George L. Craik: "Canto XI. (51 stanzas). — The interruption that has thus befallen the loves of Calidore and Pastorella is only after the due course of nature or of human things: — 'The joys of love, if they should ever last | Without affliction or disquietness | That worldly chances do amongst them cast, | Would be on earth too great a blessedness'....
"But Pastorella, torn from her home and her loved Calldore, and detained in bondage among these thieves in their dark den, has not yet experienced the worst of her fate. Her beauty, that 'like the fair morning clad in misty fog did show,' inflames the captain of the brigants. Treating her with kindness, he tries to gain her love with looks, with words, with gifts, and by all the means he may; sometimes he mingles threats with his vows of fond affection; but all is alike in vain: he cannot move her constant mind, though he suffers her not to rest with his importunities either by night or day. Only, after a time, seeing how completely she is in his power, she thinks it prudent to pretend to show him some small shadow of favour, in the hope of thereby perhaps acquiring a little more liberty or ease: 'a little well is lent that gaineth more withal;' but at last she finds no other way of repelling him except by feigning illness.
"While she is thus laid aside, the merchants arrive who are used to trade with the thieves for their captives. Old Melibee and Corydon, and many others, are brought forward and exhibited; but when the fair shepherdess is called for, the captain angrily makes answer that she is his own peculiar prize and property, taken by himself, and to be partaken with none: besides, he intimates she is at present too much indisposed to be disposed of. When the merchants see her, however, though it is only by an imperfect candle-light, they prefer her infinitely to all the others: unless they may have her too, they will have none. The captain declares that his love shall not be sold; the others insist that she shall; swords are drawn, 'and the mad steel about doth fiercely fly;' many are slain; the candle-light is quenched; it is a scene of universal confusion; 'All on confused heaps themselves assay, | And snatch, and bite, and rend, and tug, and tear.
"The captives are put to death by the stronger party (which that is, is not said) lest they should join the weaker; old Melibee, his aged wife (of whom we now hear for the first time), and many more; only Corydon effects his escape, and makes off with himself with his characteristic expedition — 'ne stayeth leave to take before his friends do die.' But all the while Pastorella is defended by the captain, till he too at length is laid prostrate, when she, falling with him, is wounded in the arm by the same blow that deprives him of life; and there she lies covered with a heap of carcases, and still enclosed in his dying embrace. His death, however, brings the fray to an end; and, relighting the candles, the survivors proceed to count the slain. 'Their captain there they cruelly found killed, | And in his arms the dreary dying maid'.... Finding life not quite extinct, they apply themselves to revive her, and she is at length restored to a sense of her misery. She is then left in charge of one of their number, 'the best of many worst;' and here too the story leaves her for a while to return to Calidore and his adventures.
"When he came back from the wood, and saw what had happened in his absence — 'his shepherd's cottage spoiled quite, and his love reft away' — he fell almost distracted.... At last, roaming up and down, he meets his old friend Corydon, all in rags, and with the hair of his head all 'upstaring,' or raised, 'as if he did from some late danger fly.' To Calidore's eager questions — where were they all? — where was his Pastorella? — with tears, and sobs, and deep-drawn sighs, he ejaculates, alas that ever he should have lived to see this day — that he should not have died before he had seen Pastorella die. 'Die! out alas! then Calidore did cry, | How could the Death dare ever her to quell!' Corydon then gives him an account of the conflict among the robbers, and his own escape, relating how Pastorella had been defended by the captain; 'But what could he gainst all them do alone? | It could not boot; needs must she die at last!'
"Calidore, however, after the first gush of his grief; resolves to make an attempt to save her if she be yet alive, or, if he can neither rescue nor avenge her, at the least to share her fate. With no little difficulty he prevails on Corydon to show him the way to the place; and they set out together, attired as shepherds, and appearing to carry only shepherds' hooks, but Calidore with arms concealed under his clothes. When they have advanced a little way, they see some sheep feeding on a hill before them, which, on a nearer approach, they find to be some of their own that had been carried away by the robbers, certain of whom are now lying asleep in the shade of the bushes beside them. Corydon is for killing the sleeping shepherds, and making off with the flock, but Calidore — 'that in his mind had closely made | A further purpose, would not so them slay, | But gently waking them gave them the time of day.' Then, sitting down beside them on the green, they enter into talk; and when they have told that they are poor herdsmen who have fled from their masters, and are in quest of others, the robbers propose to hire them if they will consent to take charge of their flocks; 'For they themselves were evil grooms, they said, | Unwont with herds to watch or pasture sheep'....
