The Faerie Queene/Book I/Canto X

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The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spenser
Canto X


        Her faithfull knight faire Una brings
          to house of Holinesse,
        Where he is taught repentance, and
          the way to heavenly blesse.


                    I
WHAT man is he, that boasts of fleshly might
  And vaine assurance of mortality,
  Which all so soone as it doth come to fight
  Against spirituall foes, yeelds by and by,
  Or from the field most cowardly doth fly?
  Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill,
  That thorough grace hath gained victory.
  If any strength we have, it is to ill,
But all the good is Gods, both power and eke will.


                    II
But that, which lately hapned, Una saw,
  That this her knight was feeble, and too faint;
  And all his sinews woxen weake and raw,
  Through long enprisonment, and hard constraint,
  Which he endured in his late restraint,
  That yet he was unfit for bloudy fight:
  Therefore to cherish him with diets daint,
  She cast to bring him, where he chearen might.
Till he recovered had his late decayed plight.


                    III
There was an auntient house^ not farre away,
  Renowmd throughout the world for sacred lore,
  And pure unspotted life: so well they say
  It governd was, and guided evermore,
  Through wisedome of a matrone grave and hore
  Whose onely joy was to relieve the needes
  Of wretched soules, and helpe the helpelesse pore:
  All night she spent in bidding of her bedes,
And all the day in doing good and godly deedes.


                    IV
Dame Cœlia^ men did her call, as thought
  From heaven to come, or thither to arise,
  The mother of three daughters, well upbrought
  In goodly thewes, and godly exercise:
  The eldest two, most sober, chast, and wise,
  Fidelia^ and Speranza virgins were,
  Though spousd, yet wanting wedlocks solemnize:
  But faire Charissa^ to a lovely fere
Was lincked, and by him had many pledges dere.


                    V
Arrived there, the dore they find fast lockt;
  For it was warely watched night and day,
  For feare of many foes: but when they knockt,
  The Porter opened unto them streight way:
  He was an aged syre, all hory gray,
  With lookes full lowly cast, and gate full slow,
  Wont on a staffe his feeble steps to stay,
  Hight Humiltà.^ They passe in stouping low;
For streight and narrow was the way which he did show.


                    VI
Each goodly thing is hardest to begin,
  But entred in a spacious court they see,
  Both plaine, and pleasant to be walked in,
  Where them does meete a francklin faire and free,
  And entertaines with comely courteous glee,
  His name was Zele, that him right well became,
  For in his speeches and behaviour hee
  Did labour lively to expresse the same,
And gladly did them guide, till to the Hall they came.


                    VII
There fairely them receives a gentle Squire,
  Of milde demeanure, and rare courtesie,
  Right cleanly clad in comely sad attire;
  In word and deede that shew'd great modestie,
  And knew his good^ to all of each degree,
  Hight Reverence. He them with speeches meet
  Does faire entreat; no courting nicetie,
  But simple true, and eke unfained sweet,
As might become a Squire so great persons to greet.


                    VIII
And afterwards them to his Dame he leades,
  That aged Dame, the Ladie of the place:
  Who all this while was busy at her beades:
  Which doen, she up arose with seemely grace,
  And toward them full matronely did pace.
  Where when that fairest Una she beheld,
  Whom well she knew to spring from heavenly race,
  Her hart with joy unwonted inly sweld,
As feeling wondrous comfort in her weaker eld.


                    IX
And her embracing said, O happie earth,
  Whereon thy innocent feet doe ever tread,
  Most vertuous virgin borne of heavenly berth,
  That, to redeeme thy woefull parents head,
  From tyrans rage, and ever dying dread,^
  Hast wandred through the world now long a day;^
  Yet ceasest not thy weary soles to lead,^
  What grace hath thee now hither brought this way?
Or doen thy feeble feet unweeting hither stray?


