Whom thus at gaze the Palmer gan to bord
With goodly reason, and thus fayre bespake;
'Ye bene right hard amated, gratious Lord,
And of your ignorance great merveill make,
Whiles cause not well conceived ye mistake:
But know, that secret vertues are infusd

In every fountaine, and in everie lake, [chusd,
Which who hath skill them rightly to have
To proofe of passing wonders hath full often
usd:

VI

hand

May not be clensd with water of this well: Ne certes, Sir, strive you it to withstand, But let them still be bloody, as befell, That they his mothers innocence may tell, As she bequeathd in her last testament; [pap That, as a sacred Symbole, it may dwell By great Dame Nature, from whose fruitfull In her sonnes flesh, to mind revengement, [ment.' Their welheads spring, and are with moisture And be for all chaste Dames an endlesse moni

Of those, some were so from their sourse indewd

deawd;

Which feedes each living plant with liquid sap,
And filles with flowres fayre Floraes painted
But other some, by guifte of later grace, [lap:
Or by good prayers, or by other hap,
Had vertue pourd into their waters bace,
And thenceforth were renowmd, and sought
from place to place.

VII

'Such is this well, wrought by occasion
straunge,

Which to her Nymph befell. Upon a day,
As she the woodes with bow and shaftes did

raunge,

The hartlesse Hynd and Robucke to dismay,

ΧΙ

He hearkned to his reason, and the childe
Uptaking, to the Palmer gave to beare;
But his sad fathers armes with blood defilde,
An heavie load, himselfe did lightly reare;
And turning to that place, in which whyleare
He left his loftie steed with golden sell [theare:
And goodly gorgeous barbes, him found not
By other accident, that earst befell, not tell.
He is convaide; but how, or where, here fits

XII

Which when Sir Guyon saw, all were he wroth,
Yet algates mote he soft himselfe appease,
And fairely fare on foot, how ever loth:
His double burden did him sore disease.

XXII

warre;

Which gotten was but hate. So love does raine But they, him spying, both with greedy forse In stoutest minds, and maketh monstrous Attonce upon him ran, and him beset With strokes of mortall steele without remorse, And on his shield like yron sledges bet: As when a Beare and Tygre, being met In cruell fight on Lybicke Ocean wide, Espye a traveiler with feet surbet,

Whom they in equall pray hope to divide, They stint their strife and him assayle on everie side.

XXIII

He maketh warre, he maketh peace againe,
And yett his peace is but continual jarre:
O miserable men that to him subiect arre!

XXVII

Whilst thus they mingled were in furious

armes,

The faire Medina, with her tresses torne And naked brest, in pitty of their harmes, But he, not like a weary traveilere, Emongst them ran; and, falling them beforne, Their sharp assault right boldly did rebut, Besought them by the womb which them had And suffred not their blowes to byte him nere, And by the loves which were to them most born, [deare, But with redoubled buffes them backe did put: And by the knighthood which they sure had Whose grieved mindes, which choler did englut, Against themselves turning their wrathfull Their deadly cruell discord to forbeare, spight, Gan with new rage their shieldes to hew and And to her just conditions of faire peace to But still, when Guyon came to part their fight, With heavie load on him they freshly gan to smight.

XXIV

[cut;

sworn,

heare.

XXVIII

But her two other sisters, standing by,
Her lowd gainsaid, and both their champions
Pursew the end of their strong enmity, [bad
As ever of their loves they would be glad:
Yet she with pitthy words, and counsell sad,
Still strove their stubborne rages to revoke;
That at the last, suppressing fury mad,
They gan abstaine from dint of direfull stroke,
And hearken to the sober speaches which she
spoke.

XXIX

Ah, puissaunt Lords! what cursed evil
Or fell Erinnys, in your noble harts [Spright,
Her hellish brond hath kindled with despight,
And stird you up to worke your wilfull smarts?
Is this the joy of armes ? be these the parts
Of glorious knighthood, after blood to thrust,
And not regard dew right and just desarts?
Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust,
That more to mighty hands then rightfull cause
doth trust.

XXX

'And were there rightfull cause of difference,
Yet were not better fayre it to accord
Then with bloodguiltinesse to heape offence,
And mortal vengeaunce joyne to crime abhord?
O! fly from wrath; fly, O my liefest Lord!
Sad be the sights, and bitter fruites of warre,
And thousand furies wait on wrathfull sword;
Ne ought the praise of prowesse more doth

marre

Then fowle revenging rage, and base contentious jarre.

As morning Sunne her beames dispredden Eftsoones devisd redresse for such annoyes: [appeare. Me, all unfitt for so great purpose, she em