George L. Craik: "Canto VIII. (56 stanzas). — This Canto, again, is one of more business or action than poetic splendour. It is introduced, however, by some lines of great beauty. 'O,' exclaims the poet, 'the exceeding grace of highest God, that loves his creatures so, as even to send to and fro his blessed angels in the service of wicked man!'... While Guyon has been with Mammon the palmer has found at another place a passage across the lake, and has now come near to where the knight lies entranced, when he is drawn to the spot by the loud outcry of a rueful voice. When he comes up lie is alarmed by the sight of his friend stretched on the ground apparently senseless: — 'Beside his head there sate a fair young man, | Of wondrous beauty and of freshest years'.... The angel, for such it is, commits Guyon to the charge of the palmer, and then, spreading 'his painted nimble wings,' vanishes away.
"The palmer has just discovered that life is not yet quite extinct, when he perceives pacing towards them 'two paynim knights all armed as bright as sky,' accompanied by an aged sire, and preceded by a lightfooted page. These are the 'two sons of Acrates old,' Pyrochles and Cymochles; the old man is Archimago; the page, Atin. Despite the fearless reproaches of the palmer, they proceed to strip Guyon of his armour; but are stopped by the advance of 'An armed knight, of hold and bounteous grace, | Whose squire bore after him an ebon lance | And covered shield: well kenned him so far space'.... It is Prince Arthur himself. Roused by the magician, the two brothers betake them to their arms; and Pyrochles, being without a sword, requests Archimago to lend him the one he carries, that namely which he had procured for Braggadoccio. The enchanter replies that he gladly would, but that this is in fact Prince Arthur's own sword, and as such entirely useless in the present case; Merlin made it for the prince 'by his almighty art,' when he was sworn a knight.... Wherefore, he adds, it is rightly called Mordure, that is, the hard-biter.
"Pyrochles, however, scouts the notion of sharp steel knowing any difference between one man's flesh and another's, and snatches the weapon out of the old man's hand, binding at the same time Guyon's shield about his wrist. When the prince, having come up, has looked upon the armed corse of the knight, 'in whose dead face he read great magnanimity,' he is informed by the palmer of the outrage the two paynims had been about to commit. A courteous appeal on his part is met by arrogance and insolence on theirs; they fall upon him together, and without warning; but the good sword Mordure does not forget its duty, and, though for a time hard pressed, he comes off at last victorious over both. Once, having been thrown from his saddle to the ground — 'wanting his sword when he on foot should fight' — he is rescued from extreme peril by the palmer reaching him Guyon's; then, we are told, 'like a lion, which had long time sought | His robbed whelps, and at the last them found | Amongst the shepherd swains, then wexeth wood and yond'.... Cymochles is slain, and then Pyrochles, forced at last to throw away the worse than useless Mordure, is soon quieted, but will not accept of life, and so his head is also smitten off. Guyon now awakes and recognises the prince. Meanwhile both Archimago and Atin have taken to their heels" Spenser and his Poetry (1845; 1871) 1:224-27.
Sir Guyon, laid in Swoon, is by
Acrates' Sons despoil'd;
Whom Arthur soon hath rescued,
And Paynim Brethren foil'd.
And is there Care in Heaven? and is there Love
In heavenly Spirits to these Creatures base,
That may Compassion of their Evils move?
There is; else much more wretched were the case
Of Men, than Beasts. But O th' exceeding Grace
Of highest God! that loves his Creatures so,
And all his Works with Mercy doth embrace,
That blessed Angels he sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked Man, to serve his wicked Foe.
How oft do they their silver Bowers leave,
To come to succour us, that Succour want?
How oft do they, with golden Pinions, cleave
The flitting Skies, like flying Pursuivant,
Against foul Fiends to aid us militant?
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,
And all for Love and nothing for Reward:
O why should heavenly God to Men have such regard!
During the while that Guyon did abide
In Mammon's House, the Palmer, whom whylere
That wanton Maid of Passage had deny'd,
By further search had Passage found elsewhere,
And being on his way, approached near
Where Guyon lay in Traunce; when suddenly
He heard a Voice, that called loud and clear,
Come hither, hither, O come hastily!
That all the Fields resounded with the rueful Cry.
The Palmer lent his Ear unto the Noise,
To weet who called so importunely.
