George L. Craik: "Canto III. (50 stanzas). — By, nothing, observes the poet in commencing this Canto, is a man so well betrayed as by his manners, by nothing is it so plainly shown 'of what degree and what race he is grown.' It has ever been found 'that gentle blood will gentle manners breed,' as may be seen by this instance of Calidore, who so courteously takes up the wounded knight 'in his great need,' and bears him on his back to that neighbouring castle. There he is earnestly, besought to make his abode for the night by the lord of the castle: — 'He was to weet a man of full ripe years, | That in his youth had been of mickle might, | And borne great sway in arms among his peers; | But now weak age had dimmed his candlelight: | Yet was he courteous still to every wight'....
"Aldus is of course affected at the sight of his wounded son, but, with the philosophy and something also perhaps of the indifference of age, he soon consoles himself with a reflection on the uncertainty of mortal hopes, and the 'tickle,' or precarious, condition of all things earthly: — 'this,' he remarks, — 'the state of kesars and of kings! | Let none, therefore, that is in meaner place, | Too greatly grieve at any his unlucky ease.' Thus well and wisely tempering his grief, he makes the evening pass not unpleasantly to Calidore. 'But that fair lady would be cheered for nought, | But sighed and sorrowed for her lover dear, | And inly did afflict her pensive thought | With thinking to what case her name should now be brought.'
"For she is the daughter of a noble lord dwelling near, and has preferred the lusty Aladine, though of meaner birth and inferior estate, to a great peer to whom her father desires to marry her: taking advantage of an opportunity that had offered, they had 'met together in that luckless glade;' but she is now filled with fear and perplexity as she bethinks herself in what hazard she has put her good fame, and how she is to manage so as to save appearances. Calidore endeavours to cheer and reassure her with his wonted courtesy; the old knight tries by all the means in his power 'to make them both as merry as he may;' and when the time of rest comes Calidore retires to his bower with a quiet mind, and sleeps soundly; — 'But fair Priscilla (so that lady hight) | Would to no bed, nor take no kindly sleep, | But by her wounded love did watch all night, | And all the night for bitter anguish weep'.... He too, when morning comes, and he has awakened as out of a dream, is deeply distressed to think of the position in which she has placed herself for his sake she, again, now grieves more to see him so made miserable on her account than for herself.
"To both their only hope seems to be Calidore 'all other helps were past.' 'Early, so soon as Titan's beams forth brust | Through the thick clouds, in which they steeped lay | All night in darkness, dulled with iron rust, | Calidore rising up as fresh as day | Gan freshly him address unto his former way:' But first he goes to salute the wounded knight, 'and eke that lady, his fair lovely lass;' the former he finds much better, and they talk together about 'things of course;' till Aladine (or Aldine, as he is otherwise called) takes occasion to unfold to him the whole story of his and Priscilla's love. The courteous knight readily consents to conduct the fair lady to her father's house: — 'so after little stay, | That she herself had to the journey dight, | He passed forth with her in fair array, | Fearless who ought did think or ought did say, | Sith his own thought he knew most clear from wite.'
"And on the way he devises a 'counter-cast of sleight' whereby 'to give fair colour' to the lady's cause. Proceeding first to the place where the carcass of the knight slain by noble Tristram still lies, he cuts off the head and, taking it along with him, presents it to Priscilla's father at the same time with his daughter, whom he swears on his knighthood to be 'most perfect pure and guiltless innocent of blame' since he had first seen her, and delivered her from fear of the discourteous knight, the owner of the head, — 'who her had reft, | And by outrageous force away did bear.' It will be observed that he does not say he had delivered her from the knight, but only from the fear of him, which he had done by bringing her the news of his having been slain by Tristram. It does not seem to trouble Calidore, or the poet either, that a false impression has in this way been left upon the mind of the old lord. Everything passes off smoothly and prosperously....