                    X
Strange thing it is an errant knight to see
  Here in this place, or any other wight,
  That hither turnes his steps. So few there bee
  That chose the narrow path, or seeke the right:
  All keepe the broad high way, and take delight
  With many rather for to go astray,
  And be partakers of their evill plight,
  Then with a few to walke the rightest way;
O foolish men, why haste ye to your owne decay?


                    XI
Thy selfe to see, and tyred limbes to rest,
  O matrone sage (quoth she) I hither came;
  And this good knight his way with me addrest,
  Led with thy prayses and broad-blazed fame,
  That up to heaven is blowne. The auncient Dame
  Him goodly greeted in her modest guise,
  And entertaynd them both, as best became,
  With all the court'sies that she could devise,
Ne wanted ought, to shew her bounteous or wise.


                    XII
Thus as they gan of sundry things devise,
  Loe two most goodly virgins came in place,
  Ylinked arme in arme in lovely wise,
  With countenance demure, and modest grace,
  They numbred even steps and equall pace:
  Of which the eldest, that Fidelia hight,
  Like sunny beames threw from her christall face,
  That could have dazd the rash beholders sight,
And round about her head did shine like heavens light.


                    XIII
She was araied all in lilly white,^
  And in her right hand bore a cup of gold,
  With wine and water fild up to the hight,
  In which a Serpent did himselfe enfold,
  That horrour made to all that did behold;
  But she no whit did chaunge her constant mood:
  And in her other hand she fast did hold
  A booke, that was both signd and seald with blood:
Wherin darke things were writ, hard to be understood.


                    XIV
Her younger sister, that Speranza hight,
  Was clad in blew, that her beseemed well;
  Not all so chearefull seemed she of sight,
  As was her sister; whether dread did dwell,
  Or anguish in her hart, is hard to tell:
  Upon her arme a silver anchor lay,
  Whereon she leaned ever, as befell:
  And ever up to heaven, as she did pray,
Her stedfast eyes were bent, ne swarved other way.


                    XV
They seeing Una, towards her gan wend,
  Who them encounters with like courtesie;
  Many kind speeches they betwene them spend,
  And greatly joy each other well to see:
  Then to the knight with shamefast modestie
  They turne themselves, at Unaes meeke request,
  And him salute with well beseeming glee;
  Who faire them quites, as him beseemed best,
And goodly gan discourse of many a noble gest.


                    XVI
Then Una thus; But she your sister deare,
  The deare Charissa where is she become?
  Or wants she health, or busie is elsewhere?
  Ah no, said they, but forth she may not come:
  For she of late is lightned of her wombe,
  And hath encreast the world with one sonne more,
  That her to see should be but troublesome.
  Indeed (quoth she) that should be trouble sore;
But thankt be God, and her encrease^ so evermore.


                    XVII
Then said the aged Cœlia, Deare dame,
  And you good Sir, I wote that of youre toyle,
  And labours long, through which ye hither came,
  Ye both forwearied be: therefore a whyle
  I read you rest, and to your bowres recoyle.
  Then called she a Groome, that forth him led
  Into a goodly lodge, and gan despoile
  Of puissant armes, and laid in easie bed;
His name was meeke Obedience rightfully ared.


                    XVIII
Now when their wearie limbes with kindly rest,
  And bodies were refresht with due repast,
  Faire Una gan Fidelia faire request,
  To have her knight into her schoolehouse plaste,
  That of her heavenly learning he might taste,
  And heare the wisedom of her words divine.
  She graunted, and that knight so much agraste,
  That she him taught celestiall discipline,
And opened his dull eyes, that light mote in them shine.


                    XIX
And that her sacred Booke, with blood ywrit,
  That none could read, except she did them teach,
  She unto him disclosed every whit,
  And heavenly documents thereout did preach,
  That weaker wit of man could never reach,
  Of God, of grace, of justice, of free will,
  That wonder was to heare her goodly speach:
  For she was able with her words to kill,
And raise againe to life the hart that she did thrill.


