Upon a day, as she him sate beside,
By chance he certaine miniments forth drew,
Which yet with him as relickes did abide
Of all the bounty which Belphebe threw
On him, whilst goodly grace she did him shew:
Amongst the rest a iewell rich he found,
That was a ruby of right perfect hew,
Shap'd like a heart yet bleeding of the wound,
And with a litle golden chaine about it bound.
The same he tooke, and with a riband new,
In which his Ladies colours were, did bind
About the turtles necke, that with the vew
Did greatly solace his engrieved mind.
All unawares the bird, when she did find
Herselfe so deckt, her nimble wings displaid,
And flew away as lightly as the wind:
Which sodaine accident him much dismaid;
And, looking after long, did marke which way she straid.
But whenas long he looked had in vaine,
Yet saw her forward still to make her flight,
His weary eie returnd to him againe,
Full of discomfort and disquiet plight,
That both his iuell he had lost so light,
And eke his deare companion of his care.
But that sweet bird departing flew forthright,
Through the wide region of the wastfull aire,
Untill she came where wonned his Belphebe faire.
There found she her (as then it did betide)
Sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet,
After late wearie toile which she had tride
In salvage chase, to rest as seem'd her meet.
There she, alighting, fell before her feet,
And gan to her her mournfull plaint to make,
As was her wont, thinking to let her weet
The great tormenting griefe that for her sake
Her gentle Squire through her displeasure did pertake.
She, her beholding with attentive eye,
At length did marke about her purple brest
That precious iuell, which she formerly
Had knowne right well with colourd ribbands drest :
Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest
With ready hand it to have reft away :
But the swift bird obayd not her behest,
But swarv'd aside, and there againe did stay;
She follow'd her, and thought againe it to assay.
And ever, when she nigh approcht, the dove
Would flit a little forward, and then stay
Till she drew neare, and then againe remove :
So tempting her still to pursue the pray,
And still from her escaping soft away:
Till that at length into that forrest wide
She drew her far, and led with slow delay:
In th' end she her unto that place did guide,
Whereas that wofull man in languor did abide.
Eftsoones she flew unto his fearelesse hand,
And there a piteous ditty new deviz'd,
As if she would have made him understand
His sorrowes cause, to be of her despis'd:
Whom when she saw in wretched weeds disguiz'd,
With heary glib deform'd, and meiger face,
Like ghost late risen from his grave agryz'd,
She knew him not, but pittied much his case,
'And wisht it were in her to doe him any grace.
He, her beholding, at her feet downe fell
And kist the ground on which her sole did tread, And washt the same with water which did well From his moist eies, and like two streames procead; Yet spake no word, whereby she might aread What mister wight he was, or what he ment; But, as one daunted with her presence dread, Onely few ruefull lookes unto her sent, As messengers of his true meaning and intent.
Yet nathëmore his meaning she ared,
But wondred much at his so selcouth case;
And by his persons secret seemlyhed
Well weend that he had beene some man of place,
Before misfortune did his hew deface;
That, being mov'd with ruth, she thus bespake: "Ah! wofull man, what Heavens hard disgrace, Or wrath of cruell wight on thee ywrake,
Or selfe-disliked life, doth thee thus wretched make?
"If Heaven; then none may it redresse or blame,
Sith to His powre we all are subiect borne!
If wrathfull wight; then fowle rebuke and shame
Be theirs that have so cruell thee forlorne!
But, if through inward griefe or wilfull scorne
Of life, it be; then better doe advise:
For he, whose daies in wilfull woe are worne,
The grace of his Creator doth despise,
That will not use his gifts for thanklesse nigardise."
When so he heard her say, eftsoones he brake,
His sodaine silence which he long had pent,
And, sighing inly deepe, her thus bespake;
"Then have they all themselves against me bent!
For Heaven, first author of my languishment,
Envying my too great felicity,
Did closely with a cruell One consent
To cloud my daies in dolefull misery,
And make me loath this life, still longing for to die.
"Ne any but yourself, O dearest Dred,
Hath done this wrong, to wreake on worthlesse wight Your high displesure, through misdeeming bred: That, when your pleasure is to deeme aright, Ye may redresse, and me restore to light!" Which sory words her mightie hart did mate With mild regard to see his ruefull plight, That her inburning wrath she gan abate, And him receiv'd againe to former favours state.
In which he long time afterwards did lead
An happie life with grace and good accord,
Fearlesse of fortunes chaunge or envies dread,
And eke all mindlesse of his owne deare Lord.
The noble Prince, who never heard one word
Of tydings, what did unto him betide,
Or what good fortune did to him afford;
But through the endlesse world did wander wide, Him seeking evermore, yet no where him descride:
Till on a day, as through that wood he rode,
He chaunst to come where those two Ladies late, Emylia and Amoret, abode,
Both in full sad and sorrowfull estate;
The one right feeble through the evill rate
Of food, which in her duresse she had found;
The other almost dead and desperate
Through her late hurts, and through that haplesse With which the Squire, in her defence, her sore astound.
Whom when the Prince beheld, he gan to rew
The evill case in which those Ladies lay;
But most was moved at the piteous vew
Of Amoret, so neare unto decay,
That her great daunger did him much dismay.
Eftsoones that pretious liquor forth he drew,
Which he in store about him kept alway,
And with few drops thereof did softly dew-
Her wounds, that unto strength restor❜d her soone anew.
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