Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599). The Complete Poetical Works. 1908.

The Faerie Queene

Book III. The Legend of Britomartis. Canto II

HERE have I cause in men just blame to find,

That in their proper praise too partiall bee,

And not indifferent to woman kind,

To whom no share in armes and chevalree

They doe impart, ne maken memoree

Of their brave gestes and prowesse martiall:

Scarse doe they spare to one, or two, or three,

Rowme in their writtes; yet the same writing small

Does all their deedes deface, and dims their glories all.

But by record of antique times I finde,

That wemen wont in warres to beare most sway,

And to all great exploites them selves inclind:

Of which they still the girlond bore away,

Till envious men, fearing their rules decay,

Gan coyne streight lawes to curb their liberty:

Yet sith they warlike armes have laide away,

They have exceld in artes and pollicy,

That now we foolish men that prayse gin eke t’ envy.

Of warlike puissaunce in ages spent,

Be thou, faire Britomart, whose prayse I wryte;

But of all wisedom bee thou precedent,

O soveraine Queene, whose prayse I would endyte,

Endite I would as dewtie doth excyte;

But ah! my rymes to rude and rugged arre,

When in so high an object they doe lyte,

And, striving fit to make, I feare doe marre:

Thy selfe thy prayses tell, and make them knowen farre.

She, traveiling with Guyon, by the way

Of sondry thinges faire purpose gan to find,

T’ abridg their journey long and lingring day:

Mongst which it fell into that Fairies mind

To aske this Briton maid, what uncouth wind

Brought her into those partes, and what inquest

Made her dissemble her disguised kind:

Faire lady she him seemd, like lady drest,

But fairest knight alive, when armed was her brest.

Thereat she sighing softly, had no powre

To speake a while, ne ready answere make,

But with hart-thrilling throbs and bitter stowre,

As if she had a fever fitt, did quake,

And every daintie limbe with horrour shake,

And ever and anone the rosy red

Flasht through her face, as it had beene a flake

Of lightning through bright heven fulmined:

At last, the passion past, she thus him answered:

‘Faire sir, I let you weete, that from the howre

I taken was from nourses tender pap,

I have beene trained up in warlike stowre,

To tossen speare and shield, and to affrap

The warlike ryder to his most mishap:

Sithence I loathed have my life to lead,

As ladies wont, in pleasures wanton lap,

To finger the fine needle and nyce thread;

Me lever were with point of foemans speare be dead.

‘All my delight on deedes of armes is sett,

To hunt out perilles and adventures hard,

By sea, by land, where so they may be mett,

Onely for honour and for high regard,

Without respect of richesse or reward.

For such intent into these partes I came,

Withouten compasse or withouten card,

Far fro my native soyle, that is by name

The Greater Brytayne, here to seeke for praise and fame.

‘Fame blazed hath, that here in Faery Lond

Doe many famous knightes and ladies wonne,

And many straunge adventures to bee fond,

Of which great worth and worship may be wonne;

Which I to prove, this voyage have begonne.

But mote I weet of you, right courteous knight,

Tydings of one, that hath unto me donne

Late foule dishonour and reprochfull spight,

The which I seeke to wreake, and Arthegall he hight.’

The word gone out she backe againe would call,

As her repenting so to have missayd,

But that he it uptaking ere the fall,

Her shortly answered: ‘Faire martiall mayd,

Certes ye misavised beene, t’ upbrayd

A gentle knight with so unknightly blame:

For weet ye well, of all that ever playd

At tilt or tourney, or like warlike game,

The noble Arthegall hath ever borne the name.

‘Forthy great wonder were it, if such shame

Should ever enter in his bounteous thought,

Or ever doe that mote deserven blame:

The noble corage never weeneth ought,

That may unworthy of it selfe be thought.

Therefore, faire damzell, be ye well aware,

Least that too farre ye have your sorrow sought:

You and your countrey both I wish welfare,

And honour both; for each of other worthy are.’

