XXII

But wise Speranza gave him comfort sweet, 190
  And taught him how to take assured hold
  Upon her silver anchor, as was meet;
  Else had his sinnes so great and manifold
  Made him forget all that Fidelia told. 
  In this distressed doubtfull agonie, 195
  When him his dearest Una did behold,
  Disdeining life, desiring leave to die,
She found her selfe assayld with great perplexitie.

XXIII

And came to Coelia to declare her smart,
  Who well acquainted with that commune plight, 200
  Which sinfull horror workes in wounded hart,
  Her wisely comforted all that she might,
  With goodly counsell and advisement right;
  And streightway sent with carefull diligence,
  To fetch a Leach, the which had great insight 205
  In that disease of grieved conscience,
And well could cure the same; his name was Patience.

XXIV

Who comming to that soule-diseased knight,
  Could hardly him intreat[*] to tell his griefe: 
  Which knowne, and all that noyd his heavie spright 210
  Well searcht, eftsoones he gan apply relief
  Of salves and med’cines, which had passing priefe,
  And thereto added words of wondrous might;[*]
  By which to ease he him recured briefe,
  And much aswag’d the passion of his plight,[*] 215
That he his paine endur’d, as seeming now more light.

XXV

But yet the cause and root of all his ill,
  Inward corruption and infected sin,
  Not purg’d nor heald, behind remained still,
  And festring sore did rankle yet within, 220
  Close creeping twixt the marrow and the skin. 
  Which to extirpe, he laid him privily
  Downe in a darkesome lowly place farre in,
  Whereas he meant his corrosives to apply,
And with streight diet tame his stubborne malady. 225

XXVI

In ashes and sackcloth he did array
  His daintie corse, proud humors to abate,
  And dieted with fasting every day,
  The swelling of his wounds to mitigate,
  And made him pray both earely and eke late:  230
  And ever as superfluous flesh did rot
  Amendment readie still at hand did wayt,
  To pluck it out with pincers firie whot,
That soone in him was left no one corrupted jot.

XXVII

And bitter Penance with an yron whip, 235
  Was wont him once to disple every day: 
  And sharpe Remorse his hart did pricke and nip,
  That drops of blood thence like a well did play: 
  And sad Repentance used to embay
  His bodie in salt water smarting sore, 240
  The filthy blots of sinne to wash away. 
  So in short space they did to health restore
The man that would not live, but earst lay at deathes dore.