He wore no armour, ne for none did care, xliii
As no whit dreading any liuing wight;
But in a Iacket quilted richly rare[515]
Vpon checklaton he was straungely dight,
And on his head a roll of linnen plight,
Like to the Mores of Malaber he wore;
With which his locks, as blacke as pitchy night,
Were bound about, and voyded from before,
And in his hand a mighty yron club he bore.
This was Disdaine, who led that Ladies horse xliv