TO ALL THE GRATIOUS AND BEAUTIFULL
THE Chian Peincter, when he was requir'd
To pourtraict Venus in her perfect hew,
To make his worke more absolute, desir'd
Of all the fairest Maides to have the vew.
Much more me needs, (to draw the semblant trew
Of Beauties Queene, the worlds sole wonder-
ment,)
To sharpe my sence with sundry Beauties vew, And steale from each some part of ornament. If all the world to seeke I overwent,
A fairer crew yet no where could I see
Then that brave Court doth to mine eie present; That the world's pride seemes gathered there to bee.
Of each a part I stole by cunning thefte :
Forgive it me, faire Dames, sith lesse ye have not lefte.
The Legend of the Knight of the Red Crosse, or of
Lo! I, the man whose Muse whylome did maske,
As time her taught, in lowly shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst, a farre unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose praises having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng :
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my
Help then, O holy virgin, chiefe of nyne,
Thy weaker novice to perform thy will;
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie Knights, and fayrest Tanaquill
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
Sought through the world, and suffered so much
That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
[ill, O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong!
And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Iove,
Fair Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
At that good Knight so cunningly didst rove
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart;
Lay now thy deadly heben bowe apart,
And, with thy mother mylde, come to mine ayde;
Come, both; and with you bring triumphant Mart,
In loves and gentle iollities arraid,
After his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd.
And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, Mirrour of grace and majestie divine,
Great ladie of the greatest isle, whose light
Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth
shine,
Shed thy fair beames into my feeble eyne,
And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile,
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,
The Argument of mine afflicted stile :
The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest Dread, a while.
The Patron of true Holinesse
Foule Errour doth defeate;
Hypocrisie, him to entrappe,
Doth to his home entreate.
A GENTLE Knight was pricking on the plaine,
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde,
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine,
The cruel marks of many' a bloody fielde;
Yet armes till that time did he never wield:
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
Full iolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.
And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he
And dead, as living ever, him ador'd:
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,
For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had.
Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word;
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.
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