"Pursuing his way he chances to come where 'in covert shade' a jolly knight rests unarmed, solacing himself with his lady love, who is also — 'full fair to see, | And courteous withal, becoming her degree.' The two lovers are much abashed, but Calidore himself is much more so, that he should have so rudely lighted upon them, and 'troubled their quiet love's delight;' but his courteous apologies, framed with 'gentle words and goodly wit,' soon allay all unpleasant feeling, and the strange knight, having asked him to sit down beside him, entertains him with a very interesting account of adventures in which he has been engaged — leaving the fair Serena (such is the lady's name) to find in the meanwhile such amusement for herself as she can. She, 'allured with mildness of the gentle weather, and pleasauce of the place,' wanders about the fields as liking leads her, gathering flowers to make a garland for her head, and suspecting no ill, when suddenly out of the neighbouring forest comes rushing the Blatant Beast, and, catching her up, bears her away in his great wide mouth. Her cries, however, rouse the two knights from their absorbing conversation; and Calidore, overtaking the monster, soon compels him to drop his prey, 'And to betake himself to fearful flight; | For he durst not abide with Calidore to fight'....
"Sir Calepine (that is the name of the stranger knight) lifts up his lady from the ground where she lies, wounded by the animal's teeth in both her sides and covered with blood, and, sustaining her in his tender arms, brings her out of her swoon, and then, setting her on his horse, supports her there with careful hands, while he walks softly by her side till they can find some place of shelter. At length, as 'Phoebus with his fiery train unto his inn' begins 'to draw apace,' waxing weary of travelling so long on foot in that painful manner, and laden besides with his armour, he chances to see, 'down in a dale foreby a river's side,' a fair and stately house in which he hopes that he may find succour. But when he reaches the river he finds that it will be hardly possible to cross it on foot, especially encumbered as he is. While he is deliberating what he shall do, he sees an armed and mounted knight approach, 'with a fair lady linked by his side,' also on her palfrey. Saluting this knight, Calepine beseeches him of courtesy that in the circumstances he will take him up behind him; but the other tauntingly replies: — 'Perdy, thou peasant knight mightst rightly read | Me then to be full base and evil born, | If I would bear behind a burden of such scorn'....
"Even his own lady is shocked at this rude speech, and would have taken up Calepine beside herself in her pity for his sick love.... 'And all the while that same discourteous knight | Stood on the further bank beholding him; | At whose calamity, for more despite, | He laughed, and mocked to see him like to swim'.... In the end, turning his steed about, the knight rides away with his lady to the house which Calepine had seen in the dale, and which is his own castle; although it must be supposed that Calepine does not know this, when, having followed him, he arrives there at the fall of day, and, drawing to the gate, with prayers and mild entreaty, asks lodging for his suffering charge. The rude porter, however, sternly refuses him admission, the established order of the place being that no one shall there lodge who shall not first have fought with its lord. Calepine confesses that he has no disposition, especially now when day is spent and he has himself as well as the lady such need of rest, to combat with the host to whom he is to be indebted for the courtesy of a night's entertainment, unless indeed he were enforced thereunto; 'but yet,' says he, 'aread to me, how hight thy lord, | That doth thus strongly ward the Castle of the Ford.' His name, the porter tells him, is Sir Turpin, 'one of mickle might | And manhood rare, but terrible and stern | In all assays to every errant knight, | Because of one that wrought him foul despite.'
"Calepine replies that it is seldom seen that courtesy and manhood disagree; 'but,' he adds, 'go thy ways to him, and fro me say | That here is at his gate an errant knight, | That house-room craves'.... Turpin, when this message is brought him, is seated at table with his gentler wife, whose name is Blandina; but her persuasions have no force to move him from 'his currish will;' Calepine must remain with his poor love without doors.... The next morning, as soon as it is day, angry and greedy for revenge as he is, he yet 'for the feeble lady's sake,' determines to make no longer stay, and he sets out again, as before, walking on foot by her side and sustaining her on his steed.
