This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.
Companion Poets
PLAYFUL POEMS
EDITED
_AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION_
BY
HENRY MORLEY.
EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND
LITERATURE AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGE
LONDON
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK
1891
CONTENTS.
PAGES
INTRODUCTION 7–15
CHAUCER’S MANCIPLE’S TALE OF PHŒBUS AND THE CROW 17–27
_Modernised by_ LEIGH HUNT.
CHAUCER’S RIME OF SIR THOPAS 29–37
_Modernised by_ Z. A. Z.
CHAUCER’S FRIAR’S TALE; OR, THE SUMNER AND THE DEVIL 39–48
_Modernised by_ LEIGH HUNT.
CHAUCER’S REVE’S TALE 49–62
_Modernised by_ R. H. HORNE.
CHAUCER’S POEM OF THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 63–73
_Modernised by_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
GOWER’S TREASURE TROVE 75–80
_Modernised from the fifth book of the_ CONFESSIO
AMANTIS.
LYDGATE’S LONDON LICKPENNY 81–84
LYDGATE’S BICORN AND CHICHEVACHE 85–89
DUNBAR’S BEST TO BE BLYTH 91, 92
DRAYTON’S DOWSABELL 93–96
DRAYTON’S NYMPHIDIA 97–116
POPE’S RAPE OF THE LOCK 117–137
COWPER’S JOHN GILPIN 139–146
BURNS’S TAM O’SHANTER 147–153
HOOD’S DEMON SHIP 155–158
HOOD’S TALE OF A TRUMPET 159–180
NOTE.—THE GAME OF OMBRE 181–187
GLOSSARY 188–192
INTRODUCTION.
THE last volume of these “Companion Poets” contained some of Chaucer’s
Tales as they were modernised by Dryden. This volume contains more of
his Tales as they were modernised by later poets. In 1841 there was a
volume published entitled, “The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernized.”
Of this volume, when it was first projected, Wordsworth wrote to Moxon,
his publisher, on the 24th of February 1840: “Mr. Powell, my friend, has
some thought of preparing for publication some portion of Chaucer
modernised, as far and no farther than is done in my treatment of ‘The
Prioress’ Tale.’ That would, in fact, be his model. He will have
coadjutors, among whom, I believe, will be Mr. Leigh Hunt, a man as
capable of doing the work well as any living writer. I have placed at my
friend Mr. Powell’s disposal three other pieces which I did long ago, but
revised the other day. They are ‘The Manciple’s Tale,’ ‘The Cuckoo and
the Nightingale,’ and twenty-four stanzas of ‘Troilus and Cressida.’
This I have done mainly out of my love and reverence for Chaucer, in
hopes that, whatever may be the merits of Mr. Powell’s attempt, the
attention of other writers may be drawn to the subject; and a work
hereafter produced, by different persons, which will place the treasures
of one of the greatest of poets within the reach of the multitude, which
now they are not. I mention all this to you because, though I have not
given Mr. Powell the least encouragement to do so, he may sound you as to
your disposition to undertake the publication. I have myself nothing
further to do with it than I have stated. Had the thing been suggested
to me by any number of competent persons twenty years ago, I would have
undertaken the editorship and done much more myself, and endeavoured to
improve the several contributions where they seemed to require it. But
that is now out of the question.”
Wordsworth had made his versions of Chaucer in the year 1801. “The
Prioress’s Tale” had been published in 1820, so that only the three
pieces he had revised for his friend’s use were available, and of these
the Manciple’s Tale was withdrawn, the version by Leigh Hunt (which is
among the pieces here reprinted) being used. The volume was published in
1841, not by Moxon but by Whitaker. Wordsworth’s versions of “The Cuckoo
and the Nightingale” (here reprinted), and of a passage taken from
“Troilus and Cressida,” were included in it. Leigh Hunt contributed
versions of the Manciple’s Tale and the Friar’s Tale (both here
reprinted), and of the Squire’s Tale. Elizabeth A. Barrett, afterwards
Mrs. Browning, contributed a version of “Queen Annelida and False
Arcite.” Richard Hengist Horne entered heartily into the venture,
modernised the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the Reve’s Tale, and the
Franklin’s, and wrote an Introduction of more than a hundred pages, to
which Professor Leonhard Schmitz added thirty-two pages of a Life of
Chaucer. Robert Bell, to whom we were afterwards indebted for an
“Annotated Edition of the English Poets,” modernised the Complaint of
Mars and Venus. Thomas Powell, the editor, contributed his version of
the Legends of Ariadne, Philomene, and Phillis, and of “The Flower and
the Leaf,” and a friend, who signed only as Z. A. Z, dealt with “The Rime
of Sir Thopas.”
After the volume had appeared, Wordsworth thus wrote of it to Professor
Henry Reed of Philadelphia: “There has recently been published in London
a volume of some of Chaucer’s tales and poems modernised; this little
specimen originated in what I attempted with ‘The Prioress’ Tale,’ and if
the book should find its way to America you will see in it two further
specimens from myself. I had no further connection with the publication
than by making a present of these to one of the contributors. Let me,
however, recommend to your notice the Prologue and the Franklin’s Tale.
They are both by Mr. Horne, a gentleman unknown to me, but are—the latter
in particular—very well done. Mr. Leigh Hunt has not failed in the
Manciple’s Tale, which I myself modernised many years ago; but though I
much admire the genius of Chaucer as displayed in this performance, I
could not place my version at the disposal of the editor, as I deemed the
subject somewhat too indelicate for pure taste to be offered to the world
at this time of day. Mr. Horne has much hurt this publication by not
abstaining from the Reve’s Tale. This, after making all allowance for
the rude manners of Chaucer’s age, is intolerable; and by indispensably
softening down the incidents, he has killed the spirit of that humour,
gross and farcical, that pervades the original. When the work was first
mentioned to me, I protested as strongly as possible against admitting
any coarseness and indelicacy, so that my conscience is clear of
countenancing aught of that kind. So great is my admiration of Chaucer’s
genius, and so profound my reverence for him. . . for spreading the light
of Literature through his native land, that, notwithstanding the defects
and faults in this publication, I am glad of it, as a means for making
many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of
everything about him but his name.”
Wordsworth’s objection to the Manciple’s Tale from Ovid’s Metamorphoses
was an afterthought. He had begun by offering his version of it for
publication in this volume. His objection to Horne’s treatment of the
Reve’s Tale was reasonable enough. The original tale was the sixth novel
in the ninth day of the Decameron, and probably was taken by Chaucer from
a Fabliau by Jean de Boves, “De Gombert et des Deux Clercs.” The same
story has been imitated in the “Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,” and in the
“Berceau” of La Fontaine. Horne’s removal from the tale of everything
that would offend a modern reader was designed to enable thousands to
find pleasure in an old farcical piece that would otherwise be left
unread.
Chaucer’s “Rime of Sir Thopas” was a playful jest on the long-winded
story-telling of the old romances, and had specially in mind Thomas
Chestre’s version of Launfal from Marie of France, and the same rhymer’s
romance of “Ly Beaus Disconus,” who was Gingelein, a son of Gawain,
called by his mother, for his beauty, only Beaufis (handsome son); but
when he offered himself in that name to be knighted by King Arthur, he
was knighted and named by him Li Beaus Disconus (the fair unknown). This
is the method of the tediousness, in which it showed itself akin to many
a rhyming tale.
“And for love of his fair vis
His mother clepéd him Beaufis,
And none other name;
And himselvé was full nis,
He ne axéd nought y-wis
What he hight at his dame.
“As it befel upon a day,
To wood he went on his play
Of deer to have his game;
He found a knight, where he lay
In armés that were stout and gay,
Y-slain and made full tame.
“That child did off the knightés wede,
And anon he gan him schrede
In that rich armoúr.
When he haddé do that dede,
To Glasténburý he gede,
There lay the King Arthoúr.
“He knelde in the hall
Before the knightés all,
And grette hem with honoúr,
And said: ‘Arthoúr, my lord,
Grant me to speak a word,
I pray thee, par amour.
“‘I am a child uncouth,
And come out of the south,
And would be made a knight,
Lord, I pray thee nouthe,
With thy merry mouthe,
Grant me anon right.’
“Then said Arthoúr the king,
‘Anon, without dwelling,
Tell me thy name aplight!
For sethen I was ybore,
Ne found I me before
None so fair of sight.’
“That child said, ‘By Saint Jame,
I not what is my name;
I am the moré nis;
But while I was at hame
My mother, in her game,
Clepéd me Beaufis.’
“Then said Arthoúr the king,
‘This is a wonder thing
By God and Saint Denis!
When he that would be knight
Ne wot not what he hight,
And is so fair of vis.
“‘Now will I give him a name
Before you all in same,
For he is so fair and free,
By God and by Saint Jame,
So clepéd him ne’er his dame,
What woman so it be.
“‘Now clepéth him all of us,
Li Beaus Disconus,
For the love of me!
Then may ye wite a rowe,
‘The Faire Unknowe,’
Certes, so hatté he.”
John Gower’s “Confessio Amantis” was a story book, like the Canterbury
Tales, with a contrivance of its own for stringing the tales together,
and Gower was at work on it nearly about the time when his friend Chaucer
was busy with his Pilgrims. The story here extracted was an old
favourite. It appeared in Greek about the year 800, in the romance of
Barlaam and Josaphat. It was told by Vincent of Beauvais in the year
1290 in his “Speculum Historiale;” and it was used by Boccaccio for the
first tale of the tenth day of his “Decameron.”
Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate were the old poetical triumvirate, though
Lydgate, who was about thirty years old when Chaucer died, has slipped
much out of mind. His verses on the adventures of the Kentish rustic who
came to London to get justice in the law courts, and his words set to the
action of an old piece of rustic mumming, “Bicorn and Chichevache,” here
represent his vein of playfulness. He was a monk who taught literature
at Bury St. Edmunds, and was justly looked upon as the chief poet of the
generation who lived after Chaucer’s death.
Next follows in this volume a scrap of wise counsel to take life
cheerfully, from the Scottish poet, William Dunbar. He lived at the
Scottish Court of James the Fourth when Henry the Seventh reigned in
England, and who was our greatest poet of the north country before Burns.
Next we come to the poets “who so did please Eliza and our James,” and
represent their playfulness by Drayton’s “Dowsabell,” and that most
exquisite of fairy pieces, his “Nymphidia,” where Oberon figures as the
mad Orlando writ small, and Drayton earned his claim to be the Fairies’
Laureate, though Herrick, in the same vein, followed close upon him.
Michael Drayton, nearly of an age with Shakespeare, was, like
Shakespeare, a Warwickshire man. Empty tradition says that Shakespeare
died of a too festive supper shared with his friend Drayton, who came to
visit him.
Then follows in this volume the playful treatment of a quarrel between
friends, in Pope’s “Rape of the Lock.” Lord Petre, aged twenty,
audaciously cut from the head of Miss Arabella Fermor, daughter of Mr.
Fermor of Tusmore, a lock of her hair while she was playing cards in the
Queen’s rooms at Hampton Court. Pope’s friend, Mr. Caryll, suggested to
him that a mock heroic treatment of the resulting quarrel might restore
peace, and Pope wrote a poem in two cantos, which was published in a
Miscellany in 1712, Pope’s age then being twenty-four. But as epic poems
required supernatural machinery, Pope added afterwards to his mock epic
the machinery of sylphs and gnomes, suggested to him by the reading of a
French story, “Le Comte de Gabalis,” by the Abbé Villars. Here there
were sylphs of the air and gnomes of the earth, little spirits who would
be in right proportion to the substance of his poem, which was
refashioned into five cantos, and republished as we have it now in
February 1714.
“John Gilpin” was written by William Cowper in the year 1782, when Lady
Austin was lodging in the Vicarage at Olney, and spent every evening with
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, cheering Cowper greatly by her liveliness. One
evening she told the story of John Gilpin’s ride in a way that tickled
the poet’s fancy, set him laughing when he woke up in the night, and
obliged him to turn it next day into ballad rhyme. Mrs. Unwin’s son sent
it to the _Public Advertiser_, for the poet’s corner. It was printed in
that newspaper, and thought no more of until about three years later.
Then it was suggested to a popular actor named Henderson, who gave
entertainments of his own, that this piece would tell well among his
recitations. He introduced it into his entertainments, and soon all the
town was running after John Gilpin as madly as the six gentlemen and the
post-boy.
John Gilpin’s flight is followed in this volume by the flight of Tam o’
Shanter. Burns wrote “Tam o’ Shanter” at Elliesland, and himself
considered it the best of all his poems. He told the story to Captain
Grose, as it was current among the people in his part of the country, its
scene laid almost on the spot where he was born. Captain Grose, the
antiquary, who was collecting materials for his “Antiquities of
Scotland,” published in 1789–91, got Burns to versify it and give it to
him. The poem made its first appearance, therefore, in Captain Grose’s
book. Mrs. Burns told of it that it was the work of a day. Burns was
most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where his wife and
some of the children joined him in the afternoon. Mrs. Burns saw that
her husband was busily engaged “crooning to himsell,” and she loitered
behind with the little ones among the broom. Presently she was attracted
by the poet’s strange and wild gesticulations; he seemed agonised with an
ungovernable joy. He was reciting very loud. Every circumstance
suggested to heighten the impression of fear in the lines following,
“By this time he was ’cross the ford
Where in the snaw the chapman smoored,” etc.,
was taken from local tradition. Shanter was the real name of a farm near
Kirkoswald, then occupied by a Douglas Grahame, who was much of Tam’s
character, and was well content to be called by his country neighbours
Tam o’ Shanter for the rest of his life, after Burns had made the name of
the farm immortal.
Our selection ends with two pieces by Thomas Hood, whose “Tale of a
Trumpet” is luxuriant with play of wit that has its earnest side. Hood
died in 1845.
A Note upon the Game of Ombre is added, which is founded upon the
description of the game in a little book—“The Court Gamester”—which
instructed card-players in the reigns of the first Georges. In the “Rape
of the Lock” there is a game of ombre played through to the last trick.
That note will enable any reader to follow Belinda’s play. It will also
enable any one who may care to do so to restore to a place among our home
amusements a game which carried all before it in Queen Anne’s day, and
which is really, when cleared of its gambling details, as good a domestic
game for three players as cribbage or piquet is for two. My “Court
Gamester,” which was in its fifth edition in 1728, after devoting its
best energies to ombre, contented its readers in fewer pages with the
addition only of piquet and chess.
Obsolete words and words of Scottish dialect, with a few more as to the
meaning of which some readers might be uncertain, will be found explained
in the Glossary that ends this volume.
CHAUCER’S
Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow
MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.
NOTE.
_The reader is to understand_, _that all the persons previously described
in the_ “_Prologue to the Canterbury Tales_” _are now riding on their way
to that city_, _and each of them telling his tale respectively_, _which
is preceded by some little bit of incident or conversation on the road_.
