A poure widewe, somdel stoupen in age,

Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cotage

Beside a grove stonding in a dale.

This widewe, which I tell you of my tale,

Sin thilke day that she was last a wif

In patience led a ful simple lif,

For litel was hire catel and hire rente;

By husbondry of swiche as God hire sente

She found hireself and eke hire doughtren two.

Three large sowes had she, and no mo,

Three kine, and eke a sheep that highte Malle;

Ful sooty was hire boure and eke hire halle,

In which she ete many a slender mele;

Of poinant sauce ne knew she never a dele:

No deintee morsel passed thurgh hire throte;

Hire diete was accordant to hire cote:

Repletion ne made hire never sike;

Attempre diete was all hire physike,

And exercise, and hertes suffisance;

The goute let hire nothing for to dance,

Ne apoplexie shente not hire hed:

No win ne dranke she nyther white ne red:

Hire bord was served most with white and black,

Milk and broun bred, in which she fond no lack,

Seinde bacon, and somtime an eye or twey,

For she was as it were a manner dey.

A yerd she had enclosed all about

With stickes, and a drie diche without,

In which she had a cok highte Chaunteclere,

In all the land of crowing n'as his pere:

His vois was merier than the mery orgon

On masse daies that in the chirches gon:

Wel sikerer was his crowing in his loge

Than is a clok or any abbey orloge:

By nature he knewe eche ascentioun

Of the equinoctial in thilke toun,

For whan degrees fiftene were ascended

Than crew he that it might not ben amended.

His combe was redder than the fin corall,

Enbattelled as it were a castel wall;

His bill was black, and as the jet it shone,

Like asure were his legges and his tone,

His nailes whiter than the lily flour,

And like the burned gold was his colour.

This gentil cok had in his governance

Seven hennes for to don all his plesance,

Which were his susters and his paramoures,

And wonder like to him as of coloures,

Of which the fairest, hewed in the throte,

Was cleped faire Damoselle Pertelote.

Curteis she was, descrete and debonaire,

And compenable, and bare hireself so faire,

Sithen the day that she was sevennight old,

That trewelich she hath the herte in hold

Of Chaunteclere, loken in every lith;

He loved hire so, that wel was him therwith:

But swiche a joye it was to here hem sing,

Whan that the brighte sonne gan to spring,

In swete accord: my lefe is fare in lond.

For thilke time, as I have understond,

Bestes and briddes couden speke and sing.

And so befell that in a dawening

As Chaunteclere among his wives alle

Sate on his perche that was in the halle,

And next him sate his faire Pertelote,

This Chaunteclere gan gronnen in his throte

As man that in his dreme is dretched sore;

And whan that Pertelote thus herd him rore

She was agast, and saide, herte dere,

What aileth you to grone in this manner?

Ye ben a veray sleper, fy for shame.

And he answered and sayde thus; Madame,

I pray you that ye take it not agrefe;

By God me mette I was in swiche mischiefe

Right now, that yet min herte is sore afright.

Now God (quod he) my sweven recche aright,

And kepe my body out of foule prisoun.

My mette how that I romed up and doun

Within our yerde, wher as I saw a beste

Was like an hound, and wold han made areste

Upon my body, and han had me ded:

His colour was betwix yelwe and red,

And tipped was his tail and both his eres

With black, unlike the remenant of his heres:

His snout was smal, with glowing eyen twey;

Yet for his loke almost for fere I dey:

This caused me my groning douteles.

Avoy, quod she; fy on you herteles.

Alas! quod she, for by that God above

Now han ye lost myn herte and all my love,

I cannot love a coward by my faith;

For certes, what so any woman saith,

We al desiren, if it mighte be,

To have an husbond hardy, wise, and free,

And secree, and non niggard ne no fool,

Ne him that is agast of every tool,

Ne non avantour by that God above.

How dorsten ye for shame say to your love

That any thing might maken you aferde?

Han ye no mannes herte and han a berde?

Alas! and con ye ben agast of swevenis?

Nothing but vanitee, God wote, in sweven is.

Swevenes engendren of repletions,

And oft of fume, and of complexions,

Whan humours ben to habundant in a wight.

Certes this dreme which ye han met to-night

Cometh of the gret superfluitee

Of youre rede _colera_ parde,

Which causeth folk to dreden in her dremes

Of arwes, and of fire with rede lemes,

Of rede bestes that they wol hem bite,

Of conteke, and of waspes gret and lite,

Right as the humour of melancolie

Causeth ful many a man in slepe to crie

For fere of bolles and of beres blake,

Or elles that blake devils wol hem take.

Of other humours coud I telle also,

That werken many a man in slepe moch wo;

But I wol passe as lightly as I can.

Lo Caton, which that was so wise a man,

Said he not thus? Ne do no force of dremes.

Now, Sire, quod she, whan we flee fro the bemes

For Goddes love as take som laxatif:

Up peril of my soule, and of my lif

I counseil you the best, I wol not lie,

That both of coler and of melancolie

Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarie,

Though in this toun be non apotecarie,

I shal myself two herbes techen you

That shal be for your hele and for your prow,

And in our yerde the herbes shall I finde,

The which han of hir propretee by kinde

To purgen you benethe and eke above.

Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love;

Ye ben ful colerike of complexion;

Ware that the sonne in his ascention

Ne finde you not replete of humours hote;

And if it do, I dare wel lay a grote

That ye shul han a fever tertiane,

Or elles an ague, that may be your bane.

A day or two ye shul han digestives

Of wormes or ye take your laxatives,

Of laureole, centaurie, and fumetere,

Or elles of ellebor that groweth there,

Of catapuce or of gaitre beries,

Or herbe ive growing in our yerd that mery is;

Picke hem right as they grow, and ete hem in.

Beth mery, husbond; for your fader kin

Dredeth no dreme: I can say you no more.

Madame, quod he, _grand mercy_ of your lore;

But natheles as touching Dan Caton,

That hath of wisdome swiche a gret renoun,

Though that he bade no dremes for to drede,

By God, men moun in olde bookes rede

Of many a man more of auctoritee

Than ever Caton was, so mote I the,

That all the revers sayn of his sentence,

And han wel founden by experience,

That dremes ben significations

As wel of joye as tribulations

That folk enduren in this lif present:

Ther nedeth make of this non argument;

The veray preve sheweth it indede.

On of the gretest auctours that men rede

Saith thus, that whilom twey felawes wente

On pilgrimage in a ful good entente,

And happed so they came into a toun

Wher ther was swiche a congregatioun

Of peple, and eke so streit of herbergage,

That they ne founde as moche as a cotage

In which they bothe might ylogged be,

Wherfore they musten of necessitee;

As for that night, departen compagnie;

And eche of hem goth to his hostelrie,

And toke his logging as it wolde falle.

That on of hem was logged in a stalle,

Fer in a yard, with oxen of the plough,

That other man was logged wel ynough,

As was his aventure or his fortune,

That us governeth all, as in commune.

And so befell that long or it were day

This man met in his bed, ther as he lay,

How that his felaw gan upon him calle,

And said, Alas! for in an oxen stalle

This night shal I be mordred ther I lie;

Now help me, dere brother! or I die:

In alle haste come to me, he saide.

This man out of his slepe for fere abraide;

But whan that he was waken of his slepe

He turned him, and toke of this no kepe;

Him thought his dreme was but a vanitee.

Thus twies in his sleping dremed he.

And at the thridde time yet his felaw

Came, as him thought, and said, I now am slaw;

Behold my blody woundes depe and wide:

Arise up erly in the morwe tide,

And at the west gate of the toun (quod he)

A carte ful of donge ther shalt thou see,

In which my body is hid prively;

Do thilke carte arresten boldely.

My gold caused my mordre, soth to sain;

And told him every point how he was slain

With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.

And trusteth wel his dreme he found ful trewe.

For on the morwe sone as it was day

To his felawes inne he toke his way,

And whan that he came to this oxes stalle

After his felaw he began to calle.

The hosteler answered him anon,

And saide, Sire, your felaw is agon;

As sone as day he went out of the toun.

This man gan fallen in suspecioun,

Remembring on his dremes that he mette,

And forth he goth, no lenger wold he lette,

Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond

A dong carte as it went for to dong lond,

That was arraied in the same wise

As ye han herde the dede man devise;

And with an hardy herte he gan to crie

Vengeance and justice of this felonie;

My felaw mordred is this same night,

And in this carte he lith gaping upright.

I crie out on the ministres, quod he,

That shulden kepe and reulen this citee:

Harow! alas! here lith my felaw slain.

What shuld I more unto this tale sain?

The peple out stert, and cast the cart to ground,

And in the middle of the dong they found

The dede man that mordred was all newe.

O blisful God! that art so good and trewe,

Lo, how that thou bewreyest mordre alway!

Mordre wol out, that see we day by day:

Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable

To God, that is so just and resonable,

That he ne wol not suffre it hylled be:

Though it abide a yere, or two or three,

Mordre wol out; this is my conclusioun.

And right anon the ministres of the toun

Han hent the carter, and so sore him pined,

And eke the hosteler so sore engined,

That they beknewe hir wickednesse anon,

And were anhanged by the necke bon.

Here moun ye see that dremes ben to drede.

And certes in the same book I rede,

Right in the next chapitre after this,

(I gabbe not, so have I joye and blis)

Two men that wold han passed over the see,

For certain cause, in to a fer contree,

If that the winde ne hadde ben contrarie,

That made hem in a citee for to tarie

That stood ful mery upon a haven side:

But on a day, agein the even tide,

The wind gan change, and blew right as hem lest:

Jolif and glad they wenten to hir rest,

And casten hem ful erly for to saile;

But to that o man fel a gret mervaile.

That on of hem in sleping as he lay

He mette a wondre dreme again the day:

Him thought a man stood by his beddes side,

And him commanded that he shuld abide,

And said him thus; If thou to-morwe wende

Thou shalt be dreint; my tale is at an ende.

He woke, and told his felaw what he met,

And praied him his viage for to let;

As for that day he prayd him for to abide.

His felaw, that lay by his beddes side,

Gan for to laugh, and scorned him ful faste:

No dreme, quod he, may so my herte agaste

That I wol leten for to do my thinges:

I sette not a straw by thy dreminges,

For swevens ben but vanitees and japes:

Men dreme al day of oules and of apes,

And eke of many a mase therwithal;

Men dreme of thing that never was ne shal.

But sith I see that thou wol there abide,

And thus forslouthen wilfully thy tide,

God wot it reweth me; and have good day:

And thus he took his leve, and went his way.

But or that he had half his cours ysailed,

N'ot I not why, ne what mischance it ailed,

But casuelly the shippes bottom rente,

And ship and man under the water wente

In sight of other shippes ther beside

That with him sailed at the same tide.

And therefore, faire Pertelote so dere,

By swiche ensamples olde maist thou lere

That no man shulde be to reccheles

Of dremes, for I say thee douteles

That many a dreme ful sore is for to drede.

Lo, in the lif of Seint Kenelme I rede,

That was Kenulphus sone, the noble King

Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing.

A litel or he were mordered on a day

His mordre in his avision he say;

His norice him expouned every del

His sweven, and bade him for to kepe him wel

Fro treson; but he n'as but seven yere old,

And therefore litel tale hath he told

Of any dreme, so holy was his herte.

By God I hadde lever than my sherte

That ye had red his legend as have I.

Dame Pertelote, I say you trewely,

Macrobius, that writ the avision

In Affrike of the worthy Scipion,

Affirmeth dremes, and sayth that they ben

Warning of thinges that men after seen.