The royall maid woxe inly wondrous glad,

To heare her love so highly magnifyde,

And joyd that ever she affixed had

Her hart on knight so goodly glorifyde,

How ever finely she it faind to hyde:

The loving mother, that nine monethes did beare,

In the deare closett of her painefull syde,

Her tender babe, it seeing safe appeare,

Doth not so much rejoyce as she rejoyced theare.

But to occasion him to further talke,

To feed her humor with his pleasing style,

Her list in stryfull termes with him to balke,

And thus replyde: ‘How ever, sir, ye fyle

Your courteous tongue, his prayses to compyle,

It ill beseemes a knight of gentle sort,

Such as ye have him boasted, to beguyle

A simple maide, and worke so hainous tort,

In shame of knighthood, as I largely can report.

‘Let bee therefore my vengeaunce to disswade,

And read, where I that faytour false may find.’

‘Ah! but if reason faire might you perswade

To slake your wrath, and mollify your mind,’

Said he, ‘perhaps ye should it better find:

For hardie thing it is, to weene by might

That man to hard conditions to bind,

Or ever hope to match in equall fight,

Whose prowesse paragone saw never living wight.

‘Ne soothlich is it easie for to read

Where now on earth, or how, he may be fownd;

For he ne wonneth in one certeine stead,

But restlesse walketh all the world arownd,

Ay doing thinges that to his fame redownd,

Defending ladies cause and orphans right,

Where so he heares that any doth confownd

Them comfortlesse, through tyranny or might:

So is his soveraine honour raisde to hevens hight.’

His feeling wordes her feeble sence much pleased,

And softly sunck into her molten hart:

Hart that is inly hurt is greatly eased

With hope of thing that may allegge his smart;

For pleasing wordes are like to magick art,

That doth the charmed snake in slomber lay:

Such secrete ease felt gentle Britomart,

Yet list the same efforce with faind gainesay:

So dischord ofte in musick makes the sweeter lay:

And sayd: ‘Sir knight, these ydle termes forbeare,

And sith it is uneath to finde his haunt,

Tell me some markes by which he may appeare,

If chaunce I him encounter paravaunt;

For perdy one shall other slay, or daunt:

What shape, what shield, what armes, what steed, what stedd,

And what so else his person most may vaunt.’

All which the Redcrosse Knight to point aredd,

And him in everie part before her fashioned.

Yet him in everie part before she knew,

How ever list her now her knowledge fayne,

Sith him whylome in Brytayne she did vew,

To her revealed in a mirrhour playne,

Whereof did grow her first engraffed payne,

Whose root and stalke so bitter yet did taste,

That, but the fruit more sweetnes did contayne,

Her wretched dayes in dolour she mote waste,

And yield the pray of love to lothsome death at last.

By straunge occasion she did him behold,

And much more straungely gan to love his sight,

As it in bookes hath written beene of old.

In Deheubarth, that now South-Wales is hight,

What time King Ryence raign’d and dealed right,

The great magitien Merlin had deviz’d,

By his deepe science and hell-dreaded might,

A looking glasse, right wondrously aguiz’d,

Whose vertues through the wyde worlde soone were solemniz’d.

It vertue had to shew in perfect sight

What ever thing was in the world contaynd,

Betwixt the lowest earth and hevens hight,

So that it to the looker appertaynd;

What ever foe had wrought, or frend had faynd,

Therein discovered was, ne ought mote pas,

Ne ought in secret from the same remaynd;

Forthy it round and hollow shaped was,

Like to the world it selfe, and seemd a world of glas.

Who wonders not, that reades so wonderous worke?

But who does wonder, that has red the towre,

Wherein th’ Aegyptian Phao long did lurke

From all mens vew, that none might her discoure,

Yet she might all men vew out of her bowre?

Great Ptolomæe it for his lemans sake

Ybuilded all of glasse, by magicke powre,

And also it impregnable did make;

Yet when his love was false, he with a peaze it brake.

Such was the glassy globe, that Merlin made,

And gave unto King Ryence for his gard,

That never foes his kingdome might invade,

But he it knew at home before he hard

Tydings thereof, and so them still debar’d.

It was a famous present for a prince,

And worthy worke of infinite reward,

That treasons could bewray, and foes convince:

Happy this realme, had it remayned ever since!