_The agreement_, _suggested by the Host of the Tabard_, _was_, _first_,
_that each pilgrim should tell a couple of tales while going to
Canterbury_, _and another couple during the return to London_;
_secondly_, _that the narrator of the best one of all should sup at the
expense of the whole party_; _and thirdly_, _that the Host himself should
be gratuitous guide on the journey_, _and arbiter of all differences by
the way_, _with power to inflict the payment of travelling expenses upon
any one who should gainsay his judgment_. _During the intervals of the
stories he is accordingly the most prominent person_.—LEIGH HUNT.
_PROLOGUE TO THE MANCIPLE’S TALE_.
WOTTEST {17} thou, reader, of a little town,
Which thereabouts they call Bob-up-and-down,
Under the Blee, in Canterbury way?
Well, there our host began to jest and play,
And said, “Hush, hush now: Dun is in the mire.
What, sirs? will nobody, for prayer or hire,
Wake our good gossip, sleeping here behind?
Here were a bundle for a thief to find.
See, how he noddeth! by St. Peter, see!
He’ll tumble off his saddle presently.
Is that a cook of London, red flames take him!
He knoweth the agreement—wake him, wake him:
We’ll have his tale, to keep him from his nap,
Although the drink turn out not worth the tap.
Awake, thou cook,” quoth he; “God say thee nay;
What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day?
Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk?
Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk,
And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?”
This cook that was full pale, and nothing red,
Stared up, and said unto the host, “God bless
My soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness,
I know not why, that I would rather sleep
Than drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap.”
“Well,” quoth the Manciple, “if it might ease
Thine head, Sir Cook, and also none displease
Of all here riding in this company,
And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,
Till thou art better, and so tell _my_ tale;
For in good faith thy visage is full pale;
Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am,
Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram,
Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter:
Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I’ll not flatter.
See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight;
He’ll swallow us all up before he’ll bite;
Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father’s kin;
The fiend himself now set his foot therein,
And stop it up, for ’twill infect us all;
Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall.
Ah—see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing;
Take heed—he’s bent on tilting at the ring:
He’s the shape, isn’t he? to tilt and ride!
Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide.”
Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black,
And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack!
So mumbling something, from his horse fell he,
And where he fell, there lay he patiently,
Till pity on his shame his fellows took.
Here was a pretty horseman of a cook!
Alas! that he had held not by his ladle!
And ere again they got him on his saddle,
There was a mighty shoving to and fro
To lift him up, and muckle care and woe,
So heavy was this carcase of a ghost.
Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:—
“Since drink upon this man hath domination,
By nails! and as I reckon my salvation,
I trow he would have told a sorry tale;
For whether it be wine, or it be ale,
That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose,
And sneezeth much, and he hath got the _pose_, {19}
And also hath given us business enow
To keep him on his horse, out of the slough;
He’ll fall again, if he be driven to speak,
And then, where are we, for a second week?
Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse!
Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse.
Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice
Thus openly to chafe him for his vice.
Perchance some day he’ll do as much for thee,
And bring thy baker’s bills in jeopardy,
Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher’s matters,
And whether they square nicely with thy platters.”
“Mine,” quoth the Manciple, “were then the mire!
Much rather would I pay his horse’s hire,
And that will be no trifle, mud and all,
Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall.
I did but jest. Score not, ye’ll be not scored.
And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,
A draught of wine, better was never tasted,
And with this cook’s ladle will I be basted,
If he don’t drink of it, right lustily.
Upon my life he’ll not say nay. Now see.”
And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;
Down went the drink out of the gourd, _fluff_, _fluff_:
Alas! the man had had enough before:
And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore,
His nose said something,—grace for what he had;
And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad.
Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,
And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight,
And said, “Well, I perceive it’s necessary,
Where’er we go, good wine with us to carry.
What needeth in this world more strifes befall?
Good wine’s the doctor to appease them all.
O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,
That thus canst turn our earnest into game.
Worship and thanks be to thy deity.
So on this head ye get no more from me.
Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.”
“Well, sire,” quoth he, “now hark to what I say.”
The Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow.
WHEN Phœbus dwelt with men, in days of yore,
He was the very lustiest bachelor
Of all the world; and shot in the best bow.
’Twas he, as the old books of stories show,
That shot the serpent Python, as he lay
Sleeping against the sun, upon a day:
And many another noble worthy deed
He did with that same bow, as men may read.
He played all kinds of music: and so clear
His singing was, and such a heaven to hear,
Men might not speak during his madrigal.
Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall
About the city with his melody,
Certainly sang not half so well as he.
And add to this, he was the seemliest man
That is, or has been, since the world began.
What needs describe his beauty? since there’s none
With which to make the least comparison.
In brief, he was the flower of _gentilesse_, {21}
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:
And yet, take note, for all this mastery,
This Phœbus was of cheer so frank and free,
That for his sport, and to commend the glory
He gat him o’er the snake (so runs the story),
He used to carry in his hand a bow.
Now this same god had in his house a crow,
Which in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay.
White was the crow; as is a snow-white swan,
And could repeat a tale told by a man,
And sing. No nightingale, down in a dell,
Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well.
Now had this Phœbus in his house a wife
Which that he loved beyond his very life:
And night and day did all his diligence
To please her well, and do her reverence;
Save only, to speak truly, _inter nos_,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her close:
He wished not to be treated monstrously:
Neither does any man, no more than he;
Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought;—
A good wife, that is clean of work and thought,
No man would dream of hindering such a way.
And just as bootless is it, night or day,
Hindering a shrew; for it will never be.
I hold it for a very foppery,
Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives,
Old writers always say so, in their Lives.
But to my story, as it first began.
This worthy Phœbus doeth all he can
To please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her,
That she, for her part, would herself bestir
Discreetly, so as not to lose his grace;
But, Lord he knows, there’s no man shall embrace
A thing so close, as to restrain what Nature
Hath naturally set in any creature.
Take any bird, and put it in a cage,
And do thy best and utmost to engage
The bird to love it; give it meat and drink,
And every dainty housewives can bethink,
And keep the cage as cleanly as you may,
And let it be with gilt never so gay,
Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold,
Rather be in a forest wild and cold,
And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness;
Yea, ever will he tax his whole address
To get out of the cage when that he may:—
His liberty the bird desireth aye.
So, take a cat, and foster her with milk
And tender meat, and make her bed of silk,
Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall,
The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all,
And every dainty that is in the house;
Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.
Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination,
And appetite renounceth education.
A she-wolf likewise hath a villain’s kind:
The worst and roughest wolf that she can find,
Or least of reputation, will she wed,
When the time comes to make her marriage-bed.
But misinterpret not my speech, I pray;
All this of men, not women, do I say;
For men it is, that come and spoil the lives
Of such, as but for them, would make good wives.
They leave their own wives, be they never so fair,
Never so true, never so debonair,
And take the lowest they may find, for change.
Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range,
It never will continue, long together,
Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather.
This Phœbus, while on nothing ill thought he,
Jilted he was, for all his jollity;
For under him, his wife, at her heart’s-root,
Another had, a man of small repute,
Not worth a blink of Phœbus; more’s the pity;
Too oft it falleth so, in court and city.
This wife, when Phœbus was from home one day,
Sent for her lemman then, without delay.
Her lemman!—a plain word, I needs must own;
Forgive it me; for Plato hath laid down,
The word must suit according with the deed;
Word is work’s cousin-german, ye may read:
I’m a plain man, and what I say is this:
Wife high, wife low, if bad, both do amiss:
But because one man’s wench sitteth above,
She shall be called his Lady and his Love;
And because t’other’s sitteth low and poor,
She shall be called,—Well, well, I say no more;
Only God knoweth, man, mine own dear brother,
One wife is laid as low, just, as the other.
Right so betwixt a lawless, mighty chief
And a rude outlaw, or an arrant thief,
Knight arrant or thief arrant, all is one;
Difference, as Alexander learnt, there’s none;
But for the chief is of the greater might,
By force of numbers, to slay all outright,
And burn, and waste, and make as flat as floor,
Lo, therefore is he clept a conqueror;
And for the other hath his numbers less,
And cannot work such mischief and distress,
Nor be by half so wicked as the chief,
Men clepen him an outlaw and a thief.
However, I am no text-spinning man;
So to my tale I go, as I began.
Now with her lemman is this Phœbus’ wife;
The crow he sayeth nothing, for his life;
Caged hangeth he, and sayeth not a word;
But when that home was come Phœbus the lord,
He singeth out, and saith,—“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”
“Hey!” crieth Phœbus, “here be something new;
Thy song was wont to cheer me. What is this?”
“By Jove!” quoth Corvus, “I sing not amiss.
Phœbus,” quoth he; “for all thy worthiness,
For all thy beauty and all thy gentilesse,
For all thy song and all thy minstrelsy,
And all thy watching, blearéd is thine eye;
Yea, and by one no worthier than a gnat,
Compared with him should boast to wear thine hat.”
What would you more? the crow hath told him all;
This woful god hath turned him to the wall
To hide his tears: he thought ’twould burst his heart;
He bent his bow, and set therein a dart,
And in his ire he hath his wife yslain;
He hath; he felt such anger and such pain;
For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,
Both harp and lute, gittern and psaltery,
And then he brake his arrows and his bow,
And after that, thus spake he to the crow:—
“Traitor,” quoth he, “behold what thou hast done;
Made me the saddest wretch beneath the sun:
Alas! why was I born! O dearest wife,
Jewel of love and joy, my only life,
That wert to me so steadfast and so true,
There liest thou dead; why am not I so too?
Full innocent thou wert, that durst I swear;
O hasty hand, to bring me to despair!
O troubled wit, O anger without thought,
That unadviséd smitest, and for nought:
O heart of little faith, full of suspicion,
Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion?
O every man, hold hastiness in loathing;
Believe, without strong testimony, nothing;
Smite not too soon, before ye well know why;
And be adviséd well and soberly
Before ye trust yourselves to the commission
Of any ireful deed upon suspicion.
Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ire
Foully foredone, and brought into the mire.
Alas! I’ll kill myself for misery.”
And to the crow, “O thou false thief!” said he,
“I’ll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale;
Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale,
Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go,
Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow;
Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again;
Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain;
Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black,
And ever shall their voices crone and crack
And be a warning against wind and rain,
In token that by thee my wife was slain.”
So to the crow he started, like one mad,
And tore out every feather that he had,
And made him black, and reft him of his stores
Of song and speech, and flung him out of doors
Unto the devil; whence never come he back,
Say I. Amen. And hence all crows are black.
Lordings, by this example I you pray
Take heed, and be discreet in what you say;
And above all, tell no man, for your life,
How that another man hath kissed his wife.
He’ll hate you mortally; be sure of that;
Dan Solomon, in teacher’s chair that sat,
Bade us keep all our tongues close as we can;
But, as I said, I’m no text-spinning man,
Only, I must say, thus taught me my dame; {26}
My son, think on the crow in God his name;
My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend;
A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend;
My son, a fiend’s a thing for to keep down;
My son, God in his great discretion
Walléd a tongue with teeth, and eke with lips,
That man may think, before his speech out slips.
A little speech spoken advisedly
Brings none in trouble, speaking generally.
My son, thy tongue thou always shouldst restrain,
Save only at such times thou dost thy pain
To speak of God in honour and in prayer;
The chiefest virtue, son, is to beware
How thou lett’st loose that endless thing, thy tongue;
This every soul is taught, when he is young:
My son, of muckle speaking ill-advised,
And where a little speaking had sufficed,
Com’th muckle harm. This was me told and taught,—
In muckle speaking, sinning wanteth nought.
Know’st thou for what a tongue that’s hasty serveth?
Right as a sword forecutteth and forecarveth
An arm in two, my dear son, even so
A tongue clean-cutteth friendship at a blow.
A jangler is to God abominable:
Read Solomon, so wise and honourable;
Read David in his Psalms, read Seneca;
My son, a nod is better than a say;
Be deaf, when folk speak matter perilous;
Small prate, sound pate,—guardeth the Fleming’s house.
My son, if thou no wicked word hast spoken,
Thou never needest fear a pate ybroken;
But he that hath missaid, I dare well say,
His fingers shall find blood thereon, some day.
Thing that is said, is said; it may not back
Be called, for all your “Las!” and your “Alack!”
And he is that man’s thrall to whom ’twas said;
Cometh the bond some day, and will be paid.
My son, beware, and be no author new
Of tidings, whether they be false or true:
Go wheresoe’er thou wilt, ’mongst high or low,
Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow.
CHAUCER’S
Rime of Sir Thopas
MODERNISED BY Z. A. Z.
_PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS_.
1.
NOW when the Prioress had done, each man
So serious looked, ’twas wonderful to see!
Till our good host to banter us began,
And then at last he cast his eyes on me,
And jeering said, “What man art thou?” quoth he,
“That lookest down as thou wouldst find a hare,
For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.
2.
“Approach me near, and look up merrily!
Now make way, sirs! and let this man have place.
He in the waist is shaped as well as I:
This were a poppet in an arm’s embrace,
For any woman, small and fair of face.
He seemeth elf-like by his countenance,
For with no wight holdeth he dalliance.
3.
“Say somewhat now, since other folks have said;
Tell us a tale o’ mirth, and that anon.”
“Host,” quoth I then, “be not so far misled,
For other tales except this know I none;
A little rime I learned in years agone.”
“Ah! that is well,” quoth he; “now we shall hear
Some dainty thing, methinketh, by thy cheer.”
The Rime of Sir Thopas.
FYTTE THE FIRST. {30}
1.
LISTEN, lordlings, in good intent,
And I will tell you _verament_
Of mirth and chivalry,
About a knight on glory bent,
In battle and in tournament;
Sir Thopas named was he.
2.
And he was born in a far countréy,
In Flanders, all beyond the sea,
At Popering in the place;
His father was a man full free,
And of that country lord was he,
Enjoyed by holy grace.
3.
Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,
Fair was his face as _pain de Maine_,
His lips were red as rose;
His ruddy cheeks like scarlet grain;
And I tell you in good certaine,
He had a seemly nose.
4.
His hair and beard like saffron shone,
And to his girdle fell adown;
His shoes of leather bright;
Of Bruges were his hose so brown,
His robe it was of ciclatoun—
He was a costly wight:
5.
Well could he hunt the strong wild deer,
And ride a hawking for his cheer
With grey goshawk on hand;
His archery filled the woods with fear,
In wrestling eke he had no peer,—
No man ’gainst him could stand.
6.
Full many a maiden bright in bower
Was sighing for him _par amour_
Between her prayers and sleep,
But he was chaste, beyond their power,
And sweet as is the bramble flower
That beareth the red hip.
7.
And so it fell upon a day,
Forsooth, as I now sing and say,
Sir Thopas went to ride;
He rode upon his courser grey,
And in his hand a lance so gay,
A long sword by his side.
8.
He rode along a forest fair,
Many a wild beast dwelling there;
(Mercy in heaven defend!)
And there was also buck and hare;
And as he went, he very near
Met with a sorry end.
9.
And herbs sprang up, or creeping ran;
The liquorice, and valerian,
Clove-gillyflowers, sun-dressed;
And nutmeg, good to put in ale,
Whether it be moist or stale,—
Or to lay sweet in chest,
10.
The birds all sang, as tho’ ’twere May;
The spearhawk, {32} and the popinjay,
It was a joy to hear;
The throstle cock made eke his lay,
The wood-dove sung upon the spray,
With note full loud and clear.
11.
Sir Thopas fell in love-longing
All when he heard the throstle sing,
And spurred his horse like mad,
So that all o’er the blood did spring,
And eke the white foam you might wring:
The steed in foam seemed clad.
12.
Sir Thopas eke so weary was
Of riding on the fine soft grass,
While love burnt in his breast,
That down he laid him in that place
To give his courser some soláce,
Some forage and some rest.
13.
Saint Mary! benedicite!
What meaneth all this love in me,
That haunts me in the wood?
This night, in dreaming, did I see
An elf queen shall my true love be,
And sleep beneath my hood.
14.
An elf queen will I love, I wis,
For in this world no woman is
Worthy to be my bride;
All other damsels I forsake,
And to an elf queen will I take,
By grove and streamlet’s side.
15.
Into his saddle be clomb anon,
And pricketh over stile and stone,
An elf queen to espy;
Till he so long had ridden and gone,
That he at last upon a morn
The fairy land came nigh.
16.
Therein he sought both far and near,
And oft he spied in daylight clear
Through many a forest wild;
But in that wondrous land I ween,
No living wight by him was seen,
Nor woman, man, nor child.
17.
At last there came a giant gaunt,
And he was named Sir Oliphaunt,
A perilous man of deed:
And he said, “Childe, by Termagaunt,
If thou ride not from this my haunt,
Soon will I slay thy steed
With this victorious mace;
For here’s the lovely Queen of Faery,
With harp and pipe and symphony,
A-dwelling in this place.”
18.
Childe Thopas said right haughtily,
“To-morrow will I combat thee
In armour bright as flower;
And then I promise ‘_par ma fay_’
That thou shalt feel this javelin gay,
And dread its wondrous power.
To-morrow we shall meet again,
And I will pierce thee, if I may,
Upon the golden prime of day;—
And here you shall be slain.”
19.
Sir Thopas drew aback full fast;
The giant at him huge stones cast,
Which from a staff-sling fly;
But well escaped the Childe Thopás,
And it was all through God’s good grace,
And through his bearing high.
20.
Still listen, gentles, to my tale,
Merrier than the nightingale;—
For now I must relate,
How that Sir Thopas rideth o’er
Hill and dale and bright sea-shore,
E’en to his own estate.
21.
His merry men commandeth he
To make for him the game and glee;
For needs he must soon fight
With a giant fierce, with strong heads three,
For paramour and jollity,
And chivalry so bright.
22.
“Come forth,” said he, “my minstrels fair,
And tell me tales right debonair,
While I am clad and armed;
Romances, full of real tales,
Of dames, and popes, and cardinals,
And maids by wizards charmed.”
23.
They bore to him the sweetest wine
In silver cup; the muscadine,
With spices rare of Ind;
Fine gingerbread, in many a slice,
With cummin seed, and liquorice,
And sugar thrice refined.
24.
Then next to his white skin he ware
A cloth of fleecy wool, as fair,
Woven into a shirt;
Next that he put a cassock on,
And over that an habergeon, {35}
To guard right well his heart.
25.
And over that a hauberk went
Of Jews’ work, and most excellent;
Full strong was every plate;
And over that his coat armoúre,
As white as is the lily flower,
In which he would debate.
26.
His shield was all of gold so red,
And thereon was a wild boar’s head,
A carbuncle beside;
And then he swore on ale and bread,
How that the giant should be dead,
Whatever should betide!
27.
His boots were glazed right curiously,
His sword-sheath was of ivory,
His helm all brassy bright;
His saddle was of jet-black bone,
His bridle like the bright sun shone,
Or like the clear moons light,
28.
His spear was of the cypress tree,
That bodeth battle right and free;
The point full sharp was ground;
His steed it was a dapple grey,
That goeth an amble on the way,
Full softly and full round.
29.
Lo! lordlings mine, here ends one fytte
Of this my tale, a gallant strain;
And if ye will hear more of it,
I’ll soon begin again.
FYTTE THE SECOND.
1.
Now hold your speech for charity,
Both gallant knight and lady free,
And hearken to my song
Of battle and of chivalry,
Of ladies’ love and minstrelsy,
All ambling thus along.
2.
Men speak much of old tales, I know;
Of Hornchild, Ipotis, alsó
Of Bevis and Sir Guy;
Of Sire Libeaux, and Pleindamour;
But Sire Thopas, he is the flower
Of real chivalry.
3.
Now was his gallant steed bestrode,
And forth upon his way he rode,
As spark flies from a brand;
Upon his crest he bare a tower,
And therein stuck a lily flower:
Save him from giant hand.
4.
He was a knight in battle bred,
And in no house would seek his bed,
But laid him in the wood;
His pillow was his helmet bright,—
His horse grazed by him all the night
On herbs both fine and good.
5.
And he drank water from the well,
As did the knight Sir Percival,
So worthy under weed;
Till on a day—
[_Here Chaucer is interrupted in his Rime_.]
_EPILOGUE TO RIME_.
“No more of this, for Heaven’s high dignity!”
Quoth then our Host, “for, lo! thou makest me
So weary of thy very simpleness,
That all so wisely may the Lord me bless,
My very ears, with thy dull rubbish, ache.
Now such a rime at once let Satan take.
This may be well called ‘doggrel rime,’” quoth he.
“Why so?” quoth I; “why wilt thou not let me
Tell all my tale, like any other man,
Since that it is the best rime that I can?”
“Mass!” quoth our Host, “if that I hear aright,
Thy scraps of rhyming are not worth a mite;
Thou dost nought else but waste away our time:—
Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme.”
CHAUCER’S
Friar’s Tale; Or, The Sumner And The Devil.
MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.
THERE lived, sirs, in my country, formerly,
A wondrous great archdeacon,—who but he?
Who boldly did the work of his high station
In punishing improper conversation,
And all the slidings thereunto belonging;
Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wronging
Of holy Church, by blinking of her dues
In sacraments and contracts, wills and pews;
Usury furthermore, and simony;
But people of ill lives most loathéd he:
Lord! how he made them sing if they were caught.
And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taught
Never to venture on the like again;
To the last farthing would he rack and strain.
For stinted tithes, or stinted offering,
He made the people piteously to sing.
He left no leg for the good bishop’s crook;
Down went the black sheep in his own black book;
For when the name gat there, such dereliction
Came, you must know, sirs, in his jurisdiction.
He had a Sumner ready to his hand;
A slyer bully filched not in the land;
For in all parts the villain had his spies
To let him know where profit might arise.
Well could he spare ill livers, three or four,
To help his net to four-and-twenty more.
’Tis truth. Your Sumner may stare hard for me;
I shall not screen, not I, his villainy;
For heaven be thanked, _laudetur Dominus_,
They have no hold, these cursed thieves, on us;
Nor never shall have, let ’em thieve till doom.
[“No,” cried the Sumner, starting from his gloom,
“Nor have we any hold, Sir Shaven-crown,
On your fine flock, the ladies of the town.”
“Peace, with a vengeance,” quoth our Host, “and let
The tale be told. Say on, thou marmoset,
Thou lady’s friar, and let the Sumner sniff.”]
“Well,” quoth the Friar; “this Sumner, this false thief,
Had scouts in plenty ready to his hand,
Like any hawks, the sharpest in the land,
Watching their birds to pluck, each in his mew,
Who told him all the secrets that they knew,
And lured him game, and gat him wondrous profit;
Exceeding little knew his master of it.
Sirs, he would go, without a writ, and take
Poor wretches up, feigning it for Christ’s sake,
And threatening the poor people with his curse,
And all the while would let them fill his purse,
And to the alehouse bring him by degrees,
And then he’d drink with them, and slap his knees
For very mirth, and say ’twas some mistake.
Judas carried the bag, sirs, for Christ’s sake,
And was a thief; and such a thief was he;
His master got but sorry share, _pardie_.
To give due laud unto this Satan’s imp,
He was a thief, a Sumner, and a pimp.
Wenches themselves were in his retinue;
So whether ’twas Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, that held the damsel dear,
Come would she then, and tell it in his ear:
Thus were the wench and he of one accord;
And he would feign a mandate from his lord,
And summon them before the court, those two,
And pluck the man, and let the mawkin go.
Then would he say, “Friend, for thine honest look,
I save thy name, this once, from the black book;
Thou hear’st no further of this case.”—But, Lord!
I might not in two years his bribes record.
There’s not a dog alive, so speed my soul,
Knoweth a hurt deer better from a whole
Than this false Sumner knew a tainted sheep,
Or where this wretch would skulk, or that would sleep,
Or to fleece both was more devoutly bent;
And reason good; his faith was in his rent.
And so befell, that once upon a day,
This Sumner, prowling ever for his prey,
Rode forth to cheat a poor old widowed soul,
Feigning a cause for lack of protocol,
And as he went, he saw before him ride
A yeoman gay under the forest side.
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen;
And he was clad in a short cloak of green,
And wore a hat that had a fringe of black.
“Sir,” quoth this Sumner, shouting at his back,
“Hail, and well met.”—“Well met,” like shouteth he;
“Where ridest thou under the greenwood tree?
Goest thou far, thou jolly boy, to-day?”
This bully Sumner answered, and said, “Nay,
Only hard-by, to strain a rent.”—“Hoh! hoh!
Art thou a bailiff then?”—“Yea, even so.”
For he durst not, for very filth and shame,
Say that he was a Sumner, for the name.
“Well met, in God’s name,” quoth black fringe; “why, brother,
Thou art a bailiff then, and I’m another;
But I’m a stranger in these parts; so, prythee,
Lend me thine aid, and let me journey with thee.
I’ve gold and silver, plenty, where I dwell;
And if thou hap’st to come into our dell,
Lord! how we’ll do our best to give thee greeting!”
“Thanks,” quoth the Sumner; “merry be our meeting.”
So in each other’s hand their troths they lay,
And swear accord: and forth they ride and play.
This Sumner then, which was as full of stir,
And prate, and prying, as a woodpecker,
And ever inquiring upon everything,
Said, “Brother, where is thine inhabiting,
In case I come to find thee out some day?”
This yeoman dropped his speech in a soft way,
And said, “Far in the north. But ere we part, {42}
I trow thou shalt have learnt it so by heart,
Thou mayst not miss it, be it dark as pitch.”
“Good,” quoth the Sumner. “Now, as thou art rich,
Show me, dear brother, riding thus with me,
Since we are bailiffs both, some subtlety,
How I may play my game best, and may win:
And spare not, pray, for conscience or for sin,
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye.”
“Why, ’faith, to tell thee a plain tale,” quoth he,
“As to my wages, they be poor enough;
My lord’s a dangerous master, hard and chuff;
And since my labour bringeth but abortion,
I live, so please ye, brother, by extortion,
I take what I can get; that is my course;
By cunning, if I may; if not, by force;
So cometh, year by year, my salary.”
“Now certes,” quote the Sumner, “so fare I.
I lay my hands on everything, God wot,
Unless it be too heavy or too hot.
What I may get in counsel, privily,
I feel no sort of qualm thereon, not I.
Extortion or starvation;—that’s my creed.
Repent who list. The best of saints must feed.
That’s all the stomach that my conscience knoweth.
Curse on the ass that to confession goeth.
Well be we met, ’Od’s heart! and by my dame!
But tell me, brother dear, what is thy name?”
Now ye must know, that right in this meanwhile,
This yeoman ’gan a little for to smile.
“Brother,” quoth he, “my name, if I must tell—
I am a fiend: my dwelling is in hell:
And here I ride about my fortuning,
To wot if folk will give me anything.
To that sole end ride I, and ridest thou;
And, without pulling rein, will I ride now
To the world’s end, ere I will lose a prey.”
“God bless me,” quoth the Sumner, “what d’ye say?
I thought ye were a yeoman verily.
Ye have a man’s shape, sir, as well as I.
Have ye a shape then, pray, determinate
In hell, good sir, where ye have your estate?”
“Nay, certainly,” quoth he, “there have we none;
But whoso liketh it, he taketh one;
And so we make folk think us what we please.
Sometimes we go like apes, sometimes like bees,
Like man, or angel, black dog, or black crow:—
Nor is it wondrous that it should be so.
A sorry juggler can bewilder thee;
And ’faith, I think I know more craft than he.”
“But why,” inquired the Sumner, “must ye don
So many shapes, when ye might stick to one?”
“We suit the bait unto the fish,” quoth he.
“And why,” quoth t’other, “all this slavery?”
“For many a cause, Sir Sumner,” quoth the fiend;
“But time is brief—the day will have an end;
And here jog I, with nothing for my ride;
Catch we our fox, and let this theme abide:
For, brother mine, thy wit it is too small
To understand me, though I told thee all;
And yet, as toucheth that same slavery,
A devil must do God’s work, ’twixt you and me;
For without Him, albeit to our loathing,
Strong as we go, we devils can do nothing;
Though to our prayers, sometimes, He giveth leave
Only the body, not the soul, to grieve.
Witness good Job, whom nothing could make wrath;
And sometimes have we power to harass both;
And, then again, soul only is possest,
And body free; and all is for the best.
Full many a sinner would have no salvation,
Gat it he not by standing our temptation:
Though God He knows, ’twas far from our intent
To save the man:—his howl was what we meant.
Nay, sometimes we be servants to our foes:
Witness the saint that pulled my master’s nose;
And to the apostle servant eke was I.”
“Yet tell me,” quoth this Sumner, “faithfully,
Are the new shapes ye take for your intents
Fresh every time, and wrought of elements?”
“Nay,” quoth the fiend, “sometimes they be disguises;
And sometimes in a corpse a devil rises,
And speaks as sensibly, and fair, and well,
As did the Pythoness to Samuel:
And yet will some men say, it was not he!
Lord help, say I, this world’s divinity.
Of one thing make thee sure; that thou shalt know,
Before we part, the shapes we wear below.
Thou shalt—I jest thee not—the Lord forbid!
Thou shalt know more than ever Virgil did,
Or Dante’s self. So let us on, sweet brother,
And stick, like right warm souls, to one another:
I’ll never quit thee, till thou quittest me.”
“Nay,” quoth the Sumner, “that can never be;
I am a man well known, respectable;
And though thou wert the very lord of hell,
Hold thee I should as mine own plighted brother:
Doubt not we’ll stick right fast, each to the other:
And, as we think alike, so will we thrive:
We twain will be the merriest devils alive.