Again, he heard a more efforced Voice,
That bad him come in haste. He by and by
His feeble Feet directed to the Cry;
Which to that shady Delve him brought at last,
Where Mammon earst did sun his Threasury:
There the good Guyon he found slumbring fast
In sensless Dream; which sight at first him sore aghast.
Beside his Head there sat a fair young Man,
Of wondrous Beauty, and of freshest Years,
Whose tender Bud to blossom new began,
And flourish fair above his equal Peers:
His snowy Front curled with golden Hairs,
Like Phoebus' Face adorn'd with sunny Rays,
Divinely shone; and two sharp winged Shears,
Decked with divers Plumes, like painted Jays,
Were fixed at his Back, to cut his airy ways.
Like as Cupido on Idaean Hill,
When having laid his cruel Bow away,
And mortal Arrows, where-with he doth fill
The World with murd'rous Spoils and bloody Prey,
With his fair Mother he him dights to play,
And with his goodly Sisters, Graces three;
The Goddess pleased with his wanton play,
Suffers her self; through sleep, beguil'd to be,
The whiles the other Ladies mind their merry glee.
Whom when the Palmer saw, abash'd he was
Through Fear and Wonder, that he nought could say,
Till him the Child bespake; Long lack'd, alas,
Hath been thy faithful Aid in hard assay,
Whiles deadly Fit thy Pupil doth dismay:
Behold this heavy sight, thou reverend Sir,
But dread of Death and Dolour do away;
For, Life e'er long shall to her home retire,
And he that breathless seems, shall Courage bold respire.
The charge which God doth unto me arret,
Of his dear safety, I to thee commend;
Yet will I not forgo, ne yet forget
The care thereof (my self) unto the end,
But evermore him succour and defend
Against his Foe and mine: watch thou, I pray,
For, evil is at hand him to offend.
So having said, eftsoons he 'gan display
His painted nimble Wings, and vanish'd quite away.
The Palmer seeing his left empty place,
And his slow Eyes beguiled of their sight,
Wox sore affraid, and standing still a space,
Gaz'd after him, as Fowl escap'd by Flight:
At last, him turning to his charge behight,
With trembling Hand his troubled Pulse 'gan try;
Where finding Life not yet dislodged quite,
He much rejoic'd, and cour'd it tenderly,
As Chicken newly hatch'd, from dreaded Destiny.
At last, he spy'd where towards him did pace
Two Paynim Knights, all arm'd as bright as Sky;
And them beside an aged Sire did trace,
And far before a light-foot Page did fly,
That breathed strife and troublous Enmity;
Those were the two Sons of Acrates old;
Who meeting earst with Archimago fly,
Foreby that idle Strond, of him were told,
That he, which earst them combated, was Guyon bold.
Which to avenge on him they dearly vow'd,
Where-ever that on ground they mote him find;
False Archimage provok'd their Courage proud,
And strifeful Atin in their stubborn mind
Coals of Contention and hot Vengeance tin'd.
Now been they come whereas the Palmer sat,
Keeping that slumbred Corse to him assign'd;
Well knew they both his Person, sith of late
With him in bloody Arms they rashly did debate.
Whom when Pyrrochles saw, inflam'd with Rage,
That Sire he foul bespake; Thou Dotard vile,
That with thy bruteness shend'st thy comely Age,
Abandon soon, I reed, the caitive Spoil
Of that same out-cast Carcass, that e'erwhile
Made it self famous through false Treachery,
And crown'd his coward Crest with knightly Stile;
Lo where he now inglorious doth lie,
To prove he lived Ill that did thus foully die.
To whom the Palmer fearless answered;
Certes, Sir Knight, ye been too much to blame,
Thus for to blot the honour of the Dead,
And with foul Cowardise his Carcass name,
Whose living Hands immortaliz'd his Name.
Vile is the Vengeance on the Ashes cold,
And Envy base, to bark at sleeping Fame:
Was never Wight, that Treason of him told;
Your self his Prowess prov'd, and found him fierce and bold.
Then said Cymochles; Palmer, thou dost dote,
Ne canst of Prowess, ne of Knighthood deem,
Save as thou seest or hear'st: But, well I wote,
That of his Puissance trial made extream;
Yet Gold all is not, that doth golden seem,
Ne all good Knights, that make well Spear and Shield:
The Worth of all Men by their end esteem,
And then due Praise, or due Reproach them yield;
Bad therefore I him deem, that thus lies dead on Field.