"They are now taken into the thieves' den, and here, growing in great acquaintance, soon learn, to Calidore's infinite joy, that Pastorella still lives. Ere long Calidore, taking advantage of the dead of night, when all the thieves are sound asleep, after a late foray, having lately managed to provide himself with a sword, though of the poorest description, rises and proceeds 'to the captain's nest,' — Corydon, in his extreme fear and perplexity, hardly daring to accompany him, and yet still less daring to remain behind. When they come to the cave they find the entrance fast; but Calidore, with resistless force, breaks through doors and locks, and then encountering the thief, whom the noise has awakened, slays him with little ado. Pastorella, for whom he calls aloud, comes, scarcely knowing whether she be alive or dead, and 'like to one distraught and robbed of reason,' at the well-known voice.
"A thousand times, we are told, they folded themselves in each other's arms, 'and kissed a thousand more.' But by this time all the other thieves have been roused, and come pressing into the cave: that is nothing to Calidore at such a moment as this. Taking his stand in the entrance, he slays them man by man as they present themselves, till no more dare to attempt to force their way against the point of his unfailing weapon, and across the barricade of carcases. Nor does it matter more that when he comes forth all of them that are left assail him at once, gathering about him like flies in a hot summer's day upon some beast's bare sore, and seeking to overwhelm him from every side: 'he doth with his raging brand divide | Their thickest troops, and round about him scattereth wide'....
"Then, returning to Pastorella, he brings her forth once more to the joyous light; and afterwards, ransacking those thievish dens, he lays at her feet the choicest of the spoils and treasures there concealed, and, making over all the flocks that had been reft from Melibee and his wife to Corydon, leaves the place, bearing away for his own reward his love alone" Spenser and his Poetry (1845; 1871) 3:84-88.
The Thieves fall out for Pastorel,
Whilst Melibee is slain:
Her, Calidore from them redeems,
And bringeth back again.
The Joys of Love, if they should ever last,
Without Affliction or Disquietness,
That worldly Chaunces do among them call,
Would be on Earth too great a Blessedness,
Liker to Heaven than mortal Wretchedness.
Therefore the winged God, to let Men weet,
That here on Earth is no sure Happiness,
A thousand Sours hath tempred with one Sweet,
To make it seem more dear and dainty, as is meet.
Like as is now befaln to this fair Maid,
Fair Pastorel, of whom is now my Song:
Who being now in dreadful Darkness laid,
Amongst those Thieves, which her in Bondage strong
Detain'd; yet Fortune, not with all this wrong
Contented, greater Mischief on her threw,
And Sorrows heap'd on her in greater throng;
That who-so hears her Heaviness, would rue
And pity her sad Plight, so chang'd from pleasant Hue.
Whilst thus she in these hellish Dens remain'd,
Wrapped in wretched Cares and Heart's Unrest,
It so befell (as Fortune had ordain'd)
That he, which was their Capitain profest,
And had the chief Command of all the rest,
One day as he did all his Prisoners view,
With lustful Eyes beheld that lovely Guest,
Fair Pastorella; whose sad mournful Hue
Like the fair Morning clad in misty Fog did shew.
At sight whereof his barbarous Heart was fir'd,
And inly burnt with Flames most raging hot,
That her alone he for his part desir'd
Of all the other Prey which they had got,
And her in mind did to himself allot.
From that day forth he kindness to her shew'd,
And sought her Love, by all the means he mote;
With Looks, with Words, with Gifts he oft her woo'd:
And mixed Threats among, and much unto her vow'd.
But all that ever he could do or say,
Her constant Mind could not a whit remove;
Nor draw unto the lure of his leud Lay,
To grant him Favour, or afford him Love.
Yet ceast he not to sue and always prove,
By which he mote accomplish his Request,
Saying and doing all that more behove:
Ne Day nor Night he suffer'd her to rest,
But her all night did watch, and all the day molest.
At last, when him she so importune saw,
Fearing lest he at length the Reins would lend
Unto his Lust, and make his Will his Law,
Sith in his power she was to foe or friend;
She thought it best, for shadow to pretend
Some shew of Favour, by him gracing small,
That she thereby mote either freely wend,
Or at more ease continue there his Thrall;
A little well is lent, that gaineth more withall.
