Cant. III.
the Faery Queene.
43
Her piteous wordes might not abate his rage,But rudely rending vp his helmet, wouldHaue slayne him streight: but when he sees his age,And hoarie head of Archimago old,His hasty hand he doth amased hold,And halfe ashamed, wondred at the sight:For the old man well knew he, though vntold,In charmes and magick to haue wondrous might,Ne euer wont in field, ne in round lists to fight.
And said, Why Archimago, lucklesse syre,What doe I see? what hard mishap is this,That hath thee hether brought to taste mine yre?Or thine the fault, or mine the error is,Instead of foe to wound my friend amis?He answered nought, but in a traunce still lay,And on those guilefull dazed eyes of hisThe cloude of death did sit. Which doen away,He left him lying so, ne would no lenger stay.
But to the virgin comes, who all this whileAmased stands, her selfe so mockt to seeBy him, who has the guerdon of his guile,For so misfeigning her true knight to bee:Yet is she now in more perplexitie,Left in the hand of that same Paynim bold,From whom her booteth not at all to flie;Who by her cleanly garment catching hold,Her from her Palfrey pluckt, her visage to behold.
But her fiers seruant full of kingly awAnd high disdaine, whenas his soueraine DameSo rudely handled by her foe he saw,With gaping iawes full greedy at him came,
And