Good or bad ('gan his Brother fierce reply)
What do I recke, sith that he dy'd entire?
Or what doth his bad Death now satisfy
The greedy Hunger of revenging Ire,
With wrathful Hand wrought not her own desire?
Yet sith no way is left to wreak my spite,
I will him reeve of Arms, the Victor's Hire,
And of that Shield, more worthy of good Knight;
For why should a dead Dog be deck'd in Armour bright?
Fair Sir, said then the Palmer suppliaunt,
For Knighthood's love do not so foul a Deed,
Ne blame your Honour with so shameful Vaunt
Of vile Revenge. To spoil the Dead of Weed
Is Sacrilege, and doth all Sins exceed:
But leave these Reliques of his living Might,
To deck his Hearse, and trap his tomb-black Steed.
What Hearse or Steed (said he) should he have dight,
But be entombed in the Raven or the Kite?
With that, rude hand upon his Shield he laid,
And th' other Brother 'gan his Helm unlace,
Both fiercely bent to have him disarray'd:
Till that they spy'd, where towards them did pace
An armed Knight, of bold and bounteous grace,
Whose Squire bore after him an heben Launce,
And covered Shield. Well kend him so far space
Th' Enchaunter by his Arms and Amenaunce,
When under him he saw his Lybian Steed to praunce:
And to those Brethren said; Rise, rise bylive,
And unto Battle do your selves address;
For, yonder comes the prowest Knight alive,
Prince Arthur, flower of Grace and Nobiless,
That hath to Paynim Knights wrought great Distress,
And thousand Sar'zins foully done to die.
That word so deep did in their Hearts impress,
That both eftsoons upstarted furiously,
And 'gan themselves prepare to Battle greedily.
But fierce Pyrrochles, lacking his own Sword,
The want thereof now greatly 'gan to 'plain,
And Archimage besought, him that afford,
Which he had brought for Braggadochio vain.
So would I, said th' Enchaunter, glad and fain
Beteem to you his Sword, you to defend,
Or ought that else your Honour might maintain,
But that this Weapon's Power I well have kend,
To be contrary to the work which ye intend.
For, that same Knight's own Sword this is of yore,
Which Merlin made by his almighty Art
For that his Noursling, when he Knighthood swore
There-with to doen his Foes eternal Smart.
The Metal first he mix'd with Medaewart,
That no Enchauntment from his Dint might save;
Then it in flames of Aetna wrought apart,
And seven times dipped in the bitter Wave
Of hellish Styx, which hidden Virtue to it gave.
The Virtue is, that neither Steel nor Stone,
The stroke thereof from Entrance may defend;
Ne ever may be used by his Fone,
Ne forc'd his rightful Owner to offend,
Ne ever will it break, ne ever bend:
Wherefore Mordure it rightfully is hight.
In vain therefore, Pyrrochles, should I lend
The same to thee, against his Lord to fight;
For, sure it would deceive thy Labour, and thy Might.
Foolish old Man, said then the Pagan wroth,
That weened Words or Charms may Force withstond:
Soon shalt thou see, and then believe for troth,
That I can carve with this enchaunted Brond
His Lord's own Flesh. There-with out of his Hond
That virtuous Steel he rudely snatch'd away,
And Guyon's Shield about his Wrist he bond:
So, ready dight fierce Battle to assay,
And match his Brother proud in battailous array.
By this, that stranger Knight in presence came,
And goodly salved them: who nought again
Him aunswered, as Courtesy became;
But with stern Looks, and stomachous Disdain,
Gave signs of Grudg and Discontentment vain.
Then, turning to the Palmer, he 'gan spy
Where at his feet, with sorrowful demain
And deadly Hue, an armed Corse did lie,
In whose dead face he read great Magnanimity.
Said he then to the Palmer; Reverend Sire,
What great Misfortune hath betid this Knight?
Or did his life nor fatal Date expire,
Or did he fall by Treason, or by Fight?
However, sure I rue his piteous Plight.
Not one, nor other, said the Palmer grave,
Hath him befallen, but Clouds of deadly Night
Awhile his heavy Eyelids cover'd have,
And all his Senses drowned in deep sensless Wave.
Which, those same Foes that doen awaite hereby,
Making advantage to revenge their Spight,
Would him disarm, and treaten shamefully;
(Unworthy usage of redoubled Knight.)