                    XX
And when she list^ poure out her larger spright,
  She would commaund the hastie Sunne to stay,
  Or backward turne his course from heavens hight;
  Sometimes great hostes of men she could dismay;
  [Dry-shod to passe she parts the flouds in tway;^]
  And eke huge mountaines from their native seat
  She would commaund, themselves to beare away,
  And throw in raging sea with roaring threat.
Almightie God her gave such powre, and puissaunce great.


                    XXI
The faithfull knight now grew in litle space,
  By hearing her, and by her sisters lore,
  To such perfection of all heavenly grace,
  That wretched world he gan for to abhore,
  And mortall life gan loath, as thing forlore,
  Greevd with remembrance of his wicked wayes,
  And prickt with anguish of his sinnes so sore,
  That he desirde to end his wretched dayes:
So much the dart of sinfull guilt the soule dismayes.


                    XXII
But wise Speranza gave him comfort sweet,
  And taught him how to take assured hold
  Upon her silver anchor, as was meet;
  Else had his sinnes so great and manifold
  Made him forget all that Fidelia told.
  In this distressed doubtfull agonie,
  When him his dearest Una did behold,
  Disdeining life, desiring leave to die,
She found her selfe assayld with great perplexitie.


                    XXIII
And came to Cœlia to declare her smart,
  Who well acquainted with that commune plight,
  Which sinfull horror workes in wounded hart,
  Her wisely comforted all that she might,
  With goodly counsell and advisement right;
  And streightway sent with carefull diligence,
  To fetch a Leach, the which had great insight
  In that disease of grieved conscience,
And well could cure the same; his name was Patience.


                    XXIV
Who comming to that soule-diseased knight,
  Could hardly him intreat^ to tell his griefe:
  Which knowne, and all that noyd his heavie spright
  Well searcht, eftsoones he gan apply relief
  Of salves and med'cines, which had passing priefe,
  And thereto added words of wondrous might;^
  By which to ease he him recured briefe,
  And much aswag'd the passion of his plight,^
That he his paine endur'd, as seeming now more light.


                    XXV
But yet the cause and root of all his ill,
  Inward corruption and infected sin,
  Not purg'd nor heald, behind remained still,
  And festring sore did rankle yet within,
  Close creeping twixt the marrow and the skin.
  Which to extirpe, he laid him privily
  Downe in a darkesome lowly place farre in,
  Whereas he meant his corrosives to apply,
And with streight diet tame his stubborne malady.


                    XXVI
In ashes and sackcloth he did array
  His daintie corse, proud humors to abate,
  And dieted with fasting every day,
  The swelling of his wounds to mitigate,
  And made him pray both earely and eke late:
  And ever as superfluous flesh did rot
  Amendment readie still at hand did wayt,
  To pluck it out with pincers firie whot,
That soone in him was left no one corrupted jot.


                    XXVII
And bitter Penance with an yron whip,
  Was wont him once to disple every day:
  And sharpe Remorse his hart did pricke and nip,
  That drops of blood thence like a well did play:
  And sad Repentance used to embay
  His bodie in salt water smarting sore,
  The filthy blots of sinne to wash away.
  So in short space they did to health restore
The man that would not live, but earst lay at deathes dore.


                    XXVIII
In which his torment often was so great,
  That like a Lyon he would cry and rore,
  And rend his flesh, and his owne synewes eat.
  His owne deare Una hearing evermore
  His ruefull shriekes and gronings, often tore
  Her guiltlesse garments, and her golden heare,
  For pitty of his paine and anguish sore;
  Yet all with patience wisely she did beare;
For well she wist his crime could else be never cleare.


                    XXIX
Whom thus recover'd by wise Patience
  And trew Repentaunce they to Una brought:
  Who joyous of his cured conscience,
  Him dearely kist, and fairely eke besought
  Himselfe to chearish, and consuming thought
  To put away out of his carefull brest.
  By this Charissa, late in child-bed brought,
  Was woxen strong, and left her fruitfull nest;
To her faire Una brought this unacquainted guest.


