The present offer of faire victory,
And soone his dreadfull blade about he cast,
Wherewith he smote his haughty crest so hye,
That streight on ground made him full low to lye;
Then on his brest his victour foote he thrust,
With that he cryde, Mercy, do me not dye,
Ne deeme thy force by[589] fortunes doome vniust,
That hath (maugre her spight) thus low me laid in dust.
Eftsoones his cruell hand Sir Guyon stayd, xiii
Tempring the passion with aduizement slow,