But you, fair Sir, whose honourable Sight
Doth promise hope of Help, and timely Grace,
Mote I beseech to succour his sad Plight,
And by your Power protect his feeble case:
First Praise of Knighthood is, foul Outrage to deface.
Palmer said he, no Knight so rude (I ween)
As to doen Outrage to a sleeping Ghost;
Ne was there ever noble Courage seen,
That in Advantage would his Puissance boast:
Honour is least, where Odds appeareth most.
May be that better Reason will assuage
The rash Revengers Heat. Words well dispos'd
Have secret Power t' appease inflamed Rage:
If not, leave unto me thy Knight's last Patronage.
Tho, turning to those Brethren, thus bespoke;
Ye warlike Pair, whose valorous great Might,
It seems, just Wrongs to Vengeance doth provoke,
To wreak your Wrath on this dead-seeming Knight,
Mote ought allay the storm of your Despight,
And settle Patience in so furious Heat?
Not to debate the Challenge of your right,
But for this Carcass pardon I entreat,
Whom Fortune hath already laid in lowest seat.
To whom Cymochles said: For what art thou,
That mak'st thy self his Day's-Man, to prolong
The Vengeance press'd? or who shall let me now
On this vile Body from to wreak my Wrong,
And make his Carcass as the outcast Dong?
Why should not that dead Carrion satisfy
The Guilt, which if he lived had thus long
His Life for due Revenge should dear aby?
The Trespass still doth live, albe the Person die.
Indeed, then said the Prince, the Evil done
Dies not, when Breath the Body first doth leave;
But from the Grandsire to the Nephew's Son,
And all his Seed the Curse doth often cleave,
Till Vengeance utterly the Guilt bereave:
So straitly God doth judg. But gentle Knight,
That doth against the Dead his Hand uprear,
His Honour stains with Rancour and Despight.
And great Disparagement makes to his former Might.
Pyrrochles 'gan reply the second time,
And to him said, Now Felon sure I read,
How that thou art Partaker of his Crime:
Therefore by Termagaunt thou shalt be dead.
With that, his Hand (more sad than Lump of Lead)
Uplifting high, he weened with Mordure,
His own good Sword Mordure, to cleave his Head.
The faithful Steel such Treason no'uld endure,
But swerving from the Mark, his Lord's Life did assure.
Yet was the Force so furious and so fell,
That Horse and Man it made to reel aside:
Nath'less the Prince would not forsake his Sell
(For, well of yore he learned had to ride)
But full of Anger fiercely to him cry'd;
False Traitor, Miscreant, thou broken hast
The Law of Arms, to strike Foe undefy'd:
But thou thy Treason's Fruit (I hope) shalt taste
Right sour, and feel the Law, the which thou hast defac'd.
With that, his baleful Spear he fiercely bent
Against the Pagan's Breast, and therewith thought
His cursed Life out of her Lodg have rent.
But e'er the Point arrived where it ought,
That seven-fold Shield, which he from Guyon brought,
He cast between, to ward the bitter Stound:
Thro all those Folds the steel-head Passage wrought,
And thro his Shoulder pierc'd; wherewith to ground
He groveling fell, all gored in his gushing Wound.
Which when his Brother saw, fraught with great Grief
And Wrath, he to him leaped furiously,
And foully said; By Mahoune, cursed Thief,
That direful Stroke thou dearly shalt aby.
Then hurling up his harmful Blade on high,
Smote him so hugely on his haughty Crest,
That from his Saddle forced him to fly:
Else mote it needs down to his manly Breast
Have cleft his Head in twain, and Life thence dispossess'd.
Now was the Prince in dangerous Distress,
Wanting his Sword, when he on foot should fight;
His single Spear could do him small Redress
Against two Foes of so exceeding Might,
The least of which was match for any Knight.
And now the other, whom he earst did daunt,
Had rear'd himself again to cruel Fight,
Three times more furious, and more puissaunt,
Unmindful of his Wound, of his Fate ignoraunt.
So, both at once him charge on either side,
With hideous Strokes, and importable Power,
That forced him his Ground to traverse wide,
And wisely watch to ward that deadly Stower.
For on his Shield, as thick as stormy Shower,
Their Strokes did rain, yet did he never quell,
Ne backward shrink; but as a stedfast Tower,
Whom Foe with double Battry doth assail,
Them on her Bulwark bears, and bids them nought avail.
