Blyndfold he was; and in his cruell fist
A mortall bow and arrowes keene did hold,
With which he shot at randon when him list,
Some headed with sad lead, some with pure gold;
(Ah! man, beware how thou those dartes behold !)
A wounded dragon under him did ly,
Whose hideous tayle his lefte foot did enfold,
And with a shaft was shot through either eye,
That no man forth might draw, ne no man remedye.
And underneath his feet was written thus,
Unto the Victor of the gods this bee:
And all the people in that ample hous
Did tò that image bowe their humble knee,
And oft committed fowle idolatree.
That wondrous sight faire Britomart amazd,
Ne seeing could her wonder satisfie,
But ever more and more upon it gazd,
The whiles the passing brightnes her fraile sences dazd.
Tho, as she backward cast her busie eye
To search each secrete of that goodly sted,
Over the dore thus written she did spye,
Bee bold: She oft and oft it over-red,
Yet could not find what sence it figured:
But whatso were therein or writ or ment,
She was no whit thereby discouraged
From prosecuting of her first intent,
But forward with bold steps into the next roome went.
Much fayrer then the former was that roome,
And richlier, by many partes, arayd;
For not with arras made in painefull loome,
But with pure gold it all was overlayd,
Wrought with wilde antickes which their follies playd
In the rich metall, as they living were:
A thousand monstrous formes therein were made,
Such as false Love doth oft upon him weare;
For Love in thousand monstrous formes doth oft appeare.
And, all about, the glistring walles were hong
With warlike spoiles and with victorious prayes
Of mightie conquerours and captaines strong,
Which were whilóme captíved in their dayes
To cruell Love, and wrought their owne decayes:
Their swerds and speres were broke, and hauberques
rent,
And their proud girlonds of tryumphant bayes
Troden in dust with fury insolent,
To shew the Victors might and merciless intent.
The warlike Mayd, beholding earnestly
The goodly ordinaunce of this rich place,
Did greatly wonder; ne could satisfy
Her greedy eyes with gazing a long space:
But more she mervaild that no footings trace
Nor wight appeard, but wastefull emptiness
And solemne silence over all that place:
Straunge thing it seem'd, that none was to possesse So rich purveyaunce, ne them keepe with carefulnesse.
And, as she lookt about, she did behold
How over that same dore was likewise writ,
Be bolde, Be bolde, and every where, Be bold;
That much she muz'd, yet could not construe it
By any ridling skill or commune wit.
At last she spyde at that rowmes upper end
Another yron dore, on which was writ,
Be not too bold; whereto though she did bend
Her earnest minde, yet wist not what it might intend.
Thus she there wayted untill eventyde,
Yet living creature none she saw appeare.
And now sad shadowes gan the world to hyde
From mortall vew, and wrap in darkenes dreare;
Yet nould she d'off her weary armes, for feare
Of secret daunger, ne let sleepe oppresse
Her heavy eyes with natures burdein deare,
But drew herselfe aside in sickernesse,
And her welpointed wepons did about her dresse.
The Maske of Cupid, and th'enchaun-
ted Chamber are displayd;
Whence Britomart redeemes faire A-
moret through charmes decayd.
THO, whenas chearelesse Night ycovered had
Fayre heaven with an universall clowd,
That every wight dismayd with darkenes sad
In silence and in sleepe themselves did shrowd,
She heard a shrilling trompet sound alowd,
Signe of nigh battaill, or got victory:
Nought therewith daunted was her courage prowd,
But rather stird to cruell enmity,
Expecting ever when some foe she might descry.
With that, an hideous storme of winde arose,
With dreadfull thunder and lightning atwixt,
And an earthquake, as if it streight would lose
The worlds foundations from his centre fixt:
A direfull stench of smoke and sulphure mixt
Ensewd, whose noyaunce fild the fearefull sted
From the fourth howre of night untill the sixt;
Yet the bold Britonesse was nought ydred,
Though much emmov'd, but stedfast still persévered.
All suddeinly a stormy whirlwind blew
Throughout the house, that clapped every dore, With which that yron wicket open flew, As it with mighty levers had bene tore; And forth yssewd, as on the readie flore Of some theatre, a grave personage That in his hand a braunch of laurell bore, With comely haveour and count'nance sage, Yclad in costly garments fit for tragicke stage.
Proceeding to the midst he stil did stand,
As if in minde he somewhat had to say;
And to the vulgare beckning with his hand,
In signe of silence, as to heare a play,
By lively actions he gan bewray
Some argument of matter passioned;
Which doen, he backe retyred soft away,
And, passing by, his name discovered,
Ease, on his robe in golden letters cyphered.
The noble Mayd still standing all this vewd,
And merveild at his straunge intendiment :
With that a ioyous fellowship issewd
Of minstrales making goodly meriment,
With wanton bardes, and rymers impudent;
All which together song full chearefully
A lay of loves delight with sweet concent:
After whom marcht a iolly company,
In manner of a Maske, enranged orderly.
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