And forthermore, I pray you loketh wel

In The Olde Testament of Daniel,

If he held dremes any vanitee.

Rede eke of Joseph, and ther shuln ye see

Wher dremes ben somtime (I say not alle)

Warning of thinges that shuln after falle.

Loke of Egipt the king, Dan Pharao,

His baker and his boteler also,

Wheder they ne felten non effect in dremes.

Who so wol seken actes of sondry remes

May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.

Lo Cresus, which that was of Lydie king,

Mette he not that he sat upon a tree?

Which signified he shuld anhanged be.

Lo hire Adromacha, Hectores wif,

That day that Hector shulde lese his lif,

She dremed on the same nighte beforne

How that the lif of Hector shuld be lorne

If thilke day he went into bataille;

She warned him, but it might not availle;

He went forth for to fighten natheles,

And was yslain anon of Achilles.

But thilke tale is al to long to telle,

And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwelle.

Shortly I say, as for conclusion,

That I shal han of this avision

Adversitee; and I say forthermore,

That I ne tell of laxatives no store,

For they ben venimous, I wot it wel:

I hem deffie; I love hem never a del.

But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all this.

Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,

Of o thing God hath sent me large grace,

For whan I see the beautee of your face,

Ye ben so scarlet red about your eyen,

It maketh all my drede for to dien;

For al so siker as _In principio

Mulier est hominis confusio_.

(Madame, the sentence of this Latine is,

Woman is mannes joye and mannes blis;)

For whan I fele a-night your softe side,

Al be it that I may not on you ride

For that our perche is made so narwe, alas!

I am so ful of joye and of solas

That I deffie bothe sweven and dreme.

And with that word he flew doun fro the beme,

For it was day, and eke his hennes alle,

And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle,

For he had found a corn lay in the yerd.

Real he was, he was no more aferd;

He fethered Pertelote twenty time,

And trade hire eke as oft, er it was prime:

He loketh as it were a grim leoun,

And on his toos he rometh up and doun;

Him deigned not to set his feet to ground:

He chukketh, whan he hath a corn yfound,

And to him rennen than his wives alle.

Thus real, as a prince is in his halle,

Leve I this Chaunteclere in his pasture;

And after wol I till his aventure.

Whan that the month in which the world began,

That highte March, whan God first maked man,

Was complete, and ypassed were also,

Sithen March ended thritty dayes and two,

Befell that Chaunteclere in all his pride,

His seven wives walking him beside,

Cast up his eyen to the brighte sonne,

That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne

Twenty degrees and on, and somwhat more:

He knew by kind, and by non other lore,

That it was prime, and crew with blisful steven.

The sonne, he said, is clomben up on heven

Twenty degrees and on, and more ywis;

Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis,

Herkeneth thise blisful briddes how they sing,

And see the freshe floures how they spring;

Ful is min herte of revel, and solas.

But sodenly him fell a sorweful cas,

For ever the latter ende of joye is wo;

God wote that worldly joye is sone ago;

And if a rethor coude faire endite

He in a chronicle might it saufly write

As for a soveraine notabilitee.

Now every wise man let him herken me:

This story is also trewe, I undertake,

As is the book of Launcelot du Lake,

That women holde in ful gret reverence.

Now wol I turne agen to my sentence.

A col fox, ful of sleigh iniquitee,

That in the grove had wonned yeres three,

By high imagination forecast,

The same night thurghout the hegges brast

Into the yerd ther Chaunteclere the faire

Was wont, and eke his wives, to repaire,

And in a bedde of wortes stille he lay

Till it was passed undern of the day,

Waiting his time on Chaunteclere to falle,

As gladly don thise homicides alle

That in await liggen to mordre men.

O false morderour! rucking in thy den,

O newe Scariot, newe Genelon!

O false dissimulour, o Greek Sinon!

That broughtest Troye al utterly to sorwe,

O Chaunteclere! accursed be the morwe,

That thou into thy yerd flew fro the bemes;

Thou were ful wel ywarned by thy dremes

That thilke day was perilous to thee:

But what that God forewote most nedes be,

After the opinion of certain clerkes,

Witnesse on him that any parfit clerk is,

That in scole is gret altercation

In this matere and gret disputison,

And hath ben of an hundred thousand men:

But I ne cannot boult it to the bren,

As can the holy Doctour Augustin,

Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin,

Whether that Goddes worthy foreweting

Streineth me nedely for to don a thing,

(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee)

Or elles if free chois be granted me

To do that same thing, or do it nought,

Though God forewot it, or that it was wrought;

Or if his weting streineth never a del

But by necessitee condicionel.

I wol not han to don of swiche matere;

My Tale is of a cok, as ye may here,

That took his conseil of his wif and sorwe

To walken in the yerd upon the morwe

That he had met the dreme, as I you told.

Womennes conseiles ben ful often cold;

Womennes conseil brought us first to wo,

And made Adam fro Paradis to go,

Ther as he was ful mery and wel at ese:

But for I n'ot to whom I might displese

If I conseil of women wolde blame,

Passe over, for I said it in my game.

Rede auctours where they trete of swiche matere,

And what they sayn of women ye mown here.

Thise ben the Cokkes wordes and not mine;

I can non harme of no woman devine.

Faire in the sond, to bath hire merily,

Lith Pertelote, and all hire susters by,

Agein the sonne, and Chaunteclere so free

Sang merrier than the mermaid in the see,

For Phisiologus sayth sikerly

How that they singen wel and merily.

And so befell that as he cast his eye

Among the wortes on a boterflie

He was ware of this fox that lay ful low:

Nothing ne list him thaune for to crow,

But cried anon Cok, cok, and up he sterte

As man that was affraied in his herte;

For naturally a beest desireth flee

Fro his contrarie if he may it see,

Though he never erst had seen it with his eye.

This Chaunteclere, whan he gan him espie,

He wold han fled, but that the fox anon

Said, Gentil Sire, alas! what wol ye don?

Be ye affraid of me that am your frend?

Now certes I were werse than any fend

If I to you wold harme or vilanie.

I n'am not come your conseil to espie,

But trewely the cause of my coming

Was only for to herken how ye sing.

For trewely ye han as mery a steven

As any angel hath that is in heven,

Therwith ye han of musike more feling

Than had Boece, or any that can sing.

My Lord, your fader (God his soule blesse)

And eke your moder of hire gentillesse

Han in myn hous yben, to my gret ese,

And certes, Sire, ful fain wold I you plese.

But for men speke of singen, I wol sey,

So mote I brouken wel min eyen twey,

Save you, ne herd I never man so sing

As did your fader in the morwening:

Certes it was of herte all that he song.

And for to make his vois the more strong

He wold so peine him, that with both his eyen

He muste winke, so loude he walde crien,

And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal,

And stretchen forth his necke long and smal.

And eke he was of swiche discretion,

That ther n'as no man in no region

That him in song or wisdom mighte passe.

I have wel red in Dan Burnel the asse

Among his vers, how that ther was a cok

That for a preestes sone yave him a knok

Upon his leg, while he was yonge and nice,

He made him for to lese his benefice;

But certain ther is no comparison

Betwixt the wisdom and discretion

Of your fader and his subtilitee.

Now singeth, Sire, for Seint Charitee:

Let see, can ye your fader countrefete?

This Chaunteclere his winges gan to bete,

As man that coud not his treson espie,

So was he ravished with his flaterie.

Alas! ye lordes, many a false flatour

Is in your court, and many a losengeour,

That pleseth you wel more, by my faith,

Than he that sothfastnesse unto you saith,

Redeth Ecclesiast of flaterie:

Beth ware, ye lordes, of hire trecherie.

This Chaunteclere stood high upon his toos

Streching his necke, and held his eyen cloos

And gan to crowen loude for the nones;

And Dan Russel the fox stert up at ones,

And by the gargat hente Chaunteclere,

And on his back toward the wood him bere,

For yet ne was ther no man that him sued.

O destinee! that maist not ben eschued,

Alas that Chaunteclere flew fro the bemes!

Alas, his wif ne raughte not of dremes!

And on a Friday fell all this meschance.

O Venus! that art goddesse of Plesance,

Sin that thy servant was this Chaunteclere,

And in thy service did all his powere,

More for delit, than world to multiplie,

Why wolt thou suffre him on thy day to die?

O Gaufride, dere maister soverain!

That whan thy worthy King Richard was slain

With shot, complainedst his deth so sore,

Why ne had I now thy science and thy lore,

The Friday for to chiden as did ye?

(For on a Friday sothly slain was he)

Then wold I shew you how that I coud plaine

For Chauntecleres drede and for his paine.

Certes swiche cry ne lamentation

N'as never of ladies made whan Ilion

Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd,

When he had hent King Priam by the berd,

And slain him, (as saith us _Eneidus_)

As maden all the hennes in the cloos

Whan they had seen of Chaunteclere the sight;

But soverainly Dame Pertelote shright

Ful louder than did Hasdruballes wif,

Whan that hire husbond hadde ylost his lif,

And that the Romaines hadden brent Cartage;

She was so ful of turment and of rage

That wilfully into the fire she sterte,

And brent hire selven with a stedfast herte.

O woful hennes! right so criden ye,

As whan that Nero brente the citee

Of Rome, cried the Senatoures wives,

For that hir husbonds losten alle hir lives.

Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slain.

Now wol I turne unto my tale again.

The sely widewe and hire doughtren two,

Harden these hennes crie and maken wo,

And out at the dores sterten they anon,

And saw the fox toward the wode is gon,

And bare upon his back the cok away:

They crieden out, Harow! and wala wa!

A ha the fox! and after him they ran,

And eke with staves many an other man;

Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot and Gerlond,

And Malkin, with hire distaf in hire hond;

Ran cow and calf; and eke the veray hogges

So fered were for barking of the dogges,

And shouting of the men and women eke,

They ronnen so, hem thought hir hertes breke;

They yelleden as fendes don in helle;

The dokes crieden as men wold hem quelle:

The gees for fere flewen over the trees,

Out of the hive came the swarme of bees,

So hidous was the noise, a _benedicite_!

Certes he Jakke Straw and his meinie,

Ne maden never shoutes half so shrille,

Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille,

As thilke day was made upon the fox.

Of bras they broughten beemes and of box,

Of horn and bone, in which they blew and pouped,

And therwithal they shriked and they houped;

It semed as that the heven shulde falle.

Now, goode men, I pray you herkeneth alle:

Lo how Fortune turneth sodenly

The hope and pride eke of hire enemy.

This cok that lay upon the foxes bake,

In all his drede unto the fox he spake,

And sayde; Sire, if that I were as ye

Yet wold I sayn, (as wisly God helpe me)

Turneth agein, ye proude cherles alle,

A veray pestilence upon you falle:

Now I am come unto the wodes side,

Maugre your hed, the cok shal here abide;

I wol him ete in faith, and that anon.

The fox answered, in faith it shal be don;

And as he spake the word, al sodenly

The cok brake from his mouth deliverly,

And high upon a tree he flew anon.

And whan the fox saw that the cok was gon,

Alas! quod he, o Chaunteclere, alas!

I have (quod he) ydon to you trespas,

In as moche as I maked you aferd,

Whan I you hente and brought out of your yerd;

But, Sire, I did it in no wikke entente:

Come doun, and I shal tell you what I mente:

I shall say sothe to you, God help me so.

Nay than, quod he, I shrewe us bothe two;

And first I shrewe myself bothe blood and bones

If thou begile me oftener than ones:

Thou shalt no more thurgh thy flaterie

Do me to sing and winken with myn eye,

For he that winketh whan he shulde see,

Al wilfully, God let him never the.

