Xxii

The same so sore annoyed has the knight, That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. Whose corage when the feend perceiv'd to shrinke, She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke, With swarming all about his legs did crall, And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all.