"But he has not gone a great way when he perceives an armed knight fast riding after them, evidently with no friendly intent. When he approaches, he proves to be the same person who had so abused him yesterday at the river, that is, Turpin. Couching his spear, he calls upon Calepine to stand and either abide his vengeance or ask pardon for his lewd, that is, unmannerly, words and deeds; and then runs at him as if 'he would devour his life at once.' Calepine, situated as he is, can only endeavour to shun his assault; he flies round and round, while the other chases him; 'But his best succour and refuge was still | Behind his lady's back; who to him cried, | And called oft with prayers loud and shrill, | As ever he to lady was affixed, | To spare her knight, and rest with reason pacified.' But the more she calls upon him, the more furiously does Turpin pursue his victim, till at length he succeeds in sending his spear through Calepine's shoulder, so that the blood gushes out like a spring from a hill-side'" Spenser and his Poetry (1845; 1871) 3:20-28.
Calidore brings Priscilla home,
Pursues the Blatant Beast:
Saves Serena, whilst Calepine
By Turpine is opprest.
True is, that whilom that good Poet said,
The gentle Mind by gentle Deeds is known.
For, Man by nothing is so well bewray'd,
As by his Manners; in which plain is shown
Of what Degree and what Race he is grown.
For, seldom seen, a trotting Stallion get
An ambling Colt, that is his proper own:
So seldom seen, that one in Baseness set
Doth noble Courage shew, with courteous Manners met.
But evermore contrary hath been try'd,
That gentle Blood will gentle Manners breed;
As well may be in Calidore descry'd,
By late ensample of that courteous Deed,
Done to that wounded Knight in his great need,
Whom on his back he bore, till he him brought
Unto the Castle where they had decreed.
There of the Knight, the which that Castle ought,
To make abode that Night he greatly was besought.
He was to weet a Man of full ripe Years,
That in his Youth had been of mickle Might,
And borne great sway in Arms amongst his Peers:
But now weak Age had dim'd his Candle-light.
Yet was he courteous still to every Wight,
And loved all that did to Arms incline,
And was the Father of that wounded Knight,
Whom Calidore thus carried on his Chine,
And Aldus was his Name, and his Son's Aladine.
Who, when he saw his Son so ill bedight,
With bleeding Wounds, brought home upon a Bier,
By a fair Lady, and a stranger Knight,
Was inly touched with Compassion dear,
And dear Affection of so doleful Drear,
That he these words burst forth; Ah sorry Boy,
Is this the Hope that to my hoary Hair
Thou bringst? Ay me! is this she timely Joy,
Which I expected long, now turn'd to sad Annoy?
Such is the Weakness of all mortal Hope;
So fickle is the State of earthly Things,
That e'er they come unto their aimed Scope,
They fall too short of our frail Reckonings,
And bring us Bale and bitter Sorrowings,
Instead of Comfort, which we should embrace.
This is the State of Cesars and of Kings:
Let none therefore, that is in meaner Place,
Too greatly grieve at any his unlucky Case.
So well and wisely did that good old Knight
Temper his Grief, and turned it to Chear,
To cheer his Guests, whom he had staid that Night,
And make their Welcome to them well appear:
That to Sir Calidore was easy gear;
But that fair Lady would be chear'd for nought,
But sigh'd and sorrow'd for her Lover dear,
And inly did afflict her pensive Thought,
With thinking to what case her Name should now be brought.
For, she was Daughter to a noble Lord,
Which dwelt thereby, who sought her to affy
To a great Peer: but she did disaccord,
Ne could her Liking to his Love apply,
But lov'd this fresh young Knight, who dwelt her nigh;
The lusty Aladine, though meaner born,
And of less Livelood and Hability;
Yet full of Valour, the which did adorn
His Meanness much, and make her th' other's Riches scorn.
So having both found fit occasion,
They met together in that luckless Glade;
Where that proud Knight in his Presumption
The gentle Aladine did earst invade,
Being unarm'd, and set in secret Shade.
Whereof she now bethinking, 'gan t' advise,
How great a Hazard she at earst had made
Of her good Fame, and further 'gan devise,
How she the blame might salve with coloured Disguise.
But Calidore with all good Courtesy
Fain'd her to frolick, and to put away
The pensive fit of her Melancholy;
And that old Knight by all means did assay
To make them both as merry as he may.