So from thenceforth, when Love he to her made,
With better Terms she did him entertain:
Which gave him Hope, and did him half persuade,
That he in time her Joyance should obtain.
But when she saw, through that small Favour's gain,
That further, than she willing was, he prest;
She found no means to bar him, but to feign
A suddain Sickness, which her sore opprest,
And made unfit to serve his lawless Mind's Behest.
By means whereof, she would not him permit
Once to approach to her in privity,
But only mongst the rest by her to sit,
Mourning the Rigour of her Malady,
And seeking all things meet for Remedy.
But she resolv'd no Remedy to find,
Nor better Chear to shew in Misery,
Till Fortune would her captive Bonds unbind:
Her Sickness was not of the Body, but the Mind.
During which space that she thus sick did lie,
It chaunc'd a sort of Merchants which were wont
To skim those Coasts, for Bondmen there to buy,
And by such Traffick after Gains to hunt,
Arrived in this Isle (though bare and blunt)
T' enquire for Slaves; where being ready met
By some of these same Thieves at th' instant brunt,
Were brought unto their Captain, who was set
By his fair Patient's side with sorrowful regret.
To whom they shewed, how those Merchants were
Arriv'd in place, their Bondslaves for to buy;
And therefore pray'd, that those same Captives there
Mote to them for their most Commodity
Be sold, and mongst them shared equally.
This their Request the Captain much appall'd;
Yet could he not their just Demand deny,
And willed straight the Slaves should forth be call'd,
And sold for most Advantage not to be forestall'd.
Then forth the good old Melibee was brought,
And Coridon, with many other moe,
Whom they before in divers Spoils had caught;
All which he to the Merchants Sale did show.
Till some, which did the sundry Prisoners know,
'Gan to enquire for the fair Shepheardess,
Which with the rest they took not long ago,
And 'gan her Form and Feature to express,
The more t' augment her Price, through praise of Comeliness.
To whom the Captain in full angry wise
Made Answer, that the Maid of whom they spake,
Was his own Purchase and his only Prize;
With which none had to do, ne ought pertake,
But he himself which did that Conquest make;
Little for him to have one silly Lass:
Besides, through Sickness now so wan and weak,
That nothing meet in Merchandise to pass;
So shew'd them her, to prove how pale and weak she was.
The sight of whom, though now decay'd and marr'd,
And eke but hardly seen by Candle-light:
Yet like a Diamond of rich regard,
In doubtful shadow of the darksom Night,
With starry Beams, about her shining bright,
These Merchants fixed Eyes did so amaze,
That what through Wonder, and what through Delight,
Awhile on her they greedily did gaze,
And did her greatly like, and did her greatly praise.
At last, when all the rest them offer'd were,
And Prices to them placed at their pleasure,
They all refused in regard of her,
Ne ought would buy, however priz'd with Measure,
Withouten her, whose Worth above all Threasure
They did esteem, and offer'd store of Gold.
But then the Captain fraught with more displeasure,
Bad them be still, his Love should not be sold:
The rest take if they would, he her to him would hold.
Therewith some other of the chiefest Thieves
Boldly him bad such injury forbear;
For, that same Maid, how-ever it him grieves,
Should with the rest be sold before him there,
To make the prices of the rest more dear.
That with great rage he stoutly doth denay;
And fiercely drawing forth his Blade, doth swear,
That who-so hardy hand on her doth lay,
It dearly shall aby, and Death for Handsel pay.
Thus as they Words amongst them multiply,
They fall to Strokes, the fruit of too much Talk:
And the mad Steel about doth fiercely fly,
Not sparing Wight, ne leaving any Balk,
But making way for Death at large to walk;
Who, in the horror of the griesly Night,
In thousand dreadful Shapes doth mongst them stalk,
And makes huge Havock, whiles the Candle-light
Out-quenched, leaves no skill nor difference of Wight.
Like as a sort of hungry Dogs ymet
About some Carcase by the common way
Do fall together, striving each to get
The greatest Portion of the greedy Prey;
All on confused Heaps themselves assay,
And snatch, and bite, and rend, and tug, and tear.
That who them sees, would wonder at their Fray;
And who sees not, would be affraid to hear:
Such was the conflict of those cruel Brigants there.
But first of all, their Captives they do kill,
Lest they should join against the weaker side,
Or rise against the remnant at their will:
Old Melibee is slain, and him beside
His aged Wife, with many others wide;
But Coridon, escaping craftily,
Creeps forth of doors, whilst Darkness him doth hide,
And flies away as fast as he can hie,
Ne stayeth leave to take, before his Friends to die.
But Pastorella, woful wretched Elfe,
Was by the Captain all this while defended:
Who minding more her Safety than himself,
His Target always over her protended;
By means whereof, that mote not be amended,
He at the length was slain, and laid on Ground;
Yet holding fast twixt both his Arms extended
Fair Pastorell, who with the self-same Wound
Launc't through the Arm, fell down with him in drery Swound.
There lay she covered with confused Press
Of Carcases, which dying on her fell;
Tho, when as he was dead, the Fray gan cease,
And each to other calling, did compel
To stay their cruel Hands from slaughter fell,
Sith they that were the cause of all were gone.
Thereto they all at once agreed well,
And lighting Candles new, gan search anone,
How many of their Friends were slain, how many Fone.
Their Captain there they cruelly found kill'd,
And in his Arms the drery dying Maid,
Like a sweet Angel twixt two Clouds up-held:
Her lovely Light was dimmed and decay'd,
With Cloud of Death upon her Eyes display'd;
Yet did the Cloud make ev'n that dimmed Light
Seem much more lovely in that Darkness laid,
And twixt the twinkling of her Eye-lids bright,
To spark out little Beams, like Stars in foggy Night.
But when they mov'd the Carcases aside,
They found that Life did yet in her remain:
Then all their Helps they busily apply'd,
To call the Soul back to her home again;
And wrought so well with Labour and long Pain,
That they to Life recover'd her at last.
Who sighing sore, as if her Heart in twain
Had riven been, and all her Heart-strings brast,
With dreary drouping Eyne lookt up like one aghast.
There she beheld, that sore her griev'd to see,
Her Father and her Friends about her lying,
Her self sole left, a second spoil to be
Of those, that having saved her from dying,
Renew'd her Death by timely Death denying:
What now is left her, but to wail and weep?
Wringing her Hands, and ruefully loud crying?
Ne cared she her Wound in Tears to steep,
Albe with all their Might those Brigants her did keep.
But when they saw her now reviv'd again,
They left her so, in charge of one the best
Of many worst, who with unkind Disdain
And cruel Rigour her did much molest;
Scarce yielding her due Food, or timely Rest,
And scarcely suff'ring her infester'd Wound,
That sore her pain'd, by any to be drest.
So leave we her in wretched Thraldom bound,
And turn we back to Calidore, where we him found.
Who when he back returned from the Wood,
And saw his Shepheard's Cottage spoiled quight,
And his Love reft away, he wexed wood,
And half enraged at that rueful sight;
That ev'n his Heart for very fell despight,
And his own Flesh he ready was to tear:
He chauft, he griev'd, he fretted, and he sigh'd,
And fared like a furious wild Bear,
Whose Whelps are stol'n away, she being other-where.
Ne Wight he found, to whom he might complain:
Ne Wight he found of whom he might inquire;
That more increast the Anguish of his Pain
He sought the Woods, but no Man could see there;
He sought the Plains, but could no Tydings hear.
The Woods did nought but Ecchoes vain rebound;
The Plains all waste and empty did appear:
Where wont the Shepheards oft their Pipes resound,
And feed an hundred Flocks, there now not one he found.
At last, as there he roamed up and down,
He chaunc't one coming towards him to spy,
That seem'd to be some sorry simple Clown,
With ragged Weeds, and Locks up-staring high,
As if he did from some late Danger fly,
And yet his Fear did follow him behind:
Who as he unto him approached nigh,
He mote perceive by signs, which he did find,
That Coridon it was, the silly Shepheard's Hind.
Tho, to him running fast, he did not stay
To greet him first, but askt where were the rest;
Where Pastorel? who full of fresh dismay,
And gushing forth in Tears, was so opprest,
That he no word could speak, but smit his Breast,
And up to Heaven his Eyes fast streaming threw.
Whereat the Knight amaz'd, yet did not rest,
But askt again, what meant that rueful Hue;
Where was his Pastorel? where all the other Crew?
Ah well away, said he then sighing sore,
That ever I did live, this Day to see,
This dismal Day, and was not dead before,
Before I saw fair Pastorella die.
