XCIX.
Cleansed of their errors in a monastery,
From whence the odour of good works upwent,
They of Christ’s passion every mystery
Contemplating, through all the churches went;
Which now, to our eternal infamy,
Foul Moors usurp; what time on strife intent,
All Europe rings with arms and martial deeds,
And war is everywhere but where it needs.
C.
While grace the warlike three devoutly sought,
Intent on pardon and on pious lore,
A Grecian pilgrim, known to Gryphon, brought
Tidings, which ill the afflicted champion bore,
From his long-cherished vow and former thought,
Too foreign, too remote; and these so sore
Inflamed his troubled breast, and bred such care,
They wholly turned aside his mind from prayer.
CI.
For his misfortune, one of lovely feature
Sir Gryphon worshipped, Origilla hight[22].
Of fairer visage and of better stature,
Not one among a thousand meets the sight:
But; faithless, and of such an evil nature,
That thou mightst town and city search outright,
And continent and island, far and near,
Yet, never, as I think, wouldst find her peer.
