But, trembling every joint, did inly quake,
And falt'ring tongue at last these words seem'd forth to shake;
'For God's dear love, Sir Knight, do me not stay;
For lo! he comes, he comes fast after me!'
Eft1 looking back would fain have run away;
But he him forc'd to stay, and tellen free
The secret cause of his perplexity:
Yet nathëmore2 by his bold hearty speech
Could his blood-frozen heart embolden'd be,
But through his boldness rather fear did reach;
Yet forc'd, at last he made through silence sudden
breach:
'And am I now in safety sure,' quoth he,
'From him, that would have forcéd me to die?
And is the point of death now turn'd fro me,
That I
may tell this hapless history?'
'Fear naught,' quoth he, no danger now is nigh.' 'Then shall I you recount a rueful case,'
Said he, the which with this unlucky eye
I late beheld; and, had not greater grace
Me reft from it, had been partaker of the place.
'I lately chanc'd (would I had never chanc'd!)
With a fair knight to keepen company,
Sir Terwin hight,3 that well himself advanc'd
In all affairs, and was both bold and free;
But not so happy as mote1 happy be:
He lov'd as was his lot a lady gent,5
That him again lov'd in the least degree;
For she was proud, and of too high intent,
And joy'd to see her lover languish and lament:
'From whom returning sad and comfortless,
As on the way together we did fare,
We met that villain, (God from him me bless!)
That cursed wight, from whom I scapt whylere,1
A man of hell, that calls himself Despair:
Who first us greets, and after fair areedes2
Of tidings strange, and of adventures rare:
So creeping close, as snake in hidden weeds,
Inquireth of our states, and of our knightly deeds.
'Which when he knew, and felt our feeble hearts,
Embost with bale, and bitter biting grief,
Which love had launchéd 5 with his deadly darts;
With wounding words, and terms of foul reprief,
He pluckt from us all hope of due relief,
That erst us held in love of ling'ring life:
Then hopeless, heartless, gan the cunning thief
Persuade us die, to stint all farther strife;
To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife:
With which sad instrument of hasty death,
That woeful lover, loathing lengers light,
A wide way made to let forth living breath.
But I, more fearful, or more lucky wight,
Dismay'd with that deformed dismal sight,
Fled fast away, half dead with dying fear;
Ne yet assur'd of life by you, Sir Knight,
Whose like infirmity like chance may bear:
But God you never let his charméd speeches hear!'
'How may a man,' said he, with idle speech
Be won to spoil the castle of his health?'
'I wote,'10 quoth he, whom trial late did teach,
That like would not for all this worldës wealth.
His subtle tongue, like dropping honey, mealt'h1
Into the heart, and searcheth every vein;
That, ere one be aware, by secret stealth
His pow'r is reft,2 and weakness doth remain.
O never, sir, desire to try his guileful traine!'3
'Certes,' said he, hence shall I never rest,
Till I that treachour's art have heard and tried:
And you, Sir knight, whose name mote5 I request, 5 Might.
Of grace do me unto his cabin guide.'
'I, that hight Trevisan,' quoth he, ‘will ride,
Against my liking, back to do you grace:
But not for gold nor glee will I abide
By you, when ye arrive in that same place;
For lever had I die than see his deadly face.'
Ere long they come, where that same wicked
His dwelling has, low in an hollow cave, [wight
Far underneath a craggy cliff ypight,s
Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave,
That still for carrion carcases doth crave:
On top whereof aye dwelt the ghastly owl,
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave
Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl;
And all about it wand'ring ghosts did wail and howl:
And all about old stocks and stubs of trees,
Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen,
Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees; 9
On which had many wretches hangéd been,
Whose carcases were scatter'd on the
green,
And thrown about the cliffs. Arrivéd there,
That bare-head knight, for dread and doleful teene,10
Would fain have fled, ne 1 durst approachen near; But th' other forc'd him stay, and comforted in fear.
That darksome cave they enter, where they find
That cursed man, low sitting on the ground,
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind:
His griesie 2 locks, long growen and unbound,
Disorder'd hung about his shoulders round,
And hid his face; through which his hollow
Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound;
His raw-bone cheeks, through penury and pine, Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine.
His garment, naught but many ragged clouts,
With thorns together pinn'd and patchéd was,
The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts:
And him beside there lay upon the grass
A dreary corse, whose life away did pass,
All wallow'd in his own yet lukewarm blood,
That from his wound yet welléd fresh, alas!
In which a rusty knife fast fixéd stood,
And made an open passage for the gushing flood.
Which piteous spectacle, approving true
The woeful tale that Trevisan had told,
Whenas the gentle Redcross Knight did view;
With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold
Him to avenge, before his blood were cold;
And to the villain said; Thou damnéd wight,
The author of this fact we here behold,
What justice can but judge against thee right, Pay for. With thine own blood to price his blood, here shed in sight?'
'What frantic fit,' quoth he, hath thus distraught11 DistractThee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give? What justice ever other judgment taught, But he should die, who merits not to live? None else to death this man despairing drive But his own guilty mind, deserving death. Is then unjust to each his due to give? Or let him die, that loatheth living breath? Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath ?2
'Who travels by the weary wand'ring way,
To come unto his wished home in haste,
And meets a flood, that doth his passage stay;
Is not great grace to help him over past,
Or free his feet that in the mire stick fast?
Most envious man, that grieves at neighbour's good;
And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast ;
Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood
Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood?
'He there does now enjoy eternal rest
And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave,
And farther from it daily wanderest:
What if some little pain the passage have,
That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave;
Is not short pain well borne, that brings long ease,
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,
Ease after war, death after life, does greatly please.'
The Knight much wonder'd at his sudden wit,
And said; The term of life is limited,
Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten, it:
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