XLVII
It was my chance (my chance was faire and good)
410
There for to find a fresh unproved knight,
Whose manly hands imbrew’d in guiltie
blood
Had never bene, ne ever by his might
Had throwne to ground the unregarded right:
Yet of his prowesse proofe he since hath
made 415
(I witnesse am) in many a cruell fight;
The groning ghosts of many one dismaide
Have felt the bitter dint of his avenging blade.
XLVIII
And ye the forlorne reliques of his powre,
His byting sword, and his devouring speare,
420
Which have endured many a dreadfull stowre,
Can speake his prowesse, that did earst
you beare,
And well could rule: now he hath
left you heare
To be the record of his ruefull losse,
And of my dolefull disaventurous deare:[*]
425
O heavie record of the good Redcrosse,
Where have you left your Lord, that could so well
you tosse?
XLIX
Well hoped I, and faire beginnings had,
That he my captive languor[*] should redeeme,
Till all unweeting, an Enchaunter bad
430
His sence abusd, and made him to misdeeme
My loyalty,[*] not such as it did seeme;
That rather death desire, then such despight.
Be judge ye heavens, that all things right
esteeme,
How I him lov’d, and love with all
my might, 435
So thought I eke of him, and thinke I thought aright.
L
Thenceforth me desolate he quite forsooke,
To wander, where wilde fortune would me
lead,
And other bywaies he himselfe betooke,
Where never foot of living wight did tread,
440
That brought[*] not backe the balefull
body dead;
In which him chaunced false Duessa meete,
Mine onely foe, mine onely deadly dread,
Who with her witchcraft, and misseeming
sweete,
Inveigled him to follow her desires unmeete.
445
LI
At last by subtill sleights she him betraid
Unto his foe, a Gyant huge and tall,
Who him disarmed, dissolute, dismaid,
Unwares surprised, and with mighty mall
The monster mercilesse him made to fall,
450
Whose fall did never foe before behold;
And now in darkesome dungeon, wretched
thrall,
Remedilesse, for aie he doth him hold;
This is my cause of griefe, more great then may be
told.
LII
Ere she had ended all, she gan to faint:
455
But he her comforted and faire bespake,
Certes, Madame, ye have great cause of
plaint,
The stoutest heart, I weene, could cause
to quake.
But be of cheare, and comfort to you take:
For till I have acquit your captive knight,
460
Assure your selfe, I will you not forsake.
His chearefull wordes reviv’d her
chearelesse spright,
So forth they went, the Dwarfe them guiding ever right.