Not wurthy Hector, wurthyeft of them all,
Her hope, her joye, his force is nowe for nought.
O Troy, Troy, [Troy,] there is no boote but bale,
The hugie horse within thy walles is brought: 410
Thy turrets fall, thy knightes, that whilom fought
In armes amyd the fyeld, are flayne in bed,
Thy gods defylde, and all thy honour dead.
The flames upfpring, and cruelly they crepe
From wall to roofe, til all to cindres wafte;
Some fyer the houses where the wretches flepe,
Sum ruhe in here, fum run in there as faft;
In every where or sworde or fyer they taste :
The walles are torne, the towers whurld to the
ground,
There is no mischiefe but may there be found. 420
But howe can I defcryve the doleful fight
That in the shylde fo livelike fayer did shyne ?
Sith in this world, I thinke, was never wyght
Could have fet furth the halfe, not halfe fo fyne.
I can no more but tell howe there is feene
425
Fayer Ilium fal in burning red gledes downe,
And from the foyle great Troy, Neptunus towne.
Herefrom when scarce I could mine iyes withdrawe,
That fylde with teares as doeth the fpryngyng well,
We paffed on fo far furth tyl we fawe
Rude Acheron, a lothfome lake to tell,
That boyles and bubs up fwelth as blacke as hell;
Where grisly Charon at theyr fixed tide
Stil ferreies ghoftes unto the farder fide.
The aged god no fooner Sorowe spyed,
But halting ftrayt unto the banke apace,
With hollow call unto the rout he cryed,
To fwarve apart, and geve the goddeffe place:
Strayt it was done, when to the shoar we pace,
Where hand in hand as we then linked fast,
Within the boate we are together plaste.
And furth we launch, ful fraughted to the brinke,
Whan with the unwonted weyght, the ruftye keele
Began to cracke as if the fame fhould finke.
We hoyfe up maft and fayle, that in a whyle
We fet the fhore, where fcarcely we had while 445
For to arryve, but that we heard anone
A thre found barke confounded al in one.
We had not long furth past, but that we sawe,
Blacke Cerberus, the hydeous hound of hell, 450
With brilles reard, and with a thre mouthed jawe,
Foredinning the ayer with his horrible yel.
Oute of the diepe darke cave where he dyd dwell,
The goddeffe ftrayt he knewe, and by and by
He peate and couched, while that we paffed by.
Thence cum we to the horrour and the hel,
The large great kyngdomes, and the dreadful raygne
Of Pluto in his trone where he dyd dwell,
The wyde wafte places, and the hugye playne: 460
The waylinges, fhrykes, and fundry fortes of payne,
The fyghes, the fobbes, the diepe and deadly groane,
Earth, ayer, and all resounding playnt and moane.
Here pewled the babes, and here the maydes unwed With folded handes theyr fory chaunce bewayled: Here wept the gyltles flayne, and lovers dead, 465 That flewe them felves when nothyng els avayled; A thousand fortes of forrowes here that wayled With fighes and teares, fobs, fhrykes, and all yfere, That (oh alas!) it was a hel to heare.
We stayed us ftrayt, and wyth a rufull feare, 470
Beheld this heavy fight, while from mine eyes
The vapored teares downftilled here and there,
And Sorowe eke, in far more woful wyfe,
Tooke on with playnt, up heaving to the skyes
Her wretched handes, that with her crye the rout
Gan all in heapes to fwarme us round about.
Loe here (quod Sorowe) prynces of renowne,
That whilom fat on top of Fortunes wheele,
Nowe layed ful lowe, like wretches whurled downe,
Even with one frowne, that stayed but with a fmyle.
And nowe behold the thing that thou erewhile
Saw only in thought, and what thou now shalt heare Recompt the fame to kefar, king, and pier.
Then first came Henry duke of Buckingham,
His cloke of blacke al pilde and quite forworne,
Wringing his handes, and Fortune ofte doth blame,
Which of a duke hath made him nowe her fkorne;
With gaftly lookes, as one in maner lorne,
Oft fpred his armes, ftretcht handes he joynes as faft,
With ruful chere, and vapored eyes upcast.
His cloke he rent, his manly breaft he beat,
His heare al torne about the place it laye;
My hart fo molte to fee his griefe fo great,
As felingly me thought it dropt awaye :
His iyes they whurled about withouten ftaye, 495
With formy fyghes the place dyd fo complayne,
As if his hart at eche had burft in twayne.
Thryfe he began to tell his doleful tale,
And thrife the fighes did fwalowe up his voyce,
At eche of which he fhryked fo wythal
As though the heavens rived with the noyse:
Tyll, at the laft, recovering his voyce,
Supping the teares that all his breft beraynde,
Oa cruel Fortune, weping, thus he playnde.
DISPOSED INTO XII. BOOKS.
ASHIONING THE XII. MORAL VIRTUER."
Guyon is of immodeft Merth
led into loofe defyre,
Fights with Cymochles, whiles his bro
ther burnes in furious fire.
HARDER leffon, to learne continence In joyous pleasure, then in grievous paine : For fweetneffe doth allure the weaker fence So ftrongly, that uncathes it can refraine
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