He, now to prove his late renewed might,
  High brandishing his bright dew-burning blade,
  Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite,
  That to the skull a yawning wound it made:
The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismayed.

I wot not, whether the revenging steel
  Were hardened with that holy water dew,
  Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feel,
  Or his baptized hands now greater grew;
  Or other secret virtue did ensue;
  Else never could the force of fleshly arm,
  Ne molten metal in his blood embrew:
  For till that stownd could never wight him harm,
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charm.

The cruel wound enraged him so sore,
  That loud he yelled for exceeding pain;
  As hundred ramping Lions seem'd to roar,
  Whom ravenous hunger did thereto constrain

Book I, Canto XI