Tale of Archais

THE TALE OF ARCHAIS 57 And with meet words of gratitude the dame That rules our lives withdrew, triumphant flame Kindling in her bright eyes and sunwarmed hair, Burning in dawny cheeks as the fresh air Kissed, cleansing them from that infested den Of obscene deities and apish men, Rivalling their gods in petty filthiness. So Love’s white-bosomed Queen gat full success In the first season of her sojourning. Then, on the verge of night, she went a-wing To that most damnèd pestilence-rid marsh, And, changing her bright shape, she donned the harsh Vile form of woman past the middle age, Who hath not virtue that may charm the sage When the desire of folly is gone by, And wrinkles yield to no false alchemy. So, lewd of countenance, dressed all in rags, She waited, fit mate of hell’s filthiest hags, Within a little hut upon the marge Extreme of that bad swamp, whereby a barge, Rotted with years and pestilence, lay moored. The rusty chain men meant to have secured