So they the Evening past, till time of Rest;
When Calidore in seemly good Array
Unto his Bower was brought, and, there undrest,
Did sleep all Night through weary Travel of his Quest.
But fair Priscilla (so that Lady hight)
Would not to Bed, nor take no kindly Sleep,
But by her wounded Love did watch all Night,
And all the Night for bitter Anguish weep,
And with her Tears his Wounds did wash and steep.
So well she wash'd them, and so well she watch'd him,
That all the deadly Swoun, in which full deep
He drenched was, she at the length dispatch'd him,
And drove away the Stound, which mortally attach'd him.
The morrow next when Day 'gan to up-look,
He also 'gan up-look with drery Eye,
Like one that out of deadly Dream awoke:
Where when he saw his fair Priscilla by,
He deeply sigh'd, and groaned inwardly,
To think of this ill State, in which he stood,
To which she for his sake had weetingly
Now brought her self, and blam'd her noble Blood:
For first, next after Life, he tendered her Good.
Which she perceiving, did with plenteous Tear,
His Case more than her own compassionate,
Forgetful of her own, to mind his Fears:
So both conspiring, 'gan to intimate
Each other's Grief with Zeal affectionate,
And twixt them twain with equal Care to call,
How to save whole her hazarded Estate;
For which the only help now left them last
Seem'd to be Calidore: all other haps were past.
Him they did deem, as sure to them he seem'd,
A courteous Knight, and full of faithful Trust:
Therefore to him their Cause they best esteem'd
Whole to commit, and to his Dealing just.
Early, so soon as Titan's Beams forth brust
Through the thick Clouds, in which they steeped lay
All night in darkness, dull'd with Iron Rust,
Calidore rising up as fresh as Day,
'Gan freshly him address unto his former way.
But first him seemed fit, that wounded Knight
To visit, after this Night's per'lous pass,
And to salute him, if he were in plight,
And eke that Lady his fair lovely Lass.
There he him found much better than he was,
And moved speech to him of things of course,
The Anguish of his Pain to over-pass:
Mongst which he namely did to him discourse
Of former Day's Mishap, his Sorrow's wicked Sourse.
Of which occasion Aldine taking hold,
'Gan break to him the Fortunes of his Love,
And all his Disadventures to unfold;
That Calidore it dearly deep did move.
In th' end his kindly Courtesy to prove,
He him by all the Bands of Love besought,
And as it mote a faithful Friend behove,
To safe-conduct his Love, and not for ought
To leave, till to her Father's House he had her brought.
Sir Calidore his Faith thereto did plight,
It to Perform; so, after little stay,
That the herself had to the Journy dight,
He passed forth with her in fair Array,
Fearless, who ought did think, or ought did say,
Sith his own Thought he knew most clear from Wight.
So as they past together on their way,
He gan devise this Countercast of Slight,
To give fair Colour to that Lady's Cause in sight.
Straight to the Carcass of that Knight he went,
The cause of all this Evil, who was slain
The Day before, by just Avengement
Of noble Tristram, where it did remain:
There he the Neck thereof did cut in twain,
And took with him the Head, the sign of shame.
So forth he passed thorough that Day's pain,
Till to that Lady's Father's House he came,
Most pensive Man, through fear, what of his Child became.
There he arriving boldly, did present
The fearful Lady to her Father dear,
Most perfect pure, and guiltless innocent
Of blame, as he did on his Knighthood swear;
Since first he saw her, and did free from fear
Of a discourteous Knight, who her had reft,
And by outrageous Force away did bear:
Witness thereof he shew'd his Head there left,
And wretched Life forlorne for vengement of his Theft.
Most joyful Man her Sire was her to see,
And hear th' Adventure of her late Mischance;
And thousand thanks to Calidore for Fee
Of his large Pains in her Deliverance
Did yield; ne less the Lady, did advance.
Thus having her restored trustily,
As he had vow'd, some small continuance
He there did make, and then most carefully
Unto his first Exploit he did himself apply.
