XLI

The knight much wondred at his suddeine wit,[*]
  And said, The terme of life is limited,
  Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it;
  The souldier may not move from watchfull sted,
  Nor leave his stand, untill his Captaine bed. 365
  Who life did limit by almightie doome
  (Quoth he)[*] knowes best the termes established;
  And he, that points the Centonell his roome,
Doth license him depart at sound of morning droome.

XLII

Is not his deed, what ever thing is donne 370
  In heaven and earth? did not he all create
  To die againe? all ends that was begonne. 
  Their times in his eternall booke of fate
  Are written sure, and have their certaine date. 
  Who then can strive with strong necessitie, 375
  That holds the world in his still chaunging state,
  Or shunne the death ordaynd by destinie? 
When houre of death is come, let none aske whence, nor why.

XLIII

The lenger life, I wote the greater sin,
  The greater sin, the greater punishment:  380
  All those great battels, which thou boasts to win,
  Through strife, and blood-shed, and avengement,
  Now praysd, hereafter deare thou shalt repent: 
  For life must life, and blood must blood repay. 
  Is not enough thy evill life forespent? 385
  For he that once hath missed the right way,
The further he doth goe, the further he doth stray.

XLIV

Then do no further goe, no further stray,
  But here lie downe, and to thy rest betake,
  Th’ ill to prevent, that life ensewen may. 390
  For what hath life, that may it loved make,
  And gives not rather cause it to forsake? 
  Feare, sicknesse, age, losse, labour, sorrow, strife,
  Paine, hunger, cold, that makes the hart to quake;
  And ever fickle fortune rageth rife, 395
All which, and thousands mo do make a loathsome life.

XLV

Thou wretched man, of death hast greatest need,
  If in true ballance thou wilt weigh thy state: 
  For never knight, that dared warlike deede,
  More lucklesse disaventures did amate:  400
  Witnesse the dungeon deepe, wherein of late
  Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call;
  And though good lucke prolonged hath thy date,[*]
  Yet death then would the like mishaps forestall,
Into the which hereafter thou maiest happen fall. 405

XLVI

Why then doest thou, O man of sin, desire
  To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree? 
  Is not the measure of thy sinfull hire[*]
  High heaped up with huge iniquitie,
  Against the day of wrath, to burden thee? 410
  Is not enough, that to this Ladie milde
  Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjurie,
  And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vilde,
With whom in all abuse thou hast thy selfe defilde?