With fair discourse the evening so they pass;
For that old man of pleasing words had store,
And well could file1 his tongue, as smooth as glass: 1 Smooth. He told of saints and popes, and evermore He strow'd an Ave-Mary after and before.
The drooping night thus creepeth on them fast;
And the sad humour loading their eye-lids,
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast [bids.
Sweet slumb'ring dew, the which to sleep them
Unto their lodgings then his guests he riddes:2
Where when all drown'd in deadly sleep he finds,
He to his study goes; and there amiddes
His magic books, and arts of sundry kinds,
He seeks out mighty charms to trouble sleepy
minds.
Then choosing out few words most horrible,
(Let none them read!) thereof did verses frame;
With which, and other spells like terrible,
He bade awake black Pluto's griesly dame;
And cursed heaven; and spake reproachful shame
Of highest God, the Lord of life and light.
A bold bad man! that dared to call by name
Great Gorgon,* prince of darkness and dead night;
At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight.
And forth he call'd out of deep darkness dread
Legions of sprites, the which, like little flies,
Flutt'ring about his ever-damned head,
Await whereto their service he applies,
To aid his friends, or fray3 his enemies:
* The ancients feared to pronounce Gorgon or Demogorgon. Hence in Milton, the dreaded Name of Demogorgon.'
Of those he chose out two, the falsest two,
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lies;
The one of them he gave a message to,
The other by himself stay❜d other work to do.
He, making speedy way through spersed1 air,
And through the world of waters wide and deep,
To Morpheus' house doth hastily repair.
Amid the bowels of the earth full steep,
And low, where dawning day doth never peep,
His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep
In silver dew his ever-drooping head, [spread.
While sad Night over him her mantle black doth
Whose double gates he findeth locked fast;
The one fair framed of burnisht ivory,
The other all with silver overcast;
And wakeful dogs before them far do lie,
Watching to banish Care their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleep.
By them the sprite doth pass in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deep
In drowsy fit he finds; of nothing he takes keep.2
And, more to lull him in his slumber soft,
A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring wind, much like the sown3
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swown.1
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries,
As still are wont t' annoy the walled town,
Might there be heard: but careless Quiet lies,
Wrapt in eternal silence far from enemies.
The messenger, approaching, to him spake;
But his waste words return'd to him in vain:
So sound he slept, that nought might him awake.
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with pain,
Whereat he gan to stretch: but he again.
Shook him so hard, that forced him to speak.
As one then in a dream, whose drier brain
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weak,
He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence break.
The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake,
And threat'ned unto him the dreaded name
Of Hecaté: whereat he gan to quake,
And, lifting up his lumpish1 head, with blame
Half angry asked him, for what he came.
'Hither,' quoth he, 'me Archimago sent,
He that the stubborn sprites can wisely tame,
He bids thee to him send for his intent
A fit false dream, that can delude the sleeper's
The god obey'd; and, calling forth straightway
A diverse3 dream out of his prison dark,
Delivered it to him, and down did lay
His heavy head, devoid of careful cark;
Whose senses all were straight benumb'd and stark.
He, back returning by the ivory door,
Remounted up as light as cheerful lark ;
And on his little wings the dream he bore
In haste unto his lord, where he him left afore.
Who all this while, with charms and hidden arts,
Had made a lady of that other spright,
And framed of liquid air her tender parts,
2 Produced without the due qualities of a real
woman.
So lively, and so like in all men's sight,
That weaker sense it could have ravisht quite:
The maker self, for all his wondrous wit,
Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight.
Her all in white he clad, and over it
Cast a black stole,1 most like to seem for Una fit.
Now when that idle dream was to him brought,
Unto that Elfin Knight he bade him fly,
Where he slept soundly void of evil thought,
And with false shows abuse his fantasy;
In sort as he him schooled privily.
And that new creature, born without her due,2
Full of the maker's guile, with usage sly
He taught to imitate that Lady true,
Whose semblance she did carry under feigned hue.
Thus, well instructed, to their work they haste;
And, coming where the Knight in slumber lay,
The one upon his hardy head him placed,
And made him dream of loves and lustful play;
That nigh his manly heart did melt away,
Bathed in wanton bliss and wicked joy.
Then seemed him his Lady by him lay,
And to him plain'd, how that false winged boy
Her chaste heart had subdued to learn dame Plea-
And she herself, of beauty sovereign queen,
Fair Venus, seem'd unto his bed to bring
Her, whom he, waking, evermore did ween 4
To be the chastest flower that aye did spring
On earthly branch, the daughter of a king,
Now a loose leman to vile service bound:
And eke the Graces seemed all to sing
Hymen, Iö Hymen, dancing all around;
Whilst freshest Flora her with ivy garland crown'd.
In this great passion of unwonted lust,
Or wonted fear of doing ought amiss,
He starteth up, as seeming to mistrust
Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his:
Lo, there before his face his Lady is,
Under black stole hiding her baited hook;
And as half blushing offer'd him to kiss,
With gentle blandishment and lovely look,
Most like that Virgin true, which for her Knight
him took.
All clean dismay'd to see so úncouth1 sight,
And half enraged at her shameless guise,
He thought have slain her in his fierce despite; 2
But, hasty heat temp'ring with sufferance wise,
He stay'd his hand; and gan himself advise
To
prove his sense, and tempt her feigned truth.
Wringing her hands, in women's piteous wise,
Tho can she weep, to stir up gentle ruth 4
Both for her noble blood, and for her tender youth.
And said, Ah sir, my liege lord, and my love,
Shall I accuse the hidden cruel fate,
And mighty causes wrought in heaven above,
Or the blind god, that doth me thus amate,5
For hoped love, to win me certain hate?
Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die.
Die is my due; yet rue my wretched state,
You, whom my hard avenging destiny
Hath made judge of my life or death indifferently:
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