Take thou what’s given; for that’s thy mode, God wot;
And I will take, whether ’tis given or not.
And if that either winneth more than t’other,
Let him be true, and share it with his brother.”
“Done,” quoth the fiend, whose eyes in secret glowed;
And with that word they pricked along the road:
And soon it fell, that entering the town’s end,
To which this Sumner shaped him for to wend,
They saw a cart that loaded was with hay,
The which a carter drove forth on his way.
Deep was the mire, and sudden the cart stuck:
The carter, like a madman, smote and struck,
And cried, “Heit, Scot; heit, Brock! What! is’t the stones?
The devil clean fetch ye both, body and bones:
Must I do nought but bawl and swinge all day?
Devil take the whole—horse, harness, cart, and hay.”
The Sumner whispered to the fiend, “I’ faith,
We have it here. Hear’st thou not what he saith?
Take it anon, for he hath given it thee,
Live stock and dead, hay, cart, and horses three!”
“Nay,” quoth the fiend, “not so;—the deuce a bit.
He sayeth; but, alas! not meaneth it:
Ask him thyself, if thou believ’st not me;
Or else be still awhile, and thou shalt see.”
Thwacketh the man his horses on the croup,
And they begin to draw now, and to stoop.
“_Heit_ there,” quoth he; “_heit_, _heit_; ah, _matthywo_.
Lord love their hearts! how prettily they go!
That was well twitched, methinks, mine own grey boy:
I pray God save thy body, and Saint Eloy.
Now is my cart out of the slough, _pardie_.”
“There,” quoth the fiend unto the Sumner; “see,
I told thee how ’twould fall. Thou seest, dear brother,
The churl spoke one thing, but he thought another.
Let us prick on, for we take nothing here.”
And when from out the town they had got clear,
The Sumner said, “Here dwelleth an old witch,
That had as lief be tumbled in a ditch
And break her neck, as part with an old penny.
Nathless her twelve pence is as good as any,
And I will have it, though she lose her wits;
Or else I’ll cite her with a score of writs:
And yet, God wot, I know of her no vice.
So learn of me, Sir Fiend: thou art too nice.”
The Sumner clappeth at the widow’s gate.
“Come out,” he saith, “thou hag, thou quiver-pate:
I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee.”
“Who clappeth?” said this wife; “ah, what say ye?
God save ye, masters: what is your sweet will?”
“I have,” said he, “of summons here a bill:
Take care, on pain of cursing, that thou be
To-morrow morn, before the Archdeacon’s knee,
To answer to the court of certain things.”
“Now, Lord,” quoth she, “sweet Jesu, King of kings,
So help me, as I cannot, sirs, nor may:
I have been sick, and that full many a day.
I may not walk such distance, nay, nor ride,
But I be dead, so pricketh it my side.
La! how I cough and quiver when I stir!—
May I not ask some worthy officer
To speak for me, to what the bill may say?”
“Yea, certainly,” this Sumner said, “ye may,
On paying—let me see—twelve pence anon.
Small profit cometh to myself thereon:
My master hath the profit, and not I.
Come—twelve pence, mother—count it speedily,
And let me ride: I may no longer tarry.”
“Twelve pence!” quoth she; “now may the sweet Saint Mary
So wisely help me out of care and sin,
As in this wide world, though I sold my skin,
I could not scrape up twelve pence, for my life.
Ye know too well I am a poor old wife:
Give alms, for the Lord’s sake, to me, poor wretch.”
“Nay, if I quit thee then,” quoth he, “devil fetch
Myself, although thou starve for it, and rot.”
“Alas!” quoth she, “the pence I have ’em not.”
“Pay me,” quoth he, “or by the sweet Saint Anne,
I’ll bear away thy staff and thy new pan
For the old debt thou ow’st me for that fee,
Which out of pocket I discharged for thee,
When thou didst make thy husband an old stag.”
“Thou liest,” quoth she; “so leave me never a rag,
As I was never yet, widow nor wife,
Summonsed before your court in all my life,
Nor never of my body was untrue.
Unto the devil, rough and black of hue,
Give I thy body, and the pan to boot.”
And when this devil heard her give the brute
Thus in his charge, he stooped into her ear,
And said, “Now, Mabily, my mother dear,
Is this your will in earnest that ye say?”
“The devil,” quoth she, “so fetch him cleanaway,
Soul, pan, and all, unless that he repent.”
“Repent!” the Sumner cried; “pay up your rent,
Old fool; and don’t stand preaching here to me.
I would I had thy whole inventory,
The smock from off thy back, and every cloth.”
“Now, brother,” quoth the devil, “be not wroth;
Thy body and this pan be mine by right,
And thou shalt straight to hell with me to-night,
Where thou shalt know what sort of folk we be,
Better than Oxford university.”
And with that word the fiend him swept below,
Body and soul. He went where Sumners go.
CHAUCER’S
Reve’s Tale.
MODERNISED BY R. H. HORNE.
_THE REVE’S PROLOGUE_.
WHEN all had laughed at this right foolish case
Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas, {49}
Diverse folk diversely their comments made.
But, for the most part, they all laughed and played,
Nor at this tale did any man much grieve,
Unless indeed ’twas Oswald, our good Reve.
Because that he was of the carpenter craft,
In his heart still a little ire is left.
He gan to grudge it somewhat, as scarce right;
“So aid me!” quoth he; “I could such requite
By throwing dust in a proud millers eye,
If that I chose to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; I cannot play for age;
Grass-time is done—my fodder is now forage;
This white top sadly writeth mine old years;
Mine heart is also mouldy’d as mine hairs:
And since I fare as doth the medlar tree,
That fruit which time grows ever the worse to be
Till it be rotten in rubbish and in straw.
“We old men, as I fear, the same lot draw;
Till we be rotten can we not be ripe.
We ever hop while that the world will pipe;
For in our will there sticketh ever a nail,
To have a hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our strength be lame,
Our will desireth folly ever the same;
For when our climbing’s done, our words aspire;
Still in our ashes old is reeking fire. {50}
“Four hot coals have we, which I will express:
Boasting, lying, anger, and covetousness.
These burning coals are common unto age,
Our old limbs well may stumble o’er the stage,
But will shall never fail us, that is sooth.
Still in my head was always a colt’s tooth,
As many a year as now is passed and done,
Since that my tap of life began to run.
For certainly when I was born, I trow,
Death drew the tap of life, and let it flow;
And ever since the tap so fast hath run,
That well-nigh empty now is all the tun.
The stream of life but drips from time to time;
The silly tongue may well ring out and chime
Of wretchedness, that passéd is of yore:
With aged folk, save dotage, there’s nought more.”
When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king;
And said, “Why, what amounteth all this wit?
What! shall we speak all day of Holy Writ?
The devil can make a steward fit to preach,
Or of a cobbler a sailor, or a leech.
Say forth thy tale; and tarry not the time.
Lo Deptford! and the hour is half-way prime:
Lo Greenwich! there where many a shrew loves sin—
It were high time thy story to begin.”
“Now, fair sirs,” quoth this Oswald, the old Reve,
“I pray you all that you yourselves ne’er grieve,
Though my reply should somewhat fret his nose;
For lawful ’tis with force, force to oppose.
This drunken Miller hath informed us here
How that some folks beguiled a carpenter—
Perhaps in scorn that I of yore was one.
So, by your leave, him I’ll requite anon.
In his own churlish language will I speak,
And pray to Heaven besides his neck may break.
A small stalk in mine eye he sees, I deem,
But in his own he cannot see a beam.”
_THE REVE’S TALE_.
At Trumpington, near Cambridge, if you look,
There goeth a bridge, and under that a brook,
Upon which brook there stood a flour-mill;
And this is a known fact that now I tell.
A Miller there had dwelt for many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
He could pipe well, and fish, mend nets, to boot,
Turn cups with a lathe, and wrestle well, and shoot.
A Norman dirk, as brown as is a spade,
Hung by his belt, and eke a trenchant blade.
A jolly dagger bare he in his pouch:
There was no man, for peril, durst him touch.
A Sheffield clasp-knife lay within his hose.
Round was his face, and broad and flat his nose.
High and retreating was his bald ape’s skull:
He swaggered when the market-place was full.
There durst no wight a hand lift to resent it,
But soon, this Miller swore, he should repent it.
A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal,
A sly one, too, and used long since to steal.
Disdainful Simkin was he called by name.
A wife he had; of noble kin she came:
The rector of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
That Simkin with his blood should thus ally.
She had been brought up in a nunnery;
For Simkin ne’er would take a wife, he said,
Unless she were well tutored and a maid,
To carry on his line of yeomanry:
And she was proud and pert as is a pie.
It was a pleasant thing to see these two:
On holidays before her he would go,
With his large tippet bound about his head;
While she came after in a gown of red,
And Simkin wore his long hose of the same.
There durst no wight address her but as dame:
None was so bold that passed along the way
Who with her durst once toy or jesting play,
Unless he wished the sudden loss of life
Before Disdainful Simkin’s sword or knife.
(For jealous folk most fierce and perilous grow;
And this they always wish their wives to know.)
But since that to broad jokes she’d no dislike
She was as pure as water in a dyke,
And with abuse all filled and froward air.
She thought that ladies should her temper bear,
Both for her kindred and the lessons high
That had been taught her in the nunnery.
These two a fair and buxom daughter had,
Of twenty years; no more since they were wed,
Saving a child, that was but six months old;
A little boy in cradle rocked and rolled.
This daughter was a stout and well-grown lass,
With broad flat nose, and eyes as grey as glass.
Broad were her hips; her bosom round and high;
But right fair was she here—I will not lie.
The rector of the town, as she was fair,
A purpose had to make her his sole heir,
Both of his cattle and his tenement;
But only if she married as he meant.
It was his purpose to bestow her high,
Into some worthy blood of ancestry:
For holy Church’s good must be expended
On holy Church’s blood that is descended;
Therefore he would his holy Church honour,
Although that holy Church he should devour.
Great toll and fee had Simkin, out of doubt,
With wheat and malt, of all the land about,
And in especial was the Soler Hall—
A college great at Cambridge thus they call—
Which at this mill both wheat and malt had ground.
And on a day it suddenly was found,
Sick lay the Manciple of a malady;
And men for certain thought that he must die.
Whereon this Miller both of corn and meal
An hundred times more than before did steal;
For, ere this chance, he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
The Warden scolded with an angry air;
But this the Miller rated not a tare:
He sang high bass, and swore it was not so!
There were two scholars young, and poor, I trow,
That dwelt within the Hall of which I say.
Headstrong they were and lusty for to play;
And merely for their mirth and revelry,
Out to the Warden eagerly they cry,
That be should let them, for a merry round,
Go to the mill and see their own corn ground,
And each would fair and boldly lay his neck
The Miller should not steal them half a peck
Of corn by sleight, nor by main force bereave.
And at the last the Warden gave them leave:
One was called John, and Allen named the other;
From the same town they came, which was called Strauther,
Far in the North—I cannot tell you where.
This Allen maketh ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth go these merry clerks, Allen and John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, and needed not a guide;
And at the mill the sack adown he layeth.
Allen spake first:—“Simon, all hail! in faith,
How fares thy daughter, and thy worthy wife?”
“Allen,” quoth Simkin, “welcome, by my life;
And also John:—how now! what do ye here?”
“Simon,” quoth John, “compulsion has no peer.
They who’ve nae lackeys must themselves bestir,
Or else they are but fools, as clerks aver.
Our Manciple, I think, will soon be dead,
Sae slowly work the grinders in his head;
And therefore am I come with Allen thus,
To grind our corn, and carry it hame with us:
I pray you speed us, that we may be gone.”
Quoth Simkin, “By my faith it shall be done;
What will ye do while that it is in hand?”
“Gude’s life! right by the hopper will I stand,”
(Quoth John), “and see how that the corn goes in.
I never yet saw, by my father’s kin,
How that the hopper waggles to and fro.”
Allen continued,—“John, and wilt thou so?
Then will I be beneath it, by my crown,
And see how that the meal comes running down
Into the trough—and that shall be my sport.
For, John, like you, I’m of the curious sort;
And quite as bad a miller—so let’s see!”
This Miller smiled at their ’cute nicety,
And thought,—all this is done but for a wile;
They fancy that no man can them beguile:
But, by my thrift, I’ll dust their searching eye,
For all the sleights in their philosophy.
The more quaint knacks and guarded plans they make,
The more corn will I steal when once I take:
Instead of flour, I’ll leave them nought but bran:
The greatest clerks are not the wisest men.
As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare:
Of all their art I do not count a tare.
Out at the door he goeth full privily,
When that he saw his time, and noiselessly:
He looketh up and down, till he hath found
The clerks’ bay horse, where he was standing bound
Under an ivy wall, behind the mill:
And to the horse he goeth him fair and well,
And strippeth off the bridle in a trice.
And when the horse was loose he ’gan to race
Unto the wild mares wandering in the fen,
With _wehee_! _whinny_! right through thick and thin!
This Miller then returned; no word he said,
But doth his work, and with these clerks he played,
Till that their corn was well and fairly ground.
And when the meal is sacked and safely bound
John goeth out, and found his horse was gone,
And cried aloud with many a stamp and groan,
“Our horse is lost! Allen, ’od’s banes! I say,
Up on thy feet!—come off, man—up, away!
Alas! our Warden’s palfrey, it is gone!”
Allen at once forgot both meal and corn—
Out of his mind went all his husbandry—
“What! whilk way is he gone?” he ’gan to cry.
The Miller’s wife came laughing inwardly,
“Alas!” said she, “your horse i’ the fens doth fly
After wild mares as fast as he can go!
Ill-luck betide the man that bound him so,
And his that better should have knit the rein.”
“Alas!” quoth John, “good Allen, haste amain;
Lay down thy sword, as I will mine also;
Heaven knoweth I am as nimble as a roe;
He shall not ’scape us baith, or my saul’s dead!
Why didst not put the horse within the shed?
By the mass, Allen, thou’rt a fool, I say!”
Those silly clerks have scampered fast away
Unto the fen; Allen and nimble John:
And when the Miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour doth take,
And bade his wife go knead it in a cake.
He said, “I trow these clerks feared what they’ve found;
Yet can a miller turn a scholar round
For all his art. Yea, let them go their way!
See where they run! yea, let the children play:
They get him not so lightly, by my crown.”
The simple clerks go running up and down,
With “Soft, soft!—stand, stand!—hither!—back! take care!
Now whistle thou, and I shall keep him here!”
But, to be brief, until the very night
They could not, though they tried with all their might,
The palfrey catch; he always ran so fast:
Till in a ditch they caught him at the last.
Weary and wet as beasts amid the rain,
Allen and John come slowly back again.
“Alas,” quoth John, “that ever I was born!
Now are we turned into contempt and scorn.
Our corn is stolen; fools they will us call;
The Warden, and our college fellows all,
And ’specially the Miller—’las the day!”
