Thursday, June 14, 2012


                 The legend of the
                  Knight of the Red Crosse
                  Of Holinesse

                 Lo I man, whose Muse whilome did maske
                      As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weed,
                      Am now enfrost a far unfitter taske,
                      For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
                     And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
                     Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
                     Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds
                     To blazon broad emongst her her learned throng:
                Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize my song.


                Help then, O holy Virgin chiefe of mine ,
                     Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will,
                      Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
                     The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
                     Of Faerie knights and fairest Tenaquill,
                     Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
                     Sought through the world, and suffered so much hill,
                     That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
                O helpe thou my weake wit, sharpen my dull tong.

                 And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove
                     Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
                     At the good knight so cunningly didst rove,
                     That glorious fire if kindled in his hart,
                     Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
                     And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
                     Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart
                     In loves and jollities arrayd,
                After his murdrous spoile and bloudy rage allayd.

                And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright,
                       Mirror of grace and Majestie divine,
                       Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
                       Like Phoebus lampe throughout  the world dothe shine ,
                       Shed thy faire beames  into feeble eyne,
                       And raise my thought to humble and to vile,
                       To thinke of that true glorious type is thine,
                       The argument of mine afflicted stile:
                The which to heare, vouchsafe, o dearest dred a-while.

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