Whom when the damned feend so fresh did spy, No wonder if he wondred at the sight, And doubted, whether his late enemy It were, or other new supplied knight. 310 He, now to prove his late renewed might, High brandishing his bright deaw-burning blade,° Upon his crested scalpe so sore did smite, That to the scull a yawning wound it made; The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismaid. 315
I wote not, whether the revenging steele Were hardned with that holy water dew, Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele, Or his baptized hands now greater grew; Or other secret vertue did ensew; 320 Else never could the force of fleshly arme, Ne molten mettall in his blood embrew°; For till that stownd could never wight him harme, By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charme.
The cruell wound enraged him so sore, 325 That loud he yelded for exceeding paine; As hundred ramping Lyons seem'd to rore, Whom ravenous hunger did thereto constraine: Then gan he tosse aloft his stretched traine, And therewith scourge the buxome aire so sore, 330 That to his force to yeelden it was faine; Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore, That high trees overthrew, and rocks in peeces tore.
The same advauncing high above his head, With sharpe intended sting° so rude him smot, 335 That to the earth him drove, as stricken dead, Ne living wight would have him life behot: The mortall sting his angry needle shot Quite through his shield, and in his shoulder seasd, Where fast it stucke, ne would there out be got: 340 The griefe thereof him wondrous sore diseasd, Ne might his ranckling paine with patience be appeasd.
But yet more mindfull of his honour deare, Then of the grievous smart, which him did wring, From loathed soile he can him lightly reare, 345 And strove to loose the far infixed sting: Which when in vaine he tryde with struggeling, Inflam'd with wrath, his raging blade he heft, And strooke so strongly, that the knotty string Of his huge taile he quite a sunder cleft, 350 Five joints thereof he hewd, and but the stump him left.
Hart cannot thinke, what outrage, and what cryes, With foule enfouldred smoake and flashing fire, The hell-bred beast threw forth unto the skyes, That all was covered with darkenesse dire: 355 Then fraught with rancour, and engorged ire, He cast at once him to avenge for all, And gathering up himselfe out of the mire, With his uneven wings did fiercely fall, Upon his sunne-bright shield, and gript it fast withall. 360