Nay, quod the fox, but God yeve him meschance,

That is so indiscrete of governance,

That jangleth whan that he shuld hold his pees.

Lo, which it is for to be reccheles

And negligent, and trust on flaterie.

But ye that holden this Tale a folie,

As of a fox, or of a cok or hen,

Taketh the moralitee therof, good men;

For Seint Poule sayth, that all that writen is,

To our doctrine it is ywriten ywis.

Taketh the fruit, and let the chaf be stille.

Now, goode God, if that it be thy wille,

As sayth my Lord, so make us all good men,

And bring us to thy high blisse. _Amen._

Sire Nonnes Preest, our Hoste sayd anon,

Yblessed be thy breche and every ston;

This was a mery tale of Chaunteclere:

But by my trouthe if thou were seculere,

Thou woldest ben a tredefoule a right:

For if thou have courage as thou hast might

Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,

Ye mo than seven times seventene.

Se whiche braunes hath this gentil Preest,

So gret a necke and swiche a large breest!

He loketh as a sparhauk with his eyen:

Him nedeth not his colour for to dien

With Brasil, ne with grain of Portingale.

But, Sire, faire falle you for your tale.

And after that he with ful mery chere

Sayd to another, as ye shulen here.

THE FLOUR AND THE LEFE.

THE ARGUMENT.

_A gentlewoman out of an arbour in a grove seeth a great company of

knights and ladies in a dance upon the green grass; the which being

ended, they all kneel down and do honour to the daisie, some to the

Flower, and some to the Leaf. Afterward this gentlewoman learneth, by

one of these ladies, the meaning hereof, which is this: They which

honour the Flower, a thing fading with every blast, are such as look

after beauty and worldly pleasure; but they that honour the Leaf,

which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the frosts and winter

storms, are they which follow virtue and during qualities, without

regard of worldly respects._

When that Phœbus his chair of gold so hie

Had whirlid up the sterrie sky aloft,

And in the Bole was entrid certainly,

When shouris sote of rain descendid soft,

Causing the ground felè timis and oft

Up for to give many an wholesome air,

And every plain was yclothid faire:

With newè grene, and makith smalè flours

To springin here and there in field and mede,

So very gode and wholesome be the shours,

That they renewn that was old and dede

In winter time, and out of every sede

Springith the herbè, so that every wight

Of this seson wexith richt glade and licht.

And I so gladè of the seson swete,

Was happid thus; upon a certain night

As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete

Was unto me, but why that I ne might

Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight

[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese

Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese:

Wherefore I mervaile gretly of my self

That I so long withoutin slepè lay,

And up I rose thre houris aftir twelfe,

About the springing of the gladsome day,

And on I put my gear and mine aray,

And to a plesaunt grove I gan to pas

Long or the bright sonne uprisin was;

In which were okis grete, streight as a line,

Undir the which the grass so freshe of hewe

Was newly sprong, and an eight fote or nine

Every tre well fro his fellow grew,

With braunchis brode laden with levis new,

That sprongin out agen the sonne shene:

Some very rede, and some a glad light grene:

Which [as me thought] was a right plesaunt sight;

And eke the birdis songis for to here

Would have rejoisid any erthly wight,

And I, that couth not yet in no manere

Herein the nightingale of all the yere,

Full busily herk'nid with hert and ere

If I her voice perceve could any where:

And at the last a path of litil brede

I found, that gretly had not usid be,

For it forgrowin was with grass and wede,

That well unnethis a wight might it se;

Thought I, this path some whider doth parde;

And so I followid till it me brought

To a right plesant herbir wel ywrought,

Which that benchid was, and with turfis new

Freshly turvid, whereof the grene grass

So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hewe,

That most like to grene woll wot I it was;

The hegge also, that yedin in compas,

And closid in allè the grene herbere,

With sycamor was set and eglatere.

Within, in fere so well and cunningly,

That every braunch and lefe grew by mesure

Plain as a bord, of an height by and by,

I se nevir a thing [I you ensure]

So well ydone, for he that toke the cure

It for to make [I trowe] did all his peine

To mak it pas al tho that men have seine.

And shapin was this herber rofe and al

As is a pretty parlour, and also

The hegge as thick as is a castil wall,

That who that list without to stond or go,

Thogh he wold al day prayin to and fro,

He should not se if there were any wight

Within or no, but one within well might--

Perceve all tho that ydin there without

Into the field, that was on every side

Coverd with corn and grass, that out of doubt

Tho one would sekin all the worlde wide

So rich a felde could not be espyde

Upon no cost, as of the quantity,

For of allè gode thing there was plenty.

And I, that al these plesaunt sightis se,

Thought suddainly I felt so swete an air

Of the eglaterè, that certainly

There is no hert [I deme] in such dispair,

Ne yet with thoughtis froward and contraire

So overlaid, but it should sone have bote

If it had onis felt this savour sote.

And as I stode and cast aside mine eye

I was ware of the fairist medler tre

That evir yet in all my life I se,

As full of blossomis as it might be,

Therein a goldfinch leping pretily

From bough to bough, and as him list he ete

Here and there of buddis and flouris swete.

And to the herbir side was adjoyning

This fairist tre of which I have you told,

And at the last the bird began to sing

[Whan he had etin what he etin would]

So passing swetely that by many fold

It was more plesaunt than I couth devise;

And whan his song was endid in this wise,

The nightingale with so mery a note

Answerid him, that alle the wode yrong

So sodainly, that as it were a sote

I stode astonied, and was with the song

Thorow ravishid, that till late and long

I ne wist in what place I was ne where,

Ayen methought she song e'en by mine ere:

Wherefore I waited about busily

On every side if I her might se,

And at the last I gan full well espie

Where she sate in a fresh grene laury tre,

On the further side evin right by me,

That gave so passing a delicious smell,

According to the eglantere full well;

Whereof I had so inly grete plesure,

As methought I surely ravished was

Into Paradise, wherein my desire

Was for to be, and no ferthir to pas

As for that day, and on the sotè grass

I sat me down, for as for mine entent

The birdis song was more convenient,

And more plesaunt to me by many fold

Than mete or drink, or any othir thing,

Thereto the herbir was so fresh and cold,

The wholsome savours eke so comforting,

That [as I demid] sith the beginning

Of the worldè was nevir seen er than

So plesaunt a ground of none erthly man.

And as I sat the birdis herkening thus,

Methought that I herd voicis suddainly,

The most swetist and most delicious

That evir any wight I trow trewly

Herdin in hir life, for the armony

And swete accord was in so gode musike

That the voicis to angels most were like.

At the last out of a grove evin by

[That was right godely and plesaunt to sight]

I se where there came singing lustily

A world of ladies, but to tell aright

Ther beauty grete lyith not in my might,

Ne ther array; nevirthèless I shall

Tell you a pert, tho' I speke not of all:

The surcots white of velvet well fitting

They werin clad, and the semis eche one,

As it werin a mannir garnishing,

Was set with emeraudis one and one

By and by, but many a richè stone

Was set on the purfilis out of dout

Of collours, sleves, and trainis, round about;

As of grete perlis round and orient,

And diamondis fine and rubys red,

And many othir stone of which I went

The namis now; and everich on her hede

A rich fret of gold, which withoutin drede

Was full of statèly rich stonys set,

And evrey lady had a chapelet,

On ther hedis of braunchis fresh and grene,

So wele ywrought, and so marvelously,

That it was a right noble sight to sene,

Some of laurir, and some full plesauntly

Had chapèlets of wodebind, and sadly

Some of agnus castus werin also,

Chaplets fresh; but there were many of tho,

That dauncid and eke song full sobirly,

But all they yede in maner of compace;

But one there yede in mid the company

Sole by herself; but all follow'd the pace

That she keept, whose hevinly figured face

So pleasaunt was, and her wele shape person,

That of beauty she past them everichone,

And more richly beseen by manyfold

She was also in every manir thing;

Upon her hede full plesaunt to behold

A coron of gold rich for any king,

A braunch of agnus castus eke bering

In her hand, and to my sight trewily

She lady was of all the compagnie;

And she began a roundell lustily

That _Sus le foyle de vert moy_ men call

_Sine & mon joly cœur est endormy_,

And than the company answerid all,

With voicis swete entunid and so small,

That methought it the swetest melody

That evir I herd in my lyf sothly.

And thus they all came dauncing and singing

Into the middis of the mede echone,

Before the herbir where I was sitting,

And God wot I thought I was well bigone,

For than I might avise them one by one

Who fairist was, who best could dance or sing,

Or who most womanly was in all thing.

They had not dauncid but a little throw

When that I herd not fer of sodainly

So grete a noise of thundering trumpis blow

As though it should have departid the skie,

And aftir that within a while I sie

From the same grove where the ladies came out

Of men of armis coming such a rout,

As all men on erth had ben assemblid,

On that place well horsid for the nonis,

Stering so fast that all the erth tremblid;

But for to speke of richis and stonis,

And men and horse, I trow the large wonis

Of Pretir John, ne all his tresory,

Might not unneth have bought the tenth party.

Of their array whoso list to here more,

I shall reherse so as I can a lite,

Out of the grove that I speke of before

I se come first, all in their clokis white,

A company that wore for ther delite

Chapèlets fresh of okis serial

But newly sprong, and trumpets were they all;

On every trump hanging a brode bannere

Of fine tartarium, full richly bete,

Every trumpet his lord'is armis bere

About ther nekkis, with grete perlis sete,

Collaris brode, for cost they wou'd not lete,

As it would seem, for ther scochons echone

Were set about with many a precious stone;

Ther horsis harneis was all white also;

And aftir them next in one company

Camin kingis at armis and no mo,

In clokis of white cloth with gold richly,

Chaplets of grene on ther heds on hye,

The crownis that they on ther scotchons bere

Were set with perl, and ruby, and saphere,

And eke grete diamondis many one;

But all ther horsis harneis and other gere

Was in a sute according everichone,

As ye have herd the foresaid trumpets were,

And by seming they were nothing to lere,

And ther guiding they did so manirly;

And aftir them came a gret company

Of heraudeis and pursevauntis eke,

Arrayid in clothis of white velvet,

And hardily they were nothing to seke

How they on them shouldin the harneis set,

And every man had on a chapèlet,

Scotchonis and eke horse harneis in dede

They had in sute of them that 'fore them yede.

Next after these appere in armour bright,

All save ther hedis, semely knightis nine,

And every clasp and nail, as to my sight,

Of ther harneis were of red gold so fine,

With cloth of gold, and furrid with ermine,

Were the tappouris of their stedis strong,

Both wide and large, that to the ground did hong;

And every boss of bridle and paitrel

That they had on was worth, as I would wene,

A thousand pound; and on ther hedis well

Dressid were crounis of the laurir grene,

The best ymade that evir I had sene;

And every knight had aftir him riding

Thre henchmen, still upon him awaiting;

Of which every (first) on a short trunchon

His lord'is helmet bore so richly dight

That the worst of them was worth the ransoume

Of any king; the second a shield bright

Bare at his back; the thred barin upright

A mighty spere, full sharp yground and kene,

And every child ware of levis grene

A fresh chap'let upon his hairis bright;

And clokis white of fine velvet they were;

Ther stedis trappid and arayid right,

Without difference as ther lordis were;

And aftir them on many a fresh coursere

There came of armid knightis such a rout

That they besprad the large field about;

And all they werin, aftir ther degrees,

Chappèlets new, or made of laurir grene,

Or some of oke, or some of othir trees,

Some in ther hondis barin boughis shene,

Some of laurir, and some of okis bene,

Some of hawthorne, and some of the wodebind,

And many mo which I have not in mind.

And so they came ther horse freshly stirring

With bloudy sownis of ther trompis loud;

There se I many an uncouth disguising

In the array of thilkè knightis proud;

And at the last as evenly as they coud

They toke ther place in middis of the mede,

And every knight turnid his horsis hede

To his felow, and lightly laid a spere

Into the rest, and so justis began

On every part aboutin here and there;

Some brake his spere, some threw down horse and man,

About the felde astray the stedis ran;

And to behold their rule and govirnance

I you ensure it was a grete plesaunce.

And so the justis last an hour and more

But tho that crownid were in laurir grene

Did win the prise; their dintis were so sore

That there was none agenst them might sustene,

And the justing allè was left off clene;

And fro ther horse the nine alight anon,

And so did all the remnaunt everichone;

And forth they yede togidir twain and twain,

That to behold it was a worthy sight,

Toward the ladies on the grenè plain,

That song and dauncid, as I said now right;

The ladies as sone as they godely might

They brakin off both the song and the dance

And yede to mete them with full glad semblaunce:

And every lady toke full womanly

By the hond a knight, and so forth they yede

Unto a faire laurir that stode fast by,

With levis laid, the boughis of grete brede,

And to my dome ther nevir was indede

A man that had sene half so faire a tre,

For undirneth it there might well have be

An hundrid persons at ther own plesaunce

Shadowid fro the hete of Phœbus bright,

So that they shouldin have felt no grevance

Neithir for rain, ne haile, that them hurt might;

The savour eke rejoice would any wight

That hed be sick or melancholious,

It was so very gode and vertuous.

And with grete rev'rence they enclinid low

Unto the tre so sote and fair of hew,

And aftir that within a litil throw

They all began to sing and daunce of new;

Some song of love, some plaining of untrew,

Environing the tre that stode upright,

And evir yede a lady and a knight.

And at the last I cast mine eie aside,

And was ware of a lusty company

That came roming out of the feldè wide,

And hond in hond a knight and a lady,

The ladies all in surcotes, that richly

Purfilid were with many a rich stone,

And every knight of grene ware mantlis on,

Embroulid wele, so as the surcots were,

And everich had a chapelet on her hed,

[Which did right wele upon the shining here]

Makid of godely flouris white and red,

The knightis eke that they in hondè led

In sute of them ware chaplets everichone,

And before them went minstrels many one;

As harpis, pipis, lutis, and sautry,

Allè in grene, and on ther hedis bare

Of diverse flouris made ful craftily,

Al in a sute, godely chaplets they ware,

And so dauncing into the mede they fare,

In mid the which they found a tuft that was

Al ovirsprad with flouris in compas:

Whereto they enclined evèrichone

With grete revèrence, and that full humbly;

And at the last there tho began anon

A lady for to sing right womanly

A bargaret in praising the daisie,

For (as methought) among her notis swete

She said _Si douce est la Margarete_!

Then they allè answerid her in fere

So passingly well and so plesauntly,

That it was a most blisfull noise to here;

But I 'not how it happid, sodainly

As about none the sonne so fervently

Waxe hotè that the pretty tendir floures

Had lost the beauty of their fresh collours.

For shronke with hete the ladies eke to brent,

That they ne wist where they them might bestow,

The knightis swelt, for lack of shade nie shent,

And aftir that within a litil throw

The wind began so sturdily to blow

That down goth all the flowris everichone,

So that in all the mede there laft not one,

Save such as succoured were among the leves

Fro every storme that mightè them assaile,

Growing undir the heggis and thick greves;

And aftir that there came a storme of haile

And rain in fere, so that withoutin faile

The ladies ne the knightis n'ade o' thred

Dry on them, so drooping wet was ther wede.

And when the storme was clene passid away

Tho in the white, that stode undir the tre,

They felt nothing of all the grete affray

That they in grene without had in ybe;

To them they yede for routh and for pite,

Them to comfort aftir their grete disese,

So fain they were the helplesse for to ese.

Than I was ware how one of them in grene

Had on a coron rich and well-fitting,

Wherefore I demid well she was a quene,

And tho in grene on her were awaiting;

The ladies then in white that were coming

Towardis them, and the knightis in fere,

Began to comfort them and make them chere.

The quene in white, that was of grete beauty,

Toke by the honde the quene that was in grene,

And seidè, Sustir, I have grete pity

Of your annoy and of your troublous tene

Wherein ye and your company have bene

So long, alas! and if that if you plese

To go with me I shall do you the ese

In al the plesure that I can or may;

Whereof that othir, humbly as she might,

Thankid her, for in right evil array

She was with storme and hete I you behight;

And evèry lady then anon right

That were in white one of them toke in grene

By the hond, which when the knightis had sene

In like manir eche of them toke a knight

Clad in the grene, and forth with them they fare

To an heggè, where that they anon right

To makin these justis they would not spare

Boughis to hew down, and eke trees to square,

Wherewith they made them stately firis grete

To dry ther clothis, that were wringing wete:

And aftir that of herbis that there grew

They made for blistirs of the sonne brenning

Ointmentis very gode, wholsome and new,

Where that they yede the sick fast anointing;

And after that they yede about gadring

Plesant saladis, which they made them ete

For to refreshe ther grete unkindly hete.

The lady of the Lefè then gan to pray

Her of the Floare [for so to my seming

They should be callid as by ther array]

To soupe with her, and eke for any thing

That she should with her all her pepill bringe,

And she ayen in right godely manere

Thankith her fast of her most frendly chere,

Saying plainèly that she would obay

With all her hert all her commandèment;

And then anon without lengir delay

The lady of the Lefe hath one ysent

To bring a palfray aftir her intent,

Arrayid wele in fair harneis of gold,

For nothing lackid that to him long shold.

And aftir that to all her company

She made to purvey horse and every thing

That they nedid, and then full hastily

Even by the herbir where I was sitting

They passid all, so merrily singing

That it would have comfortid any wight:

But then I se a passing wondir sight,

For then the nightingale, that all the day

Had in the laurir sete, and did her might

The whole service to sing longing to May,

All sodainly began to take her flight,

And to the lady of the Lefe forthright

She flew, and set her on her hand softly,

Which was a thing I mervailed at gretly.

The goldfinch eke, that fro the medlar tre

Was fled for hete unto the bushis cold,

Unto the lady of the Flowre gan fle,

And on her hond he set him as he wold,

And plesauntly his wingis gan to fold,

And for to sing they peine them both as sore

As they had do of all the day before.

And so these ladies rode forth a grete pace,

And all the rout of knightis eke in fere;

And I that had sene all this wondir case

Thought that I would assay in some manere

To know fully the trouth of this mattere,

And what they were that rode so plesauntly:

And when they were the herbir passid by

I drest me forth, and happid mete anon

A right fair lady, I do you ensure,

And she came riding by her self alone,

Allè in white, with semblaunce full demure;

I her salued, bad her gode avinture

Mote her befall, as I coud most humbly,

And she answered, My doughtir, gramercy!

Madame, quod I, if that I durst enquere

Of you, I wold fain of that company

Wit what they be that passed by this herbere.

And she ayen answerid right frendly,

My doughtir, all tho that passid hereby

In white clothing be servants everichone

Unto the Lefe, and I my self am one.

See ye not her that crownid is (quod she)

Allè in white? Madame, then quod I, Yes.

That is Dian, goddess of Chastity,

And for bicause that she a maidin is

Into her hond the brance she berith this

That agnus castus men call propirly;

And all the ladies in her company

Which ye se of that herbè chaplets were

Be such as han alwey kept maidinhede,

And all they that of laurir chaplets bere,

Be such as hardy were in manly dede

Victorious, name which nevir may be dede,

And all they were so worthy of their honde

In their time that no one might them withstonde;

And tho that were chapèlets on ther hede

Of fresh wodebind be such as nevir were

To Love untrue in word, in thought, ne dede,

But ay stedfast, ne for plesance ne fere,

Tho that they shulde ther hertis all to tere,

Woud never flit, but evir were stedfast

Till that ther livis there assundir brast.

Now, fair Madame! quod I, yet would I pray

Your ladiship [if that it mightin be]

That I might knowe by some manir of wey,

Sithin that it hath likid your beaute

The trouth of these ladies for to tell me,

What that these knightis be in rich armour,

And what tho be in grene and were the Flour,

And why that some did rev'rence to the tre,

And some unto the plot of flouris fair?

With right gode wil, my doughtir fair! quod she,

Sith your desire is gode and debonaire:

Tho nine crounid be very exemplaire

Of all honour longing to chivalry,

And those certain be clept, The Nine Worthy,

Which that ye may se riding all before,

That in ther time did many a noble dede,

And for ther worthiness full oft have bore

The crown of laurir levis on ther hede,

As ye may in your oldè bokis rede,

And how that he that was a conqueror

Had by laurir alwey his most honour:

And tho that barin bowes in ther hond

Of the precious laurir so notable,

Be such as were [I woll ye undirstend]

Most noble Knightis of The Round Table,

And eke the Douseperis honourable,

Which they bere in the sign of victory,

As witness of ther dedis mightily:

Eke ther be Knightis old of the Gartir,

That in ther timis did right worthily,

And the honour they did to the laurir

Is for by it they have ther laud wholly,

Ther triumph eke and martial glory,

Which unto them is more perfite riches

Than any wight imagin can or gesse;

For one Lefe givin of that noble tre

To any wight that hath done worthily

[An it be done so as it ought to be]

Is more honour than any thing erthly,

Witness of Rome, that foundir was truly

Of all knighthode and dedis marvelous,

Record I take of Titus Livius.

And as for her that crounid is in grene,

It is Flora, of these flouris goddesse,

And all that here on her awaiting bene

It are such folk that lovid idlenesse,

And not delite in no kind besinesse

But for to hunt, and hawke, and pley in medes,

And many othir such like idle dedes.

And for the grete delite and the plesaunce

They have to the Flour, and so reverently

They unto it doin such obeisaunce,

As ye may se. Now, fair Madame! quod I,

[If I durst ask] what is the cause and why

That knightis have the ensign of honour

Rathir by the Lefè than by the Flour?

Sothly, doughtir, quod she, this is the truth,

For knightes evir should be persevering

To seke honour without feintise or slouth,

Fro wele to bettir in all manir thing,

In sign of which with levis ay lasting

They be rewardid aftir ther degre.

Whose lusty grene may not appairid be,

But ay keping ther beauty fresh and grene,

For ther n'is no storme that may them deface,

Ne hail nor snowe, ne wind nor frostis kene,

Wherefore they have this propirty and grace;

And for the Flour within a litil space

Wollin be lost, so simple of nature

They be, that they no grevaunce may endure:

And every storme woll blowe them sone away,

Ne they lastè not but for a seson,

That is the cause [the very trouth to say]

That they may not by no way of reson

Be put to no such occupacion.

Madame, quod I, with all mine whole servise

I thank you now in my most humble wise;

For now I am ascertain'd thoroughly

Of every thing I desirid to knowe.

I am right glad that I have said, sothly,

Ought to your plesure, (if ye will me trow.)

Quod she ayen. But to whom do ye owe

Your service, and which wollin ye honour

[Pray tell me] this year, the Lefe or the Flour?

Madam, quod I, although I lest worthy,

Unto the Lefe I ow mine observaunce.

That is, quod she, right wel done certainly,

And I pray God to honour you advaunce,

And kepe you fro the wickid remembraunce

Of Melèbouch and all his cruiltie,

And all that gode and well-condition'd be;

For here I may no lengir now abide,

But I must follow the grete company

That ye may se yondir before you ride.

And forthwith, as I couth most humily

I toke my leve of her, and she gan hie

Aftir them as fast as evir she might,

And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night.

And put all that I had sene in writing,

Undir support of them that lust it rede.

O little boke! thou art so unconning,

How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede?

It is wondir that thou wexist not rede,

Sith that thou wost full lite who shall behold

Thy rude langage full boystously unfold.

THE WIF OF BATHES TALE.

In olde days of the King Artour,

Of which that Bretons speken gret honour,

All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie;

The Elf quene with hire joly compagnie

Danced ful oft in many a grene mede,

This was the old opinion as I rede;

I speke of many hundred yeres ago,

But now can no man see non elves mo;

For now the grete charitee and prayeres

Of limitoures and other holy freres,

That serchen every land and every streme,

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beme,

Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,

Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,

Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,

This maketh that ther ben no Faeries:

For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

Ther walketh now the limatour himself

In undermeles and in morweninges,

And sayth his matines and his holy thinges

As he goth in his limitatioun.

Women may now go safely up and doun,

In every bush, and under every tree,

Ther is non other Incubus but he,

And he ne will don hem no dishonour.

And so befell it that this King Artour

Had in his hous a lusty bacheler,

That on a day came riding fro river:

And happed that, alone as she was borne,

He saw a maiden walking him beforne,

Of which maid he anon, maugre hire hed,

By veray force beraft hire maidenhed:

For which oppression was swiche clamour,

And swiche pursuite unto the King Artour,

That damned was this knight for to be ded,

By cours of lawe, and shuld have lost his hed,

(Paraventure swiche was the statute tho)

But that the quene and other ladies mo

So longe praieden the king of grace,

Til he his lif him granted in the place,

And yaf him to the quene, all at hire will

To chese whether she wold him save or spill.

The quene thanketh the king with all hire might;

And after this thus spake she to the knight,

Whan that she saw hire time upon a day.

Thou standest yet (quod she) in swiche array,

That of thy lif yet hast thou not seuretee;

I grant thee lif if thou canst tellen me

What thing is it that women most desiren:

Beware, and kepe thy nekke bone from yren.

And if thou canst not tell it me anon,

Yet wol I yeve thee leve for to gon

A twelvemonth and a day to seke and lere

An answer suffisant in this matere;

And seuretee wol I have, or that thou pace,

The body for to yelden in this place.

Wo was the knight, and sorwefully he siketh:

But what? he may not don all as him liketh.

And at the last he chese him for to wende,

And come agen right at the yeres ende

With swiche answer as God wold him purvay,

And taketh his leve, and wendeth forth his way.

He seketh every hous and every place,

Wher as he hopeth for to finden grace,

To lernen what thing women loven moste;

But he ne coude ariven in no coste,

Wher as he mighte find in this matere

Two creatures according in fere.

Som saiden women loven best richesse,

Som saiden honour, som saiden jolinesse,

Som riche array, some saiden lust a-bedde,

And oft time to be widewe and to be wedde.

Some saiden that we ben in herte most esed

Whan that we ben yflatered and ypreised.

He goth ful nigh the sothe, I wol not lie;

A man shal winne us best with flaterie;

And with attendance and with besinesse

Ben we ylimed bothe more and lesse.

And som men saiden, that we loven best

For to be free, and do right as us lest,

And that no man repreve us of our vice,

But say that we ben wise and nothing nice:

For trewely ther n'is non of us all,

If any wight wol claw us on the gall,

That we n'ill kike for that he saith us soth;

Assay, and he shal find it that so doth:

For be we never so vicious withinne

We wol be holden wise and clene of sinne.

And som saiden, that gret delit han we

For to be holden stable and eke secre,

And in o purpos stedfastly to dwell,

And not bewreyen thing that men us tell;

But that tale is not worth a rake-stele.

Parde we women connen nothing hele,

Witnesse on Mida; wol ye here the Tale?

Ovide, amonges other thinges smale,

Said Mida had under his longe heres

Growing upon his hed two asses eres,

The whiche vice he hid, as he beste might,

Ful subtilly from every mannes sight,

That, save his wif, ther wist of it no mo;

He loved hire most, and trusted hire also;

He praied hire that to no creature

She n'olde tellen of his disfigure.

She swore him nay, for all the world to winne

She n'olde do that vilanie ne sinne,

To make hire husbond han so foule a name:

She n'olde not tell it for hire owen shame.

But natheles hire thoughte that she dide

That she so longe shulde a conseil hide;

Hire thought it swal so sore about hire herte,

That nedely som word hire must asterte;

And sith she dorst nat telle it to no man,

Doun to a mareis faste by she ran;

Til she came ther hire herte was a-fire:

And as a bitore bumbleth in the mire,

She laid hire mouth unto the water doun.

Bewrey me not, thou water, with thy soun,

Quod she; to thee I tell it, and no mo,

Min husbond hath long asses eres two.

Now is min herte all hole, now is it out,

I might no lenger kepe it out of dout.

Here may ye see, though we a time abide,

Yet out it moste; we can no conseil hide.

The remenant of the Tale, if ye wol here,

Redeth Ovide, and ther ye may it lere.

This knight, of which my Tale is specially,

Whan that he saw he might not come therby,

(This is to sayn, what women loven most)

Within his brest ful sorweful was his gost.

But home he goth, he mighte not sojourne;

The day was come that homward must he turne.

And in his way it happed him to ride,

In all his care, under a forest side,

Wheras he saw upon a dance go

Of ladies foure and twenty, and yet mo.

Toward this ilke dance he drow ful yerne,

In hope that he som wisdom shulde lerne;

But certainly er he came fully there

Yvanished was this dance he n'iste not wher;

No creature saw he that bare lif,

Save on the grene he saw sitting a wif,

A fouler wight ther may no man devise.

Againe this knight this olde wif gan arise,

And saide Sire Knight, here forth ne lith no way.

Tell me what that ye seken by your fay,

Paraventure it may the better be:

Thise olde folk con mochel thing, quod she.

My leve mother, quod this knight, certain

I n'am but ded but if that I can fain

What thing it is that women most desire:

Coude ye me wisse I wold quite wel your hire.

Plight me thy trothe here in myn hond, quod she,

The nexte thing that I requere of thee

Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,

And I wol tell it you or it be night.

Have here my trouthe, quod the knight, I graunte.

Thanne, quod she, I dare me wel avaunte

Thy lif is sauf, for I wol stond therby,

Upon my lif the quene wol say as I.

Let see which is the proudest of hem alle,

That wereth on a kerchef or a calle,

That dare sayn nay of that I shal you teche.

Let us go forth withouten lenger speche.

Tho rowned she a pistel in his ere,

And bad him to be glad, and have no fere.

Whan they ben comen to the court, this knight

Said he had hold his day as he had hight,

And redy was his answere, as he saide.

Ful many a noble wif, and many a maide,

And many a widewe, for that they ben wise,

(The quene hireself sitting as a justice)

Assembled ben his answer for to here,

And afterward this knight was bode appere.

To every wight commanded was silence,

And that the knight shuld tell in audience

What thing that worldly women loven best.

This knight ne stood not still as doth a best,

But to this question anon answerd

With manly vois, that all the court it herd.

My liege Lady, generally, quod he,

Women desiren to han soverainetee,

As well over hir husbond as hir love,

And for to ben in maistrie him above.

This is your most desire, though ye me kille;

Doth as you list, I am here at your wille.

In all the court ne was ther wif ne maide,

Ne widewe, that contraried that he saide,

But said he was worthy to han his lif.

And with that word up stert this olde wif

Which that the knight saw sitting on the grene.

Mercy, quod she, my soveraine lady Quene,

Er that your court depart, as doth me right.

I taughte this answer unto this knight,

For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

The firste thing I wold of him requere,

He wold it do, if it lay in his might.

Before this court than pray I thee, Sire, Knight,

Quod she, that thou me take unto thy wif,

For wel thou wost that I have kept thy lif:

If I say false, say nay upon thy fay.

This knight answered, Alas and wala wa!

I wot right wel that swiche was my behest.

For Goddes love as chese a new request:

Take all my good, and let my body go.

Nay than, quod she, I shrewe us bothe two:

For though that I be olde, foule, and pore,

I n'olde for all the metal ne the ore

That under erthe is grave, or lith above,

But if thy wif I were and eke thy love.

My love? quod he; nay, my dampnation.

Alas! that any of my nation

Shuld ever so foule disparaged be.

But all for nought; the end is this, that he

Constrained was, he nedes must hire wed,

And taketh this olde wif, and goth to bed.

Now wolden som men sayn paraventure,

That for my negligence I do no cure

To tellen you the joye and all the array

That at the feste was that ilke day.

To which thing shortly answeren I shal:

I say ther was no joye ne feste at al;

Ther n'as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe;

For prively he wedded hire on the morwe,

And all day after hid him as an oule,

So wo was him his wif loked so foule.

Gret was the wo the knight had in his thought

Whan he was with his wif a-bed ybrought;

He walweth, and he turneth to and fro.

This olde wif lay smiling evermo,

And said, O dere husbond, _benedicite_!

Fareth ever knight thus with wif as ye?

Is this the lawe of King Artoures hous?

Is every knight of his thus dangerous?

I am your owen love, and eke your wif,

I am she which that saved hath your lif,

And certes yet did I you never unright;

Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

Ye faren like a man had lost his wit.

What is my gilt? for Goddess love tell it,

And it shal ben amended if I may.

Amended? quod this knight, alas! nay, nay,

It wol not ben amended never mo;

Thou art so lothly, and so olde also,

And therto comen of so low a kind,

That little wonder is though I walwe and wind;

So wolde God min herte wolde brest.

Is this, quod she, the cause of your unrest?

Ye certainly, quod he, no wonder is.

Now Sire, quod she, I coude amend all this,

If that me list, er it were dayes three,

So wel ye mighten bere you unto me.

But for ye speken of swiche gentillesse

As is descended out of old richesse;

That therefore shullen ye be gentilmen;

Swiche arrogance n'is not worth an hen.

Loke who that is most vertuous alway,

Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay

To do the gentil dedes that he can,

And take him for the gretest gentilman.

Crist wol we claime of him our gentillesse,

Not of our elders for hir old richesse;

For though they yeve us all hir heritage,

For which we claime to ben of high parage,

Yet may they not bequethen for no thing

To non of us hir vertuous living,

That made hem gentilmen called to be,

And bade us folwen hem in swiche degree.

Wel can the wise poet of Florence,

That highte Dant, speken of this sentence:

Lo in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale.

Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale

Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse

Wol that we claime of him our gentillesse;

For of our elders may we nothing claime

But temporel thing, that man may hurt and maime.

Eke every wight wot this as wel as I,

If gentillesse were planted naturelly

Unto a certain linage doun the line,

Prive and apert, than wold they never fine

To don of gentillesse the faire office;

They mighten do no vilanie or vice.

Take fire, and bere it into the derkest hous

Betwix this and the Mount of Caucasus,

And let men shette the dores, and go thenne,

Yet wol the fire as faire lie and brenne

As twenty thousand men might it behold;

His office naturel ay wol it hold,

Up peril of my lif, til that it die.