Thus plaineth John while going by the way
Toward the mill, the bay nag in his hand.
The Miller sitting by the fire they found,
For it was night: no further could they move;
But they besought him, for Heaven’s holy love,
Lodgment and food to give them for their penny.
And Simkin answered, “If that there be any,
Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part.
My house is small, but ye have learnéd art;
Ye can, by arguments, well make a place
A mile broad, out of twenty foot of space!
Let’s see now if this place, as ’tis, suffice;
Or make more room with speech, as is your guise.”
“Now, Simon, by Saint Cuthbert,” said this John,
“Thou’rt ever merry, and that’s answered soon.
I’ve heard that man must needs choose o’ twa things;
Such as he finds, or else such as he brings.
But specially I pray thee, mine host dear,
Let us have meat and drink, and make us cheer,
And we shall pay you to the full, be sure:
With empty hand men may na’ hawks allure.
Lo! here’s our siller ready to be spent!”
The Miller to the town his daughter sent
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose;
And bound their horse; he should no more get loose;
And in his own room made for them a bed,
With blankets, sheets, and coverlet well spread:
Not twelve feet from his own bed did it stand.
His daughter, by herself, as it was planned,
In a small passage closet, slept close by:
It might no better be, for reasons why,—
There was no wider chamber in the place.
They sup, and jest, and show a merry face,
And drink of ale, the strongest and the best.
It was just midnight when they went to rest.
Well hath this Simkin varnished his hot head;
Full pale he was with drinking, and nought red.
He hiccougheth, and speaketh through the nose,
As with the worst of colds, or quinsy’s throes.
To bed he goeth, and with him trips his wife;
Light as a jay, and jolly seemed her life,
So was her jolly whistle well ywet.
The cradle at her bed’s foot close she set
To rock, or nurse the infant in the night.
And when the jug of ale was emptied quite,
To bed, likewise, the daughter went anon:
To bed goes Allen; with him also John.
All’s said: they need no drugs from poppies pale,
This Miller hath so wisely bibbed of ale;
But as an horse he snorteth in his sleep,
And blurteth secrets which awake he’d keep.
His wife a burden bare him, and full strong:
Men might their routing hear a good furlóng.
The daughter routeth else, _par compagnie_.
Allen, the clerk, that heard this melody,
Now poketh John, and said, “Why sleepest thou?
Heardest thou ever sic a song ere now?
Lo, what a serenade’s among them all!
A wild-fire red upon their bodies fall!
Wha ever listened to sae strange a thing?
The flower of evil shall their ending bring.
This whole night there to me betides no rest.
But, courage yet, all shall be for the best;
For, John,” said he, “as I may ever thrive,
To pipe a merrier serenade I’ll strive
In the dark passage somewhere near to us;
For, John, there is a law which sayeth thus,—
That if a man in one point be aggrieved,
Right in another he shall be relieved:
Our corn is stolen—sad yet sooth to say—
And we have had an evil bout to-day;
But since the Miller no amends will make,
Against our loss we should some payment take.
His sonsie daughter will I seek to win,
And get our meal back—de’il reward his sin!
By hallow-mass it shall no otherwise be!”
But John replied, “Allen, well counsel thee:
The Miller is a perilous man,” he said,
“And if he wake and start up from his bed,
He may do both of us a villainy.”
“Nay,” Allen said, “I count him not a flie!”
And up he rose, and crept along the floor
Into the passage humming with their snore:
As narrow was it as a drum or tub.
And like a beetle doth he grope and grub,
Feeling his way with darkness in his hands,
Till at the passage-end he stooping stands.
John lieth still, and not far off, I trow,
And to himself he maketh ruth and woe.
“Alas,” quoth he, “this is a wicked jape!
Now may I say that I am but an ape.
Allen may somewhat quit him for his wrong:
Already can I hear his plaint and song;
So shall his ’venture happily be sped,
While like a rubbish-sack I lie in bed;
And when this jape is told another day,
I shall be called a fool, or a cokenáy!
I will adventure somewhat, too, in faith:
‘Weak heart, worse fortune,’ as the proverb saith.”
And up he rose at once, and softly went
Unto the cradle, as ’twas his intent,
And to his bed’s foot bare it, with the brat.
The wife her routing ceased soon after that,
And woke, and left her bed; for she was pained
With nightmare dreams of skies that madly rained.
Eastern astrologers and clerks, I wis,
In time of Apis tell of storms like this.
Awhile she stayed, and waxeth calm in mind;
Returning then, no cradle doth she find,
And gropeth here and there—but she found none.
“Alas,” quoth she, “I had almost misgone!
I well-nigh stumbled on the clerks a-bed:
_Eh benedicite_! but I am safely sped.”
And on she went, till she the cradle found,
While through the dark still groping with her hand.
Meantime was heard the beating of a wing,
And then the third cock of the morn ’gan sing.
Allen stole back, and thought, “Ere that it dawn
I will creep in by John that lieth forlorn.”
He found the cradle in his hand, anon.
“Gude Lord!” thought Allen, “all wrong have I gone!
My head is dizzy with the ale last night,
And eke my piping, that I go not right.
Wrong am I, by the cradle well I know:
Here lieth Simkin, and his wife alsó.”
And, scrambling forthright on, he made his way
Unto the bed where Simkin snoring lay!
He thought to nestle by his fellow John,
And by the Miller in he crept, anon,
And caught him by the neck, and ’gan to shake,
And said, “Thou John! thou swine’s head dull, awake!
Wake, by the mass! and hear a noble game,
For, by St. Andrew! to thy ruth and shame,
I have been trolling roundelays this night,
And won the Miller’s daughter’s heart outright,
Who hath me told where hidden is our meal:
All this—and more—and how they always steal;
While thou hast as a coward lain aghast!”
“Thou slanderous ribald!” quoth the Miller, “hast?
A traitor false, false lying clerk!” quoth he,
“Thou shalt be slain by heaven’s dignity,
Who rudely dar’st disparage with foul lie
My daughter that is come of lineage high!”
And by the throat he Allen grasped amain;
And caught him, yet more furiously, again,
And on his nose he smote him with his fist!
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast,
And on the floor they tumble, heel and crown,
And shake the house—it seemed all coming down.
And up they rise, and down again they roll;
Till that the Miller, stumbling o’er a coal,
Went plunging headlong like a bull at bait,
And met his wife, and both fell flat as slate.
“Help, holy cross of Bromeholm!” loud she cried,
“And all ye martyrs, fight upon my side!
_In manus tuas_—help!—on thee I call!
Simon, awake! the fiend on me doth fall:
He crusheth me—help!—I am well-nigh dead:
He lieth along my heart, and heels, and head.
Help, Simkin! for the false clerks rage and fight!”
Now sprang up John as fast as ever he might,
And graspeth by the dark walls to and fro
To find a staff: the wife starts up alsó.
She knew the place far better than this John,
And by the wall she caught a staff anon.
She saw a little shimmering of a light,
For at an hole in shone the moon all bright,
And by that gleam she saw the struggling two,
But knew not, as for certain, who was who,
Save that she saw a white thing in her eye.
And when that she this white thing ’gan espy,
She thought that Allen did a nightcap wear,
And with the staff she drew near, and more near,
And, thinking ’twas the clerk, she smote at full
Disdainful Simkin on his bald ape’s skull.
Down goes the Miller, crying, “Harow, I die!”
These clerks they beat him well, and let him lie.
They make them ready, and take their horse anon,
And eke their meal, and on their way are gone;
And from behind the mill-door took their cake,
Of half a bushel of flour—a right good bake.
CHAUCER’S POEM OF
The Cuckoo And The Nightingale.
MODERNISED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
1.
THE God of Love—_ah_, _benedicite_!
How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high, of high
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts he can make them kind and free.
2.
Within a little time, as hath been found,
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound;
Them who are whole in body and in mind
He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind
All that he will have bound, or have unbound.
3.
To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
Foolish men he can make them out of wise;—
For he may do all that he will devise;
Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.
4.
In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
Against him dare not any wight say nay;
To humble or afflict whome’er he will,
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.
5.
For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
Now against May shall have some stirring—whether
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
At other time, methinks, in like degree.
6.
For now when they may hear the small birds’ song,
And see the budding leaves the branches throng.
This unto their remembrance doth bring
All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing,
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.
7.
And of that longing heaviness doth come,
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;
Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.
8.
In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,—
How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.
9.
Such shaking doth the fever in me keep,
Through all this May that I have little sleep;
And also ’tis not likely unto me,
That any living heart should sleepy be
In which love’s dart its fiery point doth steep.
10.
But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
I of a token thought which lovers heed;
How among them it was a common tale,
That it was good to hear the nightingale,
Ere the vile cuckoo’s note be utteréd.
11.
And then I thought anon as it was day,
I gladly would go somewhere to essay
If I perchance a nightingale might hear,
For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
And it was then the third night of the May.
12.
And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
No longer would I in my bed abide,
But straightway to a wood, that was hard by,
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
And held the pathway down by a brook-side;
13.
Till to a lawn I came all white and green,
I in so fair a one had never been.
The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
All green and white; and nothing else was seen.
14.
There sate I down among the fresh fair flowers,
And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
Where they had rested them all night; and they,
Who were so joyful at the light of day,
Began to honour May with all their powers.
15.
Well did they know that service all by rote,
And there was many and many a lovely note;
Some singing loud, as if they had complained;
Some with their notes another manner feigned;
And some did sing all out with the full throat.
16.
They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay,
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray;
And ever two and two together were,
The same as they had chosen for the year,
Upon Saint Valentine’s returning day.
17.
Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon,
Was making such a noise as it ran on
Accordant to the sweet birds’ harmony;
Methought that it was the best melody
Which ever to man’s ear a passage won.
18.
And for delight, but how I never wot,
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,
Not all asleep, and yet not waking wholly;
And as I lay, the Cuckoo bird unholy
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.
19.
And that was right upon a tree fast by,
And who was then ill-satisfied but I?
“Now, God,” quoth I, “that died upon the rood,
From thee and thy base throat, keep all that’s good,
Full little joy have I now of thy cry.”
20.
And, as I with the Cuckoo thus ’gan chide,
In the next bush that was me fast beside,
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing thorough all the green wood wide.
21.
“Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart’s cheer,
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
For we have heard the sorry Cuckoo here,
And she hath been before thee with her song;
Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.”
22.
But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray;
As long as in that swooning fit I lay,
Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,
And had good knowing both of their intent,
And of their speech, and all that they would say.
23.
The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:
“Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake
And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;
For every wight eschews thy song to hear,
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.”
24.
“What!” quoth she then, “what is’t that ails thee now?
It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
For mine’s a song that is both true and plain,—
Although I cannot quaver so in vain
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.
25.
“All men may understanding have of me,
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:—
Thou say’st OSEE, OSEE; then how may I
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?”
26.
“Ah, fool!” quoth she, “wist thou not what it is?
Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis,
Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain
That shamefully they one and all were slain,
Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.
27.
“And also would I that they all were dead
Who do not think in love their life to lead;
For who is loth the God of Love to obey
Is only fit to die, I dare well say,
And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!”
28.
“Ay,” quoth the Cuckoo, “that is a quaint law,
That all must love or die; but I withdraw,
And take my leave of all such company,
For mine intent it neither is to die,
Nor ever while I live Love’s yoke to draw.
29.
“For lovers of all folk that be alive,
The most disquiet have and least do thrive;
Most feeling have of sorrow’s woe and care,
And the least welfare cometh to their share;
What need is there against the truth to strive?”
30.
“What!” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind,
That in thy churlishness a cause canst find
To speak of Love’s true Servants in this mood;
For in this world no service is so good
To every wight that gentle is of kind.
31.
“For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;
All gentleness and honour thence come forth;
Thence worship comes, content and true heart’s pleasure,
And full-assuréd trust, joy without measure,
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth:
32.
“And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,
And seemliness, and faithful company,
And dread of shame that will not do amiss;
For he that faithfully Love’s servant is,
Rather than be disgraced, would choose to die.
33.
“And that the very truth it is which I
Now say—in such belief I’ll live and die;
And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.”
“Then,” quoth she, “let me never hope for bliss,
If with that counsel I do e’er comply.
34.
“Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,
Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;
For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis;
And Love in old folk a great dotage is;
Whom most it useth, him ’twill most impair.
35.
“For thereof come all contraries to gladness;
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty and madness.
36.
“Loving is aye an office of despair,
And one thing is therein which is not fair;
For whoso gets of love a little bliss,
Unless it alway stay with him, I wis
He may full soon go with an old man’s hair.
37.
“And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,
For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
Thou’lt be as others that forsaken are;
Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.”
38.
“Fie,” quoth she, “on thy name, Bird ill beseen!
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
For thou art worse than mad a thousandfold;
For many a one hath virtues manifold
Who had been nought, if Love had never been.
39.
“For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
And he from every blemish them defendeth;
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
In loyalty and worshipful desire,
And when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.”
40.
“Thou Nightingale!” the Cuckoo said, “be still;
For Love no reason hath but his own will;—
For to th’ untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
He lets them perish through that grievous ill.
41.
“With such a master would I never be,
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;
Within this court full seldom truth avails,
So diverse in his wilfulness is he.”
42.
Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
And said, “Alas! that ever I was born,
Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,”—
And with that word, she into tears burst out.
43.
“Alas, alas! my very heart will break,”
Quoth she, “to hear this churlish bird thus speak
Of Love, and of his holy services;
Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise,
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.”
44.
And so methought I started up anon,
And to the brook I ran, and got a stone,
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
And he for dread did fly away full fast;
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.
45.
And as he flew, the Cuckoo ever and aye
Kept crying, “Farewell!—farewell, popinjay!”
As if in scornful mockery of me;
And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
Till he was far, all out of sight, away.
46.
Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
And said, “Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
That thou wert near to rescue me; and now,
Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
That all this May I will thy songstress be.”
47.
Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,
“By this mishap no longer be dismayed,
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard’st me;
Yet if I live it shall amended be,
When next May comes, if I am not afraid.
48.
“And one thing will I counsel thee alsó,
The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love’s saw;
All that she said is an outrageous lie.”
“Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto,” quoth I,
“For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.”
49.
“Yea, hath it? Use,” quoth she, “this medicine,
This May-time, every day before thou dine,
Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,
Although for pain thou may’st be like to die,
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.
50.
“And mind always that thou be good and true,
And I will sing one song, of many new,
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;”
And then did she begin this song full high,
“Beshrew all them that are in love untrue.”
51.
And soon as she had sung it to the end,
“Now farewell,” quoth she, “for I hence must wend;
And, God of Love, that can right well and may,
Send unto thee as mickle joy this day
As ever he to lover yet did send.”
52.
Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;
I pray to God with her always to be,
And joy of love to send her evermore;
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,
For there is not so false a bird as she.
53.
Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,
To all the birds that lodged within that dale,
And gathered each and all into one place;
And them besought to hear her doleful case,
And thus it was that she began her tale:—
54.