                    XXX
She was a woman in her freshest age,^
  Of wondrous beauty, and of bountie rare,
  With goodly grace and comely personage,
  That was on earth not easie to compare;
  Full of great love, but Cupid's wanton snare
  As hell she hated, chast in worke and will;
  Her necke and breasts were ever open bare,
  That ay thereof her babes might sucke their fill;
The rest was all in yellow robes arayed still.


                    XXXI
A multitude of babes about her hong,
  Playing their sports, that joyd her to behold,
  Whom still she fed, whiles they were weake and young,
  But thrust them forth still as they wexed old:
  And on her head she wore a tyre of gold,
  Adornd with gemmes and owches wondrous faire,
  Whose passing price^ uneath was to be told:
  And by her side there sate a gentle paire
Of turtle doves, she sitting in an yvorie chaire.


                    XXXII
The knight and Una entring faire her greet,
  And bid her joy of that her happie brood;
  Who them requites with court'sies seeming meet,
  And entertaines with friendly chearefull mood.
  Then Una her besought, to be so good
  As in her vertuous rules to schoole her knight,
  Now after all his torment well withstood,
  In that sad house of Penaunce, where his spright
Had past the paines of hell, and long enduring night.


                    XXXIII
She was right joyous of her just request,
  And taking by the hand that Faeries sonne,
  Gan him instruct in every good behest,
  Of love, and righteousnesse, and well to donne,^
  And wrath, and hatred warely to shonne,
  That drew on men Gods hatred and his wrath,
  And many soules in dolours had fordonne:
  In which when him she well instructed hath,
From thence to heaven she teacheth him the ready path.


                    XXXIV
Wherein his weaker wandring steps to guide,
  An auncient matrone she to her does call,
  Whose sober lookes her wisedome well descride:
  Her name was Mercie, well knowne over all,
  To be both gratious, and eke liberall:
  To whom the carefull charge of him she gave,
  To lead aright, that he should never fall
  In all his wayes through this wide worldes wave,
That Mercy in the end his righteous soule might save.


                    XXXV
The godly Matrone by the hand him beares
  Forth from her presence, by a narrow way,
  Scattred with bushy thornes, and ragged breares,
  Which still before him she remov'd away,
  That nothing might his ready passage stay:
  And ever when his feet encombred were,
  Or gan to shrinke, or from the right to stray,
  She held him fast, and firmely did upbeare,
As carefull Nourse her child from falling oft does reare.


                    XXXVI
Eftsoones unto an holy Hospitall,
  That was fore by the way, she did him bring,
  In which seven Bead-men^ that had vowed all
  Their life to service of high heavens king,
  Did spend their dayes in doing godly thing:
  Their gates to all were open evermore,
  That by the wearie way were traveiling,
  And one sate wayting ever them before,
To call in commers by, that needy were and pore.


                    XXXVII
The first of them that eldest was, and best,
  Of all the house had charge and governement,
  As Guardian and Steward of the rest:
  His office was to give entertainement
  And lodging, unto all that came, and went:
  Not unto such, as could him feast againe,
  And double quite, for that he on them spent,
  But such, as want of harbour did constraine:
Those for Gods sake his dewty was to entertaine.


                    XXXVIII
The second was as Almner of the place,
  His office was, the hungry for to feed,
  And thristy give to drinke, a worke of grace:
  He feard not once him selfe to be in need,
  Ne car'd to hoord for those whom he did breede:
  The grace of God he layd up still in store,
  Which as a stocke he left unto his seede;
  He had enough, what need him care for more?
And had he lesse, yet some he would give to the pore.


                    XXXIX
The third had of their wardrobe custodie,
  In which were not rich tyres, nor garments gay,
  The plumes of pride, and wings of vanitie,
  But clothes meet to keepe keene could away,
  And naked nature seemely to aray;
  With which bare wretched wights he dayly clad,
  The images of God in earthly clay;
  And if that no spare cloths to give he had,
His owne coate he would cut, and it distribute glad.