Here may ye see wel how that genterie

Is not annexed to possession,

Sith folk ne don hir operation

Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in his kind:

For God it wot men moun ful often find

A lordes sone do shame and vilanie.

And he that wol han pris of his genterie,

For he was boren of a gentil hous,

And had his elders noble and vertuous,

And n'ill himselven do no gentil dedes,

Ne folwe his gentil auncestrie that ded is,

He n'is not gentil, be he duk or erl,

For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl:

For gentillesse n'is but the renomee

Of thin auncestres for hir high bountee,

Which is a strange thing to thy persone:

Thy gentillesse cometh fro God alone;

Than cometh our veray gentillesse of grace;

It was no thing bequethed us with our place.

Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius,

Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,

That out of poverte rose to high noblesse.

Redeth Senek, and redeth eke Boece,

Ther shull ye seen expresse that it no dred is

That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis:

And therefore, leve husbond, I thus conclude,

Al be it that min auncestres weren rude,

Yet may the highe God, and so hope I,

Granten me grace to liven vertuously;

Than am I gentil whan that I beginne

To liven vertuously and weiven sinne.

And ther as ye of poverte me repreve,

The highe God, on whom that we beleve,

In wilful poverte chese to lede his lif;

And certes every man, maiden, or wif,

May understond that Jesus heven king

Ne wold not chese a vicious living.

Glad poverte is an honest thing certain,

This wol Senek and other clerkes sain.

Who so that halt him paid of his poverte,

I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte.

He that coveiteth is a poure wight,

For he wold han that is not in his might;

But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have,

Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave.

Veray poverte is sinne proprely.

Juvenal saith of poverte merily,

The poure man whan he goth by the way,

Beforn the theves he may sing and play.

Poverte is hateful good; and, as I gesse,

A ful gret bringer out of besinesse;

A gret amender eke of sapience

To him that taketh it in patience.

Poverte is this, although it some elenge,

Possession that no wight wol challenge.

Poverte ful often, whan a man is low,

Maketh his God and eke himself to know.

Poverte a spectakel is, as thinketh me,

Thurgh which he may his veray frendes see.

And therefore, Sire, sin that I you not greve,

Of my poverte no more me repreve.

Now, Sire, of elde that ye repreven me:

And certes, Sire, though non auctoritee

Were in no book, ye gentiles of honour

Sain that men shuld an olde wight honour,

And clepe him Fader, for your gentillesse;

And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse.

Now ther ye sain that I am foule and old,

Than drede ye not to ben a cokewold;

For filthe, and elde also, so mote I the,

Ben grete wardeins upon chastitee.

But natheles, sin I know your delit,

I shal fulfill your worldly appetit.

Chese now (quod she) on of thise thinges twey,

To han me foule and old til that I dey,

And be to you a trewe humble wif,

And never you displese in all my lif;

Or elles wol ye han me yonge and faire,

And take your aventure of the repaire

That shal be to your hous because of me,

Or in some other place it may wel be?

Now chese yourselven whether that you liketh.

This knight aviseth him, and sore siketh,

But at the last he said in this manere:

My lady and my love, and wif so dere,

I put me in your wise governance,

Cheseth yourself which may be most plesance

And most honour to you and me also,

I do no force the whether of the two,

For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.

Than have I got the maisterie, quod she,

Sin I may chese and governe as me lest.

Ye certes, wif, quod he, I hold it best.

Kisse me, quod she, we be no lenger wrothe,

For by my trouth I wol be to you bothe,

This to sayn, ye bothe faire and good.

I pray to God that I mote sterven wood

But I to you be al so good and trewe

As ever was wif sin that the world was newe,

And but I be to-morwe as faire to seen

As any lady, emperice, or quene,

That is betwix the est and eke the west,

Doth with my lif and deth right as you lest.

Cast up the curtein, loke how that it is.

And whan the knight saw veraily all this,

That she so faire was, and so yonge therto,

For joye he hent hire in his armes two:

His herte bathed in a bath of blisse,

A thousand time a-row he gan hire kisse:

And she obeyed him in every thing

That mighte don him plesance or liking.

And thus they live unto hir lives ende

In parfit joye; and Jesu Crist us sende

Husbondes meke and yonge, and fresh a-bed,

And grace to overlive hem that we wed.

And eke I pray Jesus to short hir lives

That wol not be governed by hir wives;

And old and angry nigards of dispence

God send hem sone a veray pestilence.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

OVID'S EPISTLES.

PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES.[2]

The Life of Ovid being already written in our language, before the

translation of his Metamorphoses, I will not presume so far upon

myself, to think I can add any thing to Mr Sandys his undertaking.[3]

The English reader may there be satisfied, that he flourished in the

reign of Augustus Cæsar; that he was extracted from an ancient family

of Roman knights; that he was born to the inheritance of a splendid

fortune;[4] that he was designed to the study of the law, and had made

considerable progress in it, before he quitted that profession, for

this of poetry, to which he was more naturally formed. The cause of

his banishment is unknown; because he was himself unwilling further to

provoke the emperor, by ascribing it to any other reason than what was

pretended by Augustus, which was, the lasciviousness of his Elegies,

and his Art of Love.[5] It is true, they are not to be excused in the

severity of manners, as being able to corrupt a larger empire, if

there were any, than that of Rome; yet this may be said in behalf of

Ovid, that no man has ever treated the passion of love with so much

delicacy of thought, and of expression, or searched into the nature of

it more philosophically than he. And the emperor, who condemned him,

had as little reason as another man to punish that fault with so much

severity, if at least he were the author of a certain epigram, which is

ascribed to him, relating to the cause of the first civil war betwixt

himself and Mark Antony the triumvir, which is more fulsome than any

passage I have met with in our poet.[6]

To pass by the naked familiarity of his expressions to Horace, which

are cited in that author's life, I need only mention one notorious act

of his, in taking Livia to his bed, when she was not only married,

but with child by her husband then living. But deeds, it seems, may

be justified by arbitrary power, when words are questioned in a poet.

There is another guess of the grammarians, as far from truth as the

first from reason; they will have him banished for some favours, which

they say he received from Julia, the daughter of Augustus, whom they

think he celebrates under the name of Corinna in his Elegies; but he,

who will observe the verses which are made to that mistress, may gather

from the whole contexture of them, that Corinna was not a woman of the

highest quality. If Julia were then married to Agrippa, why should our

poet make his petition to Isis for her safe delivery, and afterwards

condole her miscarriage; which, for aught he knew, might be by her

own husband? Or, indeed, how durst he be so bold to make the least

discovery of such a crime, which was no less than capital, especially

committed against a person of Agrippa's rank? Or, if it were before

her marriage, he would surely have been more discreet, than to have

published an accident which must have been fatal to them both. But

what most confirms me against this opinion, is, that Ovid himself

complains, that the true person of Corinna was found out by the fame of

his verses to her; which if it had been Julia, he durst not have owned;

and, beside, an immediate punishment must have followed. He seems

himself more truly to have touched at the cause of his exile in those

obscure verses:

_Cur aliquid vidi? cur noxia lumina feci?

Cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi est?

Inscius Actæon vidit sine veste Dianam,

Præda fuit canibus non minus ille suis._

Namely, that he had either seen, or was conscious to somewhat, which

had procured him his disgrace. But neither am I satisfied, that this

was the incest of the emperor with his own daughter: for Augustus was

of a nature too vindicative to have contented himself with so small a

revenge, or so unsafe to himself, as that of simple banishment; but

would certainly have secured his crimes from public notice, by the

death of him who was witness to them. Neither have historians given

us any sight into such an action of this emperor: nor would he, (the

greatest politician of his time,) in all probability, have managed his

crimes with so little secrecy, as not to shun the observation of any

man. It seems more probable, that Ovid was either the confident of some

other passion, or that he had stumbled, by some inadvertency, upon the

privacies of Livia, and seen her in a bath: for the words

_Sine veste Dianam_,

agree better with Livia, who had the fame of chastity, than with either

of the Julias, who were both noted of incontinency. The first verses,

which were made by him in his youth, and recited publicly, according to

the custom, were, as he himself assures us, to Corinna: his banishment

happened not until the age of fifty; from which it may be deduced,

with probability enough, that the love of Corinna did not occasion it:

nay, he tells us plainly, that his offence was that of error only,

not of wickedness; and in the same paper of verses also, that the

cause was notoriously known at Rome, though it be left so obscure to

after-ages.[7]

But to leave conjectures on a subject so uncertain,[8] and to write

somewhat more authentic of this poet. That he frequented the court of

Augustus, and was well received in it, is most undoubted: all his poems

bear the character of a court, and appear to be written, as the French

call it, _cavalierement_: add to this, that the titles of many of his

elegies, and more of his letters in his banishment, are addressed

to persons well known to us, even at this distance, to have been

considerable in that court.

Nor was his acquaintance less with the famous poets of his age, than

with the noblemen and ladies. He tells you himself, in a particular

account of his own life, that Macer, Horace, Tibullus,[9] Propertius,

and many others of them, were his familiar friends, and that some of

them communicated their writings to him; but that he had only seen

Virgil.

If the imitation of nature be the business of a poet, I know no

author, who can justly be compared with ours, especially in the

description of the passions. And, to prove this, I shall need no other

judges than the generality of his readers: for, all passions being

inborn with us, we are almost equally judges, when we are concerned

in the representation of them. Now I will appeal to any man, who has

read this poet, whether he finds not the natural emotion of the same

passion in himself, which the poet describes in his feigned persons.

His thoughts, which are the pictures and results of those passions,

are generally such as naturally arise from those disorderly motions

of our spirits. Yet, not to speak too partially in his behalf, I will

confess, that the copiousness of his wit was such, that he often

writ too pointedly for his subject, and made his persons speak more

eloquently than the violence of their passion would admit: so that he

is frequently witty out of season; leaving the imitation of nature,

and the cooler dictates of his judgment, for the false applause of

fancy. Yet he seems to have found out this imperfection in his riper

age; for why else should he complain, that his Metamorphoses was left

unfinished? Nothing sure can be added to the wit of that poem, or of

the rest; but many things ought to have been retrenched, which I

suppose would have been the business of his age, if his misfortunes

had not come too fast upon him. But take him uncorrected, as he is

transmitted to us, and it must be acknowledged, in spite of his Dutch

friends, the commentators, even of Julius Scaliger himself, that

Seneca's censure will stand good against him;

_Nescivit quod bene cessit relinquere_:

he never knew how to give over, when he had done well, but continually

varying the same sense an hundred ways, and taking up in another place

what he had more than enough inculcated before, he sometimes cloys

his readers, instead of satisfying them; and gives occasion to his

translators, who dare not cover him, to blush at the nakedness of

their father. This, then, is the allay of Ovid's writings, which is

sufficiently recompensed by his other excellencies: nay, this very

fault is not without its beauties; for the most severe censor cannot

but be pleased with the prodigality of his wit, though at the same time

he could have wished that the master of it had been a better manager.

Every thing which he does becomes him; and if sometimes he appears too

gay, yet there is a secret gracefulness of youth, which accompanies his

writings, though the staidness and sobriety of age be wanting. In the

most material part, which is the conduct, it is certain, that he seldom

has miscarried: for if his Elegies be compared with those of Tibullus

and Propertius, his contemporaries, it will be found, that those poets

seldom designed before they writ; and though the language of Tibullus

be more polished, and the learning of Propertius, especially in his

fourth book, more set out to ostentation; yet their common practice

was to look no further before them than the next line; whence it will

inevitably follow, that they can drive to no certain point, but ramble

from one subject to another, and conclude with somewhat, which is not

of a piece with their beginning:

_Purpureus latè qui splendeat, unus et alter

Assuitur pannus_,----

as Horace says; though the verses are golden, they are but patched into

the garment. But our poet has always the goal in his eye, which directs

him in his race; some beautiful design, which he first establishes, and

then contrives the means, which will naturally conduct him to his end.

This will be evident to judicious readers in his Epistles, of which

somewhat, at least in general, will be expected.

The title of them in our late editions is _Epistolæ Heroidum_, the

Letters of the Heroines. But Heinsius has judged more truly, that the

inscription of our author was barely, Epistles; which he concludes from

his cited verses, where Ovid asserts this work as his own invention,

and not borrowed from the Greeks, whom (as the masters of their

learning) the Romans usually did imitate. But it appears not from their

writings, that any of the Grecians ever touched upon this way, which

our poet therefore justly has vindicated to himself. I quarrel not at

the word _Heroidum_, because it is used by Ovid in his Art of Love:

_Jupiter ad veteres supplex_ Heroidas _ibat._

But, sure, he could not be guilty of such an oversight, to call his

work by the name of _Heroines_, when there are divers men, or heroes,

as, namely, Paris, Leander, and Acontius, joined in it. Except Sabinus,

who writ some answers to Ovid's Letters,

(_Quam celer è toto rediit meus orbe Sabinus_,)

I remember not any of the Romans, who have treated on this subject,

save only Propertius, and that but once, in his Epistle of Arethusa to

Lycotas, which is written so near the style of Ovid, that it seems to

be but an imitation; and therefore ought not to defraud our poet of the

glory of his invention.

Concerning the Epistles, I shall content myself to observe these

few particulars: first, that they are generally granted to be the

most perfect pieces of Ovid, and that the style of them is tenderly

passionate and courtly; two properties well agreeing with the persons,

which were heroines, and lovers. Yet, where the characters were lower,

as in Œnone and Hero, he has kept close to nature, in drawing his

images after a country life, though perhaps he has romanized his

Grecian dames too much, and made them speak, sometimes, as if they

had been born in the city of Rome, and under the empire of Augustus.

There seems to be no great variety in the particular subjects which

he has chosen; most of the Epistles being written from ladies, who

were forsaken by their lovers: which is the reason that many of the

same thoughts come back upon us in divers letters: but of the general

character of women, which is modesty, he has taken a most becoming

care; for his amorous expressions go no further than virtue may allow,

and therefore may be read, as he intended them, by matrons without a

blush.

Thus much concerning the poet: it remains that I should say somewhat of

poetical translations in general, and give my opinion, (with submission

to better judgments,) which way of version seems to be the most proper.

All translation, I suppose, may be reduced to these three heads.

First, that of metaphrase, or turning an author word by word, and

line by line, from one language into another. Thus, or near this

manner, was Horace his Art of Poetry translated by Ben Jonson. The

second way is that of paraphrase, or translation with latitude, where

the author is kept in view by the translator, so as never to be

lost, but his words are not so strictly followed as his sense; and

that too is admitted to be amplified, but not altered. Such is Mr

Waller's translation of Virgil's fourth Æneid. The third way is that

of imitation, where the translator (if now he has not lost that name)

assumes the liberty, not only to vary from the words and sense, but to

forsake them both as he sees occasion; and, taking only some general

hints from the original, to run divisions on the ground-work, as he

pleases. Such is Mr Cowley's practice in turning two Odes of Pindar,

and one of Horace, into English.

Concerning the first of these methods, our master Horace has given us

this caution:

_Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere, fidus

Interpres_----

Nor word for word too faithfully translate;

as the Earl of Roscommon has excellently rendered it. Too faithfully

is, indeed, pedantically: it is a faith like that which proceeds from

superstition, blind and zealous. Take it in the expression of Sir John

Denham to Sir Richard Fanshaw, on his version of the Pastor Fido:

That servile path thou nobly dost decline,

Of tracing word by word, and line by line:

A new and nobler way thou dost pursue,

To make translations and translators too:

They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,

True to his sense, but truer to his fame.

It is almost impossible to translate verbally, and well, at the

same time; for the Latin (a most severe and compendious language)

often expresses that in one word, which either the barbarity, or the

narrowness, of modern tongues cannot supply in more. It is frequent,

also, that the conceit is couched in some expression, which will be

lost in English:

_Atque iidem venti vela fidemque ferent_.

What poet of our nation is so happy as to express this thought

literally in English, and to strike wit, or almost sense, out of it?

In short, the verbal copier is encumbered with so many difficulties

at once, that he can never disentangle himself from all. He is to

consider, at the same time, the thought of his author, and his words,

and to find out the counterpart to each in another language; and,

besides this, he is to confine himself to the compass of numbers, and

the slavery of rhyme. It is much like dancing on ropes with fettered

legs: a man may shun a fall by using caution; but the gracefulness of

motion is not to be expected: and when we have said the best of it, it

is but a foolish task; for no sober man would put himself into a danger

for the applause of escaping without breaking his neck. We see Ben

Jonson could not avoid obscurity in his literal translation of Horace,

attempted in the same compass of lines: nay, Horace himself could

scarce have done it to a Greek poet:

_Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio_:

either perspicuity or gracefulness will frequently be wanting. Horace

has indeed avoided both these rocks in his translation of the three

first lines of Homer's Odyssey, which he has contracted into two:

_Dic mihi, musa virum, captæ post tempora Trojæ,

Que mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes_.

Muse, speak the man, who, since the siege of Troy,

So many towns, such change of manners saw.

ROSCOMMON.

But then the sufferings of Ulysses, which are a considerable part of

that sentence, are omitted:

Ὃς μάλα πολλὰ πλὰγχθη.

The consideration of these difficulties, in a servile, literal

translation, not long since made two of our famous wits, Sir John

Denham,[10] and Mr Cowley, to contrive another way of turning authors

into our tongue, called, by the latter of them, imitation. As they were

friends, I suppose they communicated their thoughts on this subject to

each other; and therefore their reasons for it are little different,

though the practice of one is much more moderate. I take imitation of

an author, in their sense, to be an endeavour of a later poet to write

like one, who has written before him, on the same subject; that is, not

to translate his words, or to be confined to his sense, but only to

set him as a pattern, and to write, as he supposes that author would

have done, had he lived in our age, and in our country. Yet I dare not

say, that either of them have carried this libertine way of rendering

authors (as Mr Cowley calls it) so far as my definition reaches; for,

in the Pindaric odes, the customs and ceremonies of ancient Greece are

still preserved. But I know not what mischief may arise hereafter from

the example of such an innovation, when writers of unequal parts to

him shall imitate so bold an undertaking. To add and to diminish what

we please, which is the way avowed by him, ought only to be granted to

Mr Cowley, and that too only in his translation of Pindar; because he

alone was able to make him amends, by giving him better of his own,

whenever he refused his author's thoughts. Pindar is generally known to

be a dark writer, to want connection, (I mean as to our understanding,)

to soar out of sight, and leave his reader at a gaze. So wild and

ungovernable a poet cannot be translated literally; his genius is too

strong to bear a chain, and, Samson-like, he shakes it off. A genius

so elevated and unconfined as Mr Cowley's, was but necessary to make

Pindar speak English, and that was to be performed by no other way than

imitation.[11] But if Virgil, or Ovid, or any regular intelligible

authors, be thus used, it is no longer to be called their work, when

neither the thoughts nor words are drawn from the original; but instead

of them there is something new produced, which is almost the creation

of another hand. By this way, it is true, somewhat that is excellent

may be invented, perhaps more excellent than the first design; though

Virgil must be still excepted, when that perhaps takes place. Yet he

who is inquisitive to know an author's thoughts, will be disappointed

in his expectation; and it is not always that a man will be contented

to have a present made him, when he expects the payment of a debt. To

state it fairly; imitation of an author is the most advantageous way

for a translator to shew himself, but the greatest wrong which can be

done to the memory and reputation of the dead. Sir John Denham (who

advised more liberty than he took himself) gives his reason for his

innovation, in his admirable preface before the translation of the

second Æneid. "Poetry is of so subtile a spirit, that, in pouring out

of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and, if a new

spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a

_caput mortuum_." I confess this argument holds good against a literal

translation; but who defends it? Imitation and verbal version are, in

my opinion, the two extremes which ought to be avoided; and therefore,

when I have proposed the mean betwixt them, it will be seen how far his

argument will reach.

No man is capable of translating poetry, who, besides a genius to

that art, is not a master both of his author's language, and of his

own; nor must we understand the language only of the poet, but his

particular turn of thoughts and expression, which are the characters

that distinguish, and as it were individuate him from all other

writers. When we are come thus far, it is time to look into ourselves,

to conform our genius to his, to give his thought either the same turn,

if our tongue will bear it, or, if not, to vary but the dress, not to

alter or destroy the substance. The like care must be taken of the more

outward ornaments, the words. When they appear (which is but seldom)

literally graceful, it were an injury to the author that they should be

changed. But, since every language is so full of its own proprieties,

that what is beautiful in one, is often barbarous, nay sometimes

nonsense, in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a translator

to the narrow compass of his author's words: it is enough if he choose

out some expression which does not vitiate the sense. I suppose he may

stretch his chain to such a latitude; but, by innovation of thoughts,

methinks, he breaks it. By this means the spirit of an author may be

transfused, and yet not lost: and thus it is plain, that the reason

alledged by Sir John Denham has no farther force than to expression;

for thought, if it be translated truly, cannot be lost in another

language; but the words that convey it to our apprehension (which are

the image and ornament of that thought,) may be so ill chosen, as to

make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native lustre.

There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expression;

neither is it necessary that words and lines should be confined to the

measure of their original. The sense of an author, generally speaking,

is to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant,

it is his character to be so; and if I retrench it, he is no longer

Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage by this lopping

of his superfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a translator has no

such right. When a painter copies from the life, I suppose he has no

privilege to alter features, and lineaments, under pretence that his

picture will look better: perhaps the face, which he has drawn, would

be more exact, if the eyes or nose were altered; but it is his business

to make it resemble the original. In two cases only there may a seeming

difficulty arise; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial, or

dishonest; but the same answer will serve for both, that then they

ought not to be translated:

----_Et quæ

Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas._

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this subject against the

authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of

their memories; for I both loved them living, and reverence them now

they are dead. But if, after what I have urged, it be thought by

better judges, that the praise of a translation consists in adding new

beauties to the piece, thereby to recompense the loss which it sustains

by change of language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to

recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason why we

have so few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close

pursuing of the author's sense, but because there are so few, who have

all the talents which are requisite for translation, and that there is

so little praise, and so small encouragement, for so considerable a

part of learning.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Published in 8vo, in 1680. This version was made by

several hands. See introductory remarks on Dryden's Translations.

Johnson gives the following account of the purpose of Dryden's preface:

"In 1680, the epistles of Ovid being translated by the poets of the

time, it was necessary (says Dr Johnson) to introduce them by a

preface; and Dryden, who on such occasions was regularly summoned,

prefixed a discourse upon translation, which was then struggling

for the liberty it now enjoys. Why it should find any difficulty in

breaking the shackles of verbal interpretation, which must for ever

debar it from elegance, it would be difficult to conjecture, were not

the power of prejudice every day observed. The authority of Jonson,

Sandys, and Holiday, had fixed the judgement of the nation; and it was

not easily believed that a better way could be found than they had

taken, though Fanshaw, Denham, Waller, and Cowley, had tried to give

examples of a different practice."