So stoutly he withstood their strong Assay,
Till that at last, when he advantage spy'd,
His poinant Spear he thrust with puissant Sway
At proud Cymochles, whiles his Shield was wide,
That thro his Thigh the mortal Steel did gride:
He, swarving with the Force, within his Flesh
Did break the Launce, and let the Head abide:
Out of the Wound the red Blood flowed fresh,
That underneath his Feet soon made a purple Plesh.
Horribly then he 'gan to rage and rail,
Cursing his Gods, and himself damning deep:
Als when his Brother saw the red Blood trail
Adown so fast; and all his Armour steep,
For very Felness loud he 'gan to weep,
And said, Caitive, curse on thy cruel Hond,
That twice hath sped; yet shall it not thee keep
From the third Brunt of this my fatal Brond;
Lo! where the dreadful Death behind thy back doth stond.
With that he strook, and th' other strook withal;
That nothing seem'd mote bear so monstrous Might:
The one upon his cover'd Shield did fall,
And glauncing down, would not his Owner bite;
But th' other did upon his Troncheon smite;
Which hewing quite asunder, further way
It made, and on his Hacqueton did light,
The which dividing with importune Sway,
It seiz'd in his right side, and there the Dint did stay.
Wide was the Wound, and a large lukewarm Flood,
Red as the Rose, thence gushed grievously;
That when the Paynim spy'd the streaming Blood,
Gave him great heart, and hope of Victory.
On th' other side, in huge Perplexity,
The Prince now stood, having his Weapon broke;
Nought could he hurt, but still at ward did lie:
Yet with his Truncheon he so rudely stroke
Cymochles twice, that twice him forc'd his Foot revoke.
Whom when the Palmer saw in such Distress,
Sir Guyon's Sword he lightly to him wrought,
And said, Fair Son, great God thy right Hand bless,
To use that Sword so wisely as it ought.
Glad was the Knight, and with fresh Courage fraught,
When as again he armed felt his Hond;
Then like a Lion, which hath long time sought
His robbed Whelps, and at the last them found
Emongst the Shepherd Swains, then wexeth wood and yond.
So fierce he laid about him, and dealt Blows
On either side, that neither Mail could hold,
Ne Shield defend the Thunder of his Throws:
Now to Pyrrochles many Strokes he told;
Eft to Cymochles twice so many fold:
Then back again turning his busy Hond,
Them both at once compel'd with Courage bold,
To yield wide way to his heart-thrilling Brond:
And tho they both stood stiff, yet could not both withstond.
As salvage Bull, whom two fierce Mastives bait,
When Rancour doth with Rage him once engore,
Forgets with wary ward them to await,
But with his dreadful Horns them drives afore,
Or flings aloft, or treads down in the Floor;
Breathing out Wrath, and bellowing Disdain,
That all the Forest quakes to hear him roar:
So rag'd Prince Arthur 'twixt his Foemen twain,
That neither could his mighty Puissance sustain.
But ever at Pyrrochles when he smit
(Who Guyon's Shield cast ever him before,
Whereon the Fairy Queen's Pourtraict was writ)
His Hand relented, and the Stroke forbore,
And his dear Heart the Picture 'gan adore:
Which oft the Paynim sav'd from deadly Stower.
But him henceforth the same can save no more
For now arrived is his fatal Hour,
That no'te avoided be by earthly Skill or Power.
For when Cymochles saw the foul Reproach,
Which them appeached; prick'd with guilty Shame,
And inward Grief, he fiercely 'gan approach
Resolv'd to put away that loathly Blame,
Or die with Honour and Desert of Fame;
And on the Hauberk strook the Prince so sore,
That quite disparted all the linked Frame,
And pierced to the Skin, but bit no more,
Yet made him twice to reel, thee never mov'd afore.
Whereat renfierc'd with Wrath and sharp Regret,
He stroke so hugely with his borrow'd Blade,
That it empierc'd the Pagan's Burganet,
And cleaving the hard Steel, did deep invade
Into his Head, and cruel Passage made
Quite thro his Brain. He tumbling down on ground;
Breath'd out his Ghost; which to th' infernal Shade
Fast flying, there eternal Torment found,
For all the Sins wherewith his leud Life did abound.
Which when his German saw, the stony Fear
Ran to his Heart, and all his Sense dismay'd,
Ne thenceforth Life, ne Courage did appear;
But as a Man whom hellish Fiends have fray'd,
Long trembling still he stood: at last thus said;
Traitor, what hast thou doen? how ever may
Thy cursed Hand so cruelly have sway'd
Against that Knight? Hallow and weal-away!
