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The Faerie Queene, Book I, Canto 11
by [?]


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.


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


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.


The cruell wound enraged him so sore, 325
That loud he yelded for exceeding paine;
As hundred ramping Lyons seem’d to rore,
Whom ravenous hunger did thereto constraine:
Then gan he tosse aloft his stretched traine,
And therewith scourge the buxome aire so sore, 330
That to his force to yeelden it was faine;
Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore,
That high trees overthrew, and rocks in peeces tore.


The same advauncing high above his head,
With sharpe intended sting[*] so rude him smot, 335
That to the earth him drove, as stricken dead,
Ne living wight would have him life behot:
The mortall sting his angry needle shot
Quite through his shield, and in his shoulder seasd,
Where fast it stucke, ne would there out be got: 340
The griefe thereof him wondrous sore diseasd,
Ne might his ranckling paine with patience be appeasd.


But yet more mindfull of his honour deare,
Then of the grievous smart, which him did wring,
From loathed soile he can him lightly reare, 345
And strove to loose the far infixed sting:
Which when in vaine he tryde with struggeling,
Inflam’d with wrath, his raging blade he heft,
And strooke so strongly, that the knotty string
Of his huge taile he quite a sunder cleft, 350
Five joints thereof he hewd, and but the stump him left.