So as he was pursuing of his Quest,
He chaunc'd to come whereas a jolly Knight
In covert Shade himself did safely rest,
To solace with his Lady in delight:
His warlike Arms he had from him undight;
For that himself he thought from danger free,
And far from envious Eyes that mote him spight,
And eke the Lady was full fair to see,
And courteous withall, becoming her Degree.
To whom Sir Calidore approaching nigh,
E'er they were well aware of living Wight,
Them much abasht, but more himself thereby,
That he so rudely did upon them light,
And troubled had their quiet Love's delight.
Yet since it was his Fortune, not his Fault,
Himself thereof he labour'd to acquite,
And Pardon crav'd for his so rash Default,
That he gainst Courtesy so foully did default.
With which his gentle Words and goodly Wit,
He soon allay'd that Knight's conceiv'd Displeasure,
That he besought him down by him to sit,
That they mote treat of things abroad at leisure,
And of Adventures, which had in his measure
Of so long ways to him befallen late.
So down he sat, and, with delightful Pleasure
His long Adventures 'gan to him relate,
Which he endured had through dangerous debate.
Of which whilst they discoursed both together,
The fair Serena (so his Lady hight)
Allur'd with Mildness of the gentle Weather,
And Pleasance of the Place, the which was dight
With divers Flow'rs distinct with rare delight;
Wandred about the Fields, as liking led
Her wavering Lust after her wandring Sight,
To make a Garland to adorn her Head,
Without suspect of Ill or Danger's hidden Dread.
All suddenly out of the Forest near
The Blatant Beast, forth rushing unaware,
Caught her thus loosely wandring here and there,
And in his wide great Mouth away her bare.
Crying aloud to shew her sad Misfare
Unto the Knights, and calling oft for Aid;
Who with the Horrour of her hapless Care
Hastily Darting up, like Men dismay'd,
Ran after fast, to rescue the distressed Maid.
The Beast, with their Pursuit incited more,
Into the Wood was bearing her apace
For to have spoiled her, when Calidore
Who was more light of Foot, and swift in Chace,
Him overtook in middest of his Race:
And fiercely charging him with all his Might,
Forc'd to forgo his Prey there in the Place,
And to betake himself to fearful Flight;
For he durst not abide with Calidore to fight.
Who natheless, when he the Lady saw
There left in ground, though in full evil plight,
Yet knowing that her Knight now near did draw,
Stay'd not to succour her in that Affright,
But follow'd fast the Monster in his Flight:
Through Woods and Hills he follow'd him so fast,
That he n'ould let him breathe nor gather Spright,
But forc'd him gape and gasp, with Dread aghast,
As if his Lungs and Lites were nigh asunder brast.
And now by this, Sir Calepine (so hight)
Came to the Place, where he his Lady found
In dolorous Dismay and deadly Plight,
All in gore Blood there tumbled on the Ground,
Having both Sides through grip'd with griesly Wound.
His Weapons soon from him he threw away;
And stooping down to her in drery Swound,
Up-rear'd her from the Ground, whereon she lay,
And in his tender Arms her forced up to stay.
So well he did his busy Pains apply,
That the faint Sprite he did revoke again
To her frail Mansion of Mortality.
Then up he took her 'twixt his Armes twain,
And setting on his Steed, her did sustain
With careful Hands, soft footing her beside,
Till to some Place of Rest they mote attain,
Where she in safe Assurance mote abide,
Till she recured was of those her Woundes wide.
How whenas Phebus with his fiery Wain
Unto his Inn began to draw apace;
Tho, wexing weary of that toilsom Pain,
In travelling on foot so long a space,
Not wont on foot with heavy Arms to trace,
Down in a Dale forby a River's side,
He chaunc'd to spy a fair and stately Place,
To which he meant his weary Steps to guide,
In hope there for his Love some Succour to provide.
But coming to the River's side, he found
That hardly passable on foot it was:
Therefore there still he stood as in a Stound,
Ne wist which way he through the Ford mote pass.
Thus whilst he was in this distressed Case,
Devising what to do, he nigh espy'd
An armed Knight, approaching to the Place,
With a fair Lady linked by his side,
The which themselves prepar'd thorough the Ford to ride.
