Hold, O deare Lord, hold your dead-doing hand, viii Then loud he cryde, I am your humble thrall. Ah wretch (quoth he) thy destinies withstand My wrathfull will, and do for mercy call. I giue thee life: therefore prostrated fall, And kisse my stirrup; that thy homage bee. The Miser threw him selfe, as an Offall, Streight at his foot in base humilitee, And cleeped him his liege, to hold of him in fee. So happy peace they made and faire accord: ix Eftsoones this liege-man gan to wexe more bold, And when he felt the folly of his Lord, In his owne kind he gan him selfe vnfold: For he was wylie witted, and growne old In cunning sleights and practick knauery. From[529] that day forth he cast for to vphold His idle humour with fine flattery[530], And blow the bellowes to his swelling vanity. _Trompart_ fit man for _Braggadocchio_[531], x To serue at court in view of vaunting eye; Vaine-glorious man, when fluttring wind does blow In his light wings, is lifted vp to skye: The scorne of knighthood and trew cheualrye, To thinke without desert of gentle deed, And noble worth to be aduaunced hye: Such prayse is shame; but honour vertues meed Doth beare the fairest flowre in honorable seed. So forth they pas, a well consorted paire, xi Till that at length with _Archimage_ they meet: Who seeing one that shone in armour faire, On goodly courser[532] thundring with his feet, Eftsoones supposed him a person meet, Of his reuenge to make the instrument: For since the _Redcrosse_ knight he earst did weet, To beene with _Guyon_ knit in one consent, The ill, which earst to him, he now to _Guyon_ ment. And comming close to _Trompart_ gan inquere xii Of him, what mighty warriour that mote bee, That rode in golden sell with single spere, But wanted sword to wreake his enmitee. He is a great aduenturer, (said he) That hath his sword through hard assay forgone, And now hath vowd, till he auenged bee, Of that despight, neuer to wearen none; That speare is him enough to doen a thousand grone. Th’enchaunter greatly ioyed in the vaunt, xiii And weened well ere long his will to win, And both his foen with equall foyle to daunt. Tho to him louting lowly, did begin To plaine of wrongs, which had committed bin By _Guyon_, and by that false _Redcrosse_ knight, Which two through treason and deceiptfull gin, Had slaine Sir _Mordant_, and his Lady bright: That mote him honour win, to wreake so foule despight.