Cant. VIII.
the Faery Queene.
115
With cruell malice and strong tyranny:Whose blessed sprites from vnderneath the stoneTo God for vengeance cryde continually,And with great griefe were often heard to grone,That hardest heart would bleede, to heare their piteous mone.
Through euery rowme he sought, and euerie bowr,But no where could he find that wofull thrall:At last he came vnto an yron doore,That fast was lockt, but key found not at allEmongst that bounch, to open it withall;But in the same a little grate was pight,Through which he sent his voyce, and lowd did callWith all his powre, to weet, if liuing wightWere housed therewithin, whom he enlargen might.
Therewith an hollow, dreary, murmuring voyceThese pitteous plaintes and dolours did resound;O who is that, which bringes me happy choyceOf death, that here lye dying euery stound,Yet liue perforce in balefull darkenesse bound?For now three Moones haue chāged thrice their hew,And haue beene thrice hid vnderneath the ground,Since I the heauens chearefull face did vew,O welcome thou, that doest of death bring tydings trew.
Which whē that Champion heard, with percing pointOf pitty deare his hart was thrilled sore,And trembling horrour ran through euery ioynt,For ruth of gentle knight so fowle forlore:Which shaking off, he rent that yron dore,With furious force, and indignation fell;Where entred in, his foot could find no flore,But all a deepe descent, as darke as hell,That breathed euer forth a filthie banefull smell.
But
