He bad tell on; And then she thus began. xvi Now haue three Moones with borrow’d brothers light, Thrice shined faire, and thrice seem’d dim and wan, Sith a sore euill, which this virgin bright Tormenteth, and doth plonge in dolefull plight, First rooting tooke; but what thing it mote bee, Or whence it sprong, I cannot read aright: But this I read, that but if remedee[911] Thou her afford, full shortly I her dead shall see. Therewith th’Enchaunter softly gan to smyle xvii At her smooth speeches, weeting inly well, That she to him dissembled womanish guyle, And to her said, Beldame, by that ye tell, More need of leach-craft hath your Damozell, Then of my skill: who helpe may haue elsewhere, In vaine seekes wonders out of Magicke spell. Th’old woman wox half blanck, those words to heare; And yet was loth to let her purpose plaine appeare. And to him said, If any leaches skill, xviii Or other learned meanes could haue redrest This my deare daughters deepe engraffed ill, Certes I should be loth thee to molest: But this sad euill, which doth her infest, Doth course of naturall cause farre exceed, And housed is within her hollow brest, That either seemes some cursed witches deed, Or euill spright, that in her doth such torment breed. The wisard could no lenger[912] beare her bord, xix But brusting forth in laughter, to her sayd; _Glauce_, what needs this colourable word, To cloke the cause, that hath it selfe bewrayd? Ne ye faire _Britomartis_, thus arayd, More hidden are, then Sunne in cloudy vele; Whom thy good fortune, hauing fate obayd, Hath hither brought, for succour to appele: The which the powres to thee are pleased to reuele. The doubtfull Mayd, seeing her selfe descryde, xx Was all abasht, and her pure yuory Into a cleare Carnation suddeine dyde; As faire _Aurora_ rising hastily, Doth by her blushing tell, that she did lye All night in old _Tithonus_ frosen bed, Whereof she seemes ashamed inwardly. But her old Nourse was nought dishartened, But vauntage made of that, which _Merlin_ had ared. And sayd, Sith then thou knowest all our griefe, xxi (For what doest not thou know?) of grace I pray, Pitty our plaint, and yield vs meet reliefe. With that the Prophet still awhile did stay, And then his spirite thus gan forth display; Most noble Virgin, that by fatall lore Hast learn’d to loue, let no whit thee dismay The hard begin, that meets thee in the dore, And with sharpe fits thy tender hart oppresseth sore.