Cant. II.
the Faerie Queene.
21
Now when the rosy fingred Morning faire,Weary of aged Tithones saffron bed,Had spred her purple robe through deawy aire,And the high hils Titan discouered,The royall virgin shooke of drousy hed,And rising forth out of her baser bowre,Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled,And for her dwarfe, that wont to wait each howre;Then gan she wail and weepe, to see that woeful stowre.
And after him she rode with so much speede,As her slowe beast could make; but all in vaine:For him so far had borne his light-foot steede,Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce disdaine,That him to follow was but fruitlesse paine;Yet she her weary limbes would neuer rest,But euery hil and dale, each wood and plaineDid search, sore grieued in her gentle brest,He so vngently left her, whome she loued best.
But subtill Archimago when his guestsHe saw diuided into double parts,And Vna wandring in woods and forrests,Th'end of his drift, he praisd his diuelish arts,That had such might ouer true meaning harts:Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make,How he may worke vnto her further smarts:For her he hated as the hissing snake,And in her many troubles did most pleasure take.
He then deuisde himselfe how to disguise;For by his mighty science he could takeAs many formes and shapes in seeming wise,As euer Proteus to himselfe could make:
Sometime
