This squalid weede, the patterne of dispaire,
And wend with me, that ye may see and know,
How Fortune will your ruin’d name repaire,
And knights of Maidenhead, whose praise she would empaire.
With that, like one that hopelesse was repryu’d[282] xxxv
From deathes dore, at which he lately lay,
Those yron fetters, wherewith he was gyu’d,
The badges of reproch, he threw away,
And nimbly did him dight to guide the way
Vnto the dwelling of that Amazone.