XIX

His Lady sad to see his sore constraint,
  Cride out, Now now Sir knight, shew what ye bee,
  Add faith unto your force, and be not faint:  165
  Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee. 
  That when he heard, in great perplexitie,
  His gall did grate for griefe[*] and high disdaine,
  And knitting all his force got one hand free,
  Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, 170
That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine.

XX

Therewith she spewd out of her filthy maw
  A floud of poyson horrible and blacke,
  Full of great lumpes of flesh and gobbets raw,
  Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke 175
  His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe: 
  Her vomit full of bookes[*] and papers was,
  With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke,
  And creeping sought way in the weedy gras: 
Her filthy parbreake all the place defiled has. 180

XXI

As when old father Nilus[*] gins to swell
  With timely pride above the Aegyptian vale,
  His fattie waves do fertile slime outwell,
  And overflow each plaine and lowly dale: 
  But when his later spring gins to avale, 185
  Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherein there breed
  Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male
  And partly female of his fruitful seed;
Such ugly monstrous shapes elswhere may no man reed.

XXII

The same so sore annoyed has the knight, 190
  That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke,
  His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. 
  Whose corage when the feend perceiv’d to shrinke,
  She poured forth out of her hellish sinke
  Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, 195
  Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke,
  With swarming all about his legs did crall,
And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all.

XXIII

As gentle Shepheard[*] in sweete even-tide,
  When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west, 200
  High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide,
  Markes which do byte their hasty supper best,
  A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest,
  All striving to infixe their feeble stings,
  That from their noyance he no where can rest, 205
  But with his clownish hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.

XXIV

Thus ill bestedd,[*] and fearefull more of shame,
  Then of the certeine perill he stood in,
  Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 210
  Resolv’d in minde all suddenly to win,
  Or soone to lose, before he once would lin
  And strooke at her with more then manly force,
  That from her body full of filthie sin
  He raft her hatefull head without remorse; 215
A streame of cole black bloud forth gushed from her corse.