For when _Cymochles_ saw the fowle reproch, xliv Which them appeached, prickt with guilty[710] shame, And inward griefe, he fiercely gan approch, Resolu’d to put away that loathly blame, Or dye with honour and desert of fame; And on the hauberk stroke the Prince so sore, That quite disparted all the linked frame, And pierced to the skin, but bit no more[711], Yet made him twise to reele, that neuer moou’d afore. Whereat renfierst with wrath and sharpe regret, xlv He stroke so hugely with his borrowd blade, That it empierst[712] the Pagans burganet, And cleauing the hard steele, did deepe inuade Into his head, and cruell passage made Quite through his braine. He tombling downe on ground, Breathd out his ghost, which to th’infernall shade Fast flying, there eternall torment found, For all the sinnes, wherewith his lewd life did abound. Which when his german saw, the stony feare[713] xlvi Ran to his hart, and all his sence dismayd, Ne thenceforth life ne courage did appeare, But as a man, whom hellish feends haue frayd, Long trembling still he stood: at last thus sayd; Traytour what hast thou doen? how euer may Thy cursed hand so cruelly haue swayd Against that knight: Harrow[714] and well away,[715] After so wicked deed why liu’st thou lenger day? With that all desperate as loathing light, xlvii And with reuenge desiring soone to dye, Assembling all his force and vtmost might, With his owne sword[716] he fierce at him did flye, And strooke, and foynd, and lasht outrageously, Withouten reason or regard. Well knew The Prince, with patience and sufferaunce sly So hasty heat soone cooled to subdew: Tho when this breathlesse woxe, that batteil gan renew. As when a windy tempest bloweth hye, xlviii That nothing may withstand his stormy stowre, The cloudes, as things affrayd, before him flye; But all so soone as his outrageous powre Is layd, they fiercely then begin to shoure, And as in scorne of his spent stormy spight, Now all attonce their malice forth do poure; So did Prince _Arthur_[717] beare himselfe in fight, And suffred rash _Pyrochles_ wast his idle might. At last when as the Sarazin perceiu’d, xlix How that straunge sword refusd, to serue his need, But when he stroke most strong, the dint deceiu’d, He flong it from him, and deuoyd of dreed, Vpon him lightly leaping without heed, Twixt his two mighty armes engrasped fast, Thinking to ouerthrow and downe him tred: But him in strength and skill the Prince surpast, And through his nimble sleight did vnder him down cast.