Die! out alas! then Calidore did cry:
How could the Death dare ever her to quell
But read thou Shepheard, read what Destiny,
Or other direful Hap from Heaven or Hell
Hath wrought this wicked Deed: do Fear away, and tell.
Tho, when the Shepheard breathed had awhile,
He thus began: Where shall I then commence
This woeful Tale? or how those Brigants vile,
With cruel Rage, and dreadful Violence
Spoil'd all our Cots, and carry'd us from hence?
Or how fair Pastorel should have been sold
To Merchants, but was sav'd with strong defence?
Or how those Thieves, whilst one sought her to hold,
Fell all at odds, and fought through Fury fierce and bold.
In that same Conflict (woe is me) befell
This fatal Chaunce, this doleful Accident,
Whose heavy Tydings now I have to tell.
First, all the Captives which they here had hent,
Were by them slain by general consent;
Old Melibee, and his good Wife withall
These Eyes saw die, and dearly did lament:
But when the lot to Pastorel did fall,
Their Captain long withstood, and did her Death forestall.
But what could he 'gainst all them do alone?
It could not boot; needs mote she die at last:
I only scap'd through great confusion
Of Cries and Clamours, which amongst them past,
In dreadful Darkness, dreadfully aghast;
That better were with them to have been dead,
Than here to see all desolate and waste,
Despoiled of those Joys and Jollyhead.
Which with those gentle Shepheards here I wont to lead.
When Calidore these rueful News had raught,
His Heart quite deaded was with Anguish great,
And all his wits with Dool were nigh distraught;
That he his Face, his Head, his Breast did beat,
And Death it self unto himself did threat:
Oft cursing th' Heavens that so cruel were
To her, whose Name he often did repeat;
And wishing oft that he were present there,
When she was slain, or had been to her Succour near.
But after Grief awhile had had its course,
And spent it self in Mourning, he at last
Began to mitigate his swelling Source,
And in his Mind with better reason cast
How he might save her Life, if Life did last;
Or if that dead, how he her Death might wreak,
Sith otherwise he could not mend thing past;
Or if it to revenge he were too weak,
Then for to die with her, and his Live's Thread to break.
Tho, Coridon he pray'd, sith he well knew
The ready way unto that thievish Wonne,
To wend with him, and be his Conduct true
Unto the place, to see what should be done.
But he, whose Heart through fear was late fordone,
Would not for ought be drawn to former dreed;
But by all means the Danger known did shun:
Yet Calidore, so well him wrought with Meed,
And fair bespoke with Words, that he at last agreed.
So, forth they go together (God before)
Both clad in Shepheard's Weeds agreeably,
And both with Shepheard's Hooks: But Calidore
Had underneath him armed privily.
Tho, to the place when they approached night,
They chaunc't upon an Hill, not far away,
Some Flocks of Sheep and Shepheards to espy;
To whom they both agreed to take their way,
In hope there news to learn, how they mote best assay.
There did they find, that which they did not fear,
The self-same Flocks, the which those Thieves had reft
From Melibee and from themselves whylear,
And certain of the Thieves there by them left
The which for want of Heards themselves then kept.
Right well knew Coridon his own late Sheep,
And seeing them, for tender pity wept:
But when he saw the Thieves which did them keep,
His Heart 'gan fail, albe he saw them all asleep.
But Calidore, recomforting his Grief,
Though not his Fear; for, nought may Fear dissuade,
Him hardly forward drew, whereas the Thief
Lay sleeping soundly in the Bushes shade,
Whom Coridon him counsel'd to invade
Now all unwares, and take the Spoil away;
But he, that in his Mind had closely made
A further purpose, would not so them slay,
But gently waking them, gave them the time of day.
Tho, sitting down by them upon the Green,
Of sundry things he purpose 'gan to fain;
That he by them might certain Tidings ween
Of Pastorel, were she alive or slain.
'Mongst which, the Thieves them questioned again,
What mister Men, and else from whence they were.
To whom they answer'd, as did appertain,
That they were poor Heard-grooms, the which whylere
Had from their Masters fled, and now sought Hire elsewhere.
Whereof right glad they seem'd, and offer made
To hire them well, if they their Flocks would keep:
For, they themselves, were evil Grooms, they said,
Unwont with Heards to watch, or pasture Sheep,
But to forray the Land, or scour the Deep.
