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