Cant. V.
the Faery Queene.
249
That streight on grownd made him full low to lye;Then on his brest his victor foote he thrust,With that he cryde, Mercy, doe me not dye,Ne deeme thy force by fortunes doome vniust,That hath (maugre her spight) thus low me laid in dust.
Eftsoones his cruel hand Sir Guyon stayd,Tempring the passion with aduizement slow,And maistring might on enimy dismayd:For th'equall die of warre he well did know.Then to him said, Liue and alleagaunce owe,To him, that giues thee life and liberty,And henceforth by this daies ensample trow,That hasty wroth, and heedlesse hazardryDoe breede repentaunce late, and lasting infamy.
So vp he let him rise, who with grim lookeAnd count'naunce sterne vpstanding, gan to grindHis grated teeth for great disdeigne, and shookeHis sandy lockes, long hanging downe behind,Knotted in blood and dust, for griefe of mind,That he in ods of armes was conquered;Yet in himselfe some comfort he did find,That him so noble knight had maystered,Whose bounty more then might, yet both he wōdered.
Which Guyon marking said, Be nought agrieu'd,Sir knight, that thus ye now subdewed arre:Was neuer man, who most conquestes atchieu'dBut sometimes had the worse, and lost by warre,Yet shortly gaynd, that losse exceeded farre:Losse is no shame, nor to bee lesse then foe,But to bee lesser, then himselfe, doth marreBoth loosers lott, and victours prayse alsoe.Vaine others ouerthrowes, who selfe doth ouerthrow.
Fly,