Whom Calepine saluting (as became)
Besought of Courtesy in that his Need
(For safe conducting of his sickly Dame,
Through that same per'lous Ford with better heed)
To take him up behind upon his Steed:
To whom that other did this Taunt return;
Perdy, thou peasant Knight mightst rightly reed
Me then to be full base and evil born,
If I would bear behind a Burden of such Scorn.
But as thou hast thy Steed forlorn with Shame,
So fare on foot till thou another gain,
And let thy Lady likewise do the same,
Or bear her on thy Back with pleasing pain,
And prove thy Manhood on the Billows vain.
With which rude Speech his Lady much displeas'd.
Did him reprove, yet could him not restrain
And would on her own Palfrey him have eas'd,
For pity of his Dame, whom she saw so diseas'd.
Sir Calepine her thank'd; yet inly wroth
Against her Knight, her Gentleness refus'd,
And carelesly into the River go'th,
As in despight to be so foul abus'd
Of a rude Churl, whom often he accus'd
Of foul Discourtesy, unfit for Knight;
And strongly wading through the Waves unus'd
With Spear in th' one Hand, stay'd himself upright,
With th' other stay'd his Lady up with steddy Might.
And all the while, that same discourteous Knight
Stood on the further Bank beholding him:
At whose Calamity, for more despight,
He laugh'd, and mock'd to see him like to swim.
But whenas Calepine came to the Brim,
And saw his Carriage past that Peril well,
Looking at that same Carle with Count'nance grim,
His Heart with Vengeance inwardly did swell,
And forth at last did break in Speeches sharp and fell.
Unknightly Knight, the Blemish of that Name,
And Blot of all that Arms upon them take,
Which is the Badge of Honour and of Fame,
Lo I defy thee, and here Challenge make,
That thou for ever do those Arms forsake;
And be for ever held a recreant Knight,
Unless thou dare for thy dear Lady's sake,
And for thine own Defence on foot alight,
To justify thy Fault 'gainst me in equal Fight.
The Dastard, that did hear himself defy'd,
Seem'd not to weigh his threatful Words at all,
But laugh'd them out, as if his greater Pride
Did scorn the Challenge of so base a Thrall:
Or had no Courage, or else had no Gall.
So much the more was Calepine offended,
That him to no Revenge he forth could call,
But both his Challenge and himself contemned,
Ne cared as a Coward so to be condemned.
But he, nought weighing what he said or did,
Turned his Steed about another way,
And with his Lady to the Castle rid,
Where was his Wonne; ne did the other stay,
But after went directly as he may,
For his sick Charge some Harbour there to seek:
Where he arriving with the Fall of Day,
Drew to the Gate, and there with Prayers meek,
And mild Entreaty, Lodging did for her beseek.
But the rude Porter, that no Manners had,
Did shut the Gate against him in his Face,
And Entrance boldly unto him forbad.
Nath'less the Knight, now in so needy Case,
'Gan him intreat even with Submission base,
And humbly pray'd to let them in that Night:
Who to him answer'd, that there was no Place
Of Lodging fit for any errant Knight,
Unless that with his Lord he formerly did fight.
Full loth am I, quoth he, as now at earst,
When Day is spent, and Rest us needeth most,
And that this Lady, both whose Sides are pierc'd
With Wounds, is ready to forgo the Ghost:
Ne would gladly combat with mine Host,
That should to me such Courtesy afford,
Unless that I were thereunto enforc'd.
But yet aread to me, how hight thy Lord,
That doth thus strongly ward the Castle of the Ford.
His Name, quoth he, if that thou list to learn,
Is hight Sir Turpine, one of mickle Might,
And Manhood rare, but terrible and stern
In all Assays to every errant Knight,
Because of one, that wrought him foul Despight.
Ill seems, said he, if he so valiant be,
That he should be so stern to stranger Wight:
For seldom yet did living Creature see,
That Courtesy and Manhood ever disagree.
But go thy ways to him, and from me say,
That here is at his Gate an errant Knight,
That House-room craves, yet would be loth t' assay
The Proof of Battel, now in doubtful Night,
Or Courtesy with Rudeness to requite:
Yet if he needs will fight, crave leave till Morn,
And tell (withal) the lamentable Plight,
In which this Lady languisheth forlorn,
That Pity craves, as he of Woman was yborn.