One day it fortuned fayre Britomart

Into her fathers closet to repayre;

For nothing he from her reserv’d apart,

Being his onely daughter and his hayre:

Where when she had espyde that mirrhour fayre,

Her selfe awhile therein she vewd in vaine;

Tho her avizing of the vertues rare

Which thereof spoken were, she gan againe

Her to bethinke of that mote to her selfe pertaine.

But as it falleth, in the gentlest harts

Imperious Love hath highest set his throne,

And tyrannizeth in the bitter smarts

Of them that to him buxome are and prone:

So thought this mayd (as maydens use to done)

Whom fortune for her husband would allot;

Not that she lusted after any one,

For she was pure from blame of sinfull blot,

Yet wist her life at last must lincke in that same knot.

Eftsoones there was presented to her eye

A comely knight, all arm’d in complete wize,

Through whose bright ventayle, lifted up on hye,

His manly face, that did his foes agrize,

And frends to termes of gentle truce entize,

Lookt foorth, as Phœbus face out of the east

Betwixt two shady mountaynes doth arize:

Portly his person was, and much increast

Through his heroicke grace and honorable gest.

His crest was covered with a couchant hownd,

And all his armour seemd of antique mould,

But wondrous massy and assured sownd,

And round about yfretted all with gold,

In which there written was, with cyphres old,

Achilles armes, which Arthegall did win.

And on his shield enveloped sevenfold

He bore a crowned litle ermilin,

That deckt the azure field with her fayre pouldred skin.

The damzell well did vew his personage,

And liked well, ne further fastned not,

But went her way; ne her unguilty age

Did weene, unwares, that her unlucky lot

Lay hidden in the bottome of the pot:

Of hurt unwist most daunger doth redound:

But the false archer, which that arrow shot

So slyly that she did not feele the wound,

Did smyle full smoothly at her weetlesse wofull stound.

Thenceforth the fether in her lofty crest,

Ruffed of love, gan lowly to availe,

And her prowd portaunce and her princely gest,

With which she earst tryumphed, now did quaile:

Sad, solemne, sowre, and full of fancies fraile

She woxe; yet wist she nether how, nor why;

She wist not, silly mayd, what she did aile,

Yet wist she was not well at ease perdy,

Yet thought it was not love, but some melancholy.

So soone as Night had with her pallid hew

Defaste the beautie of the shyning skye,

And reft from men the worldes desired vew,

She with her nourse adowne to sleepe did lye;

But sleepe full far away from her did fly:

In stead thereof sad sighes and sorrowes deepe

Kept watch and ward about her warily,

That nought she did but wayle, and often steepe

Her dainty couch with teares, which closely she did weepe.

And if that any drop of slombring rest

Did chaunce to still into her weary spright,

When feeble nature felt her selfe opprest,

Streight way with dreames, and with fantastick sight

Of dreadfull things, the same was put to flight,

That oft out of her bed she did astart,

As one with vew of ghastly feends affright:

Tho gan she to renew her former smart,

And thinke of that fayre visage, written in her hart.

One night, when she was tost with such unrest,

Her aged nourse, whose name was Glauce hight,

Feeling her leape out of her loathed nest,

Betwixt her feeble armes her quickly keight,

And downe againe in her warme bed her dight:

‘Ah! my deare daughter, ah! my dearest dread,

What uncouth fit,’ sayd she, ‘what evill plight,

Hath thee opprest, and with sad dreary-head

Chaunged thy lively cheare, and living made thee dead?

‘For not of nought these suddein ghastly feares

All night afflict thy naturall repose;

And all the day, when as thine equall peares

Their fit disports with faire delight doe chose,

Thou in dull corners doest thy selfe inclose,

Ne tastest princes pleasures, ne doest spred

Abroad thy fresh youths fayrest flowre, but lose

Both leafe and fruite, both too untimely shed,

As one in wilfull bale for ever buried.

