The charge, which God doth vnto me arret, viii Of his deare safetie, I to thee commend; Yet will I not forgoe, ne yet forget The care thereof my selfe vnto the end, But euermore him succour, and defend Against his foe and mine: watch thou I pray; For euill is at hand him to offend. So hauing said, eftsoones he gan display His painted nimble wings, and vanisht quite away. The Palmer seeing his left empty place, ix And his slow eyes beguiled of their sight, Woxe sore affraid, and standing still a space, Gaz’d after him, as fowle escapt by flight; At last him turning to his charge behight, With trembling hand his troubled pulse gan try; Where finding life not yet dislodged quight, He much reioyst, and courd it tenderly, As chicken newly hatcht, from dreaded destiny. At last he spide, where towards him did pace x Two Paynim knights, all armd as bright as skie, And them beside an aged Sire did trace, And farre before a light-foot Page did flie, That breathed strife and troublous enmitie; Those were the two sonnes of _Acrates_ old, Who meeting earst with _Archimago_ slie, Foreby that idle strond, of him were told, That he, which earst them combatted, was _Guyon_ bold. Which to auenge on him they dearely vowd, xi Where euer that on ground they mote him fynd; False _Archimage_ prouokt their courage prowd, And stryfull[695] _Atin_ in their stubborne mynd Coles of contention and whot vengeance tynd. Now bene they come, whereas the Palmer sate, Keeping that slombred corse to him assynd; Well knew they both his person, sith of late With him in bloudie armes they rashly did debate. Whom when _Pyrochles_ saw, inflam’d with rage, xii That sire he foule bespake, Thou dotard vile, That with thy brutenesse shendst thy comely age, Abandone soone, I read, the caitiue spoile Of that same outcast carkasse, that erewhile Made it selfe famous through false trechery, And crownd his coward crest with knightly stile; Loe where he now inglorious doth lye, To proue he liued ill, that did thus foully dye. To whom the Palmer fearelesse answered; xiii Certes, Sir knight, ye bene too much to blame, Thus for to blot the honour of the dead, And with foule cowardize his carkasse shame, Whose liuing hands immortalizd his name. Vile is the vengeance on the ashes cold, And enuie base, to barke at sleeping fame: Was neuer wight, that treason of him told; Your selfe his prowesse prou’d and found him fiers and bold.