XXXVI

And there beside of marble stone was built
  An Altare,[*] carv’d with cunning ymagery,
  On which true Christians bloud was often spilt,
  And holy Martyrs often doen to dye,
  With cruell malice and strong tyranny:  320
  Whose blessed sprites from underneath the stone
  To God for vengeance cryde continually,
  And with great griefe were often heard to grone,
That hardest heart would bleede, to hear their piteous mone.

XXXVII

Through every rowme he sought, and every bowr, 325
  But no where could he find that woful thrall: 
  At last he came unto an yron doore,
  That fast was lockt, but key found not at all
  Emongst that bounch, to open it withall;
  But in the same a little grate was pight, 330
  Through which he sent his voyce, and lowd did call
  With all his powre, to weet, if living wight
Were housed there within, whom he enlargen might.

XXXVIII

Therewith an hollow, dreary, murmuring voyce
  These pitteous plaints and dolours did resound; 335
  O who is that, which brings me happy choyce
  Of death, that here lye dying every stound,
  Yet live perforce in balefull darkenesse bound? 
  For now three Moones have changed thrice their hew,
  And have been thrice hid underneath the ground, 340
  Since I the heavens chearfull face did vew,
O welcome thou, that doest of death bring tydings trew.

XXXIX

Which when that Champion heard, with percing point
  Of pitty deare his hart was thrilled sore,
  And trembling horrour ran through every joynt 345
  For ruth of gentle knight so fowle forlore: 
  Which shaking off, he rent that yron dore,
  With furious force, and indignation fell;
  Where entred in, his foot could find no flore,
  But all a deepe descent, as darke as hell, 350
That breathed ever forth a filthie banefull smell.

XL

But neither darkenesse fowle, nor filthy bands,
  Nor noyous smell his purpose could withhold,
  (Entire affection hateth nicer hands)
  But that with constant zeale, and courage bold, 355
  After long paines and labours manifold,
  He found the meanes that Prisoner up to reare;
  Whose feeble thighes, unhable to uphold
  His pined corse, him scarse to light could beare. 
A ruefull spectacle of death and ghastly drere. 360

XLI

His sad dull eyes deepe sunck in hollow pits,
  Could not endure th’ unwonted sunne to view;
  His bare thin cheekes for want of better bits,
  And empty sides deceived of their dew,
  Could make a stony hart his hap to rew; 365
  His rawbone armes, whose mighty brawned bowrs[*]
  Were wont to rive steele plates, and helmets hew,
  Were cleane consum’d, and all his vitall powres
Decayd, and all his flesh shronk up like withered flowres.