134
The first Booke of
Cant. IX.
Which whenas Vna heard, through euery vaineThe crudled cold ran to her well of life,As in a swowne: but so one reliu'd againe,Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,And to him said, Fie fie, faint hearted knight,What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?Is this the battaile, which thou vauntst to fightWith that fire-mouthed Dragon, horrible and bright?
Come, come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight,Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart,Ne diuelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.In heauenly mercies hast thou not a part?Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?Where iustice growes, there grows eke greter grace,The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,And that accurst hand-writing doth deface.Arise, Sir knight arise, and leaue this cursed place.
So vp he rose, and thence amounted streight.Which when the carle beheld, and saw his guestWould safe depart, for all his subtile sleight,He chose an halter from among the rest,And with it hong him selfe, vnbid vnblest.But death he could not worke himselfe thereby;For thousand times he so him selfe had drest,Yet nathelesse it could not doe him die,Till he should die his last, that is eternally.
Cant.