[3] George Sandys' Translation of Ovid was published in folio,

in 1626.

[4] Ovid was born in the year of Rome 711, and died in 771 of

the same æra.

[5] The poet himself plainly intimates as much in an epistle

to Fabius Maximus, where he represents himself as accusing Love of

being the cause of his exile:

_O puer! exilii, decepto causa magistro._

The deity replies to this charge, by alluding to the secret cause of

his banishment, for which the loosness of his verses furnished only an

ostensible reason:

_Juro

Nil nisi concessum nos te didicisse magistro,

Artibus et nullum crimen inesse tuis,

Utque hoc, sic utinam cetera defendere possis,

Scis aliud quod te læserit esse magis._

[6] Martial, lib. XI. epig. 21.

[7]

_Causa meæ cunctis nimium quoque nota ruinæ,

Indicio non est testificanda meo._

[8] This curious and obscure subject is minutely investigated

by Bayle, who quotes and confutes the various opinions of the learned

concerning this point of secret history; and concludes, like Dryden, by

leaving it very much where he found it. Were I to hazard a conjecture,

I should rather think, with our poet, Ovid had made some imprudent, and

perhaps fortuitous discovery relating to Livia.

[9] Dryden speaks inaccurately, from a general recollection

of the passage; for Ovid says distinctly, that the Fates did not give

him time to cultivate the acquaintance of Tibullus, any more than of

Virgil. The entire passage runs thus:

_Temporis illius colui, fovique poetas:

Quotque aderant vates, rebar adesse deos.

Sæpe suas volucres legit mihi grandior ævo,

Quæque nocet serpens, quæ juvat herba, Macer.

Sæpe suos solitus recitare Propertius ignes,

Jure sodalitii qui mihi junctus erat.

Ponticus Heroo, Battus quoque clarus Iambo,

Dulcia convictus membra fuere mei.

Et tenuit nostras numerosus Horatius aures

Dum ferit Ausonia carmina culta lyra

Virgilium vidi tantum; nec avara Tibullo

Tempus amicitiæ fata dedere meæ._

Trist. Lib. IV. Eleg. 9.

[10] Sir John Denham gives his opinion on this subject in the

preface to "The Destruction of Troy;" which he does not venture to call

a translation, but "an Essay on the second book of Virgil's Æneis."--"I

conceive it is a vulgar error, in translating poets, to affect being

_fidus interpres_; let that care be with them who deal in matters of

fact, or matters of faith; but whosoever aims at it in poetry, as

he attempts what is not required, so he shall never perform what he

attempts: for it is not his business alone to translate language into

language, but poesy into poesy; and poesy is of so subtile a spirit,

that in the pouring out of one language into another, it will all

evaporate; and if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion, there

will remain nothing but a _caput mortuum_, there being certain graces

and happinesses peculiar to every language, which give life and energy

to the words; and whosoever offers at verbal translation, shall have

the misfortune of that young traveller, who lost his own language

abroad, and brought home no other instead of it; for the grace of the

Latin will be lost by being turned into English words, and the grace of

the English by being turned into the Latin phrase."

[11] Cowley is now so undeservedly forgotten, that it is not

superfluous to insert his own excellent account of the free mode of

translation, prefixed to his translations from Pindar. "If a man

should undertake to translate Pindar, word for word, it would be

thought that one madman had translated another; as may appear, when

he that understands not the original, reads the verbal traduction

of him into Latin prose, than which nothing seems more raving. And

sure rhyme, without the addition of wit, and the spirit of poetry,

(_quod nequeo monstrare et sentio tantum_,) would but make it ten

times more distracted than it is in prose. We must consider, in

Pindar, the great difference of time betwixt his age and ours, which

changes, as in pictures, at least the colours of poetry; the no less

difference betwixt the religions and customs of our countries, and a

thousand particularities of places, persons, and manners, which do but

confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a distance; and, lastly,

(which were enough, alone, for my purpose,) we must consider, that

our ears are strangers to the music of his numbers, which sometimes,

(especially in songs and odes,) almost without any thing else, makes an

excellent poet. For though the grammarians and critics have laboured

to reduce his verses into regular feet and measures, (as they have

also those of the Greek and Latin comedies,) yet, in effect, they are

little better than prose to our ears: and I would gladly know what

applause our best pieces of English poesy could expect from a Frenchman

or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word for word, into French

or Italian prose. And when we have considered all this, we must needs

confess, that after all these losses sustained by Pindar, all we can

add to him by our wit and invention, (not deserting still his subject,)

is not like to make him a richer man than he was in his own country.

This is, in some measure, to be applied to all translations; and the

not observing of it is the cause, that all which ever I yet saw are so

much inferior to their originals. The like happens, too, in pictures,

from the same root of exact imitation; which being a vile and unworthy

kind of servitude, is incapable of producing any thing good or noble.

I have seen originals, both in painting and poesy, much more beautiful

than their natural objects; but I never saw a copy better than the

original: which indeed cannot be otherwise; for men resolving in no

case to shoot beyond the mark, it is a thousand to one if they shoot

not short of it. It does not at all trouble me, that the grammarians,

perhaps, will not suffer this libertine way of rendering foreign

authors to be called translation; for I am not so much enamoured of the

name translator, as not to wish rather to be something better, though

it wants yet a name. I speak not so much all this in defence of my

manner of translating or imitating, (or what other title they please,)

the two ensuing odes of Pindar; for that would not deserve half these

words, as by this occasion to rectify the opinion of divers men upon

this matter."

CANACE TO MACAREUS.

EPIST. XI.

THE ARGUMENT.

_Macareus and Canace, son and daughter to Æolus, God of the Winds,

loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a son, and

committed him to her nurse, to be secretly conveyed away. The infant

crying out, by that means was discovered to Æolus, who, enraged at the

wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild

beasts on the mountains; and withal, sent a sword to Canace, with this

message, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this

sword she slew herself; but before she died, she writ the following

letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken sanctuary in the temple

of Apollo._

If streaming blood my fatal letter stain,

Imagine, ere you read, the writer slain;

One hand the sword, and one the pen employs,

And in my lap the ready paper lies.

Think in this posture thou behold'st me write;

In this my cruel father would delight.

O! were he present, that his eyes and hands

Might see, and urge the death which he commands!

Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he,

Unmoved, without a tear, my wounds would see.

Jove justly placed him on a stormy throne,

His people's temper is so like his own.

The north and south, and each contending blast,

Are underneath his wide dominion cast:

Those he can rule; but his tempestuous mind

Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfined.

Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above,

That in their number I can reckon Jove!

What help will all my heavenly friends afford,

When to my breast I lift the pointed sword?

That hour, which joined us, came before its time;

In death we had been one without a crime.

Why did thy flames beyond a brother's move?

Why loved I thee with more than sister's love?

For I loved too; and, knowing not my wound,

A secret pleasure in thy kisses found;

My cheeks no longer did their colour boast,

My food grew loathsome, and my strength I lost:

Still ere I spoke, a sigh would stop my tongue;

Short were my slumbers, and my nights were long.

I knew not from my love these griefs did grow,

Yet was, alas! the thing I did not know.

My wily nurse, by long experience, found,

And first discovered to my soul its wound.

'Tis love, said she; and then my downcast eyes,

And guilty dumbness, witnessed my surprise.

Forced at the last my shameful pain I tell;

And oh, what followed, we both know too well!

"When half denying, more than half content,

Embraces warmed me to a full consent,

Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat,

And guilt, that made them anxious, made them great."[12]

But now my swelling womb heaved up my breast,

And rising weight my sinking limbs opprest.

What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,

To make abortion by their powerful juice!

What medicines tried we not, to thee unknown!

Our first crime common; this was mine alone.

But the strong child, secure in his dark cell,

With nature's vigour did our arts repel,

And now the pale faced empress of the night

Nine times had filled her orb with borrowed light;

Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain

Of sudden shootings, and of grinding pain;

My throes came thicker, and my cries increased,

Which with her hand the conscious nurse suppressed.

To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urged my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.

With inward struggling I restrained my cries,

And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.

Death was in sight, Lucina gave no aid,

And even my dying had my guilt betrayed.

Thou cam'st, and in thy countenance sat despair;

Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair;

Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,

Prest in thy arms, and whispering me to live;

For both our sakes, saidst thou, preserve thy life;

Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife.

Raised by that name, with my last pangs I strove;

Such power have words, when spoke by those we love.

The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn,

With hasty joy sprung forward to be born.

What helps it to have weathered out one storm!

Fear of our father does another form.

High in his hall, rocked in a chair of state,

The king with his tempestuous council sate;

Through this large room our only passage lay,

By which we could the new-born babe convey.

Swathed in her lap, the bold nurse bore him out,

With olive branches covered round about;

And, muttering prayers, as holy rites she meant,

Through the divided crowd unquestioned went.

Just at the door the unhappy infant cried;

The grandsire heard him, and the theft he spied.

Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he flies,

And deafs his stormy subjects with his cries.

With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away;

Exposed the self-discovered infant lay.

The noise reached me, and my presaging mind

Too soon its own approaching woes divined.

Not ships at sea with winds are shaken more,

Nor seas themselves, when angry tempests roar,

Than I, when my loud father's voice I hear;

The bed beneath me trembled with my fear.

He rushed upon me, and divulged my stain;

Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.

I only answered him with silent tears;

They flowed; my tongue was frozen up with fears.

His little grandchild he commands away,

To mountain wolves and every bird of prey.

The babe cried out, as if he understood,

And begged his pardon with what voice he could.

By what expressions can my grief be shown?

Yet you may guess my anguish by your own,

To see my bowels, and, what yet was worse,

Your bowels too, condemned to such a curse!

Out went the king; my voice its freedom found,

My breasts I beat, my blubbered cheeks I wound.

And now appeared the messenger of death;

Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his breath,

To say, "Your father sends you"--(with that word

His trembling hands presented me a sword;)

"Your father sends you this; and lets you know,

That your own crimes the use of it will show."

Too well I know the sense those words impart;

His present shall be treasured in my heart.

Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?

And this the fatal dower a father gives?

Thou God of marriage, shun thy own disgrace,

And take thy torch from this detested place!

Instead of that, let furies light their brands,

And fire my pile with their infernal hands!

With happier fortune may my sisters wed,

Warned by the dire example of the dead.

For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pretend?

How could thy infant innocence offend?

A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!

Thou suffer'st for a sin that was not thine.

Thy mother's grief and crime! but just enjoyed,

Shewn to my sight, and born to be destroyed!

Unhappy offspring of my teeming womb!

Dragged headlong from thy cradle to thy tomb!

Thy unoffending life I could not save,

Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave;

Nor on thy tomb could offer my shorn hair,

Nor shew the grief which tender mothers bear.

Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be lost;

For soon I will overtake thy infant ghost.

But thou, my love, and now my love's despair,

Perform his funerals with paternal care;

His scattered limbs with my dead body burn,

And once more join us in the pious urn.

If on my wounded breast thou droppest a tear,

Think for whose sake my breast that wound did bear;

And faithfully my last desires fulfil,

As I perform my cruel father's will.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] These lines are original.

HELEN TO PARIS.

EPIST. XVII.[13]

THE ARGUMENT.

_Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following

answer; wherein she seems at first to chide him for his presumption in

writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion

of her virtue; then owns herself to be sensible of the passion which

he had expressed for her, though she much suspected his constancy; and

at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him; the whole

letter shewing the extreme artifice of womankind._