Thereto they soon agreed, and Earnest took,
To keep their Flocks for little Hire and cheap:
For, they for better Hire did shortly look;
So there all Day they bode, till Light the Sky forsook.
Tho, when-as towards darksom Night it drew,
Unto their hellish Dens those Thieves them brought;
Where shortly they in great Acquaintance grew,
And all the Secrets of their Entrails sought.
There did they find (contrary to their Thought)
That Pastorel yet liv'd; but all the rest
Were dead, right so as Coridon had taught:
Whereof they both full glad and blithe did rest,
But chiefly Calidore, whom Grief had most possest.
At length, when they Occasion fittest found,
In dead of Night, when all the Thieves did rest
After a late Forray, and slept full sound,
Sir Calidore him arm'd, as he thought best,
Having of late (by diligent inquest)
Provided him a Sword of meanest sort:
With which he straight went to the Captain's Nest.
But Coridon durst not with him consort,
Ne durst abide behind, for dread of worse effort.
When to the Cave they came, they found it fast;
But Calidore, with huge resistless Might,
The Doors assailed, and the Locks up-brast.
With noise whereof the Thief awaking light,
Unto the Entrance ran: where the bold Knight
Encountring him, with small Resistance slew;
The whiles fair Pastorel through great affright
Was almost dead, misdoubting lest of new
Some Uproar were like that, which lately she did view.
But when as Calidore was comen in,
And 'gan aloud for Pastorel to call;
Knowing his Voice (although not heard long sin)
She suddain was revived there-withal,
And wondrous Joy felt in her Spirits thrall:
Like him that being long in Tempest tost,
Looking each Hour into Death's Mouth to fall,
At length espies at hand the happy Coast,
On which he Safety hopes, that earst fear'd to be lost.
Her gentle Heart, that now long season past
Had never Joyance felt, nor chearful Thought,
Began some smack of Comfort new to taste,
Like lifeful Heat to nummed Senses brought,
And Life to feel, that long for Death had sought:
Ne less in Heart rejoyced Calidore
When he her found; but like to one distraught,
And robb'd of Reason, towards her him bore,
A thousand times embrac'd, and kiss'd a thousand more.
But now by this, with noise of late Uproar,
The Hue and Cry was raised all about;
And all the Brigants, flocking in great store,
Unto the Cave 'gan press, nought having doubt
Of what was done, and entred in a rout.
But Calidore, in th' entry close did stand,
And entertaining them with Courage stout,
Still slew the formost that came first to hand,
So long, till all the entry was with Bodies mann'd.
Tho, when no more could nigh to him approach,
He breath'd his Sword, and rested him till Day:
Which when he spy'd upon the Earth t' encroach,
Through the dead Carcases he made his way;
'Mongst which he found a Sword of better say,
With which he forth went into th' open light
Where all the rest for him did ready stay,
And fierce assailing him, with all their Might
'Gan all upon him lay; there 'gan a dreadful Fight.
How many Flies in hottest Summer's-day
Do seize upon some Beast, whose Flesh is bare,
That all the place with Swarms do over-lay,
And with their little Stings right felly fare;
So many Thieves about him swarming are,
All which do him assail on every side,
And sore oppress, ne any him doth spare:
But he doth with his raging Brond divide
Their thickest Troops, and round about him scattereth wide.
Like as a Lion mongst an Heard of Deer,
Disperseth them to catch his choicest Prey;
So did he flie amongst them here and there,
And all that near him came, did hue and slay,
Till he had strow'd with Bodies all the way;
That none his Danger daring to abide,
Fled from his Wrath, and did themselves convey
Into their Caves, their Heads from Death to hide,
Ne any left, that Victory to him envide.
Then back returning to his dearest Dear,
He her 'gan to recomfort all he might,
With gladful Speeches, and with lovely Chear;
And forth her bringing to the joyous Light,
Whereof she long had lackt the wishful sight,
Deviz'd all goodly Means, from her to drive
The sad remembrance of her wretched Plight.
So, her uneath at last he did revive,
That long had been dead, and made again alive.
This done, into those thievish Dens he went,
And thence did all the Spoils and Theasures take,
Which they from many long had robb'd and rent,
But Fortune now the Victor's Meed did make;
Of which the best he did his Love betake:
And also all those Flocks, which they before
Had reft from Melibee, and from his Make,
He did them all to Coridon restore.
So, drove them all away, and his Love with him bore.
[Works, ed. Hughes (1715) 4:984-96]