1 32 So as they travelled, the drouping night, They spide a little cottage, like some poore mans nest. 33 There where the mouldred earth had cav'd the banke; And fast beside a little brooke did pas Of muddie water, that like puddle stanke, By which few crooked sallowes grew in ranke: Whereto approaching nigh, they heard the sound Of many yron hammers beating ranke, And answering their wearie turnes around, That seemed some blacksmith dwelt in that desert ground. There entring in, they found the goodman selfe 34 Full busily unto his worke ybent; Who was to weet a wretched wearish elfe, With hollow eyes and rawbone cheekes forspent, As if he had in prison long bene pent: Full blacke and griesly did his face appeare, Besmeard with smoke that nigh his eye-sight blent; With rugged beard, and hoarie shagged heare, The which he never wont to combe, or comely sheare. Rude was his garment, and to rags all rent, Ne better had he, ne for better cared: With blistred hands emongst the cinders brent, And fingers filthie with long nayles unpared, Right fit to rend the food on which he fared. His name was Care; a blacksmith by his trade, That neither day nor night from working spared, But to small purpose yron wedges made: 35 Those be unquiet thoughts that carefull minds invade. 36 In which his worke he had sixe servants prest, So likewise did the hammers which they bore, That he which was the last the first did farre exceede. 37 He like a monstrous Gyant seem'd in sight, That seem'd to dust he shortly would it drive: 38 The manner of their worke and wearie paine; And having long beheld at last enquired The cause and end thereof, but all in vaine; For they for nought would from their worke refraine, Ne let his speeches come unto their eare: And eke the breathfull bellowes blew amaine, Like to the Northren winde, that none could heare: Those Pensifenesse did move; and Sighes the bellows weare. Which when that warriour saw, he said no more, 39 4.0 There lay Sir Scudamour long while expecting And evermore, when he to sleepe did thinke, And, if by fortune any litle nap Upon his heavie eye-lids chaunst to fall, And then lay musing long on that him ill apayd. So long he muzed, and so long he lay, That at the last his wearie sprite, opprest His ydle braine gan busily molest, 41 42 43 And made him dreame those two disloyall were. The things, that day most minds, at night doe most appeare. With that the wicked carle, the maister Smith, 44 On him the which his quiet slomber brake: Yet, looking round about him, none could see; Yet did the smart remaine, though he himselfe did flee. In such disquiet and hartfretting payne He all that night, that too long night, did passe. 45 The signes of anguish one mote plainely read, And ghesse the man to be dismayd with gealous dread Unto his loftie steede he clombe anone, And forth upon his former voiage fared, Shall breath it selfe awhile after so long a went. 46 CANTO VI. Both Scudamour and Arthegall HAT equall torment to the griefe of mind 1 And pyning anguish hid in gentle hart, That inly feeds it selfe with thoughts unkind, And nourisheth her owne consuming smart? What medicine can any Leaches art Yeeld such a sore, that doth her grievance hide, And will to none her maladie impart ? Such was the wound that Scudamour did gride, For which Dan Phebus selfe cannot a salve provide. Who having left that restlesse house of Care, 2 Full of melancholie and sad misfare Which Scudamour perceiving forth issewed at which so suddain case He wondred much. But th' other thus can say: 66 Ah, gentle Scudamour! unto your grace I me submit, and you of pardon pray, That almost had against you trespassed this day." 3 |