                    XL
The fourth appointed by his office was,
  Poore prisoners to relieve with gratious ayd,
  And captives to redeeme with price of bras,^
  From Turkes^ and Sarazins, which them had stayd,
  And though they faultie were, yet well he wayd,
  That God to us forgiveth every howre
  Much more then that why they in bands were layd,
  And he that harrowd^ hell with heavie stowre,
The faultie soules from thence brought to his heavenly bowre.


                    XLI
The fift had charge sicke persons to attend,
  And comfort those, in point of death which lay;
  For them most needeth comfort in the end,
  When sin, and hell, and death do most dismay
  The feeble soule departing hence away.
  All is but lost, that living we bestow,
  If not well ended at our dying day.
  O man have mind of that last bitter throw
For as the tree does fall, so lyes it ever low.


                    XLII
The sixt had charge of them now being dead,
  In seemely sort their corses to engrave,
  And deck with dainty flowres their bridall bed,
  That to their heavenly spouse both sweet and brave
  They might appeare, when he their soules shall save.^
  The wondrous workmanship of Gods owne mould,
  Whose face he made all beasts to feare, and gave
  All in his hand, even dead we honour should.
Ah dearest God me graunt, I dead be not defould.^


                    XLIII
The seventh, now after death and buriall done,
  Had charge the tender orphans of the dead
  And widowes ayd,^ least they should be undone:
  In face of judgement^ he their right would plead,
  Ne ought the powre of mighty men did dread
  In their defence, nor would for gold or fee
  Be wonne their rightfull causes downe to tread:
  And, when they stood in most necessitee,
He did supply their want, and gave them ever free.


                    XLIV
There when the Elfin knight arrived was,
  The first and chiefest of the seven, whose care
  Was guests to welcome, towardes him did pas:
  Where seeing Mercie, that his steps upbare,
  And alwayes led, to her with reverence rare
  He humbly louted in meeke lowlinesse,
  And seemely welcome for her did prepare:
  For of their order she was Patronesse,
Albe Charissa were their chiefest founderesse.


                    XLV
There she awhile him stayes, him selfe to rest,
  That to the rest more able he might bee:
  During which time, in every good behest
  And godly worke of almes and charitee,
  She him instructed with great industree;
  Shortly therein so perfect he became,
  That from the first unto the last degree,
  His mortall life he learned had to frame
In holy righteousnesse, without rebuke or blame.


                    XLVI
Thence forward by that painfull way they pas,
  Forth to an hill, that was both steepe and hy;
  On top whereof a sacred chappell was,
  And eke a little Hermitage thereby,
  Wherein an aged holy man did lye,
  That day and night said his devotion,
  Ne other worldly busines did apply;
  His name was heavenly Contemplation;
Of God and goodnesse was his meditation.


                    XLVII
Great grace that old man to him given had;
  For God he often saw from heavens hight,
  All were his earthly eyen both blunt and bad,
  And through great age had lost their kindly sight,
  Yet wondrous quick and persant was his spright,
  As Eagles eye, that can behold the Sunne:
  That hill they scale with all their powre and might,
  That his^ fraile thighes nigh weary and fordonne
Gan faile, but by her^ helpe the top at last he wonne.


                    XLVIII
There they do finde that godly aged Sire,
  With snowy lockes adowne his shoulders shed,
  As hoarie frost with spangles doth attire
  The mossy braunches of an Oke halfe ded.
  Each bone might through his body well be red,
  And every sinew seene through his long fast:
  For nought he car'd^ his carcas long unfed;
  His mind was full of spirituall repast,
And pyn'd his flesh, to keepe his body low and chast.


                    XLIX
Who when these two approaching he aspide,
  At their first presence grew agrieved sore,
  That forst him lay his heavenly thoughts aside;
  And had he not that Dame respected more,
  Whom highly he did reverence and adore,
  He would not once have moved for the knight.
  They him saluted, standing far afore;
  Who well them greeting, humbly did requight,
And asked, to what end they clomb that tedious height.


