XXXVII

Therewith in haste his helmet gan unlace,[*] 325
  Till Una cried, O hold that heavie hand,
  Deare Sir, what ever that thou be in place: 
  Enough is, that thy foe doth vanquisht stand
  Now at thy mercy:  Mercie not withstand: 
  For he is one the truest knight alive, 330
  Though conquered now he lie on lowly land,
  And whilest him fortune favourd, faire did thrive
In bloudie field:  therefore of life him not deprive.

XXXVIII

Her piteous words might not abate his rage,
  But rudely rending up his helmet, would 335
  Have slaine him straight:  but when he sees his age,
  And hoarie head of Archimago old,
  His hasty hand he doth amazed hold,
  And halfe ashamed, wondred at the sight: 
  For that old man well knew he, though untold, 340
  In charmes and magicke to have wondrous might,
Ne ever wont in field,[*] ne in round lists to fight;

XXXIX

And said, Why Archimago, lucklesse syre,
  What doe I see? what hard mishap is this,
  That hath thee hither brought to taste mine yre? 345
  Or thine the fault, or mine the error is,
  Instead of foe to wound my friend amis? 
  He answered nought, but in a traunce still lay,
  And on those guilefull dazed eyes of his
  The cloude of death did sit.  Which doen away, 350
He left him lying so, ne would no lenger stay: 

XL

But to the virgin comes, who all this while
  Amased stands, her selfe so mockt to see
  By him, who has the guerdon of his guile,
  For so misfeigning her true knight to bee:  355
  Yet is she now in more perplexitie,
  Left in the hand of that same Paynim bold,
  From whom her booteth not at all to flie;
  Who, by her cleanly garment catching hold,
Her from her Palfrey pluckt, her visage to behold. 360

XLI

But her fierce servant, full of kingly awe
  And high disdaine, whenas his soveraine Dame
  So rudely handled by her foe he sawe,
  With gaping jawes full greedy at him came,
  And ramping on his shield, did weene the same 365
  Have reft away with his sharpe rending clawes: 
  But he was stout, and lust did now inflame
  His corage more, that from his griping pawes
He hath his shield redeem’d, and foorth his swerd he drawes.

XLII

O then too weake and feeble was the forse 370
  Of salvage beast, his puissance to withstand: 
  For he was strong, and of so mightie corse,
  As ever wielded speare in warlike hand,
  And feates of armes did wisely understand. 
  Eftsoones he perced through his chaufed chest 375
  With thrilling point of deadly yron brand,
  And launcht his Lordly hart:  with death opprest
He roar’d aloud, whiles life forsooke his stubborne brest.