XXX

With which sad instrument of hasty death,

That wofull lover, loathing lenger light,

A wide way made to let forth living breath.

But I more fearfull, or more luckie wight,

Dismayd with that deformed dismall sight,

Ne yet assur'd of life by you, Sir knight,

XXXI

How may a man (said he) with idle speach

That like would not for all this worldes wealth:

Into the hart, and searcheth every vaine;

That ere one be aware, by secret stealth

His powre is reft, and weaknesse doth remaine.

O never Sir desire to try his guilefull traine.

XXXII

Certes (said he) hence shall I never rest,

Till I that treacherours art have heard and tride;

And you Sir knight, whose name mote I request,

Of grace do me unto his cabin guide.

I that hight Trevisan (quoth he) will ride,

Against my liking backe, to do you grace:

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,

Farre underneath a craggie clift ypight,

Darke, dolefull, drearie, like a greedy grave,

That still for carrion carcases doth crave:

Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave

Far from that haunt all other chearefull fowle;

And all about it wandring ghostes did waile and howle.

XXXIV

And all about old stockes and stubs of trees,

Whereon nor fruit nor leafe was ever seene,

Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees;

On which had many wretches hanged beene,

Whose carcases were scattered on the greene,

And throwne about the clifts. Arrived there,

That bare-head knight for dread and dolefull teene,

Would faine have fled, ne durst approchen neare,

But th' other forst him stay, 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,

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,

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

All wallowed in his owne yet luke-warme blood,

That from his wound yet welled fresh alas;

In which a rustie knife fast fixed stood,

And made an open passage for the gushing flood.

XXXVII

Which piteous spectacle, approving trew

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 bloud were cold,

And to the villein said, Thou damned wight,

The author of this fact we here behold,

XXXVIII

What franticke fit (quoth he) hath thus distraught

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

But he should die, who merites not to live?

None else to death this man despayring drive,

But his owne guiltie mind deserving death.

Or let him die, that loatheth living breath?

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

XXXIX

To come unto his wished home in haste,

And meetes a flood, that doth his passage stay,

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

Upon the banke, yet wilt thy selfe not passe the flood?

XL

He there does now enjoy eternall rest

And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave,

And further from it daily wanderest:

What if some little paine the passage have,

That makes fraile flesh to feare the bitter wave?

Is not short paine well borne, that brings 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.

XLI

And said, The terme of life is limited,

Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it;

The souldier may not move from watchfull sted,

Nor leave his stand, untill his Captaine bed.

Who life did limit by almightie doome

And he, that points the Centonell his roome,

Doth license him depart at sound of morning droome.

XLII

Is not his deed, what ever thing is donne

In heaven and earth? did not he all create

To die againe? all ends that was begonne.

Their times in his eternall booke of fate

Are written sure, and have their certaine date.

Who then can strive with strong necessitie,

That holds the world in his still chaunging state,

Or shunne the death ordaynd by destinie?

When houre of death is come, let none aske whence, nor why.

XLIII

The lenger life, I wote the greater sin,

The greater sin, the greater punishment:

All those great battels, which thou boasts to win,

Through strife, and blood-shed, and avengement,

Now praysd, hereafter deare thou shalt repent:

For life must life, and blood must blood repay.

Is not enough thy evill life forespent?

For he that once hath missed the right way,

The further he doth goe, the further he doth stray.

XLIV

Then do no further goe, no further stray,

But here lie downe, and to thy rest betake,

Th' ill to prevent, that life ensewen may.

For what hath life, that may it loved make,

And gives not rather cause it to forsake?

Feare, sicknesse, age, losse, labour, sorrow, strife,

Paine, hunger, cold, that makes the hart to quake;

And ever fickle fortune rageth rife,

All which, and thousands mo do make a loathsome life.

XLV

Thou wretched man, of death hast greatest need,

If in true ballance thou wilt weigh thy state:

For never knight, that dared warlike deede,

More lucklesse disaventures did amate:

Witnesse the dungeon deepe, wherein of late

Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call;

Yet death then would the like mishaps forestall,

Into the which hereafter thou maiest happen fall.

XLVI

Why then doest thou, O man of sin, desire

To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree?

High heaped up with huge iniquitie,

Against the day of wrath, to burden thee?

Is not enough, that to this Ladie milde

Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjurie,

And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vilde,

With whom in all abuse thou hast thy selfe defilde?

XLVII

Is not he just, that all this doth behold

From highest heaven, and beares an equall eye?

Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold,

And guilty be of thine impietie?

Is not his law, Let every sinner die:

Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be donne,

Is it not better to doe willinglie,

Then linger, till the glasse be all out ronne?

Death is the end of woes: die soone, O faeries sonne.

XLVIII

The knight was much enmoved with his speach,

That as a swords point through his hart did perse,

And in his conscience made a secret breach,

Well knowing true all that he did reherse,

And to his fresh remembraunce did reverse

The ugly vew of his deformed crimes,

That all his manly powres it did disperse,

That oftentimes he quakt, and fainted oftentimes.

XLIX

In which amazement, when the Miscreant

Perceived him to waver weake and fraile,

Whiles trembling horror did his conscience dant,

And hellish anguish did his soule assaile,

To drive him to despaire, and quite to quaile,

The damned ghosts, that doe in torments waile,

And thousand feends that doe them endlesse paine

With fire and brimstone, which for ever shall remaine.

L

The sight whereof so throughly him dismaid,

That nought but death before his eyes he saw,

And ever burning wrath before him laid,

By righteous sentence of th' Almighties law.

Then gan the villein him to overcraw,

And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fire,

And all that might him to perdition draw;

And bad him choose, what death he would desire:

For death was due to him, that had provokt Gods ire.

LI

But when as none of them he saw him take,

He to him raught a dagger sharpe and keene,

And gave it him in hand: his hand did quake,

And tremble like a leafe of Aspin greene,

And troubled bloud through his pale face was seene

To come, and goe with tidings from the heart,

As it a running messenger had beene.

At last resolv'd to worke his finall smart,

He lifted up his hand, that backe againe did start.

LII

Which whenas Una saw, through every vaine

The crudled cold ran to her well of life,

As in a swowne: but soone reliv'd againe,

Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,

And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,

And to him said, Fie, fie, faint harted knight,

What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?

Is this the battell, which thou vauntst to fight

LIII

Come, come away, fraile, seely, fleshly wight,

Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart,

Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.

In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part?

Where justice growes, there grows eke greater grace,

The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,

Arise, Sir knight, arise, and leave this cursed place.

LIV

So up he rose, and thence amounted streight.

Which when the carle beheld, and saw his guest

Would safe depart for all his subtill sleight,

He chose an halter from among the rest,

And with it hung himselfe, unbid unblest.

But death he could not worke himselfe thereby;

For thousand times he so himselfe had drest,

Yet nathelesse it could not doe him die,

Till he should die his last, that is, eternally.

I

WHAT man is he, that boasts of fleshly might

And vaine assurance of mortality,

Which all so soone as it doth come to fight

Against spirituall foes, yeelds by and by,

Or from the field most cowardly doth fly?

Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill,

That thorough grace hath gained victory.

If any strength we have, it is to ill,

But all the good is Gods, both power and eke will.

II

But that, which lately hapned, Una saw,

That this her knight was feeble, and too faint;

And all his sinews woxen weake and raw,

Through long enprisonment, and hard constraint,

Which he endured in his late restraint,

That yet he was unfit for bloudy fight:

Therefore to cherish him with diets daint,

She cast to bring him, where he chearen might.

Till he recovered had his late decayed plight.

III

Renowmd throughout the world for sacred lore,

And pure unspotted life: so well they say

It governd was, and guided evermore,

Through wisedome of a matrone grave and hore

Whose onely joy was to relieve the needes

Of wretched soules, and helpe the helpelesse pore:

All night she spent in bidding of her bedes,

And all the day in doing good and godly deedes.

IV

From heaven to come, or thither to arise,

The mother of three daughters, well upbrought

In goodly thewes, and godly exercise:

The eldest two, most sober, chast, and wise,

Though spousd, yet wanting wedlocks solemnize:

Was lincked, and by him had many pledges dere.

V

Arrived there, the dore they find fast lockt;

For it was warely watched night and day,

For feare of many foes: but when they knockt,

The Porter opened unto them streight way:

He was an aged syre, all hory gray,

With lookes full lowly cast, and gate full slow,

Wont on a staffe his feeble steps to stay,

For streight and narrow was the way which he did show.

VI

Each goodly thing is hardest to begin,

But entred in a spacious court they see,

Both plaine, and pleasant to be walked in,

Where them does meete a francklin faire and free,

And entertaines with comely courteous glee,

His name was Zele, that him right well became,

For in his speeches and behaviour hee

Did labour lively to expresse the same,

And gladly did them guide, till to the Hall they came.

VII

There fairely them receives a gentle Squire,

Of milde demeanure, and rare courtesie,

Right cleanly clad in comely sad attire;

In word and deede that shew'd great modestie,

Hight Reverence. He them with speeches meet

Does faire entreat; no courting nicetie,

But simple true, and eke unfained sweet,

As might become a Squire so great persons to greet.

VIII

And afterwards them to his Dame he leades,

That aged Dame, the Ladie of the place:

Who all this while was busy at her beades:

Which doen, she up arose with seemely grace,

And toward them full matronely did pace.

Where when that fairest Una she beheld,

Whom well she knew to spring from heavenly race,

Her hart with joy unwonted inly sweld,

As feeling wondrous comfort in her weaker eld.

IX

And her embracing said, O happie earth,

Whereon thy innocent feet doe ever tread,

Most vertuous virgin borne of heavenly berth,

That, to redeeme thy woefull parents head,

What grace hath thee now hither brought this way?

Or doen thy feeble feet unweeting hither stray?

X

Strange thing it is an errant knight to see

Here in this place, or any other wight,

That hither turnes his steps. So few there bee

That chose the narrow path, or seeke the right:

All keepe the broad high way, and take delight

With many rather for to go astray,

And be partakers of their evill plight,

Then with a few to walke the rightest way;

O foolish men, why haste ye to your owne decay?

XI

Thy selfe to see, and tyred limbes to rest,

O matrone sage (quoth she) I hither came;

And this good knight his way with me addrest,

Led with thy prayses and broad-blazed fame,

That up to heaven is blowne. The auncient Dame

Him goodly greeted in her modest guise,

And entertaynd them both, as best became,

With all the court'sies that she could devise,

Ne wanted ought, to shew her bounteous or wise.

XII

Thus as they gan of sundry things devise,

Loe two most goodly virgins came in place,

Ylinked arme in arme in lovely wise,

With countenance demure, and modest grace,

They numbred even steps and equall pace:

Of which the eldest, that Fidelia hight,

Like sunny beames threw from her christall face,

That could have dazd the rash beholders sight,

And round about her head did shine like heavens light.

XIII

And in her right hand bore a cup of gold,

With wine and water fild up to the hight,

In which a Serpent did himselfe enfold,

That horrour made to all that did behold;

But she no whit did chaunge her constant mood:

And in her other hand she fast did hold

A booke, that was both signd and seald with blood:

Wherin darke things were writ, hard to be understood.

XIV

Her younger sister, that Speranza hight,

Was clad in blew, that her beseemed well;

Not all so chearefull seemed she of sight,

As was her sister; whether dread did dwell,

Or anguish in her hart, is hard to tell:

Upon her arme a silver anchor lay,

Whereon she leaned ever, as befell:

And ever up to heaven, as she did pray,

Her stedfast eyes were bent, ne swarved other way.

XV

They seeing Una, towards her gan wend,

Who them encounters with like courtesie;

Many kind speeches they betwene them spend,

And greatly joy each other well to see:

Then to the knight with shamefast modestie

They turne themselves, at Unaes meeke request,

And him salute with well beseeming glee;

Who faire them quites, as him beseemed best,

And goodly gan discourse of many a noble gest.

XVI

Then Una thus; But she your sister deare,

The deare Charissa where is she become?

Or wants she health, or busie is elsewhere?

Ah no, said they, but forth she may not come:

For she of late is lightned of her wombe,

And hath encreast the world with one sonne more,

That her to see should be but troublesome.

Indeed (quoth she) that should be trouble sore;

XVII

Then said the aged Cœlia, Deare dame,

And you good Sir, I wote that of youre toyle,

And labours long, through which ye hither came,

Ye both forwearied be: therefore a whyle

I read you rest, and to your bowres recoyle.

Then called she a Groome, that forth him led

Into a goodly lodge, and gan despoile

Of puissant armes, and laid in easie bed;

His name was meeke Obedience rightfully ared.

XVIII

Now when their wearie limbes with kindly rest,

And bodies were refresht with due repast,

Faire Una gan Fidelia faire request,

To have her knight into her schoolehouse plaste,

That of her heavenly learning he might taste,

And heare the wisedom of her words divine.

She graunted, and that knight so much agraste,

That she him taught celestiall discipline,

And opened his dull eyes, that light mote in them shine.

XIX

And that her sacred Booke, with blood ywrit,

That none could read, except she did them teach,

She unto him disclosed every whit,

And heavenly documents thereout did preach,

That weaker wit of man could never reach,

Of God, of grace, of justice, of free will,

That wonder was to heare her goodly speach:

For she was able with her words to kill,

And raise againe to life the hart that she did thrill.

XX

She would commaund the hastie Sunne to stay,

Or backward turne his course from heavens hight;

Sometimes great hostes of men she could dismay;

And eke huge mountaines from their native seat

She would commaund, themselves to beare away,

And throw in raging sea with roaring threat.

Almightie God her gave such powre, and puissaunce great.

XXI

The faithfull knight now grew in litle space,

By hearing her, and by her sisters lore,

To such perfection of all heavenly grace,

That wretched world he gan for to abhore,

And mortall life gan loath, as thing forlore,

Greevd with remembrance of his wicked wayes,

And prickt with anguish of his sinnes so sore,

That he desirde to end his wretched dayes:

So much the dart of sinfull guilt the soule dismayes.

XXII

But wise Speranza gave him comfort sweet,

And taught him how to take assured hold

Upon her silver anchor, as was meet;

Else had his sinnes so great and manifold

Made him forget all that Fidelia told.

In this distressed doubtfull agonie,

When him his dearest Una did behold,

Disdeining life, desiring leave to die,

She found her selfe assayld with great perplexitie.

XXIII

And came to Cœlia to declare her smart,

Who well acquainted with that commune plight,

Which sinfull horror workes in wounded hart,

Her wisely comforted all that she might,

With goodly counsell and advisement right;

And streightway sent with carefull diligence,

To fetch a Leach, the which had great insight

In that disease of grieved conscience,

And well could cure the same; his name was Patience.

XXIV

Who comming to that soule-diseased knight,

Which knowne, and all that noyd his heavie spright

Well searcht, eftsoones he gan apply relief

Of salves and med'cines, which had passing priefe,

By which to ease he him recured briefe,

That he his paine endur'd, as seeming now more light.

XXV

But yet the cause and root of all his ill,

Inward corruption and infected sin,

Not purg'd nor heald, behind remained still,

And festring sore did rankle yet within,

Close creeping twixt the marrow and the skin.

Which to extirpe, he laid him privily

Downe in a darkesome lowly place farre in,

Whereas he meant his corrosives to apply,

And with streight diet tame his stubborne malady.

XXVI

In ashes and sackcloth he did array

His daintie corse, proud humors to abate,

And dieted with fasting every day,

The swelling of his wounds to mitigate,

And made him pray both earely and eke late:

And ever as superfluous flesh did rot

Amendment readie still at hand did wayt,

To pluck it out with pincers firie whot,

That soone in him was left no one corrupted jot.

XXVII

And bitter Penance with an yron whip,

Was wont him once to disple every day:

And sharpe Remorse his hart did pricke and nip,

That drops of blood thence like a well did play:

And sad Repentance used to embay

His bodie in salt water smarting sore,

The filthy blots of sinne to wash away.

So in short space they did to health restore

The man that would not live, but earst lay at deathes dore.

XXVIII

In which his torment often was so great,

That like a Lyon he would cry and rore,

And rend his flesh, and his owne synewes eat.

His owne deare Una hearing evermore

His ruefull shriekes and gronings, often tore

Her guiltlesse garments, and her golden heare,

For pitty of his paine and anguish sore;

Yet all with patience wisely she did beare;

For well she wist his crime could else be never cleare.

XXIX

Whom thus recover'd by wise Patience

And trew Repentaunce they to Una brought:

Who joyous of his cured conscience,

Him dearely kist, and fairely eke besought

Himselfe to chearish, and consuming thought

To put away out of his carefull brest.

By this Charissa, late in child-bed brought,

Was woxen strong, and left her fruitfull nest;

To her faire Una brought this unacquainted guest.

XXX

Of wondrous beauty, and of bountie rare,

With goodly grace and comely personage,

That was on earth not easie to compare;

Full of great love, but Cupid's wanton snare

As hell she hated, chast in worke and will;

Her necke and breasts were ever open bare,

That ay thereof her babes might sucke their fill;

The rest was all in yellow robes arayed still.