XXXI
Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steepe
His fierie face in billowes of the west,
And his faint steedes watred in Ocean
deepe,
Whiles from their journall labours they
did rest,
When that infernall Monster, having kest
275
His wearie foe into that living well,
Can high advance his broad discoloured
brest
Above his wonted pitch, with countenance
fell,
And clapt his yron wings, as victor he did dwell.
XXXII
Which when his pensive Ladie saw from farre,
280
Great woe and sorrow did her soule assay,
As weening that the sad end of the warre,
And gan to highest God entirely pray,
That feared chance from her to turne away;
With folded hands and knees full lowly
bent, 285
All night she watcht, ne once adowne would
lay
Her daintie limbs in her sad dreriment,
But praying still did wake, and waking did lament.
XXXIII
The morrow next gan early to appeare,
That Titan rose to runne his daily race;
290
But early ere the morrow next gan reare
Out of the sea faire Titans deawy face,
Up rose the gentle virgin from her place,
And looked all about, if she might spy
Her loved knight to move[*] his manly
pace: 295
For she had great doubt of his safety,
Since late she saw him fall before his enemy.
XXXIV
At last she saw, where he upstarted brave
Out of the well, wherein he drenched lay:
As Eagle[*] fresh out of the Ocean wave,
300
Where he hath left his plumes all hoary
gray,
And deckt himselfe with feathers youthly
gay,
Like Eyas hauke up mounts unto the skies,
His newly budded pineons to assay,
And marveiles at himselfe, still as he
flies: 305
So new this new-borne knight to battell new did rise.
XXXV
Whom when the damned feend so fresh did spy,
No wonder if he wondred at the sight,
And doubted, whether his late enemy
It were, or other new supplied knight.
310
He, now to prove his late renewed might,
High brandishing his bright deaw-burning
blade,[*]
Upon his crested scalpe so sore did smite,
That to the scull a yawning wound it made;
The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismaid.
315
XXXVI
I wote not, whether the revenging steele
Were hardned with that holy water dew,
Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele,
Or his baptized hands now greater grew;
Or other secret vertue did ensew;
320
Else never could the force of fleshly
arme,
Ne molten mettall in his blood embrew[*];
For till that stownd could never wight
him harme,
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charme.