Therewith upon his crest
With rigor so outrageous he smite,
That a large share it hewed out of the rest,
And glancing down his shield, from blame him fairly blessed.

Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark
Of native virtue again eftsoon revive,
And at his haughty helmet making mark,
So hugely stroke, that it the steel did rive,
And cleft his head. He tumbling down alive,
With bloody mouth his mother earth did kiss,
Greeting his grave: his grudging ghost did strive
With the frail flesh; at last it flitted is,
Whither the souls do fly of men, that live amiss.

Book 1, Canto 2