So furiously she strooke in her first heat, xv Whiles with long fight on foot he breathlesse was, That she him forced backward to retreat, And yeeld vnto her weapon way to pas: Whose raging rigour neither steele nor bras Could stay, but to the tender flesh it went, And pour’d the purple bloud forth on the gras; That all his mayle yriv’d, and plates yrent, Shew’d all his bodie bare vnto the cruell dent. At length when as he saw her hastie heat xvi Abate, and panting breath begin to fayle, He through long sufferance growing now more great, Rose in his strength, and gan her fresh assayle, Heaping huge strokes, as thicke as showre of hayle, And lashing dreadfully at euery part, As if he thought her soule to disentrayle. Ah cruell hand, and thrise more cruell hart, That workst such wrecke on her, to whom thou dearest art. What yron courage euer could endure, xvii To worke such outrage on so faire a creature? And in his madnesse thinke with hands impure To spoyle so goodly workmanship of nature, The maker selfe resembling in her feature? Certes some hellish furie, or some feend This mischiefe framd, for their first loues defeature, To bath[102] their hands in bloud of dearest freend[103], Thereby to make their loues beginning, their liues end. Thus long they trac’d, and trauerst to and fro, xviii Sometimes pursewing, and sometimes pursewed, Still as aduantage they espyde thereto: But toward th’end Sir _Arthegall_ renewed His strength still more, but she still more decrewed. At last his lucklesse hand he heau’d on hie, Hauing his forces all in one accrewed, And therewith stroke[104] at her so hideouslie, That seemed nought but death mote be her destinie. The wicked stroke vpon her helmet chaunst, xix And with the force, which in it selfe it bore, Her ventayle shard away, and thence forth glaunst A downe in vaine, ne harm’d her any more. With that her angels face, vnseene afore, Like to the ruddie morne appeard in sight, Deawed with siluer drops, through sweating sore, But somewhat redder, then beseem’d aright, Through toylesome heate and labour of her weary fight. And round about the same, her yellow heare xx Hauing through stirring loosd their wonted band, Like to a golden border did appeare, Framed in goldsmithes forge with cunning hand: Yet goldsmithes cunning could not vnderstand To frame such subtile wire, so shinie cleare. For it did glister like the golden sand, The which _Pactolus_ with his waters shere, Throwes forth vpon the riuage round about him nere.