‘The time that mortall men their weary cares

Do lay away, and all wilde beastes do rest,

And every river eke his course forbeares,

Then doth this wicked evill thee infest,

And rive with thousand throbs thy thrilled brest;

Like an huge Aetn’ of deepe engulfed gryefe,

Sorrow is heaped in thy hollow chest,

Whence foorth it breakes in sighes and anguish ryfe,

As smoke and sulphure mingled with confused stryfe.

‘Ay me! how much I feare least love it bee!

But if that love it be, as sure I read

By knowen signes and passions which I see,

Be it worthy of thy race and royall sead,

Then I avow by this most sacred head

Of my deare foster childe, to ease thy griefe,

And win thy will: therefore away doe dread;

For death nor daunger from thy dew reliefe

Shall me debarre: tell me, therefore, my liefest liefe.’

So having sayd, her twixt her armes twaine

Shee streightly straynd, and colled tenderly,

And every trembling joynt and every vaine

Shee softly felt, and rubbed busily,

To doe the frosen cold away to fly;

And her faire deawy eies with kisses deare

Shee ofte did bathe, and ofte againe did dry;

And ever her importund, not to feare

To let the secret of her hart to her appeare.

The damzell pauzd, and then thus fearfully:

‘Ah! nurse, what needeth thee to eke my paine?

Is not enough that I alone doe dye,

But it must doubled bee with death of twaine?

For nought for me but death there doth remaine.’

‘O daughter deare,’ said she, ‘despeire no whit;

For never sore, but might a salve obtaine:

That blinded god, which hath ye blindly smit,

Another arrow hath your lovers hart to hit.’

‘But mine is not,’ quoth she, ‘like other wownd;

For which no reason can finde remedy.’

‘Was never such, but mote the like be fownd,’

Said she, ‘and though no reason may apply

Salve to your sore, yet love can higher stye

Then reasons reach, and oft hath wonders donne.’

‘But neither god of love nor god of skye

Can doe,’ said she, ‘that which cannot be donne.’

‘Things ofte impossible,’ quoth she, ‘seeme ere begonne.’

‘These idle wordes,’ said she, ‘doe nought aswage

My stubborne smart, but more annoiaunce breed:

For no no usuall fire, no usuall rage

Yt is, O nourse, which on my life doth feed,

And sucks the blood which from my hart doth bleed.

But since thy faithfull zele lets me not hyde

My crime, (if crime it be) I will it reed.

Nor prince, nor pere it is, whose love hath gryde

My feeble brest of late, and launched this wound wyde.

‘Nor man it is, nor other living wight;

For then some hope I might unto me draw;

But th’ only shade and semblant of a knight,

Whose shape or person yet I never saw,

Hath me subjected to Loves cruell law:

The same one day, as me misfortune led,

I in my fathers wondrous mirrhour saw,

And, pleased with that seeming goodly-hed,

Unwares the hidden hooke with baite I swallowed.

‘Sithens it hath infixed faster bold

Within my bleeding bowells, and so sore

Now ranckleth in this same fraile fleshly mould,

That all mine entrailes flow with poisnous gore,

And th’ ulcer groweth daily more and more;

Ne can my ronning sore finde remedee,

Other then my hard fortune to deplore,

And languish as the leafe faln from the tree,

Till death make one end of my daies and miseree.’

‘Daughter,’ said she, ‘what need ye be dismayd,

Or why make ye such monster of your minde?

Of much more uncouth thing I was affrayd;

Of filthy lust, contrary unto kinde:

But this affection nothing straunge I finde;

For who with reason can you aye reprove,

To love the semblaunt pleasing most your minde,

And yield your heart whence ye cannot remove?

No guilt in you, but in the tyranny of Love.

‘Not so th’ Arabian Myrrhe did sett her mynd,

Nor so did Biblis spend her pining hart,

But lov’d their native flesh against al kynd,

And to their purpose used wicked art:

Yet playd Pasiphaë a more monstrous part,

That lov’d a bul, and learnd a beast to bee:

Such shamefull lusts who loaths not, which depart

From course of nature and of modestee?

Swete Love such lewdnes bands from his faire companee.

‘But thine, my deare, (welfare thy heart, my deare)

Though straunge beginning had, yet fixed is

On one that worthy may perhaps appeare;

And certes seemes bestowed not amis:

Joy thereof have thou and eternall blis.’

