Whom when the Prince, to battell new addrest, xxii And threatning high his dreadfull stroke did see, His sparkling blade about his head he blest, And smote off quite his right leg by the knee, That downe he tombled; as an aged tree, High growing on the top of rocky clift, Whose hartstrings with keene steele nigh hewen be, The mightie trunck halfe rent, with ragged rift Doth roll adowne the rocks, and fall with fearefull drift. Or as a Castle reared high and round, xxiii By subtile engins and malitious slight Is vndermined from the lowest ground, And her foundation forst, and feebled quight, At last downe falles, and with her heaped hight Her hastie ruine does more heauie make, And yields it selfe vnto the victours might; Such was this Gyaunts fall, that seemd to shake The stedfast globe of earth, as it for feare did quake. The knight then lightly leaping to the pray, xxiv With mortall steele him smot againe so sore, That headlesse his vnweldy bodie lay, All wallowd in his owne fowle bloudy gore, Which flowed from his wounds in wondrous store.[279] But soone as breath out of his[280] breast did pas, That huge great body, which the Gyaunt bore, Was vanisht quite, and of that monstrous mas Was nothing left, but like an emptie bladder was. Whose grieuous fall, when false _Duessa_ spide, xxv Her golden cup she cast vnto the ground, And crowned mitre rudely threw aside; Such percing griefe her stubborne hart did wound, That she could not endure that dolefull stound, But leauing all behind her, fled away: The light-foot Squire her quickly turnd around, And by hard meanes enforcing her to stay, So brought vnto his Lord, as his deserued pray. The royall Virgin, which beheld from farre, xxvi In pensiue plight, and sad perplexitie, The whole atchieuement of this doubtfull warre, Came running fast to greet his victorie, With sober gladnesse, and myld modestie, And with sweet ioyous cheare him thus bespake; Faire braunch of noblesse, flowre of cheualrie, That with your worth the world amazed make, How shall I quite the paines, ye suffer for my sake? And you fresh bud of vertue springing fast, xxvii Whom these sad eyes saw nigh vnto deaths dore, What hath poore Virgin for such perill past, Wherewith you to reward? Accept therefore My simple selfe, and seruice euermore; And he that high does sit, and all things see With equall eyes[281], their merites to restore, Behold what ye this day haue done for mee, And what I cannot quite, requite with vsuree.