Through that fraile fountaine, which him feeble made,
That scarsely could he weeld his bootlesse single blade.
XII
The Geaunt strooke so maynly mercilesse,
That could have overthrowne a stony towre,
And were not heavenly grace, that did him blesse,
He had beene pouldred all, as thin as flowre:
But he was wary of that deadly stowre,
And lightly lept from underneath the blow: