As when the daughter of _Thaumantes_ faire, xxv Hath in a watry cloud displayed wide Her goodly bow, which paints the liquid ayre; That all men wonder at her colours pride; All suddenly, ere one can looke aside, The glorious picture vanisheth away, Ne any token doth thereof abide: So did this Ladies goodly forme decay, And into nothing goe, ere one could it bewray. Which when as all that present were, beheld, xxvi They stricken were with great astonishment, And their faint harts with senselesse horrour queld, To see the thing, that seem’d so excellent, So stolen from their fancies wonderment; That what of it became, none vnderstood. And _Braggadochio_ selfe with dreriment So daunted was in his despeyring mood, That like a lifelesse corse immoueable he stood. But _Artegall_ that golden belt vptooke, xxvii The which of all her spoyle was onely left; Which was not hers, as many it mistooke, But _Florimells_ owne girdle, from her reft, While she was flying, like a weary weft, From that foule monster, which did her compell To perils great; which he vnbuckling eft, Presented to the fayrest _Florimell_; Who round about her tender wast it fitted well. Full many Ladies often had assayd, xxviii About their middles that faire belt to knit; And many a one suppos’d to be a mayd: Yet it to none of all their loynes would fit, Till _Florimell_ about her fastned it. Such power it had, that to no womans wast By any skill or labour it would sit, Vnlesse that she were continent and chast, But it would lose or breake, that many had disgrast. Whilest thus they busied were bout _Florimell_, xxix And boastfull _Braggadochio_ to defame, Sir _Guyon_ as by fortune then befell, Forth from the thickest preasse of people came, His owne good steed, which he had stolne, to clame; And th’one hand seizing on his golden bit, With th’other drew his sword: for with the same He ment the thiefe there deadly to haue smit: And had he not bene held, he nought had fayld of it. Thereof great hurly burly moued was xxx Throughout the hall, for that same warlike horse. For _Braggadochio_ would not let him pas; And _Guyon_ would him algates haue perforse, Or it approue vpon his carrion corse. Which troublous stirre when _Artegall_ perceiued, He nigh them drew to stay th’auengers forse, And gan inquire, how was that steed bereaued, Whether by might extort, or else by slight deceaued.