For th’one of them he perfectly descride, xxxix To be Sir _Scudamour_, by that he bore The God of loue, with wings displayed wide, Whom mortally he hated euermore, Both for his worth, that all men did adore, And eke because his loue he wonne by right: Which when he thought, it grieued him full sore, That through the bruses of his former fight, He now vnable was to wreake his old despight. For thy he thus to _Paridel_ bespake, xl Faire Sir, of friendship let me now you pray, That as I late aduentured for your sake, The hurts whereof me now from battell stay, Ye will me now with like good turne repay, And iustifie my cause on yonder knight. Ah Sir (said _Paridel_) do not dismay Your selfe for this, my selfe will for you fight, As ye haue done for me: the left hand rubs the right. With that he put his spurres vnto his steed, xli With speare in rest, and toward him did fare, Like shaft out of a bow preuenting speed. But _Scudamour_ was shortly well aware Of his approch, and gan him selfe prepare Him to receiue with entertainment meete. So furiously they met, that either bare The other downe vnder their horses feete, That what of them became, themselues did scarsly weete. As when two billowes in the Irish sowndes, xlii Forcibly driuen with contrarie tydes Do meete together, each abacke rebowndes With roaring rage; and dashing on all sides, That filleth all the sea with fome, diuydes The doubtfull current into diuers wayes: So fell those two in spight of both their prydes, But _Scudamour_ himselfe did soone vprayse, And mounting light his foe for lying long vpbrayes. Who rolled on an heape lay still in swound, xliii All carelesse of his taunt and bitter rayle, Till that the rest him seeing lie on ground, Ran hastily, to weete what did him ayle. Where finding that the breath gan him to fayle, With busie care they stroue him to awake, And doft his helmet, and vndid his mayle: So much they did, that at the last they brake His slomber, yet so mazed, that he nothing spake. Which when as _Blandamour_ beheld, he sayd, xliv False faitour _Scudamour_, that hast by slight And foule advantage this good Knight dismayd, A Knight much better then thy selfe behight, Well falles it thee that I am not in plight This day, to wreake the dammage by thee donne: Such is thy wont, that still when any Knight Is weakned, then thou doest him ouerronne: So hast thou to thy selfe false honour often wonne.