If death it be, it is not the first wound,
That launched hath my brest with bleeding smart.
Begin, and end the bitter balefull stound;
If lesse, then that I feare,[247] more fauour I haue found.
Then gan the Dwarfe the whole discourse declare, xxvi
The subtill traines of Archimago old;
The wanton loues of false Fidessa faire,
Bought with the bloud of vanquisht Paynim bold:
The wretched payre transform’d to treen mould;
The house of Pride, and perils round about;