Xlii

And to augment the glorie of his guile, His dearest love, the faire Fidessa, loe Is there possessed of the traytour vile, Who reapes the harvest sowen by his foe, Sowen in bloudy field, and bought with woe: That brothers hand shall dearely well requight, So be, O Queene, you equall favour showe. Him litle answerd th' angry Elfin knight; He never meant with words, but swords to plead his right.