Then full of grief and anguish vehement,
  He loudly brayed, that like was never heard,
  And from his wide devouring oven sent
  A flake of fire, that flashing in his beard,
  Him all amazed, and almost made affeared:
  The scorching flame sore swinged all his face,
  And through his armour all his body seared,
  That he could not endure so cruel cace,
But thought his arms to leave, and helmet to unlace.

Not that great Champion of the antique world,
  Whom famous Poets verse so much doth vaunt,
  And hath for twelve huge labours high extolled,
  So many furies and sharp fits did haunt,
  When him the poisoned garment did enchant
  With Centaurs' blood, and bloody verses charm'd,
  As did this knight twelve thousand dolours daunt,
  Whom fiery steel now burnt, that first him arm'd,
That first him goodly arm'd, now most of all him harm'd.

Faint, weary, sore, emboiled, grieved, burnt
  With heat, toil, wounds, arms, smart, & inward fire
  That never man such mischiefs did torment;
  Death better were, death did he oft desire,
  But death will never come, when needs require.
  Whom so dismayed when that his foe beheld,
  He cast to suffer him no more respire,
  But gan his sturdy stern about to weld,
And him so strongly stroke, that to the ground him felled.

Book I, Canto XI