Cant. XI.
the Faery Queene.
165
I wote not, whether the reuenging steeleWere hardned with that holy water dew,Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele,Or his baptized hands now greater grew;Or other secret vertue did ensew;Els neuer could the force of fleshly arme,Ne molten mettall in his blood embrew:For till that stownd could neuer wight him harme,By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charme.
The cruell wound enraged him so sore,That loud he yelded for exceeding paine;As hundred ramping Lions seemd to rore,Whom rauenous hunger did thereto constraine:Then gan he tosse aloft his stretched traine,And there with scourge the buxome aire so sore,That to his force to yielden it was faine;Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore,That high trees ouerthrew, and rocks in peeces tore.
The same aduauncing high aboue his head,With sharpe intended sting so rude him smott,That to the earth him droue, as stricken dead,Ne liuing wight would haue him life behott:The mortall sting his angry needle shottQuite through his shield, and in his shoulder seasd,Where fast it stucke, ne would thereout be gott:The griefe thereof him wondrous sore diseasd,Ne might his rancling paine with patience be appeasd.
But yet more mindfull of his honour deare,Then of the grieuous smart, which him did wring,From loathed soile he can him lightly reare,And stroue to loose the far infixed sting:
Which
