_Atin_ drew nigh, to weet what it mote bee; xliii For much he wondred at that vncouth sight; Whom should he, but his owne deare Lord, there see, His owne deare Lord _Pyrochles_, in sad plight, Readie to drowne himselfe for fell despight. Harrow now out, and well away, he cryde, What dismall day hath lent this cursed light,[643] To see my Lord so deadly damnifyde?[644] _Pyrochles_, O _Pyrochles_, what is thee betyde? I burne, I burne, I burne, then loud he cryde, xliv O how I burne with implacable fire, Yet nought can quench mine inly flaming syde, Nor sea of licour cold, nor lake of mire, Nothing but death can doe me to respire. Ah be it (said he) from _Pyrochles_ farre After pursewing death once to require, Or think, that ought those puissant hands may marre: Death is for wretches borne vnder vnhappie starre. Perdie, then is it[645] fit for me (said he) xlv That am, I weene, most wretched man aliue, Burning[646] in flames, yet no flames can I see, And dying daily, daily yet reuiue: O _Atin_, helpe to me last death to giue. The varlet at his plaint was grieued so sore, That his deepe wounded hart in two did riue, And his owne health remembring now no more, Did follow that ensample, which he blam’d afore. Into the lake he lept, his Lord to ayd, xlvi (So Loue the dread of daunger doth despise) And of him catching hold him strongly stayd From drowning. But more happie he, then wise Of that seas nature did him not auise. The waues thereof so slow and sluggish were, Engrost with mud, which did them foule agrise, That euery weightie thing they did vpbeare, Ne ought mote euer sinke downe to the bottome there. Whiles thus they strugled in that idle waue, xlvii And stroue in vaine, the one himselfe to drowne, The other both from drowning for to saue, Lo, to that shore one in an auncient gowne, Whose hoarie locks great grauitie did crowne, Holding in hand a goodly arming sword, By fortune came, led with the troublous sowne: Where drenched deepe he found in that dull ford The carefull seruant, striuing with his raging Lord. Him _Atin_ spying, knew right well of yore, xlviii And loudly cald, Helpe helpe, O _Archimage_; To saue my Lord, in wretched plight forlore; Helpe with thy hand, or with thy counsell sage: Weake hands, but counsell is most strong in age. Him when the old man saw,[647] he wondred sore, To see _Pyrochles_ there so rudely rage: Yet sithens helpe, he saw, he needed more Then pittie, he in hast approched to the shore.