                    L
What end (quoth she) should cause us take such paine,
  But that same end which every living wight
  Should make his marke, high heaven to attaine?
  Is not from hence the way, that leadeth right
  To that most glorious house that glistreth bright
  With burning starres and everliving fire,
  Whereof the keyes are to thy hand behight
  By wise Fidelia? She doth thee require,
To show it to his knight, according his desire.


                    LI
Thrise happy man, said then the father grave,
  Whose staggering steps thy steady hand doth lead,
  And shewes the way, his sinfull soule to save.
  Who better can the way to heaven aread,
  Then thou thy selfe, that was both borne and bred
  In heavenly throne, where thousand Angels shine?
  Thou doest the prayers of the righteous sead
  Present before the majestie divine,
And his avenging wrath to clemencie incline.


                    LII
Yet since thou bidst, thy pleasure shal be donne.
  Then come thou man of earth, and see the way,
  That never yet was seene of Faeries sonne,
  That never leads the traveiler astray,
  But after labors long, and sad delay,
  Brings them to joyous rest and endlesse blis.
  But first thou must a season fast and pray,
  Till from her bands the spright assoiled is,
And have her strength recur'd from fraile infirmitis.


                    LIII
That donne, he leads him to the highest Mount;
  Such one as that same mighty man^ of God,
  That blood-red billowes^ like a walled front
  On either side disparted with his rod,
  Till that his army dry-foot through them yod,
  Dwelt forty dayes upon; where writ in stone
  With bloudy letters by the hand of God,
  The bitter doome of death and balefull mone
He did receive, whiles flashing fire about him shone.


                    LIV
Or like that sacred hill,^ whose head full hie,
  Adornd with fruitfull Olives all arownd,
  Is, as it were for endlesse memory
  Of that deare Lord who oft thereon was fownd,
  For ever with a flowring girlond crownd:
  Or like that pleasaunt Mount,^ that is for ay
  Through famous Poets verse each where renownd,
  On which the thrise three learned Ladies play
Their heavenly notes, and make full many a lovely lay.


                    LV
From thence, far off he unto him did shew
  A litle path, that was both steepe and long,
  Which to a goodly Citie^ led his vew;
  Whose wals and towres were builded high and strong
  Of perle and precious stone, that earthly tong
  Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;
  Too high a ditty for my simple song;
  The Citie of the great king hight it well,
Wherein eternall peace and happinesse doth dwell.


                    LVI
As he thereon stood gazing, he might see
  The blessed Angels to and fro descend
  From highest heaven in gladsome companee,
  And with great joy into that Citie wend,
  As commonly as friend does with his frend.
  Whereat he wondred much, and gan enquere,
  What stately building durst so high extend
  Her loftie towres unto the starry sphere,
And what unknowen nation there empeopled were.


                    LVII
Faire knight (quoth he) Hierusalem that is,
  The new Hierusalem, that God has built
  For those to dwell in, that are chosen his,
  His chosen people purg'd from sinfull guilt
  With pretious blood, which cruelly was spilt
  On cursed tree, of that unspotted lam,
  That for the sinnes of al the world was kilt:
  Now are they Saints all in that Citie sam,
More dear unto their God then younglings to their dam.


                    LVIII
Till now, said then the knight, I weened well,
  That great Cleopolis,^ where I have beene,
  In which that fairest Faerie Queene doth dwell,
  The fairest citie was that might be seene;
  And that bright towre all built of christall cleene,
  Panthea,^ seemd the brightest thing that was:
  But now by proofe all otherwise I weene;
  For this great Citie that does far surpas,
And this bright Angels towre quite dims that towre of glas.


                    LIX
Most trew, then said the holy aged man;
  Yet is Cleopolis, for earthly frame,^
  The fairest peece that eye beholden can;
  And well beseemes all knights of noble name,
  That covett in th' immortall booke of fame
  To be eternized, that same to haunt,
  And doen their service to that soveraigne dame,
  That glorie does to them for guerdon graunt:
For she is heavenly borne, and heaven may justly vaunt.


