Cant. IX.
the Faery Queene.
127
But not so happy as mote happy bee:He lou'd, as was his lot, a Lady gent,That him againe lou'd in the least degree:For she was proud, and of too high intent,And ioyd to see her louer languish and lament.
From whom retourning sad and comfortlesse,As on the way together we did fare,We met that villen (God from him me blesse)That cursed wight, from whom I scapt whyleare,A man of hell, that calls himselfe Despayre:Who first vs greets, and after fayre areedesOf tydinges straunge, and of aduentures rare:So creeping close, as Snake in hidden weedes,Inquireth of our states, and of our knightly deedes.
Which when he knew, and felt our feeble hartsEmbost with bale, and bitter byting griefe,Which loue had launched with his deadly darts,With wounding words and termes of foule repriefe,He pluckt from vs all hope of dew reliefe,That earst vs held in loue of lingring life;Then hopelesse hartlesse, gan the cunning thiefePerswade vs dye, to stint all further strife:To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife.
With which sad instrument of hasty death,That wofull louer, loathing lenger light,A wyde way made to let forth liuing breath.But I more fearefull, or more lucky wight,Dismayd with that deformed dismall sight,Fledd fast away, halfe dead with dying feare;Ne yet assur'd of life by you, Sir knight,Whose like infirmity like chaunce may beare:But God you neuer let his charmed speaches heare.
How