The Groom went straightway in; and to his Lord
Declar'd the Message, which that Knight did move;
Who sitting with his Lady then at Board,
Not only did not his Demand approve,
But both himself revil'd, and eke his Love;
Albe his Lady, that Blandina hight,
Him of ungentle Usage did reprove,
And earnestly entreated that they might
Find Favour to be lodged there for that same Night.
Yet would he not persuaded be for ought,
Ne from his currish Will awhit reclaim.
Which Answer when the Groom, returning, brought
To Calepine, his Heart did inly flame
With wrathful Fury for so foul a Shame,
That he could not thereof avenged be:
But most for pity of his dearest Dame,
Whom now in deadly Danger he did see;
Yet had no means to comfort, nor procure her Glee.
But all in vain; for why, no Remedy
He saw, the present Mischief to redress,
But that utmost End perforce for to aby,
Which that Night's Fortune would for him address.
So down he took his Lady in Distress,
And laid her underneath a Bush to sleep,
Cover'd with Cold, and wrapt in Wretchedness,
Whiles he himself all night did nought but weep,
And wary Watch about her for her Safeguard keep.
The morrow next, so soon as joyous Day
Did shew it self in sunny Beams bedight,
Serena full of dolorous Dismay,
'Twixt Darkness drad, and Hope of living Light,
Up-rear'd her Head to see that chearful sight.
Then Calepine, however inly wroth,
And greedy to avenge that vile Despight;
Yet for the feeble Lady's sake, full loth
To make there lenger Stay, forth on his Journey go'th.
He go'th on foot all armed by her Side
Up-staying still her self upon her Steed,
Being unable else alone to ride;
So sore her Sides, so much her Wounds did bleed:
Till that at length, in his extremest Need,
He chaunc'd far off an armed Knight to spy,
Pursuing him apace with greedy Speed;
Whom well he wist to be some Enemy,
That meant to make advantage of his Misery.
Wherefore he stay'd, till that he nearer drew,
To weet what Issue would thereof betide.
Tho, whenas he approached nigh in view,
By certain Signs he plainly him descry'd
To be the Man, that with such scornful Pride
Had him abus'd, and shamed yesterday.
Therefore mis-doubting, lest he should misguide
His former Malice to some new Assay,
He cast to keep himself so safely as he may.
By this, the other came in place likewise;
And couching close his Spear and all his Pow'r,
As bent to some malicious Enterprise,
He bad him stand, t' abide the bitter Stour
Of his sore Vengeance, or to make avour
Of the leud Words and Deeds, which he had done:
With that ran at him, as he would devour
His Life attonce; who nought could do, but shun
The Peril of his Pride, or else be over-run.
Yet he him still pursu'd from place to place,
With full Intent him cruelly to kill;
And like a wild Goat round about did chace,
Flying the Fury of his bloody Will.
But his best Succour and Refuge was still
Behind his Lady's Back; who to him cry'd,
And called oft with Prayers loud and shrill,
As ever he to Lady was affy'd,
To spare her Knight, and rest with Reason pacify'd.
But he the more thereby enraged was,
And with more eager Felness him pursu'd:
So that at length, after long weary Chace,
Having by chance a close Advantage view'd,
He over-raught him, having long eschew'd
His Violence in vain; and with his Spear
Strook through his Shoulder, that the Blood ensu'd
In great Aboundance, as a Well it were,
That forth out of an Hill fresh gushing did appear.
Yet ceas'd he not for all that cruel Wound,
But chac'd him still, far all his Lady's Cry;
Not satisfy'd, till on the fatal Ground
He saw his Life pour'd forth dispiteously:
The which was certes in great Jeopardy,
Had not a wondrous Chaunce his Rescue wrought,
And saved from his cruel Villany.
Such Chaunces oft exceed all human Thought:
That in another Canto shall to end be brought.
[Works, ed. Hughes (1715) 4:887-99]