“The Cuckoo—’tis not well that I should hide
How she and I did each the other chide,
And without ceasing, since it was daylight;
And now I pray you all to do me right
Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.”
55.
Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave:
“This matter asketh counsel good as grave,
For birds we are—all here together brought;
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;
And therefore we a parliament will have.
56.
“And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
And other Peers whose names are on record;
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
And judgment there be given; or that intent
Failing, we finally shall make accord.
57.
“And all this shall be done, without a nay,
The morrow after Saint Valentine’s day,
Under a maple that is well beseen,
Before the chamber-window of the Queen,
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.”
58.
She thankéd them; and then her leave she took,
And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;
And there she sate and sung—upon that tree,—
“For term of life Love shall have hold of me!”
So loudly, that I with that song awoke.
* * * * *
Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
To appear before my Lady? but a sense
Thou surely hast of her benevolence,
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
For of all good, she is the best alive.
Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,
To show to her some pleasant meanings writ
In winning words, since through her gentleness,
Thee she accepts as for her service fit;
Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
For of all good, she is the best alive.
Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,
Though I be far from her I reverence,
To think upon my truth and steadfastness,
And to abridge my sorrow’s violence,
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
She of her liking, proof to me would give;
For of all good, she is the best alive.
L’ENVOY.
PLEASURE’S Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!
Lucerne, by night, with heavenly influence
Illumined! root of beauty and goodness,
Write, and allay, by your beneficence,
My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give!
Since of all good, you are the best alive.
EXPLICIT.
Treasure Trove.
MODERNISED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF GOWER’S “CONFESSIO AMANTIS.”
IN ancient Chronicle I read:—
About a King, as it must need,
There was of Knights and of Squiërs
Great rout, and eke of Officers.
Some for a long time him had served,
And thought that they had well deserved
Advancement, but had gone without;
And some also were of the Rout
That only came the other day
And were advanced without delay.
Those Older Men upon this thing,
So as they durst, against the King
Among themselves would murmur oft.
But there is nothing said so soft
That it shall not come out at last,
The King soon knew what Words had passed.
A King he was of high Prudénce,
He shaped therefore an Evidence
Of them that plained them in that case,
To know of whose Default it was.
And all within his own intent,
That not a man knew what it meant,
He caused two Coffers to be made
Alike in Shape, and Size, and Shade,
So like that no man, by their Show,
The one may from the other know.
They were into his Chamber brought,
But no man knew why they were wrought;
Yet from the King Command hath come
That they be set in private Room,
For he was in his Wisdom keen.
When he thereto his time had seen,
Slily, away from all the rest,
With his own hands he filled one Chest,
Full of fine Gold and Jewelry
The which out of his Treasury
Was taken; after that he thrust
Into the other Straw and Dust,
And filled it up with Stones also;
Full Coffers are they, both the two.
And early then upon a day
He bade within doors where he lay
That there should be before his Bed
A Board set up and fairly spread.
The Coffers then he let men get,
And on the Board he had them set.
Full well he knew the Names of those
Whose Murmurings against him rose,
Both of his Chamber and his Hall,
And speedily sent for them all,
And said unto them in this wise:
“There shall no man his Hap despise;
I know well that ye long have served,
And God knows what ye have deserved.
Whether it is along of me
That ye still unadvancéd be,
Or whether it belong of you,
The Sooth is to be provéd now,
Wherewith to stop your Evil Word.
Lo here two Coffers on the Board,
Of both the two choose which you will,
And know that ye may have your fill
Of Treasure heaped and packed in one,
That if ye happen thereupon
Ye shall be made Rich Men for ever.
Now choose and take which you is liever.
But be well ware, ere that ye take,—
For of the one I undertake
There is no manner good therein
Whereof ye might a Profit win.
Now go together of one assent
And take your own Advisément.
Whether I you this day advance
Stands only on your Choice and Chance.
No question here of Royal Grace,
It shall be showéd in this place
Upon you all, and well and fine,
If Fortune fails by Fault of mine.”
They all kneel down, and with one voice
They thank the King for this free Choice;
And after this they up arise
And go aside and them advise,
And at the last they all accord;
Whereof their Finding to record
To what Issue their Voices fall,
A Knight shall answer for them all.
He kneeleth down unto the King
And saith, that they upon this thing
Or for to win or for to lose
Are all decided how to choose.
Then took this Knight a Rod in hand
And goes to where the Coffers stand,
And with the Assent of every one
He layeth his Rod upon one,
And tells the King they only want
Him that for their Reward to grant,
And pray him that they might it have.
The King, who would his Honour save,
When he hath heard the common Voice,
Hath granted them their own free Choice,
And gave them thereupon the Key.
But as he would that men might see
What Good they got, as they suppose,
He bade anon the Coffer unclose,—
Which was filled full with Straw and Stone;
Thus are they served, the Luck’s their own.
“Lo,” saith the King, “now may ye see
That there is no Default in me;
Therefore myself I will acquit,
Bear ye the Blame now, as is fit,
For that which Fortune you refused.”
Thus was this wise old King excused,
And they left off their evil Speech,
And Mercy of their King beseech.
Touching like matter to the quick,
I find a Tale how Frederick,
At that time Emperor of Rome,
Heard, as he went, a Clamour come
From two poor Beggars on the way.
The one of them began to say,
“Ha, Lord, the man is rich indeed
To whom a King’s Wealth brings his Speed!”
The other said, “It is not so,
But he is rich and well-to-do
To whom God pleases Wealth to send.”
And thus their Words went without end,
Whereto this Lord hath given ear
And caused both Beggars to appear
Straight at his Palace, there to eat;
And bade provide them for their Meat
Two Pasties which men were to make,
And in the one a Capon bake,
And in the other, Wealth to win,
Of Florins all that may within
He bade them put a great Richésse,
And just alike, as one may guess,
Outward they were, to Sight of Men.
This Beggar was commanded then,
He that had held him to the King,
That he first choose upon this thing.
He saw them, but he felt them not,
So that upon his single Thought
He chose the Capon, and forsook
That other, which his Fellow took.
But when he wist how that it fared,
He said aloud, that men it heard:
“Now have I certainly conceived
That he may lightly be deceived
Who puts his trust in Help of Man.
He’s rich whom God helps, for he can
Stand ever on the safer side
That else on Vain Hope had relied.
I see my Fellow well supplied,
And still a Poor Man I abide.”
Thus spake the Beggar his intent,
And poor he came, and poor he went;
Of all the Riches that he sought
His evil Fortune gave him nought.
And right as it with those men stood,
Of evil Hap in worldly Good,
As thou hast heard me tell above,
Right so, full oft, it stands by Love;
Though thou desire it evermore
Thou shalt not have a whit the more,
But only what is meant for thee,
Of all the rest not worth a Pea.
And yet a long and endless Row
There be of Men who covet so
That whereas they a Woman see,
To ten or twelve though there may be,
The Love is now so little wise
That where the Beauty takes his Eyes
Anon the Man’s whole Heart is there
And whispers Tales into her Ear,
And says on her his Love is set,
And thus he sets him to covet.
A hundred though he saw a day,
So would he have more than he may;
In each of them he finds somewhat
That pleaseth him, or this or that.
Some one, for she is white of skin,
Some one, for she is noble of kin,
Some one, for she hath a ruddy cheek,
Some one, for that she seemeth meek,
Some one, for that her eyes are gray,
Some one, for she can laugh and play,
Some one, for she is long and small,
Some one, for she is lithe and tall,
Some one, for she is pale and bleach,
Some one, for she is soft of speech,
Some one, for that her nose turns down,
Some one, for that she hath a frown,
Some one, for she can dance and sing;
So that of what he likes something
He finds, and though no more he feel
But that she hath a little heel,
It is enough that he therefore
Her love; and thus an hundred score
While they be new he would he had,
Whom he forsakes, she shall be bad.
So the Blind Man no Colour sees,
All’s one to take as he may please;
And his Desire is darkly minded
Whom Covetise of Love hath blinded.
London Lickpenny.
BY JOHN LYDGATE.
TO London once my steps I bent,
Where truth in nowise should be faint;
To Westminster-ward I forthwith went,
To a man of law to make complaint,
I said, “For Mary’s love, that holy saint,
Pity the poor that would proceed!”
But for lack of Money I could not speed.
And as I thrust the press among,
By froward chance my hood was gone,
Yet for all that I stayed not long
Till to the King’s Bench I was come.
Before the judge I kneeled anon,
And prayed him for God’s sake to take heed.
But for lack of Money I might not speed.
Beneath them sat clerks a great rout,
Which fast did write by one assent,
There stood up one and cried about,
“Richard, Robert, and John of Kent!”
I wist not well what this man meant,
He cried so thickly there indeed.
But he that lacked Money might not speed
Unto the Common Pleas I yode {81} tho,
Where sat one with a silken hood;
I did him reverence, for I ought to do so,
And told my case as well as I could,
How my goods were defrauded me by falsehood.
I got not a mum of his mouth for my meed,
And for lack of Money I might not speed.
Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence,
Before the clerks of the Chancerie,
Where many I found earning of pence,
But none at all once regarded me.
I gave them my plaint upon my knee;
They liked it well when they had it read,
But lacking Money I could not be sped.
In Westminster Hall I found out one
Which went in a long gown of ray, {82a}
I crouched and kneeled before him anon,
For Mary’s love of help I him pray.
“I wot not what thou mean’st,” gan he say;
To get me thence he did me bede:
For lack of Money I could not speed.
Within this Hall, neither rich nor yet poor
Would do for me aught although I should die.
Which seeing, I got me out of the door
Where Flemings began on me for to cry,
“Master, what will you copen {82b} or buy?
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.”
Then to Westminster Gate I presently went,
When the sun was at highé prime;
Cooks to me they took good intent,
And proffered me bread with ale and wine,
Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine;
A fair cloth they gan for to sprede,
But wanting Money I might not then speed.
Then unto London I did me hie,
Of all the land it beareth the prize.
“Hot peascods!” one began to cry,
“Strawberry ripe!” and “Cherries in the rise!” {82c}
One bade me come near and buy some spice,
Pepper and saffron they gan me bede,
But for lack of Money I might not speed.
Then to the Cheap I began me drawn,
Where much people I saw for to stand;
One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn,
Another he taketh me by the hand,
“Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!”
I never was used to such things indeed,
And wanting Money I might not speed.
Then went I forth by London Stone,
Throughout all Can’wick Street. {83}
Drapers much cloth me offered anon;
Then comes me one cried, “Hot sheep’s feet!”
One cried, “Mackerel!” “Rushes green!” another gan greet;
One bade me buy a hood to cover my head,
But for want of Money I might not be sped,
Then I hied me into East Cheap;
One cries “Ribs of beef,” and many a pie;
Pewter pots they clattered on a heap,
There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsie.
“Yea, by cock!” “Nay, by cock!” some began cry;
Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed,
But for lack of Money I might not speed.
Then into Cornhill anon I yode,
Where was much stolen gear among;
I saw where hung mine owné hood
That I had lost among the throng:
To buy my own hood I thought it wrong;
I knew it well as I did my Creed,
But for lack of Money I could not speed.
The taverner took me by the sleeve,
“Sir,” saith he, “will you our wine assay?”
I answered, “That cannot much me grieve,
A penny can do no more than it may.”
I drank a pint, and for it I did pay.
Yet soon ahungered from thence I yede,
And wanting Money I could not speed.
Then hied I me to Billingsgate,
And one cried, “Hoo! Go we hence!”
I prayed a barge man, for God’s sake,
That he would spare me my expence.
“Thou scrap’st not here,” quoth he, “under two pence;
I list not yet bestow any alms deed.”
Thus lacking Money I could not speed.
Then I conveyed me into Kent;
For of the law would I meddle no more,
Because no man to me took intent,
I dight me to do as I did before.
Now Jesus, that in Bethlehem was bore,
Save London, and send true lawyers their meed!
For whoso wants Money with them shall not speed.
Bicorn and Chichevache.
BY JOHN LYDGATE.
_First there shall stand an image in Poet-wise_, _saying these verses_:—
O PRUDENT folkés, taketh heed,
And remembreth in your lives
How this story doth proceed
Of the husbands and their wives,
Of their áccord and their strives,
With life or death which to darrain {85a}
Is granted to these beastés twain.
_Then shall be pourtrayed two beasts_, _one fat_; _another lean_.
For this Bicorn of his natúre
Will none other manner food,
But patient husbands his pastúre,
And Chichevache eat’th the women good;
And both these beastés, by the Rood,
Be fat or lean, it may not fail,
Like lack or plenty of their vitail.
Of Chichevache {85b} and of Bicorn,
Treateth wholly this matere,
Whose story hath taught us beforn
How these beastés both infere {85c}
Have their pastúre, as you shall hear,
Of men and women in senténce
Through suffrance or through impatiénce.
_Then shall be pourtrayed a fat beast called Bicorn_, _of the country of
Bicornis_, _and say these three verses following_:—
“Of Bicornis I am Bicorn,
Full fat and round here as I stand,
And in marriage bound and sworn
To Chichevache as her husbánd,
Which will not eat on sea nor land
But patient wivés debonair,
Which to their husbands be n’t contraire
“Full scarce, God wot, is her vitail,
Humble wives she finds so few,
For always at the contre tail
Their tongúe clappeth and doth hew.
Such meeké wivés I beshrew,
That neither can at bed ne board
Their husbands not forbear one word.
“But my food and my cherishing,
To tell plainly and not to vary,
Is of such folks which, their living,
Dare to their wives be not contrary,
Ne from their lustés dare not vary,
Nor with them hold no champarty, {86a}
All such my stomach will defy.” {86b}
_Then shall be pourtrayed a company of men coming towards this beast
Bicornis_, _and say these four ballads_:—
“Fellows, take heed and ye may see
How Bicorn casteth him to devour
All humble men, both you and me,
There is no gain may us succóur;
Wo be therefore in hall and bower
To all those husbands which, their lives,
Make mistrésses of their wives.
“Who that so doth, this is the law,
That this Bicorn will him oppress
And devouren in his maw
That of his wife makes his mistréss;
This will us bring in great distress,
For we, for our humility,
Of Bicorn shall devouréd be.
“We standen plainly in such case,
For they to us mistrésses be;
We may well sing and say, ‘Alas,
That we gave them the sovereigntie!
For we ben thrall and they be free.
Wherefore Bicorn, this cruel beast,
Will us devouren at the least.
“But who that can be sovereign,
And his wife teach and chastise,
That she dare not a word gainsain
Nor disobey in no manner wise,
Of such a man I can devise
He stands under protectión
From Bicornis jurisdictión.”
_Then shall there be a woman devoured in the mouth of Chichevache_,
_crying to all wives_, _and say this verse_:—
“O noble wivés, be well ware,
Take example now by me;
Or else affirmé well I dare
Ye shall be dead, ye shall not flee;
Be crabbéd, void humilitie,
Or Chichevache ne will not fail
You for to swallow in his entrail.”
