4 Dis
courses.
5 Deceived.
For golden Phoebus, now ymounted high,
From fiery wheels of his fair chariot,
Hurled his beam so scorching cruel hot,
That living creature mote1 it not abide;
And his new lady it enduréd not.
There they alight, in hope themselves to hide From the fierce heat, and rest their weary limbs a tide.2
Fair-seemly pleasaunce each to other makes,
With goodly purposes there as they sit;
And in his falsed5 fancy he her takes
To be the fairest wight that livéd yet;
Which to express he bends his gentle wit;
And, thinking of those branches green to frame
A garland for her dainty forehead fit,
He pluckt a bough; out of whose rift there came
Small drops of gory blood, that trickled down the
Therewith a piteous yelling voice was heard,
Crying, 'O spare with guilty hands to tear
My tender sides in this rough rind embarr'd;7
But fly, ah! fly far hence away, for fear
Lest to you hap, that happen'd to me here,
And to this wretched lady, my dear love;
O too dear love, love bought with death too dear!'
Astond he stood, and up his hair did hove;9
And with that sudden horror could no member move.
At last whenas the dreadful passíon 10
Was overpast, and manhood well awake;
Yet musing at the strange occasion,
And doubting much his sense, he thus bespake;
'What voice of damnéd ghost from Limbo Lake, Or guileful sprite wand'ring in empty air, (Both which frail men do oftentimes mistake,) Sends to my doubtful ears these speeches rare,1 And rueful2 plaints, me bidding guiltless blood to spare?'
Then groaning deep; 'Nor damnéd ghost,' quoth he, 'Nor guileful sprite, to thee these words doth
But once a man Fradubio,3 now a tree;
Wretched man, wretched tree! whose nature weak
A cruel witch, her curséd will to wreak,
Hath thus transform'd, and plac'd in open plains,
Where Boreas doth blow full bitter bleak,
And scorching sun does dry my secret veins;
For though a tree I seem, yet cold and heat me
pains.'
'Say on, Fradubio, then, or man or tree,'
Quoth then the Knight; by whose mischievous
Art thou misshapéd thus, as now I see?
He oft finds med'cine who his grief imparts;
But double griefs afflict concealing hearts;
As raging flames who striveth to suppress.'
The author then,' said he, of all my smarts,
Is one Duessa, a false sorceress,
That many errant knights hath brought to wretched
In prime of youthly years, when courage hot
The fire of love and joy of chivalry
First kindled in my breast, it was my lot
To love this gentle lady, whom ye see
Now not a lady, but a seeming tree;
With whom as once I rode accompanied,
Me chancéd of a knight encounter'd be,
That had a like fair lady by his side;
1 Double- Like a fair lady, but did foul Duessa1 hide;
'Whose forgéd2 beauty he did take in hand
All other dames to have exceeded far;
I in defence of mine did likewise stand,
Mine, that did then shine as the morning star.
So both to battle fierce arrangéd are:
In which his harder fortune was to fall
Under my spear; such is the die3 of war.
His lady, left as a prize martial,
Did yield her comely person to be at my call.
'So doubly lov'd of ladies unlike fair,
Th' one seeming such, the other such indeed,
One day in doubt I cast for to compare
Whether in beauty's glory did exceed;
A rosy garland was the victor's meed.
Both seem'd to win, and both seem'd won to be;
So hard the discord was to be agreed.
Frælissa was as fair, as fair mote7 be,
And ever false Duessa seem'd as fair as she.
'The wicked witch, now seeing all this while
The doubtful balance equally to sway,
What not by right, she cast to win by guile;
And, by her hellish science, rais'd straightway
A foggy mist that overcast the day,
And a dull blast that breathing on her face
Dimméd her former beauty's shining ray,
And with foul ugly form did her disgrace: [place.8
Then was she fair alone, when none was fair in
"Then cried she out, Fie, fie, deformed wight,
Whose borrow'd beauty now appeareth plain
To have before bewitchéd all men's sight:
O leave her soon, or let her soon be slain!'
Her loathly visage viewing with disdain,
Eftsoones1 I thought her such as she me told,
And would have kill'd her; but with feigned pain diately. The false witch did my wrathful hand withhold: So left her, where she now is turn'd to treën mould.
'Thenceforth I took Duessa for my dame,
And in the witch unweeting, joy'd long time;
Ne ever wist but that she was the same:
Till on a day (that day is every prime,3*
When witches wont do penance for their crime,)
I chanc'd to see her in her proper hue,
Bathing herself in origane1 and thyme:
A filthy foul old woman I did view,
That ever to have toucht her I did deadly rue.
'Her nether parts misshapen, monstruous,
Were hid in water, that I could not see;
But they did seem more foul and hideous,
Then5 woman's shape man would believe to be.
Thenceforth from her most beastly company
I gan refrain, in mind to slip away,
Soon as appear'd safe opportunity;
For danger great, if not assur'd decay,"
I saw before mine eyes, if I were known to stray.
'Every prime:' alluding to a notion prevalent in 'Demonology' that witches and devils are punished at periodical times. See Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' b. x., 576.
3 May. 4 Wellbeing. 5 Fixed.
3 Nature.
"The devilish hag, by changes of my cheare,1
Perceiv'd my thought; and, drown'd in sleepy
night,
With wicked herbs and ointments did besmear
My body, all through charms and magic might,
That all my senses were bereavéd quite:
Then brought she me into this desert waste,
And by my wretched lover's side me pight;2
Where now enclos'd in wooden walls full fast,
Banish'd from living wights, our weary days we
'But how long time,' said then the Elfin Knight,
'Are you in this misforméd house to dwell?'
'We may not change,' quoth he, 'this evil plight,
Till we be bathéd in a living well:
That is the term prescribéd by the spell.'
'O how,' said he, 'mote3 I that well out find,
That may restore you to your wonted well? '4
'Time and suffiséd5 fates to former kind
Shall us restore; none else from hence may us
unbind.'
The false Duessa, now Fidessa hight,7
Heard how in vain Fradubio did lament,
And knew well all was true. But the good
Knight,
Full of sad fear and ghastly dreriment,3
When all this speech the living tree had spent,
The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground,
That from the blood he might be innocent,
And with fresh clay did close the wooden wound:
Then turning to his lady, dead with fear her found.
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