When Scndamour those heavie tydings heard,
His hart was thrild with point of deadly feare,
Ne in his face or bloud or life appeard;
But senselesse stood, like to a mazed steare
That yet of mortall stroke the stound doth beare:
Till Glaucè thus; "Faire sir, be nought dismayd
With needlesse dread, till certaintie ye heare;
For yet she may be safe though somewhat strayd:
Its best to hope the best, though of the worst affrayd."

Nathelesse he hardly of her chearefull speech
Did comfort take, or in his troubled sight
Shew'd change of better cheare; so sore a breach
That sudden newes had made into his spright;
Till Britomart him fairely thus behight;
"Great cause of sorrow certes, sir, ye have;
But comfort take; for, by this Heavens light,

I vow you dead or living not to leave,

With which she for the present was appeased,
And yeelded leave, however malcontent
She inly were and in her mind displeased.
So, early on the morrow next, he went
Forth on his way to which he was ybent;
Ne wight him to attend, or way to guide,
As whylome was the custome ancient
Mongst knights when on adventures they did ride,
Save that she algates him a while accompanide.

And by the way she sundry purpose found
Of this or that, the time for to delay.
And of the perils whereto he was bound,
The feare whereof seem'd much her to affray:
But all she did was but to weare ont day.
Full oftentimes she leave of him did take;
And eft againe deviz'd somewhat to say,
Which she forgot, whereby excuse to make:

Til I her find, and wreake on him that did her reave." So loth she was his companie for to forsake.

Therewith he rested, and well pleased was.

So, peace being confirm'd amongst them all,

At last when all her speeches she had spent,
And new occasion fayld her more to find,

They tooke their steeds, and forward thence did pas She left him to his fortunes government,

Unto some resting place, which mote befall;
All being guided by sir Artegall:
Where goodly solace was unto them made,
And dayly feasting both in bowre and hall,
Untill that they their wounds well healed had,
And wearie limmes recur'd after late usage bad.

In all which time sir Artegall made way
Unto the love of noble Britomart,
And with meeke service and much suit did lay
Continuall siege unto her gentle hart;
Which, being whylome launcht with lovely dart,
More eath was new impression to receive;
However she her paynd with womanish art
To hide her wound, that none might it perceive:
Vaine is the art that seekes itselfe for to deceive.

So well he woo'd her, and so well he wrought her,
With faire entreatie and sweet blandishment,
That at the length unto a bay he brought her,
So as she to his speeches was content

To lend an eare, and softly to relent.

At last, through many vowes which forth he pour'd
And many othes, she yeelded her consent
To be his love, and take him for her lord,

Till they with marriage meet might finish that ac-
cord.

Tho, when they had long time there taken rest,
Sir Artegall, who all this while was bound
Upon an hard adventure yet in quest,
Fit time for him thence to depart it found,
To follow that which he did long propound;
And unto her his congee came to take:
But her therewith full sore displeasd he found,
And loth to leave her late betrothed make;
Her dearest love full loth so shortly to forsake.

Yet he with strong perswasions her asswaged,
And wonne her will to suffer him depart;
For which his faith with her he fast engaged,
And thousand vowes from bottome of his hart,
That, all so soone as he by wit or art
Could that atchieve whereto he did aspire,
He unto her would speedily revert :

No longer space thereto he did desire,

And backe returned with right heavie mind
To Scudamour, whom she had left behind;
With whom she went to seeke faire Amoret,
Her second care, though in another kind:
For vertues onely sake, which doth beget
True love and faithfull friendship, she by her did set.

Backe to that desert forrest they retyred,
Where sorie Britomart had lost her late:
There they her sought, and every where inquired
Where they might tydings get of her estate;
Yet found they none. But, by what haplesse fate
Or hard misfortune she was thence convayd,
And stolne away from her beloved mate,
Were long to tell; therefore I here will stay
Untill another tyde, that I it finish may.

CANTO VII.

Amoret rapt by greedie Lust
Belphebe saves from dread:
The squire her loves; and, being blam'd,
His daies in dole doth lead.

GREAT god of love, that with thy cruell darts
Doest conquer greatest conquerors on ground,
And setst thy kingdome in the captive harts
Of kings and Keasars to thy service bound;
What glorie or what guerdon hast thou found
In feeble ladies tyranning so sore,

And adding anguish to the bitter wound
With which their lives thou lanchedst long afore,
By heaping stormes of trouble on them daily more!

