At length did marke about her purple brest
That precious juell, which she formerly
Had knowne right well, with colourd ribbands drest:
Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest
With ready hand it to have reft away;
But the swift bird obayd not her behest,
But swarv’d aside, and there againe did stay:
She follow’d her, and thought againe it to assay.
And ever, when she nigh approcht, the Dove
Would flit a litle forward, and then stay
Till she drew neare, and then againe remove;
So tempting her still to pursue the pray,
And still from her escaping soft away:
Till that at length into that forrest wide
She drew her far, and led with slow delay.
In th’end she her unto that place did guide,
Whereas that wofull man in langour did abide.
Eftsoones she flew unto his fearelesse hand,
And there a piteous ditty new deviz’d,
As if she would have made her understand
His sorrowes cause, to be of her despis’d:
Whom when she saw in wretched weedes disguiz’d,
With heary glib deform’d and meiger face,
Like ghost late risen from his grave agryz’d,
She knew him not, but pittied much his case,
And wisht it were in her to doe him any grace.
He her beholding at her feet downe fell,
And kist the ground on which her sole did tread,
And washt the same with water which did well
From his moist eies, and like two streames procead;
Yet spake no word, whereby she might aread
What mister wight he was, or what he ment;
But, as one daunted with her presence dread,
Onely few ruefull lookes unto her sent,
As messengers of his true meaning and intent.
Yet nathemore his meaning she ared,
But wondred much at his so selcouth case;
And by his persons secret seemlyhed
Well weend that he had beene some man of place,
Before misfortune did his hew deface;
That being mov’d with ruth she thus bespake:
“Ah! wofull man, what heavens hard disgrace,
Or wrath of cruell wight on thee ywrake,
Or selfe-disliked life, doth thee thus wretched make?
“If heaven, then none may it redresse or blame,
Sith to his powre we all are subject borne:
If wrathfull wight, then fowle rebuke and shame
Be theirs that have so cruell thee forlorne!
But if through inward griefe or wilfull scorne
Of life it be, then better doe advise:
For he, whose daies in wilfull woe are worne,
The grace of his Creator doth despise,
That will not use his gifts for thanklesse nigardise.”
When so he heard her say, eftsoones he brake
His sodaine silence which he long had pent,
And, sighing inly deepe, her thus bespake:
“Then have they all themselves against me bent:
For heaven, first author of my languishment,
Envying my too great felicity,
Did closely with a cruell one consent
To cloud my daies in dolefull misery,
And make me loath this life, still longing for to die.
“Ne any but your selfe, O dearest dred,
Hath done this wrong, to wreake on worthlesse wight
Your high displesure, through misdeeming bred:
That, when your pleasure is to deeme aright,
Ye may redresse, and me restore to light!”
Which sory words her mightie hart did mate
With mild regard to see his ruefull plight,
That her inhuming wrath she gan abate,
And him receiv’d againe to former favours state.
In which he long time afterwards did lead
An happie life with grace and good accord,
Fearlesse of fortunes chaunge or envies dread,
And eke all mindlesse of his owne deare Lord
The noble Prince, who never heard one word
Of tydings what did unto him betide,
Or what good fortune did to him afford;
But through the endlesse world did wander wide,
Him seeking evermore, yet no where him descride.
Till on a day, as through that wood he rode,
He chaunst to come where those two Ladies late,
Æmylia and Amoret, abode,
Both in full sad and sorrowfull estate:
The one right feeble through the evill rate
Of food which in her duresse she had found;
The other almost dead and desperate
Through her late hurts, and through that haplesse wound
With which the Squire, in her defence, her sore astound.
Whom when the Prince beheld, he gan to rew
The evill case in which those Ladies lay;
But most was moved at the piteous vew
Of Amoret, so neare unto decay,
That her great daunger did him much dismay.
Eftsoones that pretious liqueur forth he drew,
Which he in store about him kept alway,
And with few drops thereof did softly dew
Her wounds, that unto strength restor’d her soone anew.
Tho, when they both recovered were right well,
He gan of them inquire, what evill guide
Them thether brought, and how their harmes befell?
To whom they told all that did them betide,
And how from thraldome vile they were untide,
Of that same wicked Carle, by Virgins hond;
Whose bloudie corse they shew’d him there beside,
And eke his cave in which they both were bond:
At which he wondred much when all those signes he fond.
And evermore he greatly did desire
To know what Virgin did them thence unbind,
And oft of them did earnestly inquire,
Where was her won, and how he mote her find.
But, when as nought according to his mind
He could out-learne, he them from ground did reare,
No service lothsome to a gentle kind,
And on his warlike beast them both did beare,
Himselfe by them on foot to succour them from feare.
So when that forrest they had passed well,
A litle cotage farre away they spide,
To which they drew ere night upon them fell;
And entring in found none therein abide,
But one old woman sitting there beside
Upon the ground in ragged rude attyre,
With filthy lockes about her scattered wide,
Gnawing her nayles for felnesse and for yre,
And there out sucking venime to her parts entyre.
A foule and loathly creature sure in sight,
And in conditions to be loath’d no lesse;
For she was stuft with rancour and
