That nothing seem'd the puissance could withstand; Upon his crest the hard'ned iron fell;
But his more hard'ned crest was arm'd so well,
That deeper dint therein it would not make;
Yet so extremely did the buff him quell,
That from thenceforth he shunn'd the like to take,
But, when he saw them come, he did them still forsake.
The knight was wroth to see his stroke beguiled,
And smote again with more outrageous might;
But back again the sparkling steel recoil'd,
And left not any mark where it did light,
As if in adamant rock it had been pight.
The beast, impatient of his smarting wound,
And of so fierce and forcible despite,
Thought with his wings to sty above the ground;
But his late wounded wing unserviceable found.
Then, full of grief and anguish vehement,
He loudly bray'd, that like was never heard:
And from his wide devouring oven sent
A flake of fire, that, flashing in his beard,
Him all amazed, and almost made afeared :
The scorching flame sore singèd all his face,
And through his armour all his body sear'd,
That he could not endure so cruel case,
But thought his arms to leave, and helmet to unlace.
Not that great champion of the antique world
Whom famous poets' verse so much doth vaunt,
And hath for twelve huge labours high extoll'd,
So many furies and sharp fits did haunt,
When him the poison'd garment did enchant,
With Centaur's blood and bloody verses charm'd;
As did this knight twelve thousand dolours daunt,
Whom fiery steel now burnt, that erst him arm'd;
That erst him goodly arm'd, now most of all him harm'd.
Faint, weary, sore, emboylèd, grieved, brent,
With heat, toil, wounds, arm's smart, and inward fire,
That never man such mischiefs did torment;
Death better were; death did he oft desire;
But death will never come, when needs require.
Whom so dismay'd when that his foe beheld,
He cast to suffer him no more respire,
But gan his sturdy stern about to weld,
And him so strongly stroke, that to the ground him fell'd.
It fortunèd (as fair it then befell),
Behind his back, unweeting where he stood,
Of ancient time there was a springing well,
From which fast trickled forth a silver flood,
Full of great virtues, and for med'cine good:
Whylome, before that cursed Dragon got
That happy land, and all with innocent blood
Defiled those sacred waves, it rightly hot
The Well of Life; ne yet his virtues had forgot.
For unto life the dead it could restore,
And guilt of sinful crimes clean wash away;
Those, that with sickness were infected sore,
It could recure; and aged long decay
Renew, as one were born that very day.
Both Silo this, and Jordan, did excel,
And th' English Bath, and eke the German Spa;
Ne can Cephise, nor Hebrus, match this well;
Into the same the knight back overthrowen fell.
Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steep
His fiery face in billows of the west,
And his faint steeds wat'red in ocean deep,
Whiles from their journal labours they did rest;
When that infernal monster, having kest
His weary foe into that living well,
Can high advance his broad discolour'd breast
Above his wonted pitch, with countenance fell,
And clapt his iron wings, as victor he did dwell.
Which when his pensive lady saw from far,
Great woe and sorrow did her soul assay,
As weening that the sad end of the war,
And gan to highest God entirely pray
That feared chance from her to turn away;
With folded hands, and knees full lowly bent,
All night she watch'd; ne once adown would lay
Her dainty limbs in her sad dreriment,
But praying still did wake, and waking did lament.
The morrow next gan early to appear,
That Titan rose to run his daily race;
But early, ere the morrow next gan rear
Out of the sea fair Titan's dewy 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:
For she had great doubt of his safety,
Since late she saw him fall before his enemy.
At last she saw, where he upstarted brave
Out of the well wherein he drenched lay:
As eagle, fresh out of the ocean wave,
Where he hath left his plumes all hoary gray,
And deck'd himself with feathers youthly gay,
Like eyas hawk up mounts unto the skies,
His newly-budded pinions to assay,
And marvels at himself, still as he flies:
So new this new-born knight to battle new did rise.
Whom when the damnèd fiend so fresh did spy,
No wonder if he wond'red at the sight,
And doubted whether his late enemy
It were, or other new supplied knight.
He now, to prove his late-renewèd might,
High brandishing his bright dew-burning blade,
Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite,
That to the skull a yawning wound it made:
The deadly dint his dullèd senses all dismay'd.
I wot not, whether the revenging steel
Were hard'ned with that holy water dew
Wherein he fell; or sharper edge did feel;
Or his baptized hands now greater grew;
Or other secret virtue did ensue;
Else never could the force of fleshly arm,
Ne molten metal, in his blood embrue :
For, till that stownd, could never wight him harm.
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charm.
The cruel wound enragèd him so sore,
That loud he yelled for exceeding pain;
As hundred ramping lions seem'd to roar,
Whom ravenous hunger did thereto constrain.
Then gan he toss aloft his stretched train,
And therewith scourge the buxom air so sore,
That to his force to yielden it was fain;
Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore,
That high trees overthrew, and rocks in pieces tore:
The same advancing high above his head,
With sharp intended sting so rude him smot,
That to the earth him drove, as stricken dead;
Ne living wight would have him life behott:
The mortal sting his angry needle shot
Quite through his shield, and in his shoulder seized,
Where fast it stuck, ne would thereout be got:
The grief thereof him wondrous sore diseased,
Ne might his rankling pain with patience be appeased;
But yet, more mindful of his honour dear
Than of the grievous smart which did him wring,
From loathed soil he can him lightly rear,
And strove to loose the far infixèd sting:
Which when in vain he tried with struggèling,
Inflamed with wrath, his raging blade he heft,
And struck so strongly, that the knotty string
Of his huge tail he quite asunder cleft;
Five joints thereof he hew'd, and but the stump him left.
Heart cannot think, what outrage and what cries,
With foul enfould'red smoke and flashing fire,
The hell-bred beast threw forth unto the skies,
Then fraught with rancour, and engorged ire,
He cast at once him to avenge for all;
And, gathering up himself out of the mire,
With his uneven wings did fiercely fall
Upon his sun-bright shield, and gript it fast withal.
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