So whylome didst thou to faire Florimell;
And so and so to noble Britomart:
So doest thou now to her of whom I tell,
The lovely Amoret, whose gentle hart
Thou martyrest with sorow and with smart,
In salvage forrests and in deserts wide
With beares and tygers taking heavie part,
Withouten comfort and withouten guide;

But till the horned Moone three courses did expire. That pittie is to heare the perils which she tride.

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,
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

At last, when long he follow'd had in vaine,
Yet found no case of griefe nor hope of grace,
Unto those woods he turned backe againe,
Full of sad anguish and in heavy case:
And, finding there fit solitary place
For wofull wight, chose out a gloomy glade,
Where hardly eye mote sce bright Heavens face
For mossy trees, which covered all with shade
And sad melancholy; there he his cabin made.

Whom when on ground she groveling saw to rowle, His wonted warlike weapons all he broke
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,
And oft admir'd his monstrous shape, and oft
His mighty limbs, whilest all with filthy bloud
The place there over-flowne seemd like a sodaine
flood.

Thenceforth she past into his dreadfull den,
Where nought but darkesome drerinesse she found,
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,
To come and shew themselves before the light,
Now freed from feare and danger of that dismall
wight.

Then forth the sad Emylia issewed,

Yet trembling every ioynt through former feare;
And after her the hag, there with her mewed,
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;
Who all to her at large, as hapned, did relate.

Thence she them brought toward the place where
She left the gentle squire with Amoret: [late
There she him found by that new lovely mate,
Who lay the whiles in swoune, full sadly set,
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.

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:
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.

He, seeing her depart, arose up light,
Right sore agrieved at her sharpe reproofe,
And follow'd fast: but, when he came in sight,
He durst not migh approch, but kept aloofe,
For dread of her displeasure's utmost proofe :
And evermore, when he did grace entreat,
And framed speaches fit for his behoofe,
Her mortall arrowes she at him did threat,
And forst him backe with fowle dishonor to retreat.

And threw away, with vow to use no more,
Ne thenceforth ever strike in battell stroke,
Ne ever word to speake to woman more;
But in that wildernesse, of men forlore
And of the wicked world forgotten quight,
His hard mishap in dolor to deplore,
And wast his wretched daies in wofull plight:
So on himselfe to wreake his follies owne despight.

And eke his garment, to be thereto meet,
He wilfully did cut and shape anew;
And his faire lockes, that wont with ointment sweet
To be embaulm'd, and sweat out dainty dew,
He let to grow and griesly to concrew,
Uncomb'd, uncurl'd, and carelesly unshed;
That in short time his face they overgrew,
And over all his shoulders did dispred,
That who he whilome was uneath was to be red.

There he continued in this carefull plight,
Wretchedly wearing out his youthly yeares,
Through wilfull penury consumed quight,
That like a pined ghost he soone appeares:
For other food then that wilde forrest beares,
Ne other drinke there did he ever tast
Then running water tempred with his teares,
The more his weakened body so to wast:
That out of all mens knowledge he was worne at last.

For on a day, by fortune as it fell,

Seeking adventures where he mote heare tell;
His own deare lord, prince Arthure, came that way,
And, as he through the wandring wood did stray,
Having espide his cabin far away,

He to it drew, to weet who there did wonne;
Weening therein some holy hermit lay,
That did resort of sinfull people shonne;
Or else some woodman shrowded there from scorch-
ing Sunne.

Arriving there he found this wretched man
Spending his daies in dolour and despaire,
And, through long fasting, woxen pale and wan,
All over-growen with rude and rugged haire;
That albeit his owne dear squire he were,
Yet he him knew not, ne aviz'd at all;
But like strange wight, whom he had seene no where,
Saluting him, gan into speach to fall,
[thrall.
And pitty much his plight, that liv'd like outcast

1

But to his speach he aunswered no whit,
But stood still mute, as if he had beene dum,
Ne signe of sence did shew, ne common wit,
As one with griefe and anguishe over-cum;
And unto every thing did aunswere mum:
And ever, when the prince unto him spake,
He louted lowly, as did him becum,
And humble homage did unto him make;
Midst sorrow shewing ioyous semblance for his sake.