                    LX
And thou faire ymp, sprong out from English race,
  How ever now accompted Elfins sonne,
  Well worthy doest thy service for her grace,
  To aide a virgin desolate fordonne.
  But when thou famous victory hast wonne,
  And high emongst all knights hast hong thy shield,
  Thenceforth the suit of earthly conquest shonne,
  And wash thy hands from guilt of bloudy field:
For blood can nought but sin, and wars but sorrowes yield.


                    LXI
Then seek this path, that I to thee presage,
  Which after all to heaven shall thee send;
  Then peaceably thy painefull pilgrimage
  To yonder same Hierusalem do bend,
  Where is for thee ordaind a blessed end:
  For thou emongst those Saints, whom thou doest see,
  Shall be a Saint, and thine owne nations frend
  And Patrone: thou Saint George shalt called bee,
Saint George^ of mery England, the signe of victoree.


                    LXII
Unworthy wretch (quoth he) of so great grace,^
  How dare I thinke such glory to attaine?
  These that have it attaind, were in like cace,
  (Quoth he) as wretched, and liv'd in like paine.
  But deeds of armes must I at last be faine
  And Ladies love to leave so dearely bought?
  What need of armes, where peace doth ay remaine,
  (Said he,) and battailes none are to be fought?
As for loose loves, they're vain, and vanish into nought.


                    LXIII
O let me not (quoth he) then turne againe
  Backe to the world, whose joyes so fruitlesse are;
  But let me here for aye in peace remaine,
  Or streight way on that last long voyage fare,
  That nothing may my present hope empare.
  That may not be, (said he) ne maist thou yit
  Forgo that royall maides bequeathed care,^
  Who did her cause into thy hand commit,
Till from her cursed foe thou have her freely quit.


                    LXIV
Then shall I soone (quoth he) so God me grace,
  Abet that virgins cause disconsolate,
  And shortly backe returne unto this place,
  To walke this way in Pilgrims poore estate.
  But now aread, old father, why of late
  Didst thou behight me borne of English blood,
  Whom all a Faeries sonne doen nominate?
  That word shall I (said he) avouchen good,
Sith to thee is unknowne the cradle of thy blood.


                    LXV
For well I wote thou springst from ancient race
  Of Saxon kings, that have with mightie hand
  And many bloody battailes^ fought in place
  High reard their royall throne in Britane land,
  And vanquisht them, unable to withstand:
  From thence a Faerie thee unweeting reft,
  There as thou slepst in tender swadling band,
  And her base Elfin brood there for thee left.
Such men do Chaungelings^ call, so chang'd by Faeries theft.


                    LXVI
Thence she thee brought into this Faerie lond,
  And in an heaped furrow did thee hyde,
  Where thee a Ploughman all unweeting fond,
  As he his toylesome teme that way did guyde,
  And brought thee up in ploughmans state to byde
  Whereof Georgos^ he gave thee to name;
  Till prickt with courage, and thy forces pryde,
  To Faerie court thou cam'st to seeke for fame,
And prove thy puissaunt armes, as seemes thee best became.


                    LXVII
O holy Sire (quoth he) how shall I quight
  The many favours I with thee have found,
  That hast my name and nation red aright,
  And taught the way that does to heaven bound?
  This said, adowne he looked to the ground,
  To have returnd, but dazed were his eyne
  Through passing brightnesse, which did quite confound
  His feeble sence and too exceeding shyne.
So darke are earthly things compard to things divine.


                    LXVIII
At last whenas himselfe he gan to find,
  To Una back he cast him to retire;
  Who him awaited still with pensive mind.
  Great thankes and goodly meed to that good syre
  He thence departing gave for his paines hyre.
  So came to Una, who him joyd to see,
  And after little rest, gan him desire
  Of her adventure mindfull for to bee.
So leave they take of Cœlia, and her daughters three.