_Then shall there be pourtrayed a long-horned beast_, _slender and lean_,
_with sharp teeth_, _and on her body nothing but skin and bone_.
“Chichevache, this is my name,
Hungry, meagre, slender, and lean,
To show my body I have great shame,
For hunger I feel so great teen; {88c}
On me no fatness will be seen,
Because that pasture I find none,
Therefore I am but skin and bone.
“For my feedíng in existénce
Is of women that be meek,
And like Grisield in patiénce
Or more their bounty for to eke;
But I full long may go and seek
Ere I can find a good repast,
A morrow to break with my fast.
“I trow there be a dear year
Of patient women now-a-days.
Who grieveth them with word or cheer
Let him beware of such assays;
For it is more than thirty Mays
That I have sought from lond to lond,
But yet one Grisield ne’er I fond.
“I found but one in all my live,
And she was dead ago full yore;
For more pastúre I will not strive
Nor seeké for my food no more.
Ne for vitail me to restore;
Women ben woxen {88a} so prudént
They will no more be patient.”
_Then shall be pourtrayed_, _after Chichevache_, _an old man with a baton
on his back_, _menacing the beast for devouring of his wife_.
“My wife, alas, devouréd is,
Most patiént and most pesíble!
She never said to me amiss,
Whom now hath slain this beast horrible!
And for it is an impossible
To find again e’er such a wife
I will live solé all my life.”
For now of newé, for their prow, {88b}
The wivés of full high prudénce
Have of assent made their avow
T’ exile for ever patiénce,
And cried wolfs-head obedience,
To maké Chichevaché fail
Of them to findé more vitail.
Now Chichevaché may fast long
And die for all her cruelty,
Women have made themselves so strong
For to outrage humility.
O silly husbands, wo ben ye!
Such as can have no patiénce
Against your wivés violence.
If that ye suffer, ye be but dead,
Bicorn awaiteth you so sore;
Eke of your wives go stand in dread,
If ye gainsay them any more!
And thus ye stand, and have done yore,
Of life and death betwixt coveyne {89}
Linkéd in a double chain.
Best to be Blyth.
BY WILLIAM DUNBAR.
FULL oft I muse, and hes in thocht
How this fals Warld is ay on flocht,
Quhair {91a} no thing ferme is nor degest; {91d}
And when I haif my mynd all socht,
For to be blyth me think it best.
This warld ever dois flicht and wary, {91b}
Fortoun sa fast hir quheill dois cary,
Na tyme but {91e} turning can tak rest;
For quhois fats change suld none be sary,
For to be blyth me think it best.
Wald men considdir in mynd richt weill,
Or Fortoun on him turn hir quheill,
That erdly honour may nocht lest,
His fall less panefull he suld feill;
For to be blyth me think it best.
Quha with this warld dois warsill {91c} and stryfe,
And dois his dayis in dolour dryfe,
Thocht he in lordschip be possest,
He levis bot ane wrechit lyfe:
For to be blyth me think it best.
Off warldis gud and grit richess,
Quhat fruct hes man but merriness?
Thocht he this warld had eist and west,
All wer povertie but glaidness:
For to be blyth me think it best.
Quho suld for tynsall {92a} drowp or de,
For thyng that is bot vanitie;
Sen to the lyfe that evir dois lest,
Heir is bot twynkling of an ee:
For to be blyth me think it best.
Had I for warldis unkyndnéss
In hairt tane ony heviness,
Or fro my plesans bene opprest;
I had bene deid lang syne dowtless:
For to be blyth me think it best.
How evir this warld do change and vary,
Lat us in hairt nevir moir be sary,
But evir be reddy and addrest
To pass out of this frawfull fary: {92b}
For to be blyth me think it best.
Dowsabell.
BY MICHAEL DRAYTON.
FAR in the country of Arden
There woned {93d} a knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent
In battle and in tournament
As was good Sir Topás.
He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter clepéd Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free.
And for she was her fathers heir,
Full well she was yconned {93a} the leir {93b}
Of mickle courtesie.
The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the finé marché pine, {93c}
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matins on a holiday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.
She ware a frock of frolic green
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Inwrought full featously.
Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster {94a} wool,
And white as snow on Peakish hull, {94b}
Or swan that swims in Trent.
This maiden, in a morn betime,
Went forth, when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setiwall, {94c}
The honeysuckle, the harlock, {94d}
The lily and the lady-smock, {94k}
To deck her summer-hall. {94e}
Thus, as she wandered here and there,
And pickéd of the bloomy brere,
She chancéd to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank,
Like chanticleer he crowéd crank, {94f}
And piped full merrily.
He learned his sheep {94g} as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round,
Whilst he full many a carol sang,
Until the fields and meadows rang,
And that the woods did sound.
In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine
Which held proud kings in awe.
But meek as any lamb mought be,
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke
That could be cut with shear;
His mittens were of bauzon’s {94h} skin,
His cockers {94i} were of cordiwin, {94j}
His hood of minivere.
His awl and lingell {95a} in a thong;
His tarbox on his broadbelt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue.
Full crisp and curléd were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.
And piping still he spent the day
So merry as the popinjay,
Which likéd Dowsabell,
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought,
She in love-longing fell.
At length she tuckéd up her frock,
White as the lily was her smock;
She drew the shepherd nigh;
But then the shepherd piped a good,
That all the sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melodie.
“Thy sheep,” quoth she, “cannot be lean
That have a jolly shepherd swain
The which can pipe so well.”
“Yea, but,” saith he, “their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away
In love of Dowsabell.”
“Of love, fond boy, take then no keep,” {95b}
Quoth she; “Look well unto thy sheep,
Lest they should hap to stray.”
Quoth he, “So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabell
Come forth to gather may.”
With that she ’gan to vail her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said.
With that the shepherd ’gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.
Saith she, “I may not stay till night
And leave my summer-hall undight,
And all for love of thee.”
“My cote,” saith he, “nor yet my fold
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.”
Saith she, “Yet liever were I dead
Than I should [yield me to be wed],
And all for love of men.”
Saith he, “Yet are you too unkind
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.
“And I to thee will be as kind
As Colin was to Rosalind
Of courtesy the flower.”
“Then will I be as true,” quoth she,
“As ever maiden yet might be
Unto her paramour.”
With that she bent her snow-white knee
Down by the shepherd kneeléd she,
And him she sweetly kist.
With that the shepherd whooped for joy.
Quoth he, “There’s never shepherd’s boy
That ever was so blist.”
Nymphidia, the Court of Fairy.
BY MICHAEL DRAYTON.
OLD Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rabelais of Pantágruél,
A later third of Dowsabel
With such poor trifles playing;
Others the like have laboured at,
Some of this thing and some of that,
And many of they knew not what,
But what they may be saying.
Another sort there be, that will
Be talking of the Fairies still,
For never can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them;
No tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they fain would make,
Knew they the way to do them.
Then since no Muse hath been so bold,
Or of the later, or the old,
Those elvish secrets to unfold,
Which lie from others’ reading;
My active Muse to light shall bring
The court of that proud Fairy King,
And tell there of the revelling.
Jove prosper my proceeding!
And thou, Nymphidia, gentle Fay,
Which, meeting me upon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,
Which now I am in telling;
My pretty, light, fantastic maid,
I here invoke thee to my aid,
That I may speak what thou hast said,
In numbers smoothly swelling.
This palace standeth in the air,
By necromancy placéd there,
That it no tempest needs to fear,
Which way soe’er it blow it.
And somewhat southward tow’rds the noon,
Whence lies a way up to the moon,
And thence the Fairy can as soon
Pass to the earth below it.
The walls of spiders’ legs are made
Well mortiséd and finely laid;
It was the master of his trade
It curiously that builded;
The windows of the eyes of cats,
And for the roof, instead of slats,
Is covered with the skins of bats,
With moonshine that are gilded.
Hence Oberon him sport to make,
Their rest when weary mortals take,
And none but only fairies wake,
Descendeth for his pleasure;
And Mab, his merry Queen, by night
Bestrides young folks that lie upright,
(In elder times the mare that hight),
Which plagues them out of measure.
Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes,
Of little frisking elves and apes
To earth do make their wanton scapes,
As hope of pastime hastes them;
Which maids think on the hearth they see
When fires well-nigh consuméd be,
There dancing hays {98} by two and three,
Just as their fancy casts them.
These make our girls their sluttery rue,
By pinching them both black and blue,
And put a penny in their shoe
The house for cleanly sweeping;
And in their courses make that round
In meadows and in marshes found,
Of them so called the Fairy Ground,
Of which they have the keeping.
These when a child haps to be got
Which after proves an idiot
When folk perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother,
Some silly, doting, brainless calf
That understands things by the half,
Say that the Fairy left this oaf
And took away the other.
But listen, and I shall you tell
A chance in Faery that befell,
Which certainly may please some well,
In love and arms delighting,
Of Oberon that jealous grew
Of one of his own Fairy crew,
Too well, he feared, his Queen that knew,
His love but ill requiting.
Pigwiggin was this Fairy Knight,
One wondrous gracious in the sight
Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night
He amorously observéd;
Which made King Oberon suspect
His service took too good effect,
His sauciness had often checkt,
And could have wished him stervéd.
Pigwiggin gladly would commend
Some token to Queen Mab to send,
If sea or land him aught could lend
Were worthy of her wearing;
At length this lover doth devise
A bracelet made of emmets’ eyes,
A thing he thought that she would prize,
No whit her state impairing.
And to the Queen a letter writes,
Which he most curiously indites,
Conjuring her by all the rites
Of love, she would be pleaséd
To meet him, her true servant, where
They might, without suspect or fear,
Themselves to one another clear
And have their poor hearts easéd.
At midnight, the appointed hour;
“And for the Queen a fitting bower,”
Quoth he, “is that fair cowslip flower
On Hient Hill {100} that bloweth;
In all your train there’s not a fay
That ever went to gather may
But she hath made it, in her way,
The tallest there that groweth.”
When by Tom Thumb, a Fairy Page,
He sent it, and doth him engage
By promise of a mighty wage
It secretly to carry;
Which done, the Queen her maids doth call,
And bids them to be ready all:
She would go see her summer hall,
She could no longer tarry.
Her chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stayed,
For nought must be her letting;
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,
Fly Cranion the charioteer
Upon the coach-box getting.
Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel,
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning;
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover, gallantly to see,
The wing of a pied butterfly;
I trow ’twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of cricket’s bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones
With thistle-down they shod it;
For all her maidens much did fear
If Oberon had chanced to hear
That Mab his Queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.
She mounts her chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay, for no advice,
Until her maids that were so nice
To wait on her were fitted;
But ran herself away alone,
Which when they heard, there was not one
But hasted after to be gone,
As he had been diswitted.
Hop and Mop and Drop so clear,
Pip and Trip and Skip that were
To Mab, their sovereign, ever dear,
Her special maids of honour;
Fib and Tib and Pink and Pin,
Tick and Quick and Jill and Jin,
Tit and Nit and Wap and Win,
The train that wait upon her.
Upon a grasshopper they got
And, what with amble, what with trot,
For hedge and ditch they sparéd not,
But after her they hie them;
A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow,
Themselves they wisely could bestow
Lest any should espy them.
But let us leave Queen Mab awhile,
Through many a gate, o’er many a stile,
That now had gotten by this wile,
Her dear Pigwiggin kissing;
And tell how Oberon doth fare,
Who grew as mad as any hare
When he had sought each place with care,
And found his Queen was missing.
By grisly Pluto he doth swear,
He rent his clothes and tore his hair,
And as he runneth here and there
An acorn cup he greeteth,
Which soon he taketh by the stalk,
About his head he lets it walk,
Nor doth he any creature balk,
But lays on all he meeteth.
The Tuscan Poet doth advance,
The frantic Paladin of France,
And those more ancient do enhance
Alcides in his fury,
And others Aiax Telamon,
But to this time there hath been none
So Bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure ye.
And first encountering with a Wasp,
He in his arms the fly doth clasp
As though his breath he forth would grasp,
Him for Pigwiggin taking:
“Where is my wife, thou rogue?” quoth be;
“Pigwiggin, she is come to thee;
Restore her, or thou diest by me!”
Whereat the poor Wasp quaking
Cries, “Oberon, great Fairy King,
Content thee, I am no such thing:
I am a Wasp, behold my sting!”
At which the Fairy started;
When soon away the Wasp doth go,
Poor wretch, was never frighted so;
He thought his wings were much too slow,
O’erjoyed they so were parted.
He next upon a Glow-worm light,
You must suppose it now was night,
Which, for her hinder part was bright,
He took to be a devil,
And furiously doth her assail
For carrying fire in her tail;
He thrashed her rough coat with his flail;
The mad King feared no evil.
“Oh!” quoth the Glow-worm, “hold thy hand,
Thou puissant King of Fairy-land!
Thy mighty strokes who may withstand?
Hold, or of life despair I!”
Together then herself doth roll,
And tumbling down into a hole
She seemed as black as any coal;
Which vext away the Fairy.
From thence he ran into a hive:
Amongst the bees he letteth drive,
And down their combs begins to rive,
All likely to have spoiléd,
Which with their wax his face besmeared,
And with their honey daubed his beard:
It would have made a man afeared
To see how he was moiléd.
A new adventure him betides;
He met an Ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides,
Which with his haste doth stumble;
And came full over on her snout,
Her heels so threw the dirt about,
For she by no means could get out,
But over him doth tumble.
And being in this piteous case,
And all be-slurréd head and face,
On runs he in this wild-goose chase,
As here and there he rambles;
Half blind, against a mole-hill hit,
And for a mountain taking it,
For all he was out of his wit
Yet to the top he scrambles.
And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himself he could not stop,
But down on th’ other side doth chop,
And to the foot came rumbling;
So that the grubs, therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoil over head,
Thought surely they had all been dead;
So fearful was the jumbling.
And falling down into a lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury somewhat it doth slake;
He calleth for a ferry;
Where you may some recovery note;
What was his club he made his boat,
And in his oaken cup doth float,
As safe as in a wherry.
Men talk of the adventures strange
Of Don Quixoit, and of their change
Through which he arméd oft did range,
Of Sancho Pancha’s travel;
But should a man tell every thing
Done by this frantic Fairy King,
And them in lofty numbers sing,
It well his wits might gravel.
Scarce set on shore, but therewithal
He meeteth Puck, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall,
With words from frenzy spoken:
“Oh, oh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace!
Who drest thee in this piteous case?
He thus that spoiled my sovereign’s face,
I would his neck were broken!”
This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged colt,
And oft out of a bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us;
And leading us makes us to stray,
Long winter’s nights, out of the way;
And when we stick in mire and clay,
Hob doth with laughter leave us.
“Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone:
As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon,
Let everything but this alone,
With vengeance and pursue her;
Bring her to me alive or dead,
Or that vile thief, Pigwiggin’s head,
That villain hath [my Queen misled];
He to this folly drew her.”
Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin,
But I will thorough thick and thin,
Until at length I bring her in;
My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.”
Thorough brake, thorough briar,
Thorough muck, thorough mire,
Thorough water, thorough fire;
And thus goes Puck about it.
This thing Nymphidia overheard,
That on this mad king had a guard,
Not doubting of a great reward,
For first this business broaching;
And through the air away doth go,
Swift as an arrow from the bow,
To let her sovereign Mab to know
What peril was approaching.
The Queen, bound with Love’s powerful charm,
Sate with Pigwiggin arm in arm;
Her merry maids, that thought no harm,
About the room were skipping;
A humble-bee, their minstrel, played
Upon his hautboy, every maid
Fit for this revel was arrayed,
The hornpipe neatly tripping.
In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry,
“My sovereign, for your safety fly,
For there is danger but too nigh;
I posted to forewarn you:
The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,
To seek you all the fields about,
And of your safety you may doubt,
If he but once discern you.”
When, like an uproar in a town,
Before them everything went down;
Some tore a ruff, and some a gown,
’Gainst one another justling;
They flew about like chaff i’ th’ wind;
For haste some left their masks behind;
Some could not stay their gloves to find;
There never was such bustling.
Forth ran they, by a secret way,
Into a brake that near them lay;
Yet much they doubted there to stay,
Lest Hob should hap to find them;
He had a sharp and piercing sight,
All one to him the day and night;
And therefore were resolved, by flight,
To leave this place behind them.
At length one chanced to find a nut,
In th’ end of which a hole was cut,
Which lay upon a hazel root,
There scattered by a squirrel
Which out the kernel gotten had;
When quoth this Fay, “Dear Queen, be glad;
Let Oberon be ne’er so mad,
I’ll set you safe from peril.
“Come all into this nut,” quoth she,
“Come closely in; be ruled by me;
Each one may here a chooser be,
For room ye need not wrastle:
Nor need ye be together heaped;”
So one by one therein they crept,
And lying down they soundly slept,
And safe as in a castle.
Nymphidia, that this while doth watch,
Perceived if Puck the Queen should catch
That he should be her over-match,
Of which she well bethought her;
Found it must be some powerful charm,
The Queen against him that must arm,
Or surely he would do her harm,
For throughly he had sought her.
And listening if she aught could hear,
That her might hinder, or might fear;
But finding still the coast was clear;
Nor creature had descried her;
Each circumstance and having scanned,
She came thereby to understand,
Puck would be with them out of hand;
When to her charms she hied her.
And first her fern-seed doth bestow,
The kernel of the mistletoe;
And here and there as Puck should go,
With terror to affright him,
She night-shade strews to work him ill,
Therewith her vervain and her dill,
That hindreth witches of their will,
Of purpose to despite him.
Then sprinkles she the juice of rue,
That groweth underneath the yew;
With nine drops of the midnight dew,
From lunary distilling:
The molewarp’s {108a} brain mixed therewithal;
And with the same the pismire’s gall:
For she in nothing short would fall,
The Fairy was so willing.
Then thrice under a briar doth creep,
Which at both ends was rooted deep,
And over it three times she leap;
Her magic much availing:
Then on Prosérpina doth call,
And so upon her spell doth fall,
Which here to you repeat I shall,
Not in one tittle failing.
“By the croaking of a frog;
By the howling of the dog;
By the crying of the hog
Against the storm arising;
By the evening curfew bell,
By the doleful dying knell,
O let this my direful spell,
Hob, hinder thy surprising!
“By the mandrake’s {108b} dreadful groans;
By the lubrican’s {108c} sad moans;
By the noise of dead men’s bones
In charnel-houses rattling;
By the hissing of the snake,
The rustling of the fire-drake, {108d}
I charge thee thou this place forsake,
Nor of Queen Mab be prattling!
“By the whirlwind’s hollow sound,
By the thunder’s dreadful stound,
Yells of spirits underground,
I charge thee not to fear us;
By the screech-owl’s dismal note,
By the black night-raven’s throat,
I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coat
With thorns, if thou come near us!”
Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside,
And in a chink herself doth hide,
To see thereof what would betide,
For she doth only mind him:
When presently she Puck espies,
And well she marked his gloating eyes,
How under every leaf he pries,
In seeking still to find them.
But once the circle got within,
The charms to work do straight begin,
And he was caught as in a gin;
For as he thus was busy,
A pain he in his head-piece feels,
Against a stubbéd tree he reels,
And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels,
Alas! his brain was dizzy!
At length upon his feet he gets,
Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets;
And as again he forward sets,
And through the bushes scrambles,
A stump doth trip him in his pace;
Down comes poor Hob upon his face,
And lamentably tore his case,
Amongst the briars and brambles.
“A plague upon Queen Mab!” quoth he,
“And all her maids where’er they be
I think the devil guided me,
To seek her so provokéd!”
Where stumbling at a piece of wood,
He fell into a ditch of mud,
Where to the very chin he stood,
In danger to be chokéd.
Now worse than e’er he was before,
Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar,
That waked Queen Mab, who doubted sore
Some treason had been wrought her:
Until Nymphidia told the Queen
What she had done, what she had seen,
Who then had well-near cracked her spleen
With very extreme laughter.
But leave we Hob to clamber out,
Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout,
And come again to have a bout
With Oberon yet madding:
And with Pigwiggin now distraught,
Who much was troubled in his thought,
That he so long the Queen had sought,
And through the fields was gadding.
And as he runs he still doth cry,
“King Oberon, I thee defy,
And dare thee here in arms to try,
For my dear lady’s honour:
For that she is a Queen right good,
In whose defence I’ll shed my blood,
And that thou in this jealous mood
Hast laid this slander on her.”
And quickly arms him for the field,
A little cockle-shell his shield,
Which he could very bravely wield;
Yet could it not be piercéd:
His spear a bent both stiff and strong,
And well-near of two inches long:
The pile was of a horse-fly’s tongue,
Whose sharpness nought reverséd.
And puts him on a coat of mail,
Which was made of a fish’s scale,
That when his foe should him assail,
No point should be prevailing:
His rapier was a hornet’s sting,
It was a very dangerous thing,
For if he chanced to hurt the King,
It would be long in healing.
His helmet was a beetle’s head,
Most horrible and full of dread,
That able was to strike one dead,
Yet did it well become him;
And for a plume a horse’s hair,
Which, being tosséd with the air,
Had force to strike his foe with fear,
And turn his weapon from him.
Himself he on an earwig set,
Yet scarce he on his back could get,
So oft and high he did curvet,
Ere he himself could settle:
He made him turn, and stop, and bound,
To gallop, and to trot the round,
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle.
When soon he met with Tomalin,
One that a valiant knight had been,
And to King Oberon of kin;
Quoth he, “Thou manly Fairy,
Tell Oberon I come prepared,
Then bid him stand upon his guard;
This hand his baseness shall reward,
Let him be ne’er so wary.
“Say to him thus, that I defy
His slanders and his infamy,
And as a mortal enemy
Do publicly proclaim him:
Withal that if I had mine own,
He should not wear the Fairy crown,
But with a vengeance should come down,
Nor we a king should name him.”
This Tomalin could not abide,
To hear his sovereign vilified;
But to the Fairy Court him hied,
(Full furiously he posted,)
With everything Pigwiggin said:
How title to the crown he laid,
And in what arms he was arrayed,
As how himself he boasted.
Twixt head and foot, from point to point,
He told the arming of each joint,
In every piece how neat and quoint,
For Tomalin could do it:
How fair he sat, how sure he rid,
As of the courser he bestrid,
How managed, and how well he did:
The King which listened to it,
Quoth he, “Go, Tomalin, with speed,
Provide me arms, provide my steed,
And everything that I shall need;
By thee I will be guided:
To straight account call thou thy wit;
See there be wanting not a whit,
In everything see thou me fit,
Just as my foe’s provided.”
Soon flew this news through Fairy-land,
Which gave Queen Mab to understand
The combat that was then in hand
Betwixt those men so mighty:
Which greatly she began to rue,
Perceiving that all Fairy knew
The first occasion from her grew
Of these affairs so weighty.
Wherefore attended with her maids,
Through fogs, and mists, and damps she wades,
To Proserpine the Queen of Shades,
To treat, that it would please her
The cause into her hands to take,
For ancient love and friendship’s sake,
And soon thereof an end to make,
Which of much care would ease her.
A while there let we Mab alone,
And come we to King Oberon,
Who, armed to meet his foe, is gone,
For proud Pigwiggin crying:
Who sought the Fairy King as fast,
And had so well his journeys cast,
That he arrivéd at the last,
His puissant foe espying.
Stout Tomalin came with the King,
Tom Thumb doth on Pigwiggin bring,
That perfect were in everything
To single fights belonging:
And therefore they themselves engage,
To see them exercise their rage,
With fair and comely equipage,
Not one the other wronging.
So like in arms these champions were,
As they had been a very pair,
So that a man would almost swear,
That either had been either;
Their furious steeds began to neigh,
That they were heard a mighty way;
Their staves upon their rests they lay;
Yet ere they flew together
Their seconds minister an oath,
Which was indifferent to them both,
That on their knightly faith and troth
No magic them suppliéd;
And sought them that they had no charms,
Wherewith to work each other harms,
But came with simple open arms
To have their causes triéd.
Together furiously they ran,
That to the ground came horse and man;
The blood out of their helmets span,
So sharp were their encounters;
And though they to the earth were thrown,
Yet quickly they regained their own,
Such nimbleness was never shown,
They were two gallant mounters.
When in a second course again
They forward came with might and main,
Yet which had better of the twain,
The seconds could not judge yet;
Their shields were into pieces cleft,
Their helmets from their heads were reft,
And to defend them nothing left,
These champions would not budge yet.
Away from them their staves they threw,
Their cruel swords they quickly drew,
And freshly they the fight renew,
They every stroke redoubled:
Which made Prosérpina take heed,
And make to them the greater speed,
For fear lest they too much should bleed,
Which wondrously her troubled.
When to th’ infernal Styx she goes,
She takes the fogs from thence that rose,
And {114} in a bag doth them enclose:
When well she had them blended,
She hies her then to Lethe spring,
A bottle and thereof doth bring,
Wherewith she meant to work the thing
Which only she intended.
Now Proserpine with Mab is gone,
Unto the place where Oberon
And proud Pigwiggin, one to one,
Both to be slain were likely:
And there themselves they closely hide,
Because they would not be espied;
For Proserpine meant to decide
The matter very quickly.
And suddenly unties the poke,
Which out of it sent such a smoke,
As ready was them all to choke,
So grievous was the pother;
So that the knights each other lost,
And stood as still as any post;
Tom Thumb nor Tomalin could boast
Themselves of any other.
But when the mist ’gan somewhat cease,
Prosérpina commandeth peace;
And that a while they should release
Each other of their peril:
“Which here,” quoth she, “I do proclaim
To all in dreadful Pluto’s name,
That as ye will eschew his blame,
You let me bear the quarrel:
“But here yourselves you must engage,
Somewhat to cool your spleenish rage;
Your grievous thirst and to assuage
That first you drink this liquor,
Which shall your understanding clear,
As plainly shall to you appear;
Those things from me that you shall hear,
Conceiving much the quicker.”
This Lethe water, you must know,
The memory destroyeth so,
That of our weal, or of our woe,
Is all remembrance blotted;
Of it nor can you ever think,
For they no sooner took this drink,
But nought into their brains could sink
Of what had them besotted.
King Oberon forgotten had,
That he for jealousy ran mad,
But of his Queen was wondrous glad,
And asked how they came thither:
Pigwiggin likewise doth forget
That he Queen Mab had ever met;
Or that they were so hard beset,
When they were found together.
Nor neither of them both had thought,
That e’er they each had other sought,
Much less that they a combat fought,
But such a dream were lothing.
Tom Thumb had got a little sup,
And Tomalin scarce kissed the cup,
Yet had their brains so sure locked up,
That they remembered nothing.
Queen Mab and her light maids, the while,
Amongst themselves do closely smile,
To see the King caught with this wile,
With one another jesting:
And to the Fairy Court they went,
With mickle joy and merriment,
Which thing was done with good intent,
And thus I left them feasting.
POPE’S
Rape of the Lock.
AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM.
_Nolueram_, _Belinda_, _tuos violare capillos_;
_Sed juvat_, _hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis_.
—MART., _Epigr._ xii. 84.
CANTO I.
WHAT dire offence from amorous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due:
This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle?
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?
In tasks so bold, can little men engage,
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray,
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day:
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,
And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed,
Her guardian Sylph prolonged the balmy rest;
’Twas he had summoned to her silent bed
The morning-dream that hovered o’er her head;
A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau,
(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow)
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay,
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say:
“Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air!
If e’er one vision touched thy infant thought,
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught;
Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen,
The silver token, and the circled green,
Or virgins visited by angel-powers,
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers;
Hear and believe! thy own importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed,
To maids alone and children are revealed:
What though no credit doubting wits may give?
The fair and innocent shall still believe.
Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly,
The light militia of the lower sky:
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,
Hang o’er the box, and hover round the ring.
Think what an equipage thou hast in air,
And view with scorn two pages and a chair.
As now your own, our beings were of old,
And once enclosed in woman’s beauteous mould;
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair
From earthly vehicles to these of air.
Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled,
That all her vanities at once are dead;
Succeeding vanities she still regards,
And though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,
And love of ombre, after death survive.
For when the fair in all their pride expire,
To their first elements their souls retire:
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame
Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name.
Soft yielding minds to water glide away,
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea.
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome,
In search of mischief still on earth to roam,
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair,
And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
“Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced:
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.
What guards the purity of melting maids,
In courtly balls and midnight masquerades,
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark,
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,
When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,
When music softens, and when dancing fires?
’Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know,
Though honour is the word with men below.
“Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,
For life predestined to the gnomes’ embrace.
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,
When offers are disdained, and love denied:
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train,
And garters, stars, and coronets appear,
And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.
’Tis these that early taint the female soul,
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll,
Teach infant cheeks a hidden blush to know,
And little hearts to flutter at a beau.
“Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,
Through all the giddy circle they pursue,
And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall
To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?
When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand,
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
With varying vanities, from every part,
They shift the moving toyshop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortal’s levity may call;
Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all.
“Of these am I, who thy protection claim,
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star
I saw, alas! some dread event impend,
Ere to the main this morning sun descend,
But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:
Warned by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware!
This to disclose is all thy guardian can:
Beware of all, but most beware of man!”
He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue.
’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux;
Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner read,
But all the vision vanished from thy head.
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed,
Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores,
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers.
A heavenly image in the glass appears,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
The inferior priestess, at her altar’s side,
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here
The various offerings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.
This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty’s praised for labours not her own.