With that upleaning on her elbow weake,

Her alablaster brest she soft did kis,

Which all that while shee felt to pant and quake,

As it an earth-quake were: at last she thus bespake:

‘Beldame, your words doe worke me litle ease;

For though my love be not so lewdly bent

As those ye blame, yet may it nought appease

My raging smart, ne ought my flame relent,

But rather doth my helpelesse griefe augment.

For they, how ever shamefull and unkinde,

Yet did possesse their horrible intent:

Short end of sorowes they therby did finde;

So was their fortune good, though wicked were their minde.

‘But wicked fortune mine, though minde be good,

Can have no end, nor hope of my desire,

But feed on shadowes, whiles I die for food,

And like a shadow wexe, whiles with entire

Affection I doe languish and expire.

I, fonder then Cephisus foolish chyld,

Who, having vewed in a fountaine shere

His face, was with the love thereof beguyld;

I, fonder, love a shade, the body far exyld.’

‘Nought like,’ quoth shee, ‘for that same wretched boy

Was of him selfe the ydle paramoure,

Both love and lover, without hope of joy;

For which he faded to a watry flowre.

But better fortune thine, and better howre,

Which lov’st the shadow of a warlike knight;

No shadow, but a body hath in powre:

That body, wheresoever that it light,

May learned be by cyphers, or by magicke might.

‘But if thou may with reason yet represse

The growing evill, ere it strength have gott,

And thee abandoned wholy doe possesse,

Against it strongly strive, and yield thee nott,

Til thou in open fielde adowne be smott.

But if the passion mayster thy fraile might,

So that needs love or death must bee thy lott,

Then I avow to thee, by wrong or right

To compas thy desire, and find that loved knight.’

Her chearefull words much cheard the feeble spright

Of the sicke virgin, that her downe she layd

In her warme bed to sleepe, if that she might;

And the old-woman carefully displayd

The clothes about her round with busy ayd,

So that at last a litle creeping sleepe

Surprisd her sence. Shee, therewith well apayd,

The dronken lamp down in the oyl did steepe,

And sett her by to watch, and sett her by to weepe.

Earely the morrow next, before that day

His joyous face did to the world revele,

They both uprose and tooke their ready way

Unto the church, their praiers to appele,

With great devotion, and with litle zele:

For the faire damzell from the holy herse

Her love-sicke hart to other thoughts did steale;

And that old dame said many an idle verse,

Out of her daughters hart fond fancies to reverse.

Retourned home, the royall infant fell

Into her former fitt; forwhy no powre

Nor guidaunce of her selfe in her did dwell.

But th’ aged nourse, her calling to her bowre,

Had gathered rew, and savine, and the flowre

Of camphora, and calamint, and dill,

All which she in a earthen pot did poure,

And to the brim with colt wood did it fill,

And many drops of milk and blood through it did spill.

Then, taking thrise three heares from of her head,

Them trebly breaded in a threefold lace,

And round about the pots mouth bound the thread,

And after having whispered a space

Certein sad words, with hollow voice and bace,

Shee to the virgin sayd, thrise sayd she itt:

‘Come, daughter, come, come; spit upon my face,

Spitt thrise upon me, thrise upon me spitt;

Th’ uneven nomber for this business is most fitt.’

That sayd, her rownd about she from her turnd,

She turned her contrary to the sunne,

Thrise she her turnd contrary, and returnd

All contrary, for she the right did shunne,

And ever what she did was streight undonne.

So thought she to undoe her daughters love:

But love, that is in gentle brest begonne,

No ydle charmes so lightly may remove;

That well can witnesse, who by tryall it does prove.

Ne ought it mote the noble mayd avayle,

Ne slake the fury of her cruell flame,

But that shee still did waste, and still did wayle,

That through long languour and hart-burning brame

She shortly like a pyned ghost became,

Which long hath waited by the Stygian strond.

That when old Glauce saw, for feare least blame

Of her miscarriage should in her be fond,

She wist not how t’ amend, nor how it to withstond.