed yesterday;
Therefore misdoubting, least he should misguyde
His former malice to some new assay,
He cast to keepe him selfe so safely as he may.

XLVIII

By this the other came in place likewise,
And couching close his speare and all his powre,
As bent to some malicious enterprise,
He bad him stand, t' abide the bitter stoure
Of his sore vengeaunce, or to make avoure
Of the lewd words and deedes which he had done:
With that ran at him, as he would devoure
His life attonce; who nought could do, but shun
The perill of his pride, or else be overrun.

XLIX

Yet he him still pursew'd from place to place,
With full intent him cruelly to kill,
And like a wilde goate round about did chace,
Flying the fury of his bloudy will.
But his best succour and refuge was still
Behinde his ladies backe, who to him cryde,
And called oft with prayers loud and shrill,
As ever he to lady was affyde,
To spare her knight, and rest with reason pacifyde.

L

But he the more thereby enraged was,
And with more eager felnesse him pursew'd,
So that at length, after long weary chace,
Having by chaunce a close advantage vew'd,
He over raught him, having long eschew'd
His violence in vaine, and with his spere
Strooke through his shoulder, that the blood ensew'd
In great aboundance, as a well it were,
That forth out of an hill fresh gushing did appere.

LI

Yet ceast he not for all that cruell wound,
But chaste him still, for all his ladies cry,
Not satisfyde till on the fatall ground
He saw his life powrd forth dispiteously:
The which was certes in great jeopardy,
Had not a wondrous chaunce his reskue wrought,
And saved from his cruell villany:
Such chaunces oft exceed all humaine thought:
That in another canto shall to end be brought.





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