After so wicked Deed, why liv'st thou lenger Day.
With that all desperate, as loathing Light,
And with Revenge desiring soon to die,
Assembling all his Force and utmost Might,
With his own Sword he fierce at him did fly,
And strook, and foin'd, and lash'd outrageously,
Withouten Reason or Regard. Well knew
The Prince, with Patience and Sufferance fly
So hasty Heat soon cooled to subdue;
Tho, when this breathless wox, that Battle 'gan renew.
As when a windy Tempest bloweth high,
That nothing may withstand his stormy Stower,
The Clouds (as things afraid) before him fly;
But all so soon as his outrageous Power
Is laid, they fiercely then begin to shower:
And as in Scorn of his spent stormy Spight;
Now all at once their Malice forth do pour;
So did Prince Arthur bear himself in Fight,
And suffer'd rash Pyrrochles waste his idle Might.
At last, when as the Sarazin perceiv'd
How that strange Sword refus'd to serve his need,
But when he strook most strong, the Dint deceiv'd,
He flong it from him, and devoid of Dreed,
Upon him lightly leaping without heed,
'Twixt his two mighty Arms engrasped fast,
Thinking to overthrow, and down him tred:
But him in Strength and Skill the Prince surpast,
And thro his nimble Sleight did under him down cast.
Nought booted it the Paynim then to strive:
For, as a Bittur in the Eagle's Claw,
That may not hope by Flight to 'scape alive,
Still waits for Death with Dread and trembling Awe;
So he, now subject to the Victor's Law,
Did not once move, nor upward cast his Eye,
For vile Disdain and Rancour, which did gnaw
His Heart in twain with sad Melancholy,
As one that loathed Life, and yet despis'd to die.
But full of Princely Bounty and great Mind,
The Conqueror nought cared him to slay,
But casting Wrongs and all Revenge behind,
More Glory thought to give Life, than decay,
And said, Paynim, this is thy dismal Day;
Yet if thou wilt renounce thy Miscreance,
And my true Liegeman yield thy self for ay,
Life will I graunt thee for thy Valiance,
And all thy Wrongs will wipe out my Sovenance.
Fool, said the Pagan, I thy Gift defy:
But use thy Fortune as it doth befal,
And say, that I not overcome do die,
But in despight of Life, for Death do call.
Wroth was the Prince, and sorry yet withal
That he so wilfully refused Grace;
Yet sith his Fate so cruelly did fall,
His shining Helmet he 'gan soon unlace,
And left his headless Body bleeding all the place.
By this, Sir Guyon from his Traunce awak'd,
Life having maistrered her sensless Foe;
And looking up, when as his Shield he lack'd,
And Sword saw not, he wexed wondrous woe:
But when the Palmer, whom he long ygoe
Had lost, he by him spy'd, right glad he grew,
And said, Dear Sir, whom wandring to and fro,
I long have lack'd, I joy thy Face to view;
Firm is thy Faith, whom Danger never fro me drew.
But read what wicked Hand hath robbed me
Of my good Sword and Shield. The Palmer glad
With so fresh Hue uprising him to see,
Him answered; Fair Son, be no whit sad
For want of Weapons: they shall soon be had.
So 'gan he to discourse the whole Debate,
Which that strange Knight for him sustained had,
And those two Sarazins confounded late,
Whose Carcases on ground were horribly prostrate.
Which when he heard, and saw the Tokens true,
His Heart with great Affection was embay'd,
And to the Prince with bowing Reverence due,
As to the Patrone of his Life, thus said;
My Lord, my Liege, by whose most gracious Aid
I live this day, and see my Foes subdu'd,
What may suffice, to be for Meed repay'd
Of so great Graces, as ye have me shew'd,
But to be ever bound—?
To whom the Infant thus; Fair Sir, what need
Good Turns be counted as a servile Bond,
To bind their Doers to receive their Meed?
Are not all Knights by Oath bound, to withstond
Oppressors Power by Arms and puissant Hond?
Suffice, that I have done my due in place,
So, goodly Purpose they together fond,
Of Kindness and of curteous Aggrace;
The while false Archimage and Atin fled apace.
[Works, ed. Hughes (1715) 2:280-94]