The Knight himself did after ride, 1125 1130 There's neither iron bar nor gate, Portcullis, chain, nor bolt, nor grate; 1135 They never stand, but lie or fit; 1140 And yet fo foul, that whofo is in, Is to the middle leg in prison; In circle magical confin'd, With walls of fubtle air and wind, Which none are able to break thorough, 1145 By strange enchantment made to fetter 1150 1155 At twenty miles an hour pace, And yet ne'er stirs out of the place. 1160 On top of this there is a spire, On which Sir Knight first bids the Squire The fiddle, and its spoils, the case, In manner of a trophy, place. That done, they ope the trap-door gate, 1165 And let Crowdero down thereat. Crowdero making doleful face, Like hermit poor in pensive place, To dungeon they the wretch commit, But th' other, that had broke the peace, Yet b'ing a stranger he's enlarged; 1170 |