XXXIX.
His wonted warlike weapons all he broke
And threw away, with vow to ufe no more,
Ne thenceforth ever ftrike in battle ftroke,
Ne ever word to fpeak to woman more;
But in the wildernefs (of men forlore,
And of the wicked world forgotten quight)
His hard mishap in dolour to deplore,
And wafte his wretched days in woeful plight;
So on himself to wreak his follies own defpight.
XL.
And eke his garment, to be thereto meet,
He wilfully did cut and shape anew;
And his fair locks, that wont with ointment sweet
To be embalm'd, and sweat out dainty dew,
He let to grow, and griefly to concrew,
Uncomb'd, uncurl'd, and carelefly unfhed;
That in fhort time his face they overgrew,
And over all his fhoulders did difpread,
That who he whylome was, uneath was to be read.
XLI.
There he continued in this careful plight,
Wretchedly wearing out his youthly years,
Through wilful penury confumed quight,
That like a pined ghoft he foon appears.
For other food than that wild foreft bears,
Ne other drink there did he ever tafte
Than running water, tempred with his tears,
The more his weakned body fo to wafte;
That out of all mens knowledge he was worn at last.
XLII.
For on a day (by fortune as it fell)
His own dear Lord Prince Arthur came that way,
Seeking adventures where he mote hear tell;
And as he through the wandring wood did ftray,
Having efpide this cabin far away,
He to it drew, to weet who there did wonne
Weening therein fome holy Hermit lay,
That did refort of finful people fhun,
Orelfe fome wood-man shrouded there from scorching fun.
Arriving there he found this wretched man,
Spending his days in dolour and despair;
And through long fafting woxen pale and wan,
All overgrown with rude and rugged hair;
That albe it his own dear Squire he were,
Yet he him knew not, ne aviz'd at all;
But like ftrange wight, whom he had feen no where,
Saluting him, 'gan into fpeech to fall,
And pity much his plight, that liv'd like outcaft thrali. XLIV.
But to his fpeech he answered no whit,
But ftood still mute, as if he had been dumb,
Ne fign of fenfe did fhew, ne common wit,
As one with grief and anguish overcome,
And unto every thing did answer mum:
And ever when the Prince unto him fpake,
He louted lowly, as did him become,
And humble homage did unto him make,
Midft forrow fhewing joyous femblance for his fake.
XLV.
At which his uncouth guife and ufage quaint,
The Prince did wonder much, yet could not guess
The caufe of that his forrowful conftraint;
Yet ween'd by fecret figns of manliness,
Which close appear'd in that rude brutishness
That he whylome fome gentle fwain had been,
Train'd up in feats of arms and knightliness;
Which he obferv'd, by that he him had feen
To wield his naked fword, and try the edges keen.
XLVI.
And eke by that he faw on every tree,
How he the name of one engraven had,
Which likely was his liefeft Love to be,
For whom he now fo forely was beftad,
Which was by him BELPHOEBE rightly rad.
Yet who was that Belphabe, he ne wift;
Yet faw he often how he wexed glad,
When he it heard, and how the ground he kift,
Wherein it written was, and how himfelf he blift.
Tho when he long had marked his demeanour,
And faw that all he faid and did was vain,
Ne ought mote make him change his wonted tenour,
Ne ought mote ease or mitigate his pain,
He left him there in langour to remain,
Till time for him fhould remedy provide,
And him restore to former grace again.
Which for it is too long here to abide,
I will defer the end untill another tide.
The gentle Squire recovers grace:
Slander her guests doth ftain:
Corflambo chafeth Placidas,
And is by Arthur flain.
7ell faid the wifeman, now prov'd true by this, Which to this gentle Squire did happen late; That the difpleafure of the mighty is
Than death it felf more dread and defperate:
For nought the fame may calm, ne mitigate,
Till time the tempeft do thereof delay
With fuffrance foft, which rigour can abate,
And have the ftern remembrance wipt away
Of bitter thoughts, which deep therein infixed lay.
II.
Like as it fell to this unhappy boy,
Whose tender heart the fair Belphabe had
With one ftern look fo daunted, that no joy
In all his life, which afterwards he lad,
He ever tafted; but with penance fad,
And penfive forrow, pin'd and wore away,
Ne ever laught, ne once fhew'd count'nance glad;
But always wept and wailed night and day,
As blafted bloofm through heat doth languish and decay
Till on a day (as in his wonted wife
His dool he made) there chanft a Turtle-Dove
To come, where he his dolors did devife,
That likewife late had loft her dearest Love;
Which lofs, her made like paffion also prove,
Who feeing his fad plight, her tender heart
With dear compaffion deeply did emmove,
That the 'gan mone his undeserved smart,
And with her doleful accent, bear with him a part.
IV.
She fitting by him, as on ground he lay,
Her mournful notes full piteously did frame,
And thereof made a lamentable lay,
So fenfibly compil'd, that in the fame Him feemed oft he heard his own right name. With that, he forth would pour fo plenteous tears,— And beat his breaft unworthy of fuch blame, And knock his head, and rend his rugged hairs, That could have pierc'd the hearts of Tygers and of Bears V.
Thus long this gentle bird to him did use,
Withouten dread of peril to repair
Unto his wonne; and with her mournful mufe
Him to recomfort in his greatest care,
That much did eafe his mourning and misfare:
And every day, for guerdon of her fong,
part of his fmall feaft to her would fhare; That at the laft, of all his woe and wrong, Companion fhe became, and io continued long.
Upon a day as fhe him fate befide,
By chance he certain miniments forth drew,
Which yet with him as reliques did abide
Of all the bounty which Belphebe threw
On him, whilft goodly grace fhe did him fhew:
Amongst the reft a jewel rich he found,
That was a ruby of right perfect hue,
Shap'd like a heart yet bleeding of the wound,
And with a little golden chain about it bound.
The fame he took, and with a ribband new
(In which his Ladies colours were) did bind
About the Turtles neck, that with the view
Did greatly folace his engrieved mind.
All unawares the bird, when fhe did find
Her felf fo deckt, her nimble wings difplayd,
And flew away, as lightly as the wind:
Which fuddain accident him much dismay'd
And looking after long, did mark which way she strayd.
VIII.
But whenas long he looked had in vain,
Yet faw her forward ftill to make her flight,
His weary eye return'd to him again,
Full of discomfort and difquiet plight,
That both his jewel he had loft fo light,
And eke his dear companion of his care.
But that sweet bird departing, flew forth right
Through the wide region of the wafteful air,
Until fhe came where wonned his Belphabe fair,
IX.
There found fhe her (as then it did betide)
Sitting in covert fhade of arbours fweet,
After late weary toil, which fhe had tride
In falvage chafe, to rest as feem'd her meet.
There the alighting, fell before her feet,
And 'gan to her her mournful plaint to make,
As was her wont; thinking to let her weet
The great tormenting grief, that for her fake
Her gentle Squire through her displeasure did partake.
X.
She her beholding with attentive eye,
At length did mark about her purple breast
That precious jewel, which the formerly
Had known right well, with colourd ribbands dreft:
Therewith fhe rofe in hafte, and her addreft
With ready hand it to have reft away.
But the swift bird obeyd not her beheft,
But fwerv'd afide, and there again did stay;
She follow'd her, and thought again it to affay.
|