Like as a tender Rose in open plaine, xiii That with vntimely drought nigh withered was, And hung the head, soone as few drops of raine Thereon distill, and deaw her daintie face, Gins to looke vp, and with fresh wonted grace Dispreds the glorie of her leaues gay; Such was _Irenas_ countenance, such her case, When _Artegall_ she saw in that array, There wayting for the Tyrant, till it was farre day. Who came at length, with proud presumpteous[390] gate, xiv Into the field, as if he fearelesse were, All armed in a cote of yron plate, Of great defence to ward the deadly feare, And on his head a steele cap he did weare Of colour rustie browne, but sure and strong; And in his hand an huge Polaxe did beare, Whose steale[391] was yron studded, but not long, With which he wont to fight, to iustifie his wrong. Of stature huge and hideous he was, xv Like to a Giant for his monstrous hight, And did in strength most sorts of men surpas, Ne euer any found his match in might; Thereto he had great skill in single fight: His face was vgly, and his countenance sterne, That could haue frayd one with the very sight, And gaped like a gulfe, when he did gerne, That whether man or monster one could scarse discerne. Soone as he did within the listes appeare, xvi With dreadfull looke he _Artegall_ beheld, As if he would haue daunted him with feare, And grinning griesly, did against him weld His deadly weapon, which in hand he held. But th’Elfin swayne, that oft had seene like sight, Was with his ghastly count’nance nothing queld, But gan him streight to buckle to the fight, And cast his shield about, to be in readie plight. The trompets sound, and they together goe, xvii With dreadfull terror, and with fell intent; And their huge strokes full daungerously bestow, To doe most dammage, where as most they ment. But with such[392] force and furie violent, The tyrant thundred his thicke blowes so fast, That through the yron walles their way they rent, And euen to the vitall parts they past, Ne ought could them endure, but all they cleft or brast. Which cruell outrage when as _Artegall_ xviii Did well auize, thenceforth with warie heed He shund his strokes, where euer they did fall, And way did giue vnto their gracelesse speed: As when a skilfull Marriner doth reed A storme approching, that doth perill threat, He will not bide the daunger of such dread. But strikes his sayles, and vereth his mainsheat, And lends vnto it leaue the emptie ayre to beat.