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? 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, He left him lying so, ne would no lenger stay: