BOOK III.

The day approached when Fortune should decide The important enterprize, and give the bride; For now the rivals round the world had sought, And each his number, well-appointed, brought. The nations, far and near, contend in choice, And send the flower of war by public voice; That after, or before, were never known Such chiefs, as each an army seemed alone: Beside the champions, all of high degree, Who knighthood loved, and deeds of chivalry, Thronged to the lists, and envied to behold The names of others, not their own, enrolled. Nor seems it strange; for every noble knight, } Who loves the fair, and is endued with might, } In such a quarrel would be proud to fight. } There breathes not scarce a man on British ground, (An isle for love, and arms, of old renowned,) But would have sold his life to purchase fame, To Palamon or Arcite sent his name; And had the land selected of the best, Half had come hence, and let the world provide the rest. A hundred knights with Palamon there came, Approved in fight, and men of mighty name; Their arms were several, as their nations were, But furnished all alike with sword and spear. Some wore coat armour, imitating scale, And next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail; Some wore a breastplate and a light juppon, Their horses clothed with rich caparison; Some for defence would leathern bucklers use, Of folded hides, and others shields of Pruce.[158] One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow, And one a heavy mace to stun the foe; One for his legs and knees provided well, With jambeux[159] armed, and double plates of steel;[160] This on his helmet wore a lady's glove, And that a sleeve embroidered by his love. With Palamon, above the rest in place, } Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace; } Black was his beard, and manly was his face: } The balls of his broad eyes rolled in his head, And glared betwixt a yellow and a red; He looked a lion with a gloomy stare, And o'er his eye-brows hung his matted hair; Big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong, Broad-shouldered, and his arms were round and long: Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old) Were yoked to draw his car of burnished gold. Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield, Conspicuous from afar, and overlooked the field. His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back; His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven-black. His ample forehead bore a coronet With sparkling diamonds, and with rubies set; Ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair, } And tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around his chair, } A match for pards in flight, in grappling for the bear. } With golden muzzles all their mouths were bound, And collars of the same their necks surround. Thus through the field Lycurgus took his way; His hundred knights attend in pomp and proud array. To match this monarch, with strong Arcite came Emetrius king of Inde, a mighty name! On a bay courser, goodly to behold, The trappings of his horse embossed with barbarous gold. Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace; His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace, Adorned with pearls, all orient, round, and great; His saddle was of gold, with emeralds set; His shoulders large a mantle did attire, With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire; His amber-coloured locks in ringlets run, With graceful negligence, and shone against the sun. His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue, Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue; Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen, Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skin: His awful presence did the crowd surprise, Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes; Eyes that confessed him born for kingly sway, So fierce, they flashed intolerable day. His age in nature's youthful prime appeared, And just began to bloom his yellow beard. Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around, Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound; A laurel wreathed his temples, fresh and green, And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mixed between. Upon his fist he bore, for his delight, An eagle well reclaimed, and lily white. His hundred knights attend him to the war, All armed for battle, save their heads were bare. Words and devices blazed on every shield, And pleasing was the terror of the field. For kings, and dukes, and barons, you might see, } Like sparkling stars, though different in degree, } All for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry. } Before the king tame leopards led the way, And troops of lions innocently play. So Bacchus through the conquered Indies rode, And beasts in gambols frisked before the honest god. In this array, the war of either side Through Athens passed with military pride. At prime, they entered on the Sunday morn; Rich tapestry spread the streets, and flowers the posts[161] adorn. The town was all a jubilee of feasts; So Theseus willed, in honour of his guests: Himself with open arms the kings embraced, Then all the rest in their degrees were graced. No harbinger was needful for the night, For every house was proud to lodge a knight. I pass the royal treat, nor must relate The gifts bestowed, nor how the champions sate; Who first, who last, or how the knights addressed Their vows, or who was fairest at the feast; Whose voice, whose graceful dance did most surprise; Soft amorous sighs, and silent love of eyes. The rivals call my muse another way, To sing their vigils for the ensuing day. 'Twas ebbing darkness, past the noon of night, And Phosphor, on the confines of the light, Promised the sun; ere day began to spring, } The tuneful lark already stretched her wing, } And flickering on her nest, made short essays to sing, } When wakeful Palamon, preventing day, } Took to the royal lists his early way, } To Venus at her fane, in her own house, to pray. } There, falling on his knees before her shrine, He thus implored with prayers her power divine:-- Creator Venus, genial power of love, The bliss of men below, and Gods above! Beneath the sliding sun thou runn'st thy race, Dost fairest shine, and best become thy place. For thee the winds their eastern blasts forbear, Thy month reveals the spring, and opens all the year. Thee, Goddess, thee the storms of winter fly, } Earth smiles with flowers renewing, laughs the sky, } And birds to lays of love their tuneful notes apply. } For thee the lion loaths the taste of blood, And roaring hunts his female through the wood; For thee the bulls rebellow through the groves, And tempt the stream, and snuff their absent loves. 'Tis thine, whate'er is pleasant, good, or fair; } All nature is thy province, life thy care; } Thou mad'st the world, and dost the world repair. } Thou gladder of the mount of Cytheron, Increase of Jove, companion of the sun! If e'er Adonis touched thy tender heart, Have pity, Goddess, for thou know'st the smart! Alas! I have not words to tell my grief; To vent my sorrow would be some relief: Light sufferings give us leisure to complain; We groan, but cannot speak, in greater pain. O Goddess, tell thyself what I would say, Thou know'st it, and I feel too much to pray. So grant my suit, as I enforce my might In love to be thy champion, and thy knight; A servant to thy sex, a slave to thee, A foe profest to barren chastity. Nor ask I fame or honour of the field, Nor choose I more to vanquish than to yield: In my divine Emilia make me blest, Let fate, or partial chance, dispose the rest: Find thou the manner, and the means prepare; Possession, more than conquest, is my care. Mars is the warrior's God; in him it lies On whom he favours to confer the prize; With smiling aspect you serenely move In your fifth orb, and rule the realm of love. The fates but only spin the coarser clue, The finest of the wool is left for you. Spare me but one small portion of the twine, And let the sisters cut below your line: The rest among the rubbish may they sweep, Or add it to the yarn of some old miser's heap. But, if you this ambitious prayer deny, (A wish, I grant, beyond mortality,) Then let me sink beneath proud Arcite's arms, And I, once dead, let him possess her charms!-- Thus ended he; then, with observance due, The sacred incense on her altar threw: The curling smoke mounts heavy from the fires; At length it catches flame, and in a blaze expires; At once the gracious Goddess gave the sign, Her statue shook, and trembled all the shrine: Pleased Palamon the tardy omen took; For, since the flames pursued the trailing smoke, He knew his boon was granted; but the day To distance driven, and joy adjourned with long delay. Now morn with rosy light had streaked the sky, Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily; Addressed her early steps to Cynthia's fane, In state attended by her maiden train, Who bore the vests that holy rites require, Incense, and odorous gums, and covered fire. The plenteous horns with pleasant mead they crown, Nor wanted aught besides in honour of the moon. Now while the temple smoked with hallowed steam, They wash the virgin in a living stream; The secret ceremonies I conceal, Uncouth, perhaps unlawful, to reveal: But such they were as pagan use required, Performed by women when the men retired, Whose eyes profane their chaste mysterious rites Might turn to scandal, or obscene delights. Well-meaners think no harm; but for the rest, Things sacred they pervert, and silence is the best. Her shining hair, uncombed, was loosely spread, A crown of mastless oak adorned her head: When to the shrine approached, the spotless maid Had kindling fires on either altar laid: (The rites were such as were observed of old, By Statius in his Theban story told.) Then kneeling with her hands across her breast, Thus lowly she preferred her chaste request:-- O Goddess, haunter of the woodland green, To whom both heaven and earth and seas are seen; Queen of the nether skies, where half the year Thy silver beams descend, and light the gloomy sphere; Goddess of maids, and conscious of our hearts, So keep me from the vengeance of thy darts, (Which Niobe's devoted issue felt, When hissing through the skies the feathered deaths were dealt,) As I desire to live a virgin life, Nor know the name of mother or of wife. Thy votress from my tender years I am, And love, like thee, the woods and sylvan game. Like death, thou know'st, I loath the nuptial state, } And man, the tyrant of our sex, I hate, } A lowly servant, but a lofty mate; } Where love is duty, on the female side; On their's mere sensual gust, and sought with surly pride. Now by thy triple shape, as thou art seen In heaven, earth, hell, and every where a queen, Grant this my first desire; let discord cease, And make betwixt the rivals lasting peace: Quench their hot fire, or far from me remove The flame, and turn it on some other love; Or if my frowning stars have so decreed, That one must be rejected, one succeed, Make him my lord, within whose faithful breast Is fixed my image, and who loves me best. But, oh! even that avert! I chuse it not, But take it as the least unhappy lot. A maid I am, and of thy virgin train; Oh, let me still that spotless name retain! Frequent the forests, thy chaste will obey, And only make the beasts of chace my prey!-- The flames ascend on either altar clear, While thus the blameless maid addressed her prayer. When lo! the burning fire, that shone so bright, Flew off all sudden, with extinguished light, And left one altar dark a little space, Which turned self-kindled, and renewed the blaze; That[162] other victor-flame a moment stood, Then fell, and lifeless left the extinguished wood; For ever lost, the irrevocable light Forsook the black'ning coals, and sunk to night: At either end it whistled as it flew, } And as the brands were green, so dropped the dew; } Infected as it fell with sweat of sanguine hue. } The maid from that ill omen turned her eyes, And with loud shrieks and clamours rent the skies; Nor knew what signified the boding sign, But found the powers displeased, and feared the wrath divine. Then shook the sacred shrine, and sudden light Sprung through the vaulted roof, and made the temple bright. The Power, behold! the Power in glory shone, By her bent bow and her keen arrows known; The rest, a huntress issuing from the wood, Reclining on her cornel spear she stood. Then gracious thus began:--Dismiss thy fear, And heaven's unchanged decrees attentive hear: More powerful gods have torn thee from my side, Unwilling to resign, and doomed a bride: The two contending knights are weighed above; One Mars protects, and one the Queen of love: But which the man, is in the Thunderer's breast; This he pronounced, 'tis he who loves thee best. The fire, that, once extinct, revived again, Foreshews the love allotted to remain. Farewell!--she said, and vanished from the place; The sheaf of arrows shook, and rattled in the case. Aghast at this, the royal virgin stood, Disclaimed, and now no more a sister of the wood: But to the parting Goddess thus she prayed; } Propitious still, be present to my aid, } Nor quite abandon your once-favoured maid.-- } Then sighing she returned; but smiled betwixt, With hopes, and fears, and joys with sorrows mixt. The next returning planetary hour Of Mars, who shared the heptarchy of power, His steps bold Arcite to the temple bent, To adore with pagan rites the power armipotent: Then prostrate low before his altar lay, And raised his manly voice, and thus began to pray:-- Strong God of Arms, whose iron sceptre sways The freezing North, and Hyperborean seas, And Scythian colds, and Thracia's wintry coast, Where stand thy steeds, and thou art honoured most: There most; but every where thy power is known, The fortune of the fight is all thy own: Terror is thine, and wild amazement, flung From out thy chariot, withers even the strong; And disarray and shameful rout ensue, And force is added to the fainting crew-- Acknowledged as thou art, accept my prayer! If aught I have achieved deserve thy care; If to my utmost power with sword and shield } I dared the death, unknowing how to yield, } And falling in my rank, still kept the field, } Then let my arms prevail, by thee sustained, That Emily by conquest may be gained. Have pity on my pains; nor those unknown To Mars, which, when a lover, were his own. Venus, the public care of all above, Thy stubborn heart has softened into love: Now, by her blandishments and powerful charms, When yielded she lay curling in thy arms, Even by thy shame, if shame it may be called, When Vulcan had thee in his net enthralled; (O envied ignominy, sweet disgrace, When every God that saw thee wished thy place!) By those dear pleasures, aid my arms in fight, And make me conquer in my patron's right: For I am young, a novice in the trade, The fool of love, unpractised to persuade: And want the soothing arts that catch the fair, But, caught myself, lie struggling in the snare; And she I love, or laughs at all my pain, Or knows her worth too well, and pays me with disdain. For sure I am, unless I win in arms, To stand excluded from Emilia's charms: Nor can my strength avail, unless, by thee Endued with force, I gain the victory; Then for the fire which warmed thy generous heart, Pity thy subject's pains, and equal smart. So be the morrow's sweat and labour mine, The palm and honour of the conquest thine: Then shall the war, and stern debate, and strife Immortal, be the business of my life; And in thy fane, the dusty spoils among, High on the burnished roof, my banner shall be hung, Ranked with my champions' bucklers; and below, With arms reversed, the achievements of my foe; And while these limbs the vital spirit feeds, While day to night, and night to day succeeds, Thy smoking altar shall be fat with food Of incense, and the grateful steam of blood; Burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be thine, And fires eternal in thy temple shine. This bush of yellow beard, this length of hair, Which from my birth inviolate I bear, Guiltless of steel, and from the razor free, Shall fall a plenteous crop, reserved for thee. So may my arms with victory be blest, I ask no more, let fate dispose the rest.-- The champion ceased: there followed in the close A hollow groan; a murmuring wind arose; The rings of iron, that on the doors were hung, Sent out a jarring sound, and harshly rung: The bolted gates flew open at the blast, The storm rushed in, and Arcite stood aghast; The flames were blown aside, yet shone they bright, Fanned by the wind, and gave a ruffled light. Then from the ground a scent began to rise, Sweet smelling as accepted sacrifice: This omen pleased, and, as the flames aspire, With odorous incense Arcite heaps the fire: Nor wanted hymns to Mars, or heathen charms: At length the nodding statue clashed his arms, And with a sullen sound and feeble cry, Half-sunk, and half-pronounced the word of victory. For this, with soul devout, he thanked the God, And, of success secure, returned to his abode. These vows, thus granted, raised a strife above Betwixt the God of War and Queen of Love. She, granting first, had right of time to plead; But he had granted too, nor would recede. Jove was for Venus, but he feared his wife, And seemed unwilling to decide the strife; Till Saturn from his leaden throne arose, And found a way the difference to compose: Though sparing of his grace, to mischief bent, He seldom does a good with good intent. Wayward, but wise; by long experience taught, To please both parties, for ill ends, he sought: For this advantage age from youth has won, As not to be outridden, though outrun. By fortune he was now to Venus trined, And with stern Mars in Capricorn was joined: Of him disposing in his own abode, He soothed the Goddess, while he gulled the God:-- Cease, daughter, to complain, and stint the strife; Thy Palamon shall have his promised wife: And Mars, the lord of conquest, in the fight With palm and laurel shall adorn his knight. Wide is my course, nor turn I to my place, Till length of time, and move with tardy pace. Man feels me, when I press the ethereal plains; My hand is heavy, and the wound remains. Mine is the shipwreck, in a watery sign; And in an earthy, the dark dungeon mine. Cold shivering agues, melancholy care, } And bitter blasting winds, and poisoned air, } Are mine, and wilful death, resulting from despair. } The throttling quinsey 'tis my star appoints, And rheumatisms ascend to rack the joints: When churls rebel against their native prince, I arm their hands, and furnish the pretence; And housing in the lion's hateful sign, Bought senates, and deserting troops are mine.[163] Mine is the privy poisoning; I command Unkindly seasons, and ungrateful land. By me king's palaces are pushed to ground, And miners crushed beneath their mines are found. 'Twas I slew Sampson, when the pillared hall Fell down, and crushed the many with the fall. My looking is the sire of pestilence, That sweeps at once the people and the prince. Now weep no more, but trust thy grandsire's art; Mars shall be pleased, and thou perform thy part. 'Tis ill, though different your complexions are, The family of heaven for men should war.-- The expedient pleased, where neither lost his right; Mars had the day, and Venus had the night. The management they left to Chronos' care; Now turn we to the effect, and sing the war. In Athens, all was pleasure, mirth, and play, All proper to the spring, and spritely May: Which every soul inspired with such delight, 'Twas jesting all the day, and love at night. Heaven smiled, and gladded was the heart of man; And Venus had the world as when it first began. At length in sleep their bodies they compose, And dreamt the future fight, and early rose. Now scarce the dawning day began to spring, As at a signal given, the streets with clamours ring: At once the crowd arose; confused and high, } Even from the heaven, was heard a shouting cry, } For Mars was early up, and rouzed the sky. } The gods came downward to behold the wars, Sharpening their sights, and leaning from their stars. The neighing of the generous horse was heard, For battle by the busy groom prepared: Rustling of harness, rattling of the shield, Clattering of armour, furbished for the field. Crowds to the castle mounted up the street, Battering the pavement with their coursers' feet: The greedy sight might there devour the gold Of glittering arms, too dazzling to behold; And polished steel, that cast the view aside, And crested morions, with their plumy pride. Knights, with a long retinue of their squires, In gaudy liveries march, and quaint attires. One laced the helm, another held the lance; A third the shining buckler did advance. The courser pawed the ground with restless feet, And snorting foamed, and champed the golden bit. The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride, } Files in their hands, and hammers at their side, } And nails for loosened spears, and thongs for shields provide.[164] } The yeomen guard the streets, in seemly bands; And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands. The trumpets, next the gate, in order placed, Attend the sign to sound the martial blast: The palace-yard is filled with floating tides, And the last comers bear the former to the sides. The throng is in the midst; the common crew Shut out, the hall admits the better few In knots they stand, or in a rank they walk, Serious in aspect, earnest in their talk: Factious, and favouring this or t'other side. As their strong fancies and weak reason guide. Their wagers back their wishes; numbers hold With the fair freckled king, and beard of gold: So vigorous are his eyes, such rays they cast, So prominent his eagle's beak is placed. But most their looks on the black monarch bend, His rising muscles, and his brawn commend; His double-biting axe, and beamy spear, Each asking a gigantic force to rear. All spoke as partial favour moved the mind; And, safe themselves, at others' cost divined. Waked by the cries, the Athenian chief arose, The knightly forms of combat to dispose; And passing through the obsequious guards, he sate Conspicuous on a throne, sublime in state; There, for the two contending knights he sent; Armed cap-a-pee, with reverence low they bent; He smiled on both, and with superior look Alike their offered adoration took. The people press on every side to see Their awful prince, and hear his high decree. Then signing to the heralds with his hand, They gave his orders from their lofty stand. Silence is thrice enjoined; then thus aloud The king at arms bespeaks the knights and listening crowd:-- Our sovereign lord has pondered in his mind The means to spare the blood of gentle kind; And of his grace, and inborn clemency, He modifies his first severe decree, The keener edge of battle to rebate, The troops for honour fighting, not for hate. He wills, not death should terminate their strife, And wounds, if wounds ensue, be short of life; But issues, ere the fight, his dread command, That slings afar, and poniards hand to hand, Be banished from the field; that none shall dare With shortened sword to stab in closer war; But in fair combat fight with manly strength, Nor push with biting point, but strike at length. The tourney is allowed but one career, Of the tough ash, with the sharp-grinded spear; But knights unhorsed may rise from off the plain, And fight on foot their honour to regain; Nor, if at mischief[165] taken, on the ground Be slain, but prisoners to the pillar bound, At either barrier placed; nor (captives made,) Be freed, or armed anew the fight invade. The chief of either side, bereft of life, Or yielded to his foe, concludes the strife. Thus dooms the lord; now, valiant knights and young, Fight each his fill with swords and maces long.-- The herald ends: The vaulted firmament With loud acclaims and vast applause is rent: Heaven guard a prince so gracious and so good, So just, and yet so provident of blood! This was the general cry. The trumpets sound, And warlike symphony is heard around. The marching troops through Athens take their way, The great earl-marshal orders their array. The fair from high the passing pomp behold; A rain of flowers is from the windows rolled. The casements are with golden tissue spread, And horses hoofs, for earth, on silken tapestry tread. The king goes midmost, and the rivals ride In equal rank, and close his either side. Next after these, there rode the royal wife, With Emily, the cause, and the reward of strife. The following cavalcade, by three and three, Proceed by titles marshalled in degree. Thus through the southern gate they take their way, And at the lists arrived ere prime of day. There, parting from the king, the chiefs divide, And wheeling east and west, before their many ride. The Athenian monarch mounts his throne on high, And after him the queen and Emily: Next these, the kindred of the crown are graced With nearer seats, and lords by ladies placed. Scarce were they seated, when with clamours loud In rushed at once a rude promiscuous crowd: The guards, and then each other overbear, And in a moment throng the spacious theatre. Now changed the jarring noise to whispers low, As winds forsaking seas more softly blow; When at the western gate, on which the car Is placed aloft, that bears the God of war, Proud Arcite, entering armed before his train, Stops at the barrier, and divides the plain. Red was his banner, and displayed abroad The bloody colours of his patron God. At that self moment enters Palamon The gate of Venus, and the rising Sun; Waved by the wanton winds, his banner flies, All maiden white, and shares the people's eyes. From east to west, look all the world around, Two troops so matched were never to be found; Such bodies built for strength, of equal age, In stature sized; so proud an equipage: The nicest eye could no distinction make, Where lay the advantage, or what side to take. Thus ranged, the herald for the last proclaims A silence, while they answered to their names: For so the king decreed, to shun with[166] care The fraud of musters false, the common bane of war. The tale was just, and then the gates were closed; And chief to chief, and troop to troop opposed. The heralds last retired, and loudly cried,-- The fortune of the field be fairly tried! At this, the challenger, with fierce defy, } His trumpets sounds; the challenged makes reply. } With clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted sky. } Their vizors closed, their lances in the rest, Or at the helmet pointed, or the crest, They vanish from the barrier, speed the race, And spurring see decrease the middle space. A cloud of smoke envelopes either host, And all at once the combatants are lost: Darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen, Coursers with coursers jostling, men with men: As labouring in eclipse, a while they stay, Till the next blast of wind restores the day. They look anew; the beauteous form of fight Is changed, and war appears a grizzly sight.[167] Two troops in fair array one moment shewed, The next, a field with fallen bodies strewed: Not half the number in their seats are found; But men and steeds lie grovelling on the ground. The points of spears are stuck within the shield, The steeds without their riders scour the field. The knights, unhorsed, on foot renew the fight; The glittering faulchions cast a gleaming light; Hauberks and helms are hewed with many a wound; Out spins the streaming blood, and dyes the ground. The mighty maces with such haste descend, They break the bones, and make the solid armour bend. This thrusts amid the throng with furious force; Down goes, at once, the horseman and the horse: That courser stumbles on the fallen steed, And floundring throws the rider o'er his head. One rolls along, a foot-ball to his foes; One with a broken truncheon deals his blows. This halting, this disabled with his wound, In triumph led, is to the pillar bound, Where by the king's award he must abide; There goes a captive led on t'other side. By fits they cease; and leaning on the lance, Take breath a while, and to new fight advance. Full oft the rivals met, and neither spared His utmost force, and each forgot to ward. The head of this was to the saddle bent, That[168] other backward to the crupper sent: Both were by turns unhorsed; the jealous blows Fall thick and heavy, when on foot they close. So deep their faulchions bite, that every stroke Pierced to the quick, and equal wounds they gave and took. Borne far asunder by the tides of men, Like adamant and steel they meet again. So when a tyger sucks the bullock's blood, } A famished lion issuing from the wood } Roars lordly fierce, and challenges the food. } Each claims possession, neither will obey, But both their paws are fastened on the prey; They bite, they tear; and while in vain they strive, The swains come armed between, and both to distance drive. At length, as fate foredoomed, and all things tend By course of time to their appointed end; So when the sun to west was far declined, And both afresh in mortal battle joined, The strong Emetrius came in Arcite's aid, And Palamon with odds was overlaid: For turning short, he[169] struck with all his might Full on the helmet of the unwary knight. Deep was the wound; he staggered with the blow, And turned him to his unexpected foe; Whom with such force he struck, he felled him down, And cleft the circle of his golden crown. But Arcite's men, who now prevailed in fight, Twice ten at once surround the single knight: O'erpowered, at length, they force him to the ground, Unyielded as he was, and to the pillar bound; And king Lycurgus, while he fought in vain His friend to free, was tumbled on the plain. Who now laments but Palamon, compelled No more to try the fortune of the field! And, worse than death, to view with hateful eyes His rival's conquest, and renounce the prize! The royal judge on his tribunal placed, Who had beheld the fight from first to last, Bade cease the war; pronouncing from on high Arcite of Thebes had won the beauteous Emily. The sound of trumpets to the voice replied, } And round the royal lists the heralds cried,-- } Arcite of Thebes has won the beauteous bride! } The people rend the skies with vast applause; All own the chief, when fortune owns the cause. Arcite is owned even by the Gods above, And conquering Mars insults the Queen of Love. So laughed he, when the rightful Titan failed, And Jove's usurping arms in heaven prevailed. Laughed all the powers who favour tyranny, And all the standing army of the sky.[170] But Venus with dejected eyes appears, And, weeping, on the lists distilled her tears; Her will refused, which grieves a woman most, And, in her champion foiled, the cause of Love is lost. Till Saturn said:--Fair daughter, now be still: The blustering fool has satisfied his will; His boon is given; his knight has gained the day, But lost the prize; the arrears are yet to pay. Thy hour is come, and mine the care shall be To please thy knight, and set thy promise free. Now while the heralds run the lists around, And Arcite, Arcite, heaven and earth resound; A miracle (nor less could it be called) Their joy with unexpected sorrow palled. The victor knight had laid his helm aside, (Part for his ease, the greater part for pride,) Bare-headed, popularly low he bowed, And paid the salutations of the crowd; Then, spurring, at full speed, ran endlong on Where Theseus sat on his imperial throne; Furious he drove, and upward cast his eye, Where next the queen was placed his Emily; Then passing, to the saddle-bow he bent; A sweet regard the gracious virgin lent; (For women, to the brave an easy prey, Still follow Fortune where she leads the way;) Just then from earth sprung out a flashing fire,[171] By Pluto sent, at Saturn's bad desire: The startling steed was seized with sudden fright, And, bounding, o'er the pommel cast the knight: Forward he flew, and, pitching on his head, He quivered with his feet, and lay for dead. Black was his countenance in a little space, For all the blood was gathered in his face. Help was at hand: they reared him from the ground, And from his cumberous arms his limbs unbound; Then lanced a vein, and watched returning breath; It came, but clogged with symptoms of his death. The saddle-bow the noble parts had prest, All bruised and mortified his manly breast. Him still entranced, and in a litter laid, They bore from field, and to his bed conveyed. At length he waked, and with a feeble cry, The word he first pronounced was Emily. Meantime the king, though inwardly he mourned, In pomp triumphant to the town returned, Attended by the chiefs, who fought the field; (Now friendly mixed, and in one troop compelled.) Composed his looks to counterfeited cheer, And bade them not for Arcite's life to fear. But that which gladded all the warrior train, Though most were sorely wounded, none were slain. The surgeons soon despoiled them of their arms, And some with salves they cure, and some with charms; Foment the bruises, and the pains assuage, And heal their inward hurts with sovereign draughts of sage. The king, in person, visits all around, Comforts the sick, congratulates the sound; Honours the princely chiefs, rewards the rest, And holds, for thrice three days, a royal feast. None were disgraced, for falling is no shame, And cowardice alone is loss of fame. The venturous knight is from the saddle thrown; But 'tis the fault of fortune, not his own: If crowns and palms the conquering side adorn, The victor under better stars was born: The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpowered with arms, deserts his cause; Unshamed, though foiled, he does the best he can; Force is of brutes, but honour is of man. Thus Theseus smiled on all with equal grace, And each was set according to his place; With ease were reconciled the differing parts, For envy never dwells in noble hearts. At length they took their leave, the time expired, Well pleased, and to their several homes retired. Meanwhile the health of Arcite still impairs; From bad proceeds to worse, and mocks the leeches' cares: Swollen is his breast, his inward pains increase, All means are used, and all without success. The clotted blood lies heavy on his heart, Corrupts, and there remains in spite of art; Nor breathing veins, nor cupping, will prevail; All outward remedies and inward fail: The mould of nature's fabric is destroyed, Her vessels discomposed, her virtue void: The bellows of his lungs begins to swell; } All out of frame is every secret cell, } Nor can the good receive, nor bad expel. } Those breathing organs, thus within opprest, With venom soon distend the sinews of his breast. Nought profits him to save abandoned life, Nor vomits upward aid, nor downward laxative. The midmost region battered and destroyed, When nature cannot work, the effect of art is void; For physic can but mend our crazy state, Patch an old building, not a new create. Arcite is doomed to die in all his pride, } Must leave his youth, and yield his beauteous bride, } Gained hardly, against right, and unenjoyed. } When 'twas declared all hope of life was past, } Conscience (that of all physic works the last) } Caused him to send for Emily in haste. } With her, at his desire, came Palamon; Then, on his pillow raised, he thus began:-- "No language can express the smallest part Of what I feel, and suffer in my heart, For you, whom best I love and value most: But to your service I bequeath my ghost; Which, from this mortal body when untied, Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side; Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend, But wait officious, and your steps attend. How I have loved, excuse my faultering tongue, My spirits feeble, and my pains are strong: This I may say, I only grieve to die, Because I lose my charming Emily. To die, when heaven had put you in my power! Fate could not chuse a more malicious hour. What greater curse could envious fortune give, Than just to die, when I began to live! Vain men! how vanishing a bliss we crave, Now warm in love, now withering in the grave! Never, O never more to see the sun! Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone! This fate is common; but I lose my breath Near bliss, and yet not blessed, before my death. Farewell! but take me, dying, in your arms, 'Tis all I can enjoy of all your charms: This hand I cannot but in death resign; Ah, could I live! but while I live 'tis mine. I feel my end approach, and, thus embraced, Am pleased to die; but hear me speak my last: Ah, my sweet foe! for you, and you alone, I broke my faith with injured Palamon. But love the sense of right and wrong confounds; Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds. And much, I doubt, should heaven my life prolong, I should return to justify my wrong; For, while my former flames remain within, Repentance is but want of power to sin. With mortal hatred I pursued his life, Nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife; Nor I, but as I loved; yet all combined, Your beauty, and my impotence of mind; And his concurrent flame, that blew my fire; For still our kindred souls had one desire. He had a moment's right, in point of time; Had I seen first, then his had been the crime. Fate made it mine, and justified his right; Nor holds this earth a more deserving knight, For virtue, valour, and for noble blood, Truth, honour, all that is comprised in good; So help me heaven, in all the world is none So worthy to be loved as Palamon. He loves you too, with such a holy fire, As will not, cannot, but with life expire: Our vowed affections both have often tried, Nor any love but yours could ours divide. Then, by my love's inviolable band, By my long-suffering, and my short command, If e'er you plight your vows when I am gone, Have pity on the faithful Palamon.-- This was his last; for death came on amain, And exercised below his iron reign; Then upward to the seat of life he goes; Sense fled before him, what he touched he froze: Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw, Though less and less of Emily he saw; So, speechless, for a little space he lay; Then grasped the hand he held, and sighed his soul away. But whither went his soul, let such relate Who search the secrets of the future state: Divines can say but what themselves believe; Strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative; For, were all plain, then all sides must agree, And faith itself be lost in certainty. To live uprightly, then, is sure the best; To save ourselves, and not to damn the rest. The soul of Arcite went where heathens go, Who better live than we, though less they know. In Palamon a manly grief appears; Silent he wept, ashamed to show his tears. Emilia shrieked but once; and then, oppressed With sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast: Till Theseus in his arms conveyed, with care, Far from so sad a sight, the swooning fair. 'Twere loss of time her sorrow to relate; } Ill bears the sex a youthful lover's fate, } When just approaching to the nuptial state: } But, like a low-hung cloud, it rains so fast, That all at once it falls, and cannot last. The face of things is changed, and Athens now, That laughed so late, becomes the scene of woe: Matrons and maids, both sexes, every state, With tears lament the knight's untimely fate. Nor[172] greater grief in falling Troy was seen For Hector's death, but Hector was not then. Old men with dust deformed their hoary hair; The women beat their breasts, their cheeks they tear. "Why would'st thou go, (with one consent they cry,) When thou hadst gold enough, and Emily!"[173] Theseus himself, who should have cheered the grief Of others, wanted now the same relief: Old Egeus only could revive his son, Who various changes of the world had known, And strange vicissitudes of human fate, Still altering, never in a steady state: Good after ill, and, after pain, delight, Alternate, like the scenes of day and night. Since every man, who lives, is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy, nor grieve too much, for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims, to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end. Even kings but play; and, when their part is done, Some other, worse or better, mount the throne. With words like these the crowd was satisfied, And so they would have been had Theseus died. But he, their king, was labouring in his mind, } A fitting place for funeral pomps to find, } Which were in honour of the dead designed. } And, after long debate, at last he found (As love itself had marked the spot of ground) That grove, for ever green, that conscious lawnd,[174] Where he with Palamon fought hand to hand; That, where he fed his amorous desires With soft complaints, and felt his hottest fires, There other flames might waste his earthly part, And burn his limbs, where love had burned his heart. This once resolved, the peasants were enjoined, Sere-wood, and firs, and doddered oaks to find. With sounding axes to the grove they go, Fell, split, and lay the fuel on a row; Vulcanian food: a bier is next prepared, On which the lifeless body should be reared, Covered with cloth of gold; on which was laid The corpse of Arcite, in like robes arrayed. White gloves were on his hands, and on his head A wreath of laurel, mixed with myrtle, spread. A sword, keen-edged, within his right he held, The warlike emblem of the conquered field. Bare was his manly visage on the bier; Menaced his countenance, even in death severe. Then to the palace-hall they bore the knight, To lie in solemn state, a public sight: Groans, cries, and howlings, fill the crowded place, And unaffected sorrow sat on every face. Sad Palamon above the rest appears, In sable garments, dewed with gushing tears; His auburn locks on either shoulder flowed, Which to the funeral of his friend he vowed: But Emily, as chief, was next his side, A virgin-widow, and a mourning bride. And, that the princely obsequies might be Performed according to his high degree, The steed, that bore him living to the fight, } Was trapped with polished steel, all shining bright, } And covered with the achievements of the knight. } The riders rode abreast; and one his shield, His lance of cornel-wood another held; The third his bow; and, glorious to behold, The costly quiver, all of burnished gold. The noblest of the Grecians next appear, And, weeping, on their shoulders bore the bier; With sober pace they marched, and often staid, And through the master-street the corpse conveyed. The houses to their tops with black were spread, And even the pavements were with mourning hid. The right side of the pall old Egeus kept, And on the left the royal Theseus wept; Each bore a golden bowl, of work divine, With honey filled, and milk, and mixed with ruddy wine. Then Palamon, the kinsman of the slain; And after him appeared the illustrious train. To grace the pomp, came Emily the bright, With covered fire, the funeral pile to light. With high devotion was the service made, And all the rites of pagan honour paid: So lofty was the pile, a Parthian bow, With vigour drawn, must send the shaft below. The bottom was full twenty fathom broad, With crackling straw beneath in due proportion strowed. The fabric seemed a wood of rising green, With sulphur and bitumen cast between, To feed the flames; the trees were unctuous fir, } And mountain-ash, the mother of the spear; } The mourner-yew, and builder-oak, were there; } The beech, the swimming alder, and the plane, } Hard box, and linden of a softer grain, } And laurels, which the gods for conquering chiefs ordain. } How they were ranked shall rest untold by me, With nameless nymphs that lived in every tree; Nor how the dryads, and the woodland train, Disherited, ran howling o'er the plain; Nor how the birds to foreign seats repaired, Or beasts that bolted out, and saw the forest bared; Nor how the ground, now cleared, with ghastly fright, Beheld the sudden sun, a stranger to the light. The straw, as first I said, was laid below; Of chips, and sere-wood, was the second row; The third of greens, and timber newly felled; The fourth high stage the fragrant odours held, And pearls, and precious stones, and rich array; In midst of which, embalmed, the body lay. The service sung, the maid, with mourning eyes, The stubble fired; the smouldering flames arise: This office done, she sunk upon the ground; But what she spoke, recovered from her swoon, I want the wit in moving words to dress; But, by themselves, the tender sex may guess. While the devouring fire was burning fast, Rich jewels in the flame the wealthy cast; And some their shields, and some their lances threw, And gave the[175] warrior's ghost a warrior's due. Full bowls of wine, of honey, milk, and blood, } Were poured upon the pile of burning wood; } And hissing flames receive, and, hungry, lick the food. } Then thrice the mounted squadrons ride around The fire, and Arcite's name they thrice resound. _Hail and farewell!_ they shouted thrice amain, Thrice facing to the left, and thrice they turned again: Still, as they turned, they beat their clattering shields; The women mix their cries, and clamour fills the fields. The warlike wakes continued all the night, And funeral-games were played at new-returning light: Who, naked, wrestled best, besmeared with oil, Or who, with gauntlets, gave or took the foil, I will not tell you, nor would you attend; But briefly haste to my long story's end. I pass the rest. The year was fully mourned, And Palamon long since to Thebes returned. When, by the Grecians' general consent, At Athens Theseus held his parliament; Among the laws that passed, it was decreed, That conquered Thebes from bondage should be freed; Reserving homage to the Athenian throne, To which the sovereign summoned Palamon. Unknowing of the cause, he took his way, Mournful in mind, and still in black array. The monarch mounts the throne, and, placed on high, Commands into the court the beauteous Emily. So called, she came; the senate rose, and paid Becoming reverence to the royal maid. And first soft whispers through the assembly went; With silent wonder then they watched the event: All hushed, the king arose with awful grace, Deep thought was in his breast, and counsel in his face: At length he sighed, and, having first prepared The attentive audience, thus his will declared:-- The Cause and Spring of motion, from above, Hung down on earth, the golden chain of Love; Great was the effect, and high was his intent, When peace among the jarring seeds he sent: Fire, flood, and earth, and air, by this were bound, And love, the common link, the new creation crowned. The chain still holds; for, though the forms decay, Eternal matter never wears away: The same first mover certain bounds has placed, How long those perishable forms shall last; Nor can they last beyond the time assigned By that all-seeing, and all-making Mind: Shorten their hours they may; for will is free; But never pass the appointed destiny. So men oppressed, when weary of their breath, Throw off the burden, and suborn their death. Then, since those forms begin, and have their end, On some unaltered cause they sure depend: Parts of the whole are we; but God the whole; Who gives us life, and animating soul. For nature cannot from a part derive That being, which the whole can only give: He, perfect, stable; but imperfect we, Subject to change, and different in degree; Plants, beasts, and man; and, as our organs are, We, more or less, of his perfection share. But, by a long descent, the ethereal fire Corrupts; and forms, the mortal part, expire. As he withdraws his virtue, so they pass, And the same matter makes another mass. This law the Omniscient Power was pleased to give, That every kind should by succession live; That individuals die, his will ordains; The propagated species still remains. The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees; Three centuries he grows, and three he stays, Supreme in state, and in three more decays: So wears the paving pebble in the street, And towns and towers their fatal periods meet: So rivers, rapid once, now naked lie, Forsaken of their springs, and leave their channels dry: So man, at first a drop, dilates with heat, Then formed, the little heart begins to beat; Secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell; At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the shell, And struggles into breath, and cries for aid; Then, helpless, in his mother's lap is laid. He creeps, he walks, and, issuing into man, Grudges their life, from whence his own began; Retchless of laws, affects to rule alone, Anxious to reign, and restless on the throne; First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last; Rich of three souls, and lives all three to waste. Some thus, but thousands more in flower of age; For few arrive to run the latter stage. Sunk in the first, in battle some are slain, And others whelmed beneath the stormy main. What makes all this, but Jupiter the king, At whose command we perish, and we spring? Then 'tis our best, since thus ordained to die, To make a virtue of necessity; Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain; The bad grows better, which we well sustain; And could we chuse the time, and chuse aright, 'Tis best to die, our honour at the height. When we have done our ancestors no shame, But served our friends, and well secured our fame; Then should we wish our happy life to close, And leave no more for fortune to dispose. So should we make our death a glad relief From future shame, from sickness, and from grief; Enjoying, while we live, the present hour, And dying in our excellence and flower. Then round our death-bed every friend should run, And joyous of our conquest early won; While the malicious world, with envious tears, Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs. Since then our Arcite is with honour dead, } Why should we mourn, that he so soon is freed, } Or call untimely, what the gods decreed? } With grief as just, a friend may be deplored, From a foul prison to free air restored. Ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife, Could tears recal him into wretched life? Their sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost; And, worse than both, offends his happy ghost. What then remains, but, after past annoy, To take the good vicissitude of joy; To thank the gracious gods for what they give, Possess our souls, and while we live, to live? Ordain we then two sorrows to combine, And in one point the extremes of grief to join; That thence resulting joy may be renewed, As jarring notes in harmony conclude. Then I propose, that Palamon shall be In marriage joined with beauteous Emily; For which already I have gained the assent Of my free people in full parliament. Long love to her has borne the faithful knight, And well deserved, had fortune done him right: 'Tis time to mend her fault, since Emily, By Arcite's death, from former vows is free; If you, fair sister, ratify the accord, And take him for your husband and your lord. 'Tis no dishonour to confer your grace On one descended from a royal race; And were he less, yet years of service past, From grateful souls, exact reward at last. Pity is heaven's and your's; nor can she find A throne so soft as in a woman's mind.-- He said: she blushed; and, as o'erawed by might, Seemed to give Theseus what she gave the knight. Then, turning to the Theban, thus he said:-- Small arguments are needful to persuade Your temper to comply with my command:-- And, speaking thus, he gave Emilia's hand. Smiled Venus, to behold her own true knight } Obtain the conquest, though he lost the fight; } And blessed, with nuptial bliss, the sweet laborious night. } Eros and Anteros, on either side, One fired the bridegroom, and one warmed the bride; And long-attending Hymen, from above, Showered on the bed the whole Idalian grove. All of a tenor was their after-life, No day discoloured with domestic strife; No jealousy, but mutual truth believed, Secure repose, and kindness undeceived. Thus heaven, beyond the compass of his thought, Sent him the blessing he so dearly bought. So may the Queen of Love long duty bless, And all true lovers find the same success!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 158: Prussia.]

[Footnote 159: Boots, or armour for the legs.]

[Footnote 160: The accoutrements of the knights of yore were as various as the modern fashions of female dress; and as it was necessary, in the single combat, that each warrior should be equally armed, it was a matter of no small nicety, to ascertain exactly, what weapons, offensive and defensive, should be allowed to them. But in general tournaments, each knight seems to have used the arms which pleased him best; subject always to such general regulations as were laid down by the judges, for lessening the danger of these military games. There is a long enumeration of various kinds of armour, in the romance of "Clariodus and Meliadus."]

[Footnote 161: First edition, _pots_.]

[Footnote 162: Derrick's edition, _The_.]

[Footnote 163: This line, containing a political allusion, is Dryden's exclusively. In Chaucer's time, the "churl's rebellion" excited the dreadful remembrance of the insurrection of Jack Straw in England, and that in France called the Jacquerie, both recent events.]

[Footnote 164: The court of chivalry, which, in 1631, regulated the intended judicial combat between David Ramsay and Lord Rae, appointed, that until the word _lesser les armes_ was given, the combatants should have meat and drink, iron-nails, hammer, file, scissars, bodkin, needle and thread, armourer, and tailor, with their weapons to aid them as need required. See _State Trials_, Vol. XI. p. 130.]

[Footnote 165: That is, at disadvantage.]

[Footnote 166: Derrick's Edit, the.]

[Footnote 167: This fine passage does not occur in Chaucer, although his commencement of the battle is in the highest degree animated. Perhaps Dryden remembered Sidney's "Arcadia."

"And now the often-changing fortune began also to change the hue of the battles. For at the first, though it were terrible, yet Terror was decked so bravely with rich furniture, gilt swords, shining armours, pleasant pensils, that the eye with delight had scarcely leisure to be afraid: but now all universally defiled with dust, blood, broken armour, mangled bodies took away the masque, and set forth Horror in his own horrible manner."--_Arcadia_, Book III.]

[Footnote 168: Derrick's Edit. _The_.]

[Footnote 169: Emetrius.]

[Footnote 170: Another political sarcasm of the Tory poet, unauthorized by his original.]

[Footnote 171: An "infernal fury," according to the best readings of Chaucer, though others, which Dryden probably followed, have "fire."]

[Footnote 172: Folio Edit. _Not._]

[Footnote 173: This sort of expostulation is common to many barbarous nations, and is said to be retained by the native Irish.]

[Footnote 174: The French _launde_, means a wild, uncultivated meadow, or glade. The word _lawn_, which we have formed from it, has a more limited signification.]

[Footnote 175: Derrick's Edit. _their._]

THE

COCK AND THE FOX.

The accurate Tyrwhitt detected the original of this fable in the translation of "Æsop," made by Marie of France into Norman-French for the amusement of the court of England, by which that language was used down to the reign of Edward. But the hand of genius gilds what it touches; and the naked Apologue, which may be found in Tyrwhitt's "Preliminary Discourse," was amplified by Chaucer into a poem, which, in grave, ironical narrative, liveliness of illustration, and happiness of humorous description, yields to none that ever was written. Dryden, whom "The Hind and Panther" had familiarized with this species of composition, has executed a version at once literal and spirited, which seldom omits what is valuable in his original, and often adds those sparks which genius strikes out, when in collision with the work of a kindred spirit.

THE

COCK AND THE FOX;

OR, THE

TALE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST.

There lived, as authors tell, in days of yore, A widow, somewhat old, and very poor; Deep in a cell her cottage lonely stood, Well thatched, and under covert of a wood. This dowager, on whom my tale I found, Since last she laid her husband in the ground, A simple sober life in patience led, And had but just enough to buy her bread; But housewifing the little heaven had lent, She duly paid a groat for quarter rent; And pinched her belly, with her daughters two, To bring the year about with much ado. The cattle in her homestead were three sows, An ewe called Mally, and three brinded cows. Her parlour-window stuck with herbs around, Of savoury smell, and rushes strewed the ground. A maple dresser in her hall she had, On which full many a slender meal she made: For no delicious morsel passed her throat; According to her cloth she cut her coat. No poignant sauce she knew, no costly treat, Her hunger gave a relish to her meat. A sparing diet did her health assure; Or sick, a pepper posset was her cure. Before the day was done, her work she sped, And never went by candle-light to bed. With exercise she sweat ill humours out; Her dancing was not hindered by the gout. Her poverty was glad, her heart content, Nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant. Of wine she never tasted through the year, But white and black was all her homely cheer; Brown bread and milk, (but first she skimmed her bowls,) And rashers of singed bacon on the coals; On holidays an egg, or two at most; But her ambition never reached to roast. A yard she had, with pales enclosed about, Some high, some low, and a dry ditch without. Within this homestead lived, without a peer, For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer; So hight her cock, whose singing did surpass The merry notes of organs at the mass. More certain was the crowing of the cock To number hours, than is an abbey-clock; And sooner than the mattin-bell was rung, He clapped his wings upon his roost, and sung: For when degrees fifteen ascended right, By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night. High was his comb, and coral-red withal, In dents embattled like a castle wall; His bill was raven-black, and shone like jet; Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet; White were his nails, like silver to behold, His body glittering like the burnished gold. This gentle cock, for solace of his life, Six misses had, beside his lawful wife; Scandal, that spares no king, though ne'er so good, Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood; His sisters, both by sire and mother's side, And sure their likeness shewed them near allied. But make the worst, the monarch did no more, Than all the Ptolemys had done before: When incest is for interest of a nation, 'Tis made no sin by holy dispensation. Some lines have been maintained by this alone, Which by their common ugliness are known. But passing this as from our tale apart, Dame Partlet[176] was the sovereign of his heart: Ardent in love, outrageous in his play, He feathered her a hundred times a day; And she, that was not only passing fair, But was withal discreet, and debonair, Resolved the passive doctrine to fulfil, Though loth, and let him work his wicked will: At board and bed was affable and kind, } According as their marriage-vow did bind, } And as the church's precept had enjoined. } Even since she was a se'nnight old, they say, } Was chaste and humble to her dying day, } Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey. } By this her husband's heart she did obtain; What cannot beauty, joined with virtue, gain! She was his only joy, and he her pride, She, when he walked, went pecking by his side; If, spurning up the ground, he sprung a corn, The tribute in his bill to her was borne. But oh! what joy it was to hear him sing In summer, when the day began to spring, Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat, _Solus cum sola_, then was all his note. For in the days of yore, the birds of parts Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal arts. It happ'd that perching on the parlour-beam, Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream, Just at the dawn; and sighed, and groaned so fast, As every breath he drew would be his last. Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his side, Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cried For help from Gods and men; and sore aghast She pecked and pulled, and wakened him at last. Dear heart, said she, for love of heaven declare Your pain, and make me partner of your care. You groan, Sir, ever since the morning-light, As something had disturbed your noble sprite.-- And, madam, well I might, said Chanticleer, Never was shrovetide-cock in such a fear. Even still I run all over in a sweat, My princely senses not recovered yet. For such a dream I had of dire portent, That much I fear my body will be shent: It bodes I shall have wars and woeful strife, Or in a loathsome dungeon end my life. Know, dame, I dreamt within my troubled breast, } That in our yard I saw a murderous beast, } That on my body would have made arrest. } With waking eyes I ne'er beheld his fellow; His colour was betwixt a red and yellow: Tipped was his tail, and both his pricking ears, With black, and much unlike his other hairs: The rest, in shape a beagle's whelp throughout, With broader forehead, and a sharper snout: Deep in his front were sunk his glowing eyes, That yet, methinks, I see him with surprise. Reach out your hand, I drop with clammy sweat, And lay it to my heart, and feel it beat.-- Now fie for shame! quoth she; by heaven above, Thou hast for ever lost thy lady's love. No woman can endure a recreant knight; He must be bold by day, and free by night: Our sex desires a husband or a friend, Who can our honour and his own defend; Wise, hardy, secret, liberal of his purse; A fool is nauseous, but a coward worse: No bragging coxcomb, yet no baffled knight, How dar'st thou talk of love, and dar'st not fight? How dar'st thou tell thy dame thou art affeared? Hast thou no manly heart, and hast a beard? If aught from fearful dreams may be divined, They signify a cock of dunghill kind. All dreams, as in old Galen I have read, Are from repletion and complexion bred; From rising fumes of indigested food, And noxious humours that infect the blood: And sure, my lord, if I can read aright, These foolish fancies, you have had to-night, Are certain symptoms (in the canting style) Of boiling choler, and abounding bile; This yellow gall, that in your stomach floats, Engenders all these visionary thoughts. When choler overflows, then dreams are bred Of flames, and all the family of red; Red dragons, and red beasts, in sleep we view, For humours are distinguished by their hue. From hence we dream of wars and warlike things, And wasps and hornets with their double wings. Choler adust congeals our blood with fear, Then black bulls toss us, and black devils tear. In sanguine airy dreams aloft we bound; With rheums oppressed, we sink in rivers drowned. More I could say, but thus conclude my theme, The dominating humour makes the dream. Cato was in his time accounted wise, And he condemns them all for empty lies.[177] Take my advice, and when we fly to ground, } With laxatives preserve your body sound, } And purge the peccant humours that abound. } I should be loth to lay you on a bier; And though there lives no 'pothecary near, I dare for once prescribe for your disease, And save long bills, and a damned doctor's fees. Two sovereign herbs, which I by practice know, And both at hand, (for in our yard they grow,) On peril of my soul shall rid you wholly Of yellow choler, and of melancholy: You must both purge and vomit; but obey, And for the love of heaven make no delay. Since hot and dry in your complexion join, Beware the sun when in a vernal sign; For when he mounts exalted in the Ram, If then he finds your body in a flame, Replete with choler, I dare lay a groat, A tertian ague is at least your lot. Perhaps a fever (which the Gods forefend) May bring your youth to some untimely end: And therefore, sir, as you desire to live, A day or two before your laxative, Take just three worms, nor under nor above, Because the Gods unequal numbers love. These digestives prepare you for your purge; Of fumetery, centaury, and spurge, And of ground-ivy add a leaf, or two, All which within our yard or garden grow. Eat these, and be, my lord, of better cheer; Your father's son was never born to fear.-- Madam, quoth he, gramercy for your care, But Cato, whom you quoted, you may spare. 'Tis true, a wise and worthy man he seems, And (as you say) gave no belief to dreams; But other men of more authority, And, by the immortal powers, as wise as he, Maintain, with sounder sense, that dreams forebode; For Homer plainly says they come from God. Nor Cato said it; but some modern fool Imposed in Cato's name on boys at school. Believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow The events of things, and future weal or woe: Some truths are not by reason to be tried, But we have sure experience for our guide. An ancient author,[178] equal with the best, Relates this tale of dreams among the rest. Two friends or brothers, with devout intent, On some far pilgrimage together went. It happened so, that, when the sun was down, They just arrived by twilight at a town; That day had been the baiting of a bull, 'Twas at a feast, and every inn so full, That no void room in chamber, or on ground, And but one sorry bed was to be found; And that so little it would hold but one, Though till this hour they never lay alone. So were they forced to part; one staid behind, His fellow sought what lodging he could find: At last he found a stall where oxen stood, And that he rather chose than lie abroad. 'Twas in a farther yard without a door; But, for his ease, well littered was the floor. His fellow, who the narrow bed had kept, Was weary, and without a rocker slept: Supine he snored; but in the dead of night, He dreamt his friend appeared before his sight, Who, with a ghastly look and doleful cry, Said, help me, brother, or this night I die: Arise, and help, before all help be vain, Or in an ox's stall I shall be slain. Rouzed from his rest, he wakened in a start, Shivering with horror, and with aching heart; At length to cure himself by reason tries; } 'Twas but a dream, and what are dreams but lies? } So thinking changed his side, and closed his eyes. } His dream returns; his friend appears again: } The murderers come, now help, or I am slain:-- } 'Twas but a vision still, and visions are but vain. } He dreamt the third; but now his friend appeared Pale, naked, pierced with wounds, with blood besmeared: Thrice warned, awake, said he; relief is late, The deed is done; but thou revenge my fate: Tardy of aid, unseal thy heavy eyes, Awake, and with the dawning day arise: Take to the western gate thy ready way, For by that passage they my corpse convey: My corpse is in a tumbrel laid, among The filth, and ordure, and inclosed with dung. That cart arrest, and raise a common cry; For sacred hunger of my gold I die:-- Then shewed his grisly wounds; and last he drew A piteous sigh, and took a long adieu. The frighted friend arose by break of day, And found the stall where late his fellow lay. Then of his impious host inquiring more, Was answered that his guest was gone before: Muttering he went, said he, by morning light, And much complained of his ill rest by night. This raised suspicion in the pilgrim's mind; } Because all hosts are of an evil kind, } And oft to share the spoil with robbers joined. } His dream confirmed his thought; with troubled look Straight to the western gate his way he took; There, as his dream foretold, a cart he found, That carried compost forth to dung the ground. This when the pilgrim saw, he stretched his throat, And cried out murder with a yelling note. My murdered fellow in this cart lies dead; Vengeance and justice on the villain's head! You, magistrates, who sacred laws dispense, On you I call to punish this offence.-- The word thus given, within a little space, The mob came roaring out, and thronged the place. All in a trice they cast the cart to ground, } And in the dung the murdered body found; } Though breathless, warm, and reeking from the wound. } Good heaven, whose darling attribute we find Is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, Abhors the cruel; and the deeds of night By wondrous ways reveals in open light: Murder may pass unpunished for a time, But tardy justice will o'ertake the crime. And oft a speedier pain the guilty feels, The hue and cry of heaven pursues him at the heels, Fresh from the fact, as in the present case: } The criminals are seized upon the place; } Carter and host confronted face to face. } Stiff in denial, as the law appoints, On engines they distend their tortured joints; So was confession forced, the offence was known, And public justice on the offenders done. Here may you see that visions are to dread; And in the page that follows this, I read Of two young merchants, whom the hope of gain Induced in partnership to cross the main; Waiting till willing winds their sails supplied, } Within a trading-town they long abide, } Full fairly situate on a haven's side. } One evening it befel, that, looking out, The wind they long had wished was come about; Well pleased they went to rest; and if the gale Till morn continued, both resolved to sail. But as together in a bed they lay, The younger had a dream at break of day. A man, he thought, stood frowning at his side, } Who warned him for his safety to provide, } Nor put to sea, but safe on shore abide. } I come, thy genius, to command thy stay; } Trust not the winds, for fatal is the day, } And death unhoped[179] attends the watry way. } The vision said, and vanished from his sight. The dreamer wakened in a mortal fright; Then pulled his drowsy neighbour, and declared, What in his slumber he had seen and heard. His friend smiled scornful, and, with proud contempt, Rejects as idle what his fellow dreamt. Stay, who will stay; for me no fears restrain, Who follow Mercury, the god of gain; Let each man do as to his fancy seems, I wait not, I, till you have better dreams. Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes; When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes; Compounds a medley of disjointed things, A mob of coblers, and a court of kings:[180] Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad; Both are the reasonable soul run mad; And many monstrous forms in sleep we see, That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be. Sometimes, forgotten things long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind. The nurse's legends are for truths received, And the man dreams but what the boy believed. Sometimes we but rehearse a former play, } The night restores our actions done by day, } As hounds in sleep will open for their prey. } In short, the farce of dreams is of a piece, Chimeras all; and more absurd, or less. You, who believe in tales, abide alone; Whate'er I get this voyage is my own.-- Thus while he spoke, he heard the shouting crew That called aboard, and took his last adieu. The vessel went before a merry gale, And for quick passage put on every sail; But when least feared, and even in open day, The mischief overtook her in the way: Whether she sprung a leak, I cannot find, Or whether she was overset with wind, Or that some rock below her bottom rent, But down at once with all the crew she went. Her fellow-ships from far her loss descried; But only she was sunk, and all were safe beside. By this example you are taught again, That dreams and visions are not always vain; But if, dear Partlet, you are yet in doubt, Another tale shall make the former out. Kenelm, the son of Kenulph, Mercia's king,[181] Whose holy life the legends loudly sing, Warned in a dream, his murder did foretel, From point to point as after it befel: All circumstances to his nurse he told, (A wonder from a child of seven years old;) The dream with horror heard, the good old wife From treason counselled him to guard his life; But close to keep the secret in his mind, For a boy's vision small belief would find. The pious child, by promise bound, obeyed, Nor was the fatal murder long delayed; By Quenda slain, he fell before his time, Made a young martyr by his sister's crime. The tale is told by venerable Bede, Which, at your better leisure, you may read. Macrobius too relates the vision sent To the great Scipio, with the famed event; Objections makes, but after makes replies, And adds, that dreams are often prophecies. Of Daniel you may read in holy writ, } Who, when the king his vision did forget, } Could word for word the wondrous dream repeat. } Nor less of patriarch Joseph understand, Who by a dream enslaved the Egyptian land, The years of plenty and of death foretold, When, for their bread, their liberty they sold. Nor must the exalted butler be forgot, Nor he whose dream presaged his hanging lot. And did not Crœsus the same death foresee, Raised in his vision on a lofty tree? The wife of Hector, in his utmost pride, Dreamt of his death the night before he died:[182] Well was he warned from battle to refrain, } But men to death decreed are warned in vain; } He dared the dream, and by his fatal foe was slain. } Much more I know, which I forbear to speak, For see the ruddy day begins to break: Let this suffice, that plainly I foresee My dream was bad, and bodes adversity; But neither pills nor laxatives I like, They only serve to make a well-man sick; Of these his gain the sharp physician makes, And often gives a purge, but seldom takes; They not correct, but poison all the blood, And ne'er did any but the doctors good. Their tribe, trade, trinkets, I defy them all, With every work of 'pothecary's hall. These melancholy matters I forbear; But let me tell thee, Partlet mine, and swear, That when I view the beauties of thy face, I fear not death, nor dangers, nor disgrace; So may my soul have bliss, as when I spy The scarlet red about thy partridge eye, While thou art constant to thy own true knight, } While thou art mine, and I am thy delight, } All sorrows at thy presence take their flight. } For true it is, as _in principio,[183] Mulier est hominis confusio_.[184] Madam, the meaning of this Latin is, That woman is to man his sovereign bliss. For when by night I feel your tender side, Though for the narrow perch I cannot ride, Yet I have such a solace in my mind, That all my boding cares are cast behind, And even already I forget my dream.-- He said, and downward flew from off the beam, For day light now began apace to spring, The thrush to whistle, and the lark to sing. Then crowing, clapped his wings, the appointed call, To chuck his wives together in the hall. By this the widow had unbarred the door, And Chanticleer went strutting out before, With royal courage, and with heart so light, As shewed he scorned the visions of the night. Now roaming in the yard, he spurned the ground, And gave to Partlet the first grain he found. Then often feathered her with wanton play, And trod her twenty times ere prime of day; And took by turns and gave so much delight, Her sisters pined with envy at the sight. He chucked again, when other corns he found, And scarcely deigned to set a foot to ground; But swaggered like a lord about his hall, And his seven wives came running at his call. 'Twas now the month in which the world began, (If March beheld the first created man;) And since the vernal equinox, the sun In Aries twelve degrees, or more, had run; When casting up his eyes against the light, Both month, and day, and hour, he measured right, And told more truly than the Ephemeris; For art may err, but nature cannot miss. Thus numbering times and seasons in his breast, His second crowing the third hour confessed. Then turning, said to Partlet,--See, my dear, How lavish nature has adorned the year; How the pale primrose and blue violet spring, And birds essay their throats disused to sing: All these are ours; and I with pleasure see, Man strutting on two legs, and aping me; An unfledged creature, of a lumpish frame, Endued with fewer particles of flame: Our dame sits cowering o'er a kitchen fire, I draw fresh air, and nature's works admire; And even this day in more delight abound, Than, since I was an egg, I ever found.-- The time shall come, when Chanticleer shall wish His words unsaid, and hate his boasted bliss; The crested bird shall by experience know, } Jove made not him his masterpiece below, } And learn the latter end of joy is woe. } The vessel of his bliss to dregs is run, And Heaven will have him taste his other tun. Ye wise! draw near and hearken to my tale, Which proves that oft the proud by flattery fall; The legend is as true I undertake As Tristram is, and Launcelot of the lake; Which all our ladies in such reverence hold, As if in book of martyrs it were told. A Fox, full-fraught with seeming sanctity, That feared an oath, but, like the devil, would lie;[185] Who looked like Lent, and had the holy leer, And durst not sin before he said his prayer; This pious cheat, that never sucked the blood, } Nor chewed the flesh of lambs, but when he could, } Had passed three summers in the neighboring wood; } And musing long, whom next to circumvent, On Chanticleer his wicked fancy bent; And in his high imagination cast, By stratagem to gratify his taste. The plot contrived, before the break of day, Saint Reynard through the hedge had made his way; The pale was next, but proudly, with a bound, He leapt the fence of the forbidden ground; Yet fearing to be seen, within a bed Of coleworts he concealed his wily head; There sculked till afternoon, and watched his time, (As murderers use,) to perpetrate his crime. O hypocrite, ingenious to destroy! O traitor, worse than Sinon was to Troy! O vile subverter of the Gallic reign, More false than Gano was to Charlemaign![186] O Chanticleer, in an unhappy hour Didst thou forsake the safety of thy bower; Better for thee thou hadst believed thy dream, And not that day descended from the beam! But here the doctors eagerly dispute; Some hold predestination absolute; Some clerks maintain, that Heaven at first foresees, And in the virtue of foresight decrees. If this be so, then prescience binds the will, And mortals are not free to good or ill; For what he first foresaw, he must ordain, Or its eternal prescience may be vain; As bad for us as prescience had not been; For first, or last, he's author of the sin. And who says that, let the blaspheming man Say worse even of the devil, if he can. For how can that Eternal Power be just To punish man, who sins because he must? Or, how can he reward a virtuous deed, Which is not done by us, but first decreed? I cannot bolt this matter to the bran, As Bradwardin[187] and holy Austin can: If prescience can determine actions so, That we must do, because he did foreknow, Or that foreknowing, yet our choice is free, Not forced to sin by strict necessity; This strict necessity they simple call, Another sort there is conditional. The first so binds the will, that things foreknown By spontaneity, not choice, are done. Thus galley-slaves tug willing at their oar, } Consent to work, in prospect of the shore; } But would not work at all, if not constrained before. } That other does not liberty constrain, But man may either act, or may refrain. Heaven made us agents free to good or ill, And forced it not, though he foresaw the will. Freedom was first bestowed on human race, And prescience only held the second place. If he could make such agents wholly free, I not dispute; the point's too high for me: For heaven's unfathomed power what man can sound, Or put to his omnipotence a bound? He made us to his image, all agree; } That image is the soul, and that must be, } Or not the Maker's image, or be free. } But whether it were better man had been By nature bound to good, not free to sin, I wave, for fear of splitting on a rock; The tale I tell is only of a cock; Who had not run the hazard of his life, Had he believed his dream, and not his wife: For women, with a mischief to their kind, Pervert, with bad advice, our better mind. A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he lived; and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin. For what the devil had their sex to do, That, born to folly, they presumed to know, And could not see the serpent in the grass? But I myself presume, and let it pass. Silence in times of suffering is the best, 'Tis dangerous to disturb a hornet's nest. In other authors you may find enough, But all they say of dames is idle stuff. Legends of lying wits together bound, The wife of Bath would throw them to the ground: These are the words of Chanticleer, not mine, I honour dames, and think their sex divine. Now to continue what my tale begun. Lay madam Partlet basking in the sun, Breast-high in sand; her sisters, in a row, Enjoyed the beams above, the warmth below. The cock, that of his flesh was ever free, Sung merrier than the mermaid in the sea; And so befel, that as he cast his eye, Among the colworts, on a butterfly, He saw false Reynard where he lay full low; I need not swear he had no list to crow; But cried, _cock, cock_, and gave a sudden start, As sore dismayed and frighted at his heart. For birds and beasts, informed by nature, know Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their foe. So Chanticleer, who never saw a fox, Yet shunned him, as a sailor shuns the rocks. But the false loon, who could not work his will By open force, employed his flattering skill: I hope, my lord, said he, I not offend; Are you afraid of me, that am your friend? I were a beast indeed to do you wrong, I, who have loved and honoured you so long: Stay, gentle Sir, nor take a false alarm, For, on my soul, I never meant you harm! I come no spy, nor as a traitor press, To learn the secrets of your soft recess: Far be from Reynard so profane a thought, But by the sweetness of your voice was brought: For, as I bid my beads, by chance I heard The song as of an angel in the yard; A song that would have charmed the infernal gods, And banished horror from the dark abodes: Had Orpheus sung it in the nether sphere, } So much the hymn had pleased the tyrant's ear, } The wife had been detained, to keep the husband there. } My lord, your sire familiarly I knew, A peer deserving such a son as you: He, with your lady-mother, (whom heaven rest!) Has often graced my house, and been my guest: To view his living features does me good, For I am your poor neighbour in the wood; And in my cottage should be proud to see The worthy heir of my friend's family. But since I speak of singing, let me say, As with an upright heart I safely may, That, save yourself, there breathes not on the ground One like your father for a silver sound. So sweetly would he wake the winter-day, } That matrons to the church mistook their way, } And thought they heard the merry organ play. } And he to raise his voice with artful care, (What will not beaux attempt to please the fair?) On tiptoe stood to sing with greater strength, And stretched his comely neck at all the length: And while he strained his voice to pierce the skies, As saints in raptures use, would shut his eyes, That the sound striving through the narrow throat, His winking might avail to mend the note. By this, in song, he never had his peer, From sweet Cecilia down to Chanticleer; Not Maro's muse, who sung the mighty man, Nor Pindar's heavenly lyre, nor Horace when a swan. Your ancestors proceed from race divine: From Brennus and Belinus is your line; Who gave to sovereign Rome such loud alarms, That even the priests were not excused from arms. Besides, a famous monk of modern times[188] Has left of cocks recorded in his rhymes, That of a parish priest the son and heir, (When sons of priests were from the proverb clear,) Affronted once a cock of noble kind, And either lamed his legs, or struck him blind; For which the clerk his father was disgraced, And in his benefice another placed. Now sing, my lord, if not for love of me, Yet for the sake of sweet saint charity; Make hills and dales, and earth and heaven, rejoice, And emulate your father's angel-voice.-- The cock was pleased to hear him speak so fair, And proud beside, as solar people are; Nor could the treason from the truth descry, So was he ravished with this flattery: So much the more, as from a little elf, He had a high opinion of himself; Though sickly, slender, and not large of limb, Concluding all the world was made for him. Ye princes, raised by poets to the gods, And Alexandered up in lying odes, Believe not every flattering knave's report, There's many a Reynard lurking in the court; And he shall be received with more regard, And listened to, than modest truth is heard. This Chanticleer, of whom the story sings, Stood high upon his toes, and clapped his wings; Then stretched his neck, and winked with both his eyes, Ambitious, as he sought the Olympic prize. But while he pained himself to raise his note, False Reynard rushed, and caught him by the throat. Then on his back he laid the precious load, And sought his wonted shelter of the wood; Swiftly he made his way, the mischief done, Of all unheeded, and pursued by none. Alas! what stay is there in human state, Or who can shun inevitable fate? The doom was written, the decree was past, Ere the foundations of the world were cast! In Aries though the sun exalted stood, His patron-planet to procure his good; Yet Saturn was his mortal foe, and he, In Libra raised, opposed the same degree: The rays both good and bad, of equal power, Each thwarting other, made a mingled hour. On Friday-morn he dreamt this direful dream, Cross to the worthy native,[189] in his scheme. Ah blissful Venus! goddess of delight! How couldst thou suffer thy devoted knight, On thy own day, to fall by foe oppressed, The wight of all the world who served thee best? Who, true to love, was all for recreation, And minded not the work of propagation? Ganfride, who couldst so well in rhyme complain The death of Richard with an arrow slain, Why had not I thy muse, or thou my heart, To sing this heavy dirge with equal art! That I like thee on Friday might complain; For on that day was Cœur de Lion slain.--[190] Not louder cries, when Ilium was in flames, Were sent to heaven by woful Trojan dames, When Pyrrhus tossed on high his burnished blade, } And offered Priam to his father's shade, } Than for the cock the widowed poultry made. } Fair Partlet first, when he was borne from sight, With sovereign shrieks bewailed her captive knight; Far louder than the Carthaginian wife, When Asdrubal her husband lost his life, When she beheld the smouldring flames ascend, And all the Punic glories at an end: Willing into the fires she plunged her head, With greater ease than others seek their bed. Not more aghast the matrons of renown, When tyrant Nero burned the imperial town, Shrieked for the downfal in a doleful cry, For which their guiltless lords were doomed to die. Now to my story I return again: The trembling widow, and her daughters twain, This woful cackling cry with horror heard, Of those distracted damsels in the yard; And starting up, beheld the heavy sight, How Reynard to the forest took his flight, And cross his back, as in triumphant scorn, The hope and pillar of the house was borne. The fox, the wicked fox, was all the cry; Out from his house ran every neighbour nigh: The vicar first, and after him the crew, With forks and staves the felon to pursue. Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot with the band, And Malkin, with her distaff in her hand: Ran cow and calf, and family of hogs, In panic horror of pursuing dogs; With many a deadly grunt and doleful squeak, Poor swine, as if their pretty hearts would break. The shouts of men, the women in dismay, With shrieks augment the terror of the day. The ducks, that heard the proclamation cried, And feared a persecution might betide, Full twenty mile from town their voyage take, Obscure in rushes of the liquid lake. The geese fly o'er the barn; the bees, in arms, Drive headlong from their waxen cells in swarms. Jack Straw at London-stone, with all his rout, Struck not the city with so loud a shout; Not when with English hate they did pursue A Frenchman, or an unbelieving Jew;[191] Not when the welkin rung with _one and all_, } And echoes bounded back from Fox's hall; } Earth seemed to sink beneath, and heaven above to fall. } With might and main they chaced the murd'rous fox, With brazen trumpets, and inflated box, To kindle Mars with military sounds, Nor wanted horns to inspire sagacious hounds. But see how fortune can confound the wise, And when they least expect it, turn the dice. The captive-cock, who scarce could draw his breath, And lay within the very jaws of death; Yet in this agony his fancy wrought, And fear supplied him with this happy thought: Your's is the prize, victorious prince, said he, The vicar my defeat, and all the village see.[192] Enjoy your friendly fortune while you may, And bid the churls that envy you the prey Call back their mongrel curs, and cease their cry: } See fools, the shelter of the wood is nigh, } And Chanticleer in your despite shall die; } He shall be plucked and eaten to the bone.-- 'Tis well advised, in faith it shall be done; This Reynard said: but as the word he spoke, The prisoner with a spring from prison broke; Then stretched his feathered fans with all his might, And to the neighbouring maple winged his flight. Whom, when the traitor safe on tree beheld, He cursed the gods, with shame and sorrow filled: Shame for his folly; sorrow out of time, For plotting an unprofitable crime: Yet, mastering both, the artificer of lies, Renews the assault, and his last battery tries. Though I, said he, did ne'er in thought offend, How justly may my lord suspect his friend? The appearance is against me, I confess, Who seemingly have put you in distress. You, if your goodness does not plead my cause, May think I broke all hospitable laws, To bear you from your palace-yard by might, And put your noble person in a fright. This, since you take it ill, I must repent, Though heaven can witness, with no bad intent I practised it, to make you taste your cheer With double pleasure, first prepared by fear. So loyal subjects often seize their prince, } Forced (for his good) to seeming violence, } Yet mean his sacred person not the least offence. } Descend; so help me, Jove, as you shall find, That Reynard comes of no dissembling kind.-- Nay, quoth the cock; but I beshrew us both, If I believe a saint upon his oath: An honest man may take a knave's advice, But idiots only will be cozened twice: Once warned is well bewared; no flattering lies } Shall sooth me more to sing with winking eyes, } And open mouth, for fear of catching flies. } Who blindfold walks upon a river's brim, When he should see, has he deserved to swim?-- Better, sir cock, let all contention cease, Come down, said Reynard, let us treat of peace.-- A peace with all my soul, said Chanticleer; But, with your favour, I will treat it here: And lest the truce with treason should be mixt, 'Tis my concern to have the tree betwixt.[193]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 176: Partlet, or Perthelot, as the proper name of a hen, is a word of difficult and dubious etymology. Ruddiman, in his Glossary to Douglas's Virgil, gives several derivations; the most plausible is that which brings it from Partlet, an old word signifying a woman's ruff.]

[Footnote 177: Among the distiches ascribed to Cato, we do in fact find one to that purpose:--

_Somnia ne cures._--Lib. ii. distich 32. ]

[Footnote 178: Cicero, who tells both the following stories in his treatise, _De Divinatione_, lib. i. cap. 27. Chaucer has reversed their order, and added many picturesque circumstances.]

[Footnote 179: _Hoped_ and _unhoped_, anciently meant only _expected_ and _unexpected_. Puttenham, in his "Art of English Poesie," 1589, mentions the Tanner of Tamworth, who, in his broad dialect, said to King Edward, upon discovering his rank, and remembering the familiarities he had used with him while in disguise; "I hope I shall be hanged to-morrow," for "I fear me I shall be hanged." The use of the verb _hope_, was therefore limited to its present sense, even in Queen Elizabeth's time. But Dryden, in translating an old poet, used some latitude in employing ancient language.]

[Footnote 180: There may be room to suspect, that the line should run,

A court of coblers, and a mob of kings;

as better expressing the confusion of ideas incident to dreaming.]

[Footnote 181: Kenelm, son of Kenulph, king of Mercia, was murdered at the age of seven years by his sister Quendreda, and accounted a martyr.]

[Footnote 182: This vision Chaucer found, not in Homer, but in Dares Phrygius. Shakespeare alludes to it:

----Come, Hector, come, go back, Thy wife hath dreamed.---- ]

[Footnote 183: _In principio_ refers to the beginning of Saint John's Gospel.]

[Footnote 184: Taken from a fabulous conversation between the Emperor Adrian and the philosopher Secundus, reported by Vincent de Beauvais, SPEC. HIST. _Quid est Mulier? Hominis confusio; in saturabilis bestia,_ &c. The Cock's polite version is very ludicrous.]

[Footnote 185: Indulging, as usual, his political antipathies, Dryden fails not to make the fox a Puritan.]

[Footnote 186: According to the romantic history of Charlemaign, Gano, or Ganelon, betrayed the Christian army, at the battle of Roncesvalles, where Orlando and the Peers of France were slain. The pun upon _Gallic_, which is renewed in deriving the cock from Brennus and Belinus, a little farther down, is entirely Dryden's.]

[Footnote 187: Thomas Bradwardin, archbishop of Canterbury, a contemporary of Chaucer, composed a treatise on Predestination, and a work entitled, _De Causu Dei_, against Pelagius.]

[Footnote 188: Nigellus Wireker, who, in Richard the First's reign, composed a Book, called "_Burnellus, seu Speculum Stultorum_." The story alluded to, is of a cock, who, having been lamed by a priest's son, called Gundulfus, in revenge, omitted to crow upon a morning, when his enemy had directed that he should be called very early, in order to go to a distant church, where he was to take orders. By this stratagem, Gundulfus overslept himself, and was disappointed of his ordination.]

[Footnote 189: _Native_, in astrology, is the person whose scheme of nativity is calculated.]

[Footnote 190: Ganfride, or Geoffrey de Vinsauf, a Norman historian, and parcel poet, bewailed the death of Richard in plaintive hexameters, in which he particularly exclaims against Friday, the day on which that hero was shot by Bertram de Gurdun:

_Oh Veneris lacrymosa dies, O sydus amarum_ _Illa dies tua nox fuit, et Venus illa venenum_, &c. ]

[Footnote 191: Dryden has given Jack Straw the national antipathies of the mob in his own time. Chaucer says more correctly, their rage was directed against the Flemings. In the next two lines, Dryden again alludes to the riots of his own time, whose gathering cry used to be "one and all."]

[Footnote 192: This excellent parody upon Virgil is introduced by Dryden, and marks his late labours:

----_Vicisti! et victum tendere palmas Ausonii videre._-- ]

[Footnote 193: In the original, the tale concludes by a reflection of the Fox. The cock had said,

--he that winketh when he should see Al wilfully God let him never the. Nay, quoth the Fox, but God give him mischance That is so indiscreet of governance, That jangleth when that he should hold his peace. ]

THE MORAL.

In this plain fable you the effect may see Of negligence, and fond credulity: And learn besides of flatterers to beware, Then most pernicious when they speak too fair. The cock and fox, the fool and knave imply; The truth is moral, though the tale a lie. Who spoke in parables, I dare not say; } But sure he knew it was a pleasing way, } Sound sense, by plain example, to convey. } And in a heathen author we may find, } That pleasure with instruction should be joined; } So take the corn, and leave the chaff behind. }

THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF.

The argument of this piece, as given by the editors of Chaucer, runs thus:--

"_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 daisy, some to the flower, and some to the leaf. Afterwards 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._"

Some farther allegory was perhaps implied in this poem. Froissart, and other French poets, had established a sort of romantic devotion to the _marguerite_, or daisy, probably because the homage was capable of being allegorically transferred to any distinguished lady bearing that name. Chaucer might obliquely insinuate the superior valour of the warriors, and virtue of the ladies of Albion, by proposing to them the worship of the laurel, as a more worthy object of devotion than the flower. Nor is this interpretation absolutely disproved by the homage which Chaucer himself pays to the daisy in the Legend of Alcestis.[194] A poet is no more obliged to be consistent in his mythological creed, than constant in his devotion to one beauty, and may shift from the Grecian to the Gothic creed, or from the worship of Venus to that of Bellona. If every separate poem is consistent with itself, it would be hard to require any further uniformity.

Mr Godwin has elegantly and justly characterized the present version:--"The poem of the 'Floure and the Lefe' is a production of Chaucer, with which Dryden was 'so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the moral,' as to induce him to transfuse it into modern English. He has somewhat obscured the purpose of the tale, which in the original is defective in perspicuity; but he has greatly heightened the enchantment of its character. He has made its personages fairies, who annually hold a jubilee, such as is here described, on the first of May; Chaucer had left the species of the beings he employs vague and unexplained. In a word, the poem of Dryden, regarded merely as the exhibition of a soothing and delicious luxuriance of fancy, may be classed with the most successful productions of human genius." _Life of Chaucer_, Vol I. p. 344.

[Footnote 194: Godwin's Life of Chaucer, Vol. I. p. 346.]

THE

FLOWER AND THE LEAF;

OR, THE

LADY IN THE ARBOUR.

A VISION.

Now turning from the wintry signs, the sun His course exalted through the Ram had run, And whirling up the skies, his chariot drove Through Taurus, and the lightsome realms of love; Where Venus from her orb descends in showers, To glad the ground, and paint the fields with flowers: When first the tender blades of grass appear, } And buds, that yet the blast of Eurus fear, } Stand at the door of life, and doubt to clothe the year; } Till gentle heat, and soft repeated rains, Make the green blood to dance within their veins: Then, at their call emboldened, out they come, And swell the gems, and burst the narrow room; Broader and broader yet, their blooms display, Salute the welcome sun, and entertain the day. Then from their breathing souls the sweets repair To scent the skies, and purge the unwholesome air: Joy spreads the heart, and, with a general song, Spring issues out, and leads the jolly months along. In that sweet season, as in bed I lay, And sought in sleep to pass the night away, I turned my weary[195] side, but still in vain, Though full of youthful health, and void of pain. Cares I had none, to keep me from my rest, For love had never entered in my breast; I wanted nothing fortune could supply, Nor did she slumber till that hour deny. I wondered then, but after found it true, Much joy had dried away the balmy dew: Seas would be pools, without the brushing air, } To curl the waves; and sure some little care } Should weary nature so, to make her want repair. } When Chanticleer the second watch had sung, Scorning the scorner sleep, from bed I sprung; And dressing, by the moon, in loose array, } Passed out in open air, preventing day, } And sought a goodly grove, as fancy led my way. } Straight as a line in beauteous order stood Of oaks unshorn, a venerable wood; Fresh was the grass beneath, and every tree, At distance planted in a due degree, Their branching arms in air with equal space Stretched to their neighbours with a long embrace: And the new leaves on every bough were seen, Some ruddy-coloured, some of lighter green. The painted birds, companions of the spring, Hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sing. Both eyes and ears received a like delight, Enchanting music, and a charming sight, On Philomel I fixed my whole desire, And listened for the queen of all the quire; Fain would I hear her heavenly voice to sing, And wanted yet an omen to the spring. Attending long in vain, I took the way, Which through a path, but scarcely printed, lay; In narrow mazes oft it seemed to meet, And looked as lightly pressed by fairy feet. Wandering I walked alone, for still methought To some strange end so strange a path was wrought: At last it led me where an arbour stood, The sacred receptacle of the wood: This place unmarked, though oft I walked the green, In all my progress I had never seen; And seized at once with wonder and delight, Gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight. 'Twas benched with turf, and, goodly to be seen, The thick young grass arose in fresher green: The mound was newly made, no sight could pass Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass; The well-united sods so closely lay, And all around the shades defended it from day; For sycamores with eglantine were spread, A hedge about the sides, a covering over head. And so the fragrant brier was wove between, The sycamore and flowers were mixed with green, That nature seemed to vary the delight, And satisfied at once the smell and sight. The master workman of the bower was known Through fairy-lands, and built for Oberon; Who twining leaves with such proportion drew, They rose by measure, and by rule they grew; No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell, For none but hands divine could work so well. Both roof and sides were like a parlour made A soft recess, and a cool summer shade; The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye The persons placed within it could espy; But all that passed without with ease was seen, As if nor fence nor tree was placed between. 'Twas bordered with a field; and some was plain With grass, and some was sowed with rising grain, That (now the dew with spangles decked the ground) A sweeter spot of earth was never found. I looked and looked, and still with new delight; Such joy my soul, such pleasures filled my sight; And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Whose odours were of power to raise from death. Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care, Even though brought thither, could inhabit there: But thence they fled as from their mortal foe; For this sweet place could only pleasure know. Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye, And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh. The spreading branches made a goodly shew, And full of opening blooms was every bough: A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride Of painted plumes, that hopped from side to side, Still pecking as she passed; and still she drew The sweets from every flower, and sucked the dew: Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat, And tuned her voice to many a merry note, But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear, Yet such as soothed my soul, and pleased my ear. Her short performance was no sooner tried, When she I sought, the nightingale, replied: So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung; And I so ravished with her heavenly note, I stood entranced, and had no room for thought, But all o'er-powered with ecstasy of bliss, Was in a pleasing dream of paradise; At length I waked, and, looking round the bower, Searched every tree, and pryed on every flower, If any where by chance I might espy The rural poet of the melody; For still methought she sung not far away: At last I found her on a laurel spray. Close by my side she sate, and fair in sight, Full in a line, against her opposite; Where stood with eglantine the laurel twined, And both their native sweets were well conjoined. On the green bank I sat, and listened long; (Sitting was more convenient for the song:) Nor till her lay was ended could I move, But wished to dwell for ever in the grove. Only methought the time too swiftly passed, And every note I feared would be the last. My sight, and smell, and hearing, were employed, And all three senses in full gust enjoyed. And what alone did all the rest surpass, The sweet possession of the fairy place; Single and conscious to myself alone Of pleasures to the excluded world unknown; Pleasures which no where else were to be found, And all Elysium in a spot of ground. Thus while I sat intent to see and hear, And drew perfumes of more than vital air, All suddenly I heard the approaching sound Of vocal music, on the enchanted ground: An host of saints it seemed, so full the quire; } As if the blessed above did all conspire } To join their voices, and neglect the lyre. } At length there issued from the grove behind A fair assembly of the female kind: A train less fair, as ancient fathers tell, Seduced the sons of heaven to rebel. I pass their forms, and every charming grace; Less than an angel would their worth debase: But their attire, like liveries of a kind, All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind. In velvet white as snow the troop was gowned, The seams with sparkling emeralds set around: Their hoods and sleeves the same; and purfled o'er With diamonds, pearls, and all the shining store Of eastern pomp: their long-descending train, With rubies edged, and sapphires, swept the plain: High on their heads, with jewels richly set, Each lady wore a radiant coronet. Beneath the circles, all the quire was graced With chaplets green on their fair foreheads placed; Of laurel some, of woodbine many more, And wreaths of _Agnus castus_ others bore: These last, who with those virgin crowns were dressed, Appeared in higher honour than the rest. They danced around; but in the midst was seen } A lady of a more majestic mien; } By stature, and by beauty, marked their sovereign queen. } She in the midst began with sober grace; Her servants' eyes were fixed upon her face, And as she moved or turned, her motions viewed, Her measures kept and step by step pursued. Methought she trod the ground with greater grace, With more of godhead shining in her face; And as in beauty she surpassed the quire, So, nobler than the rest was her attire. A crown of ruddy gold inclosed her brow, Plain without pomp, and rich without a show: A branch of _Agnus castus_ in her hand She bore aloft (her sceptre of command;) Admired, adored by all the circling crowd, For wheresoe'er she turned her face, they bowed: And as she danced, a roundelay she sung, In honour of the laurel, ever young: She raised her voice on high, and sung so clear, } The fawns came scudding from the groves to hear, } And all the bending forest lent an ear. } At every close she made, the attending throng Replied, and bore the burden of the song: So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note, It seemed the music melted in the throat. Thus dancing on, and singing as they danced, They to the middle of the mead advanced, Till round my arbour a new ring they made, And footed it about the secret shade. O'erjoyed to see the jolly troop so near, But somewhat awed, I shook with holy fear; Yet not so much, but that I noted well Who did the most in song or dance excel. Not long I had observed, when from afar I heard a sudden symphony of war; The neighing coursers, and the soldiers' cry, And sounding trumps that seemed to tear the sky: I saw soon after this, behind the grove From whence the ladies did in order move, Come issuing out in arms a warrior train, That like a deluge poured upon the plain: On barbed steeds they rode in proud array, Thick as the college of the bees in May, When swarming o'er the dusky fields they fly, New to the flowers, and intercept the sky. So fierce they drove, their coursers were so fleet, That the turf trembled underneath their feet. To tell their costly furniture were long, The summer's day would end before the song: To purchase but the tenth of all their store, Would make the mighty Persian monarch poor. Yet what I can, I will: before the rest The trumpets issued in white mantles dressed; A numerous troop, and all their heads around } With chaplets green of cerrial-oak were crowned, } And at each trumpet was a banner bound; } Which, waving in the wind, displayed at large Their master's coat-of-arms, and knightly charge. Broad were the banners, and of snowy hue, A purer web the silk-worm never drew. The chief about their necks the scutcheons wore, With orient pearls and jewels powdered o'er: Broad were their collars too, and every one Was set about with many a costly stone.[196] Next these, of kings-at-arms a goodly train In proud array came prancing o'er the plain: Their cloaks were cloth of silver mixed with gold, And garlands green around their temples rolled: Rich crowns were on their royal scutcheons placed, With sapphires, diamonds, and with rubies graced: And as the trumpets their appearance made, So these in habits were alike arrayed; But with a pace more sober, and more slow, And twenty, rank in rank, they rode a-row. The pursuivants came next, in number more; And like the heralds each his scutcheon bore: Clad in white velvet all their troop they led, With each an oaken chaplet on his head. Nine royal knights in equal rank succeed, Each warrior mounted on a fiery steed, In golden armour glorious to behold; The rivets[197] of their arms were nailed with gold. Their surcoats of white ermine-fur were made; With cloth of gold between, that cast a glittering shade. The trappings of their steeds were of the same; The golden fringe even set the ground on flame, And drew a precious trail: a crown divine Of laurel did about their temples twine. Three henchmen[198] were for every knight assigned, All in rich livery clad, and of a kind; White velvet, but unshorn, for cloaks they wore, And each within his hand a truncheon bore: The foremost held a helm of rare device; A prince's ransom would not pay the price. The second bore the buckler of his knight, } The third of cornel-wood a spear upright, } Headed with piercing steel, and polished bright. } Like to their lords their equipage was seen, And all their foreheads crowned with garlands green. And after these came armed with spear and shield An host so great, as covered all the field: And all their foreheads, like the knights' before, With laurels ever-green were shaded o'er, Or oak, or other leaves of lasting kind, Tenacious of the stem, and firm against the wind. Some in their hands, beside the lance and shield, The boughs of woodbine or of hawthorn held, Or branches for their mystic emblems took, Of palm, of laurel, or of cerrial oak. Thus marching to the trumpet's lofty sound, } Drawn in two lines adverse they wheeled around, } And in the middle meadow took their ground. } Among themselves the tourney they divide, In equal squadrons ranged on either side; Then turned their horses' heads, and man to man, And steed to steed opposed, the justs began. They lightly set their lances in the rest, And, at the sign, against each other pressed; They met. I sitting at my ease beheld The mixed events, and fortunes of the field. Some broke their spears, some tumbled horse and man, And round the fields the lightened coursers ran. An hour and more, like tides, in equal sway They rushed, and won by turns, and lost the day: At length the nine (who still together held) } Their fainting foes to shameful flight compelled, } And with resistless force o'er-ran the field. } Thus, to their fame, when finished was the fight, The victors from their lofty steeds alight: Like them dismounted all the warlike train, And two by two proceeded o'er the plain; Till to the fair assembly they advanced, Who near the secret arbour sung and danced. The ladies left their measures at the sight, } To meet the chiefs returning from the fight, } And each with open arms embraced her chosen knight. } Amid the plain a spreading laurel stood, The grace and ornament of all the wood: That pleasing shade they sought, a soft retreat From sudden April showers, a shelter from the heat: Her leafy arms with such extent were spread, So near the clouds was her aspiring head, That hosts of birds, that wing the liquid air, Perched in the boughs, had nightly lodging there: And flocks of sheep beneath the shade from far Might hear the rattling hail, and wintry war; From heaven's inclemency here found retreat, Enjoyed the cool, and shunned the scorching heat: A hundred knights might there at ease abide, And every knight a lady by his side: The trunk itself such odours did bequeath, That a Moluccan breeze to these was common breath. The lords and ladies here, approaching, paid } Their homage, with a low obeisance made, } And seemed to venerate the sacred shade. } These rites performed, their pleasures they pursue, With songs of love, and mix with measures[199] new; Around the holy tree their dance they frame, And every champion leads his chosen dame. I cast my sight upon the farther field, And a fresh object of delight beheld: For from the region of the west I heard New music sound, and a new troop appeared; Of knights, and ladies mixed a jolly band, But all on foot they marched, and hand in hand. The ladies dressed in rich symars were seen } Of Florence sattin, flowered with white and green, } And for a shade betwixt the bloomy gridelin. } The borders of their petticoats below Were guarded thick with rubies on a row; And every damsel wore upon her head Of flowers a garland blended white and red. Attired in mantles all the knights were seen, That gratified the view with cheerful green: Their chaplets of their ladies' colours were, Composed of white and red, to shade their shining hair. Before the merry troop the minstrels played; All in their masters' liveries were arrayed, And clad in green, and on their temples wore The chaplets white and red their ladies bore. Their instruments were various in their kind, Some for the bow, and some for breathing wind; The sawtry,[200] pipe, and hautboy's noisy band, And the soft lute trembling beneath the touching hand. A tuft of daisies on a flowery lea They saw, and thitherward they bent their way; To this both knights and dames their homage made, And due obeisance to the daisy paid. And then the band of flutes began to play, To which a lady sung a virelay:[201] And still at every close she would repeat The burden of the song, _The daisy is so sweet_. _The daisy is so sweet_, when she begun, The troop of knights and dames continued on. The concert and the voice so charmed my ear, And soothed my soul, that it was heaven to hear. But soon their pleasure passed; at noon of day, The sun with sultry beams began to play: Not Sirius shoots a fiercer flame from high, When with his poisonous breath he blasts the sky; Then drooped the fading flowers (their beauty fled) } And closed their sickly eyes, and hung the head, } And, rivelled up with heat, lay dying in their bed. } The ladies gasped, and scarcely could respire The breath they drew, no longer air but fire; The fainty knights were scorched; and knew not where To run for shelter, for no shade was near. And after this the gathering clouds amain Poured down a storm of rattling hail and rain; And lightning flashed betwixt: the field, and flowers, Burnt up before, were buried in the showers. The ladies and the knights, no shelter nigh, Bare to the weather and the wintry sky, Were dropping wet, disconsolate, and wan, And through their thin array received the rain; While those in white, protected by the tree, Saw pass the vain assault, and stood from danger free. But as compassion moved their gentle minds, When ceased the storm, and silent were the winds, Displeased at what, not suffering, they had seen, They went to cheer the faction of the green: The queen in white array, before her band, Saluting, took her rival by the hand; So did the knights and dames, with courtly grace, And with behaviour sweet their foes embrace. Then thus the queen with laurel on her brow,-- Fair sister, I have suffered in your woe; Nor shall be wanting aught within my power For your relief in my refreshing bower.-- That other answered with a lowly look, And soon the gracious invitation took: For ill at ease both she and all her train The scorching sun had borne, and beating rain. Like courtesy was used by all in white, Each dame a dame received, and every knight a knight. The laurel champions with their swords invade The neighboring forests, where the justs were made, And sere wood from the rotten hedges took, And seeds of latent fire from flints provoke: A cheerful blaze arose, and by the fire They warmed their frozen feet, and dried their wet attire. Refreshed with heat, the ladies sought around For virtuous herbs, which gathered from the ground They squeezed the juice, and cooling ointment made, Which on their sun-burnt cheeks, and their chapt skins, they laid; Then sought green sallads, which they bade them eat, A sovereign remedy for inward heat. The Lady of the Leaf ordained a feast, And made the Lady of the Flower her guest: When lo, a bower ascended on the plain, With sudden seats adorned, and large for either train. This bower was near my pleasant arbour placed, That I could hear and see whatever passed: The ladies sat with each a knight between, Distinguished by their colours, white and green; The vanquished party with the victors joined, Nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the mind. Meantime the minstrels played on either side, Vain of their art, and for the mastery vied: The sweet contention lasted for an hour, And reached my secret arbour from the bower. The sun was set; and Vesper, to supply His absent beams, had lighted up the sky: When Philomel, officious all the day To sing the service of the ensuing May, Fled from her laurel shade, and winged her flight Directly to the queen arrayed in white; And hopping sat familiar on her hand, A new musician, and increased the band. The goldfinch, who, to shun the scalding heat, Had changed the medlar for a safer seat, And hid in bushes 'scaped the bitter shower, Now perched upon the Lady of the Flower; And either songster holding out their throats, And folding up their wings, renewed their notes; As if all day, preluding to the fight, They only had rehearsed, to sing by night. The banquet ended, and the battle done, They danced by star-light and the friendly moon: And when they were to part, the laureat queen Supplied with steeds the lady of the green. Her and her train conducting on the way, The moon to follow, and avoid the day. This when I saw, inquisitive to know The secret moral of the mystic show, I started from my shade, in hopes to find Some nymph to satisfy my longing mind; And as my fair adventure fell, I found A lady all in white, with laurel crowned, Who closed the rear, and softly paced along, Repeating to herself the former song. With due respect my body I inclined, As to some being of superior kind, And made my court according to the day, Wishing her queen and her a happy May. Great thanks, my daughter, with a gracious bow She said; and I, who much desired to know Of whence she was, yet fearful how to break My mind, adventured humbly thus to speak:-- Madam, might I presume and not offend, So may the stars and shining moon attend Your nightly sports, as you vouchsafe to tell, } What nymphs they were who mortal forms excel, } And what the knights who fought in listed fields so well.-- } To this the dame replied: Fair daughter, know, That what you saw was all a fairy show; And all those airy shapes you now behold, Were human bodies once, and clothed with earthly mold: Our souls, not yet prepared for upper light, Till doomsday wander in the shades of night; This only holiday of all the year, We, privileged, in sunshine may appear; With songs and dance we celebrate the day, And with due honours usher in the May. At other times we reign by night alone, And posting through the skies pursue the moon; But when the morn arises, none are found, For cruel Demogorgon walks the round, And if he finds a fairy lag in light, He drives the wretch before, and lashes into night. All courteous are by kind; and ever proud With friendly offices to help the good. In every land we have a larger space Than what is known to you of mortal race; Where we with green adorn our fairy bowers, And even this grove, unseen before, is ours. Know farther; every lady clothed in white, And, crowned with oak and laurel every knight, Are servants to the leaf, by liveries known Of innocence; and I myself am one. Saw you not her so graceful to behold In white attire, and crowned with radiant gold? The sovereign lady of our land is she, Diana called, the queen of chastity; And, for the spotless name of maid she bears, That _Agnus castus_ in her hand appears; And all her train, with leafy chaplets crowned, Were for unblamed virginity renowned; But those the chief and highest in command Who bear those holy branches in their hand: The knights adorned with laurel crowns are they, } Whom death nor danger ever could dismay, } Victorious names, who made the world obey: } Who, while they lived, in deeds of arms excelled, And after death for deities were held. But those, who wear the woodbine on their brow, Were knights of love, who never broke their vow; Firm to their plighted faith, and ever free From fears, and fickle chance, and jealousy. The lords and ladies, who the woodbine bear, As true as Tristram and Isotta were.-- But what are those, said I, the unconquered nine, Who, crowned with laurel-wreaths, in golden armour shine? And who the knights in green, and what the train Of ladies dressed with daisies on the plain? Why both the bands in worship disagree, And some adore the flower, and some the tree?-- Just is your suit, fair daughter, said the dame: Those laurelled chiefs were men of mighty fame; Nine worthies were they called of different rites, Three Jews, three Pagans, and three Christian knights.[202] These, as you see, ride foremost in the field, } As they the foremost rank of honour held, } And all in deeds of chivalry excelled: } Their temples wreathed with leaves, that still renew, For deathless laurel is the victor's due. Who bear the bows were knights in Arthur's reign, Twelve they, and twelve the peers of Charlemain; For bows the strength of brawny arms imply, Emblems of valour, and of victory.[203] Behold an order yet of newer date, Doubling their number, equal in their state; Our England's ornament, the crown's defence, In battle brave, protectors of their prince; Unchanged by fortune, to their sovereign true, For which their manly legs are bound with blue. These, of the garter called, of faith unstained, } In fighting fields the laurel have obtained, } And well repaid those honours which they gained. } The laurel wreaths were first by Cæsar worn, And still they Cæsar's successors adorn; One leaf of this is immortality, And more of worth than all the world can buy.-- One doubt remains, said I; the dames in green, What were their qualities, and who their queen?-- Flora commands, said she, those nymphs and knights, Who lived in slothful ease and loose delights; Who never acts of honour durst pursue, The men inglorious knights, the ladies all untrue; Who, nursed in idleness, and trained in courts, Passed all their precious hours in plays and sports, Till death behind came stalking on, unseen, And withered (like the storm) the freshness of their green. These, and their mates, enjoy the present hour, And therefore pay their homage to the flower. But knights in knightly deeds should persevere, } And still continue what at first they were; } Continue, and proceed in honour's fair career. } No room for cowardice, or dull delay; From good to better they should urge their way. For this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced, With pointed rowels armed, to mend their haste; For this with lasting leaves their brows are bound; } For laurel is the sign of labour crowned, } Which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground: } From winter winds it suffers no decay, For ever fresh and fair, and every month is May. Even when the vital sap retreats below, Even when the hoary head is hid in snow, The life is in the leaf, and still between The fits of falling snows appears the streaky green. Not so the flower, which lasts for little space, A short-lived good, and an uncertain grace: This way and that the feeble stem is driven, Weak to sustain the storms and injuries of heaven. Propped by the spring, it lifts aloft the head, } But of a sickly beauty, soon to shed; } In summer living, and in winter dead. } For things of tender kind, for pleasure made, Shoot up with swift increase, and sudden are decayed.-- With humble words, the wisest I could frame, And proffered service, I repaid the dame; That, of her grace, she gave her maid to know The secret meaning of this moral show. And she, to prove what profit I had made Of mystic truth, in fables first conveyed, Demanded till the next returning May, Whether the leaf or flower I would obey? I chose the leaf; she smiled with sober cheer, And wished me fair adventure for the year, And gave me charms and sigils, for defence Against ill tongues that scandal innocence:-- But I, said she, my fellows must pursue, Already past the plain, and out of view.-- We parted thus; I homeward sped my way, } Bewildered in the wood till dawn of day; } And met the merry crew, who danced about the May. } Then late refreshed with sleep, I rose to write The visionary vigils of the night. Blush, as thou may'st, my little book, for shame, Nor hope with homely verse to purchase fame; For such thy maker chose, and so designed Thy simple style to suit thy lowly kind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 195: Derrick, _wearied_.]

[Footnote 196: Trumpeters, and other warlike musicians, long held some part of the character of heralds and of ancient minstrels. They were distinguished by collars and tabards, and often employed on messages, during which their persons were sacred.]

[Footnote 197: The joints of the armour were rivetted with nails after the warrior had put it on. Hence among the sounds of preparation for battle, Shakespeare enumerates that of

----The armourers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up. ]

[Footnote 198: Personal attendants, as the name implies. They followed the knights in battle, and never quitted their side:

The Duke of York so dread, The eager vaward led, With the main Harry sped, Among his _henchmen_.

DRAYTON'S _Ballad of Agincourt_.

This office was long retained by the Highland chiefs, and usually conferred on a foster brother. Before a battle, the Frenchmen carried, as in the text, the arms of the knight ready for use.]

[Footnote 199: Derrick, _pleasures_.]

[Footnote 200: i.e. _psaltery._]

[Footnote 201: A species of song or lyric composition, with a returning burden. It is of kin to the _Rondeau_, but of a different measure.]

[Footnote 202: The common list of the nine worthies comprehends--Hector, Pompey, and Alexander, Pagans; Joshua, David, and Judas Machabeus, Jews; and Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Boulogne, Christians: But it is sometimes varied.]

[Footnote 203: This is a mistake of Dryden, who was misled by the spelling of the old English. Chaucer talks of _boughs_, not of _bows_; and says simply,

And tho that barin bowes in their hand; Of the precious lawrier so notable.

This refers to the description of the knights at their entrance, which Dryden has rightly rendered:

Some in their hands, besides the lance and shield, The bows of woodbine, or of hawthorn, held; Or branches for their mystic emblems took Of palm, of laurel, or of cerrial oak.

The bow, though the youth trained to chivalry were taught to use it, made no part of a knight's proper weapons. But it is curious how Dryden, having fallen into an error, finds out a reason for his false reading, by alleging, that the bows were borne as an emblem of strength of arm, valour, and victory. [Since this note was written, I observe, that the ingenious Dr Aikin has anticipated my observation.]

THE WIFE OF BATH.

The original of this tale should probably be sought in some ancient metrical romance. At least, we know, that there exists a ballad connected with the Round Table Romances, entitled "The Marriage of Sir Gawain," which seems to have been taken, not from Chaucer, but some more ancient and romantic legend. Gower also had seized upon this subject, and wrought it into the tale, entitled "Florent," which is the most pleasing in his dull _Confessio Amantis_. But what was a mere legendary tale of wonder in the rhime of the minstrel, and a vehicle for trite morality in that of Gower, in the verse of Chaucer reminds us of the resurrection of a skeleton, reinvested by miracle with flesh, complexion, and powers of life and motion. Of all Chaucer's multifarious powers, none is more wonderful than the humour, with which he touched upon natural frailty, and the truth with which he describes the inward feelings of the human heart; at a time when all around were employed in composing romantic legends, in which the real character of their heroes was as effectually disguised by the stiffness of their manners, as their shapes by the sharp angles and unnatural projections of their plate armour.

Dryden, who probably did not like the story worse, that it contained a passing satire against priests and women, has bestowed considerable pains upon his version. It is, perhaps, not to be regretted, that he left the Prologue to Pope, who has drawn a veil over the coarse nakedness of Father Chaucer. The tale is characteristically placed by the original author, in the mouth of the buxom Wife of Bath, whose mode of governing her different husbands is so ludicrously described in the Prologue.

THE

WIFE OF BATH

HER

TALE.

In days of old, when Arthur filled the throne, Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown; The king of elves, and little fairy queen, Gambolled on heaths, and danced on every green; And where the jolly troop had led the round, The grass unbidden rose, and marked the ground. Nor darkling did they dance;[204] the silver light } Of Phœbe served to guide their steps aright, } And, with their tripping pleased, prolonged the night. } Her beams they followed, where at full she played, } Nor longer than she shed her horns they staid, } From thence with airy flight to foreign lands conveyed. } Above the rest our Britain held they dear; } More solemnly they kept their Sabbaths here, } And made more spacious rings, and revelled half the year. } I speak of ancient times; for now the swain, } Returning late, may pass the woods in vain, } And never hope to see the nightly train; } In vain the dairy now with mints is dressed, } The dairy-maid expects no fairy guest } To skim the bowls, and after pay the feast. } She sighs, and shakes her empty shoes in vain, No silver penny to reward her pain; For priests, with prayers, and other godly gear, Have made the merry goblins disappear; And where they played their merry pranks before, Have sprinkled holy water on the floor; And friars, that through the wealthy regions run, Thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun, Resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls, And exorcise the beds, and cross the walls: This makes the fairy quires forsake the place, When once 'tis hallowed with the rites of grace. But in the walks, where wicked elves have been, } The learning of the parish now is seen; } The midnight parson, posting o'er the green, } With gown tucked up to wakes; for Sunday next, } With humming ale encouraging his text; } Nor wants the holy leer to country-girl betwixt. } From fiends and imps he sets the village free, There haunts not any incubus but he. The maids and women need no danger fear To walk by night, and sanctity so near; For by some haycock, or some shady thorn, He bids his beads both even-song and morn.[205] It so befel in this king Arthur's reign, } A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain; } A bachelor he was, and of the courtly train. } It happened as he rode, a damsel gay, In russet robes, to market took her way; Soon on the girl he cast an amorous eye; So straight she walked, and on her pasterns high: If seeing her behind he liked her pace, Now turning short, he better liked her face. He lights in haste, and, full of youthful fire, By force accomplished his obscene desire. This done, away he rode, not unespied, For, swarming at his back, the country cried; And, once in view, they never lost the sight, But seized, and, pinioned, brought to court the knight. Then courts of kings were held in high renown, Ere made the common brothels of the town; There virgins honourable vows received, But chaste as maids in monasteries lived; The king himself, to nuptial ties a slave, No bad example to his poets gave. And they, not bad but in a vicious age, Had not, to please the prince, debauched the stage.[206] Now, what should Arthur do? He loved the knight, But sovereign monarchs are the source of right: Moved by the damsel's tears and common cry, He doomed the brutal ravisher to die. But fair Geneura[207] rose in his defence, And prayed so hard for mercy from the prince, That to his queen the king the offender gave, And left it in her power to kill or save. This gracious act the ladies all approve, Who thought it much a man should die for love; And, with their mistress, joined in close debate, } (Covering their kindness with dissembled hate,) } If not to free him, to prolong his fate. } At last agreed, they called him by consent Before the queen and female parliament. And the fair speaker, rising from her chair, Did thus the judgment of the house declare:-- Sir knight, though I have asked thy life, yet still Thy destiny depends upon my will: Nor hast thou other surety, than the grace, Not due to thee, from our offended race. But as our kind is of a softer mold, And cannot blood, without a sigh, behold, I grant thee life; reserving still the power To take the forfeit when I see my hour; Unless thy answer to my next demand Shall set thee free from our avenging hand. The question, whose solution I require, Is, what the sex of women most desire? In this dispute thy judges are at strife; Beware, for on thy wit depends thy life. Yet (lest surprised, unknowing what to say, Thou damn thyself) we give thee farther day; A year is thine to wander at thy will, And learn from others, if thou want'st the skill; But, not to hold our proffer'd turn in scorn, Good sureties will we have for thy return, That at the time prefixed thou shalt obey, And at thy pledge's peril keep thy day.-- Woe was the knight at this severe command, But well he knew 'twas bootless to withstand. The terms accepted, as the fair ordain, He put in bail for his return again; And promised answer at the day assigned, The best, with heaven's assistance, he could find. His leave thus taken, on his way he went } With heavy heart, and full of discontent, } Misdoubting much, and fearful of the event. } 'Twas hard the truth of such a point to find, As was not yet agreed among the kind. Thus on he went; still anxious more and more, Asked all he met, and knocked at every door; Enquired of men; but made his chief request To learn from women what they loved the best. They answered each, according to her mind, To please herself, not all the female kind. One was for wealth, another was for place; Crones, old and ugly, wished a better face. The widow's wish was oftentimes to wed; The wanton maids were all for sport a-bed. Some said the sex were pleased with handsome lies, And some gross flattery loved without disguise. Truth is, says one, he seldom fails to win Who flatters well; for that's our darling sin. But long attendance, and a duteous mind, Will work even with the wisest of the kind. One thought the sex's prime felicity Was from the bonds of wedlock to be free; Their pleasures, hours, and actions, all their own, And, uncontrouled, to give account to none. Some wish a husband-fool; but such are cursed, For fools perverse of husbands are the worst. All women would be counted chaste and wise, Nor should our spouses see but with our eyes; For fools will prate; and though they want the wit To find close faults, yet open blots will hit; Though better for their ease to hold their tongue, For womankind was never in the wrong. So noise ensues, and quarrels last for life; The wife abhors the fool, the fool the wife. And some men say, that great delight have we To be for truth extolled, and secrecy; And constant in one purpose still to dwell, And not our husbands' counsels to reveal. But that's a fable; for our sex is frail, Inventing rather than not tell a tale. Like leaky sieves no secrets we can hold; Witness the famous tale that Ovid told.[208] Midas the king, as in his book appears, By Phoebus was endowed with asses ears, Which under his long locks he well concealed, (As monarchs' vices must not be revealed,) For fear the people have them in the wind, Who, long ago, were neither dumb nor blind; Nor apt to think from heaven their title springs, Since Jove and Mars left off begetting kings. This Midas knew; and durst communicate To none but to his wife his ears of state; One must be trusted, and he thought her fit, As passing prudent, and a parlous wit. To this sagacious confessor he went, And told her what a gift the gods had sent; But told it under matrimonial seal, With strict injunction never to reveal. The secret heard, she plighted him her troth, (And sacred sure is every woman's oath,) The royal malady should rest unknown, Both for her husband's honour and her own: But ne'ertheless she pined with discontent, The counsel rumbled till it found a vent. The thing she knew she was obliged to hide; } By interest and by oath the wife was tied, } But, if she told it not, the woman died. } Loth to betray a husband and a prince, } But she must burst or blab, and no pretence } Of honour tied her tongue from self-defence. } A marshy ground commodiously was near, Thither she ran, and held her breath for fear, Lest if a word she spoke of any thing, That word might be the secret of the king. Thus full of counsel to the fen she went, Griped all the way, and longing for a vent; Arrived, by pure necessity compelled, On her majestic marrow-bones she kneeled: Then to the water's brink she laid her head, And as a bittour bumps[209] within a reed,-- To thee alone, O lake! she said, I tell, (And, as thy queen, command thee to conceal:) Beneath his locks, the king my husband wears A goodly royal pair of asses ears: Now I have eased my bosom of the pain, Till the next longing fit return again.-- Thus through a woman was the secret known; Tell us, and, in effect, you tell the town. But to my tale: The knight, with heavy cheer, Wandering in vain, had now consumed the year; One day was only left to solve the doubt, Yet knew no more than when he first set out. But home he must; and, as the award had been, Yield up his body captive to the queen. In this despairing state he hap'd to ride, As fortune led him, by a forest side; Lonely the vale, and full of horror stood, Brown with the shade of a religious wood; When full before him, at the noon of night, (The moon was up, and shot a gleamy light,) He saw a quire of ladies in a round, That featly footing seemed to skim the ground. Thus dancing hand in hand, so light they were, He knew not where they trod, on earth or air. At speed he drove, and came a sudden guest; } In hope, where many women were, at least } Some one, by chance, might answer his request. } But faster than his horse the ladies flew, And in a trice were vanished out of view. One only hag remained; but fouler far Than grandame apes in Indian forests are; Against a withered oak she leaned her weight, } Propped on her trusty staff, not half upright, } And dropped an awkward courtesy to the knight. } Then said, What makes you, sir, so late abroad Without a guide, and this no beaten road? Or want you aught that here you hope to find, Or travel for some trouble in your mind? The last I guess; and if I read aright, Those of our sex are bound to serve a knight. Perhaps good counsel may your grief assuage, Then tell your pain, for wisdom is in age.-- To this the knight: Good mother, would you know The secret cause and spring of all my woe? My life must with to-morrow's light expire, Unless I tell what women most desire. Now could you help me at this hard essay, Or for your inborn goodness, or for pay, Yours is my life, redeemed by your advice, Ask what you please, and I will pay the price: The proudest kerchief of the court shall rest Well satisfied of what they love the best.-- Plight me thy faith, quoth she, that what I ask, Thy danger over, and performed the task, That shalt thou give for hire of thy demand, (Here take thy oath, and seal it on my hand,) I warrant thee, on peril of my life, Thy words shall please both widow, maid, and wife.-- More words there needed not to move the knight, To take her offer, and his truth to plight. With that she spread her mantle on the ground, And, first inquiring whither he was bound, Bade him not fear, though long and rough the way, At court he should arrive ere break of day: His horse should find the way without a guide, } She said: with fury they began to ride, } He on the midst, the beldam at his side. } The horse, what devil drove I cannot tell, But only this, they sped their journey well; And all the way the crone informed the knight, How he should answer the demand aright. To court they came; the news was quickly spread Of his returning to redeem his head. The female senate was assembled soon, With all the mob of women in the town: The queen sat lord chief-justice of the hall, And bade the crier cite the criminal. The knight appeared, and silence they proclaim: Then first the culprit answered to his name; And, after forms of law, was last required To name the thing that women most desired.-- The offender, taught his lesson by the way, And by his counsel ordered what to say, Thus bold began:--My lady liege, said he, What all your sex desire is--SOVEREIGNTY. The wife affects her husband to command; All must be her's, both money, house, and land: The maids are mistresses even in their name, And of their servants full dominion claim. This, at the peril of my head, I say, } A blunt plain truth, the sex aspires to sway, } You to rule all, while we, like slaves, obey.-- } There was not one, or widow, maid, or wife, But said the knight had well deserved his life. Even fair Geneura, with a blush, confessed, The man had found what women love the best. Up starts the beldam, who was there unseen, And, reverence made, accosted thus the queen:-- My liege, said she, before the court arise, May I, poor wretch, find favour in your eyes, To grant my just request: 'twas I who taught The knight this answer, and inspired his thought. None but a woman could a man direct To tell us women what we most affect. But first I swore him on his knightly troth, (And here demand performance of his oath,) To grant the boon that next I should desire; He gave his faith, and I expect my hire. My promise is fulfilled: I saved his life, And claim his debt, to take me for his wife.-- The knight was asked, nor could his oath deny, But hoped they would not force him to comply. The women, who would rather wrest the laws, Than let a sister-plaintiff lose the cause, (As judges on the bench more gracious are, And more attent to brothers of the bar,) Cried one and all, the suppliant should have right, And to the grandame hag adjudged the knight. In vain he sighed, and oft with tears desired, Some reasonable suit might be required. But still the crone was constant to her note; The more he spoke, the more she stretched her throat. In vain he proffered all his goods, to save His body, destined to that living grave. The liquorish hag rejects the pelf with scorn, And nothing but the man would serve her turn. Not all the wealth of eastern kings, said she, Has power to part my plighted love, and me; And, old and ugly as I am, and poor, Yet never will I break the faith I swore; For mine thou art by promise, during life, And I thy loving and obedient wife.-- My love! nay rather my damnation thou, Said he: nor am I bound to keep my vow; The fiend thy sire has sent thee from below, Else how couldst thou my secret sorrows know? Avaunt, old witch, for I renounce thy bed: } The queen may take the forfeit of my head, } Ere any of my race so foul a crone shall wed.-- } Both heard, the judge pronounced against the knight; So was he married in his own despite: And all day after hid him as an owl, Not able to sustain a sight so foul. Perhaps the reader thinks I do him wrong, To pass the marriage-feast, and nuptial song: Mirth there was none, the man was _a-la-mort_, And little courage had to make his court. To bed they went, the bridegroom and the bride: Was never such an ill-paired couple tied! Restless he tossed, and tumbled to and fro, And rolled, and wriggled further off, for woe. The good old wife lay smiling by his side, And caught him in her quivering arms, and cried,-- When you my ravished predecessor saw, } You were not then become this man of straw; } Had you been such, you might have 'scaped the law. } Is this the custom of king Arthur's court? Are all round-table knights of such a sort? Remember I am she who saved your life, Your loving, lawful, and complying wife: Not thus you swore in your unhappy hour, Nor I for this return employed my power. In time of need I was your faithful friend; Nor did I since, nor ever will offend. Believe me, my loved lord, 'tis much unkind; What fury has possessed your altered mind? Thus on my wedding-night--without pretence-- Come turn this way, or tell me my offence. If not your wife, let reason's rule persuade; Name but my fault, amends shall soon be made.-- Amends! nay that's impossible, said he, What change of age or ugliness can be? Or could Medea's magic mend thy face, Thou art descended from so mean a race, } That never knight was matched with such disgrace. } What wonder, madam, if I move my side, } When, if I turn, I turn to such a bride?-- And is this all that troubles you so sore?-- And what the devil couldst thou wish me more?-- Ah Benedicite! replied the crone: Then cause of just complaining have you none. The remedy to this were soon applied, Would you be like the bridegroom to the bride: But, for you say a long-descended race, And wealth and dignity, and power, and place, Make gentlemen, and that your high degree Is much disparaged to be matched with me,-- Know this, my lord, nobility of blood Is but a glittering and fallacious good: The nobleman is he, whose noble mind Is filled with inborn worth, unborrowed from his kind. The King of Heaven was in a manger laid, And took his earth but from an humble maid: Then what can birth, or mortal men, bestow, Since floods no higher than their fountains flow? We, who for name and empty honour strive, Our true nobility from him derive. Your ancestors, who puff your mind with pride, And vast estates to mighty titles tied, Did not your honour, but their own, advance; For virtue comes not by inheritance. If you tralineate from your father's mind, What are you else but of a bastard-kind? Do, as your great progenitors have done, And by their virtues prove yourself their son. No father can infuse, or wit, or grace; A mother comes across, and mars the race. A grandsire or a grandame taints the blood; And seldom three descents continue good. Were virtue by descent, a noble name Could never villanize his father's fame; But, as the first, the last of all the line, Would, like the sun, even in descending shine. Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house, Betwixt king Arthur's court and Caucasus, If you depart, the flame shall still remain, And the bright blaze enlighten all the plain; Nor, till the fuel perish, can decay, By nature formed on things combustible to prey. Such is not man, who, mixing better seed With worse, begets a base degenerate breed. The bad corrupts the good, and leaves behind No trace of all the great begetter's mind. The father sinks within his son, we see, And often rises in the third degree; If better luck a better mother give, Chance gave us being, and by chance we live. Such as our atoms were, even such are we, } Or call it chance, or strong necessity: } Thus loaded with dead weight, the will is free. } And thus it needs must be; for seed conjoined Lets into nature's work the imperfect kind; But fire, the enlivener of the general frame, Is one, its operation still the same. Its principle is in itself: while ours Works, as confederates war, with mingled powers; Or man or woman, which soever fails; And, oft, the vigour of the worse prevails. Æther, with sulphur blended, alters hue, And casts a dusky gleam of Sodom blue. Thus, in a brute, their ancient honour ends, And the fair mermaid in a fish descends: The line is gone; no longer duke or earl; But, by himself degraded, turns a churl. Nobility of blood is but renown } Of thy great fathers by their virtue known, } And a long trail of light, to thee descending down. } If in thy smoke it ends, their glories shine; But infamy and villanage are thine. Then what I said before is plainly showed, That true nobility proceeds from God: Not left us by inheritance, but given By bounty of our stars, and grace of heaven. Thus from a captive Servius Tullius rose, Whom for his virtues the first Romans chose. Fabricius from their walls repelled the foe, Whose noble hands had exercised the plough. From hence, my lord, and love, I thus conclude, That, though my homely ancestors were rude, Mean as I am, yet I may have the grace To make you father of a generous race. And noble then am I, when I begin, In virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin. If poverty be my upbraided crime, And you believe in heaven, there was a time When he, the great controller of our fate, Deigned to be man, and lived in low estate; Which he who had the world at his dispose, If poverty were vice, would never choose. Philosophers have said, and poets sing, That a glad poverty's an honest thing; Content is wealth, the riches of the mind, And happy he who can that treasure find; But the base miser starves amidst his store, } Broods on his gold, and, griping still at more, } Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor; } The ragged beggar, though he wants relief, Has not to lose, and sings before the thief.[210] Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood. Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been, by need, to full perfection brought: The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence; Prudence at once, and fortitude, it gives, And, if in patience taken, mends our lives; For even that indigence, that brings me low, Makes me myself, and him above, to know; A good which none would challenge, few would choose, A fair possession, which mankind refuse. If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend. If I am old and ugly, well for you, No lewd adulterer will my love pursue; Nor jealousy, the bane of married life, Shall haunt you for a withered homely wife; For age and ugliness, as all agree, Are the best guards of female chastity. Yet since I see your mind is worldly bent, I'll do my best to further your content; And therefore of two gifts in my dispose,-- Think ere you speak,--I grant you leave to choose: Would you I should be still deformed and old, Nauseous to touch, and loathsome to behold; On this condition, to remain for life A careful, tender, and obedient wife, In all I can contribute to your ease, And not in deed, or word, or thought displease? Or would you rather have me young and fair, And take the chance that happens to your share? Temptations are in beauty, and in youth. And how can you depend upon my truth? Now weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss, And thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss,-- Sore sighed the knight, who this long sermon heard; At length considering all, his heart he cheered, And thus replied:--My lady, and my wife, To your wise conduct I resign my life: Choose you for me, for well you understand The future good and ill, on either hand: But if an humble husband may request, Provide, and order all things for the best; Your's be the care to profit, and to please, And let your subject-servant take his ease.-- Then thus in peace, quoth she, concludes the strife, Since I am turned the husband, you the wife: The matrimonial victory is mine, Which, having fairly gained, I will resign; Forgive, if I have said or done amiss, And seal the bargain with a friendly kiss. I promised you but one content to share, But now I will become both good and fair. No nuptial quarrel shall disturb your ease; The business of my life shall be to please: And for my beauty, that, as time shall try; But draw the curtain first, and cast your eye.-- He looked, and saw a creature heavenly fair, In bloom of youth, and of a charming air. With joy he turned, and seized her ivory arm; And, like Pygmalion, found the statue warm. Small arguments there needed to prevail, A storm of kisses poured as thick as hail. Thus long in mutual bliss they lay embraced, And their first love continued to the last; One sunshine was their life, no cloud between, Nor ever was a kinder couple seen. And so may all our lives like their's be led; Heaven send the maids young husbands fresh in bed! May widows wed as often as they can, And ever for the better change their man. And some devouring plague pursue their lives, Who will not well be governed by their wives.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 204: Derrick, _glance_.]

[Footnote 205: The disappearance of the Fairies, which Chaucer ascribes to the exercitation of the friars, a latter bard, in the same vein of irony, imputes to the Reformation:

By which we note the fairies, Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave Marie's; Their dances were procession.

But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or farther for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

See "The Fairies Farewell," a lively little song, by the witty Bishop Corbet.]

[Footnote 206: Our author, to whom, now so far advanced in life, the recollection of some of his plays could not be altogether pleasant, is willing to seek an excuse for their licence in the debauchery of Charles and of his court. The attack of Collier had been too just to admit of its being denied; and our author, like other people, was content to make excuses where defence was impossible.]

[Footnote 207: Or Ganore, or Vanore, or Guenever, the wife of Arthur in romance.]

[Footnote 208: Ovid, indeed, tells the story in the Metamor. lib. xi. But how will the fair reader excuse Chaucer for converting the talkative male domestic of Midas into that king's wife?]

[Footnote 209: The sound which the bittern produces by suction among the roots of water plants, is provincially called _bumping_.]

[Footnote 210:

_Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator._

JUVENAL, Satire X. ]

THE

CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON.

This beautiful copy of a beautiful original makes us regret, that Dryden had not translated the whole Introduction to the "Canterbury Tales," in which the pilgrims are so admirably described. Something might have been lost for want of the ancient Gothic lore, which the writers of our poet's period did not think proper to study; but when Dryden's learning failed, his native stores of fancy and numbers would have helped him through the task.

"The Character of the Good Priest" may be considered as an _amende honorable_ to the reverend order whom Dryden had often satirized, and he himself seems to wish it to be viewed in that light. See Preface, p. 225. With a freedom which he has frequently employed elsewhere, Dryden has added the last forty lines, in which, availing himself of the Revolution, which in Chaucer's time placed Henry IV. on the throne, he represents the political principles of his priest as the same with those of the non-juring clergy of his own day. Indeed, the whole piece is greatly enlarged upon Chaucer's sketch.

THE

CHARACTER

OF

A GOOD PARSON.

A parish priest was of the pilgrim train; An awful, reverend, and religious man. His eyes diffused a venerable grace, And charity itself was in his face. Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, } (As God had clothed his own ambassador;) } For such on earth his blessed Redeemer bore. } Of sixty years he seemed, and well might last To sixty more, but that he lived too fast; Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense, And made almost a sin of abstinence. Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, But such a face as promised him sincere; Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity; Mild was his accent, and his action free. With eloquence innate his tongue was armed, Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed. For, letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky; And oft, with holy hymns, he charmed their ears, (A music more melodious than the spheres,) For David left him, when he went to rest, His lyre; and after him he sung the best. He bore his great commission in his look, But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke. He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell, } And warned the sinner with becoming zeal; } But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. } He taught the gospel rather than the law, And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw. For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat, Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat. To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard, Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared; But when the milder beams of mercy play, He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away. Lightnings and thunder, (heaven's artillery,) As harbingers before the Almighty fly: Those but proclaim his style, and disappear; The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there. The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took, But never sued, or cursed with bell and book; With patience bearing wrong, but offering none, Since every man is free to lose his own. The country churls, according to their kind, (Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,) The less he sought his offerings, pinched the more, And praised a priest contented to be poor. Yet of his little he had some to spare, To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare; For mortified he was to that degree, A poorer than himself he would not see. True priests, he said, and preachers of the word, Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord; Nothing was theirs, but all the public store; Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor; Who, should they steal, for want of his relief, He judged himself accomplice with the thief. Wide was his parish; not contracted close In streets, but here and there a straggling house; Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, to succour the distressed; Tempting on foot alone, without affright, The dangers of a dark tempestuous night. All this, the good old man performed alone, Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none. Nor durst he trust another with his care; Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair, To chaffer for preferment with his gold, Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold; But duly watched his flock by night and day, } And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey, } And hungry sent the wily fox away. } The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered; Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared. His preaching much, but more his practice wrought; (A living sermon of the truths he taught;) For this by rules severe his life he squared, That all might see the doctrine which they heard. For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest; (The gold of heaven, who bear the God impressed;) But when the precious coin is kept unclean, The Sovereign's image is no longer seen. If they be foul on whom the people trust, Well may the baser brass contract a rust. The prelate, for his holy life he prized; The worldly pomp of prelacy despised; His Saviour came not with a gaudy show, Nor was his kingdom of the world below. Patience in want, and poverty of mind, } These marks of church and churchmen he designed, } And living taught, and dying left behind. } The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn; In purple he was crucified, not born. They, who contend for place and high degree, Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee. Not but he knew the signs of earthly power Might well become Saint Peter's successor; The Holy Father holds a double reign, The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain.[211] Such was the saint, who shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face. God saw his image lively was expressed; And his own work, as in creation, blessed. The tempter saw him too with envious eye, And, as on Job, demanded leave to try. He took the time when Richard was deposed, And high and low with happy Harry closed. This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood: Near though he was, yet not the next of blood. Had Richard, unconstrained, resigned the throne, } A king can give no more than is his own: } The title stood entailed, had Richard had a son. } Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside; Where all submitted, none the battle tried. The senseless plea of right by Providence Was, by a flattering priest, invented since; And lasts no longer than the present sway, But justifies the next who comes in play. The people's right remains; let those who dare Dispute their power, when they the judges are. He joined not in their choice, because he knew Worse might, and often did, from change ensue. Much to himself he thought, but little spoke; And, undeprived, his benefice forsook. Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretched, And like a primitive apostle preached. Still cheerful; ever constant to his call; By many followed; loved by most, admired by all. With what he begged, his brethren he relieved, And gave the charities himself received; Gave, while he taught; and edified the more, Because he shewed, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor. He went not, with the crowd, to see a shrine; But fed us, by the way, with food divine. In deference to his virtues, I forbear To shew you what the rest in orders were: This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright, He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.

[Footnote 211: This passage is obviously introduced by the author, to apologize for the splendid establishment of the clergy of his own community. What follows, applies, as has been noticed, to the non-juring clergy, who lost their benefices for refusing the oath of allegiance to King William.]

FABLES.

TRANSLATIONS FROM BOCCACE.

SIGISMONDA AND GUISCARDO.

This celebrated tale was probably taken by Boccacio from some ancient chronicle or traditional legend. It excited great attention among the learned of his time, and was translated into Latin by Leonardo Aretino. Francesco di Michele Accolti de Arezzo, who was accounted one of the best civilians of his age, rendered into Italian verse the lamentation of Sigismonda over her lover's heart; and the learned Philip Beroald made a Latin poetical version of the whole fable. Translations and imitations without number have been executed in foreign languages, without mentioning the tragedies which have been founded upon it. In England, the story was translated and versified in the octave stanza by William Walter, a follower of Sir Henry Marney, chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster.[212] A prose translation is to be found in Painter's "Palace of Pleasure;" and the tale being wrought into a tragedy by Robert Wilmot and others, was presented before Queen Elizabeth, at the Inner Temple, in 1568.[213] Dryden will not readily be suspected of deriving much aid from his black-lettered predecessors. He made Boccacio's story his own, and told it in his own way. One gross fault he has engrafted upon his original; I mean the coarseness of Sigismonda's character, whose love is that of temperament, not of affection. This error, grounded upon Dryden's false view of the passion and of the female character, and perhaps arising from the depravity of the age rather than of the poet, pervades and greatly injures the effect of the tale. Yet it is more than counterbalanced by preponderating beauties. Without repeating the praise, elsewhere given to the majesty of the poet's versification, and which this piece alone would be sufficient to justify, the reader's attention may be solicited to the colours with which Dryden has drawn a mind wrought up to the highest pitch of despair. Sigismonda is placed in that situation, in which, above all others, the human disposition seems to acquire a sort of supernatural strength or obstinacy: for although guilty of a crime, she is punished in a degree far exceeding the measure of the offence. In such a situation, that acuteness of feeling, which would otherwise waste itself in fluctuations betwixt shame, fear, and remorse, is willingly and eagerly turned into the channel of resistance and recrimination; and perhaps no readier mode can be discovered of hardening the human heart, even to the consistence of the nether millstone. It is in this state, that Sigismonda resolutely, and even joyfully, embraces death, in order to punish her father, and rejoin her lover. The previous arguments with Tancred, sufficiently, and, in the circumstances, naturally, intimate the tone of her mind, and are a striking instance of Dryden's power in painting passion wrought up to desperation.

The scene is laid in the middle ages, when the principality of Salerno was ruled by a dynasty of Norman princes, deriving their family from the celebrated Robert de Guiscard.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 212: He flourished in the reign of Henry VII.; and his work, entitled, "The Stately Tragedy of Guiscard and Sigismond," is printed in 1597, probably from an earlier edition.]

[Footnote 213: It was published by Wilmot, in 1592, under the title of "The Tragedy of Tancred and Gismund," and occurs in the 2d volume of Dodsley's old plays.]

SIGISMONDA

AND

GUISCARDO.

While Norman Tancred in Salerno reigned, The title of a gracious prince he gained; Till turned a tyrant in his latter days, He lost the lustre of his former praise, And, from the bright meridian where he stood Descending, dipped his hands in lovers' blood. This prince, of fortune's favour long possessed, Yet was with one fair daughter only blessed; And blessed he might have been with her alone, But oh! how much more happy had he none! She was his care, his hope, and his delight, Most in his thought, and ever in his sight: Next, nay beyond his life, he held her dear; She lived by him, and now he lived in her. For this, when ripe for marriage, he delayed Her nuptial bands, and kept her long a maid, As envying any else should share a part Of what was his, and claiming all her heart. At length, as public decency required, And all his vassals eagerly desired, With mind averse, he rather underwent His people's will, than gave his own consent. So was she torn as from a lover's side, And made, almost in his despite, a bride. Short were her marriage-joys; for in the prime Of youth, her lord expired before his time; And to her father's court in little space } Restored anew, she held a higher place; } More loved, and more exalted into grace. } This princess, fresh and young, and fair and wise, The worshipped idol of her father's eyes, Did all her sex in every grace exceed, And had more wit beside than women need. Youth, health, and ease, and most an amorous mind, } To second nuptials had her thoughts inclined, } And former joys had left a secret sting behind. } But, prodigal in every other grant, Her sire left unsupplied her only want; And she, betwixt her modesty and pride, Her wishes, which she could not help, would hide. Resolved at last to lose no longer time, And yet to please herself without a crime, She cast her eyes around the court, to find A worthy subject suiting to her mind, To him in holy nuptials to be tied, A seeming widow, and a secret bride. Among the train of courtiers, one she found With all the gifts of bounteous nature crowned; Of gentle blood, but one whose niggard fate Had set him far below her high estate: Guiscard his name was called, of blooming age, Now squire to Tancred, and before his page: To him, the choice of all the shining crowd, Her heart the noble Sigismonda vowed. Yet hitherto she kept her love concealed, And with close glances every day beheld The graceful youth; and every day increased The raging fire that burned within her breast: Some secret charm did all his acts attend, And what his fortune wanted, hers could mend; Till, as the fire will force its outward way, Or, in the prison pent, consume the prey, So long her earnest eyes on his were set, At length their twisted rays together met; And he, surprised with humble joy, surveyed One sweet regard, shot by the royal maid. Not well assured, while doubtful hopes he nursed, A second glance came gliding like the first; And he, who saw the sharpness of the dart, Without defence received it in his heart. In public, though their passion wanted speech, Yet mutual looks interpreted for each: Time, ways, and means of meeting, were denied; But all those wants ingenious love supplied. The inventive God, who never fails his part, Inspires the wit, when once he warms the heart. When Guiscard next was in the circle seen, Where Sigismonda held the place of queen, A hollow cane within her hand she brought, But in the concave had inclosed a note; With this she seemed to play, and, as in sport, Tossed to her love, in presence of the court: Take it, she said; and when your needs require, This little brand will serve to light your fire.-- He took it with a bow, and soon divined The seeming toy was not for nought designed: But when retired, so long with curious eyes He viewed the present, that he found the prize. Much was in little writ; and all conveyed } With cautious care, for fear to be betrayed } By some false confident, or favourite maid. } The time, the place, the manner how to meet, Were all in punctual order plainly writ: But since a trust must be, she thought it best } To put it out of laymen's power at least, } And for their solemn vows prepared a priest. } Guiscard (her secret purpose understood) With joy prepared to meet the coming good; Nor pains nor danger was resolved to spare, But use the means appointed by the fair. Near the proud palace of Salerno stood A mount of rough ascent, and thick with wood; Through this a cave was dug with vast expence, The work it seemed of some suspicious prince, Who, when abusing power with lawless might, From public justice would secure his flight. The passage made by many a winding way, Reached even the room in which the tyrant lay. Fit for his purpose, on a lower floor He lodged, whose issue was an iron door; From whence, by stairs descending to the ground, In the blind grot a safe retreat he found. Its outlet ended in a brake o'ergrown With brambles, choked by time, and now unknown. A rift there was, which from the mountain's height Conveyed a glimmering and malignant light, A breathing place to draw the damps away, A twilight of an intercepted day. The tyrant's den, whose use, though lost to fame, Was now the apartment of the royal dame; The cavern, only to her father known, By him was to his darling daughter shewn. Neglected long she let the secret rest, Till love recalled it to her labouring breast, And hinted as the way by heaven designed, The teacher, by the means he taught, to blind. What will not women do, when need inspires Their wit, or love their inclination fires! Though jealousy of state the invention found, Yet love refined upon the former ground. That way, the tyrant had reserved to fly Pursuing hate, now served to bring two lovers nigh. The dame, who long in vain had kept the key, Bold by desire, explored the secret way; Now tried the stairs, and wading through the night, Searched all the deep recess, and issued into light. All this her letter had so well explained, The instructed youth might compass what remained; The cavern mouth alone was hard to find, Because the path, disused, was out of mind: But in what quarter of the copse it lay, His eye by certain level could survey: Yet (for the wood perplexed with thorns he knew) A frock of leather o'er his limbs he drew;[214] And, thus provided, searched the brake around, Till the choked entry of the cave he found. Thus, all prepared, the promised hour arrived, So long expected, and so well contrived: With love to friend, the impatient lover went, Fenced from the thorns, and trod the deep descent. The conscious priest, who was suborned before, Stood ready posted at the postern door; The maids in distant rooms were sent to rest, And nothing wanted but the invited guest. He came, and, knocking thrice without delay, The longing lady heard, and turned the key; At once invaded him with all her charms, And the first step he made was in her arms: The leathern outside, boisterous as it was, Gave way, and bent beneath her strict embrace: On either side the kisses flew so thick, That neither he nor she had breath to speak. The holy man, amazed at what he saw, Made haste to sanctify the bliss by law; And muttered fast the matrimony o'er, For fear committed sin should get before. His work performed, he left the pair alone, } Because he knew he could not go too soon; } His presence odious, when his task was done. } What thoughts he had beseems not me to say; } Though some surmise he went to fast and pray, } And needed both to drive the tempting thoughts away. } The foe once gone, they took their full delight; 'Twas restless rage, and tempest all the night; For greedy love each moment would employ, And grudged the shortest pauses of their joy. Thus were their loves auspiciously begun, And thus with secret care were carried on. The stealth itself did appetite restore, And looked so like a sin, it pleased the more. The cave was now become a common way, The wicket, often opened, knew the key: Love rioted secure, and, long enjoyed, Was ever eager, and was never cloyed. But as extremes are short, of ill and good, And tides at highest mark regorge the flood; So fate, that could no more improve their joy, Took a malicious pleasure to destroy. Tancred, who fondly loved, and whose delight Was placed in his fair daughter's daily sight, Of custom, when his state affairs were done, Would pass his pleasing hours with her alone; And, as a father's privilege allowed, Without attendance of the officious crowd. It happened once, that when in heat of day He tried to sleep, as was his usual way, The balmy slumber fled his wakeful eyes, And forced him, in his own despite, to rise: Of sleep forsaken, to relieve his care, He sought the conversation of the fair; But with her train of damsels she was gone, In shady walks the scorching heat to shun: He would not violate that sweet recess, And found besides a welcome heaviness, That seized his eyes; and slumber, which forgot When called before to come, now came unsought. From light retired, behind his daughter's bed, He for approaching sleep composed his head; A chair was ready, for that use designed, So quilted, that he lay at ease reclined; The curtains closely drawn, the light to skreen, As if he had contrived to lie unseen: Thus covered with an artificial night, Sleep did his office soon, and sealed his sight. With heaven averse in this ill-omened hour, Was Guiscard summoned to the secret bower, And the fair nymph, with expectation fired, From her attending damsels was retired: For, true to love, she measured time so right, As not to miss one moment of delight. The garden, seated on the level floor, She left behind, and locking every door, Thought all secure; but little did she know, Blind to her fate, she had inclosed her foe. Attending Guiscard, in his leathern frock, Stood ready, with his thrice-repeated knock: Thrice with a doleful sound the jarring grate Rung deaf and hollow, and presaged their fate. The door unlocked, to known delight they haste, And, panting in each other's arms, embraced; Rush to the conscious bed, a mutual freight, And heedless press it with their wonted weight. The sudden bound awaked the sleeping sire, And shewed a sight no parent can desire; His opening eyes at once with odious view The love discovered, and the lover knew: He would have cried; but hoping that he dreamt, Amazement tied his tongue, and stopped the attempt. The ensuing moment all the truth declared, } But now he stood collected, and prepared; } For malice and revenge had put him on his guard. } So like a lion that unheeded lay, } Dissembling sleep, and watchful to betray, } With inward rage he meditates his prey. } The thoughtless pair, indulging their desires, Alternate kindled, and then quenched their fires; Nor thinking in the shades of death they played, } Full of themselves, themselves alone surveyed, } And, too secure, were by themselves betrayed. } Long time dissolved in pleasure thus they lay, Till nature could no more suffice their play; Then rose the youth, and, through the cave again Returned, the princess mingled with her train. Resolved his unripe vengeance to defer, The royal spy, when now the coast was clear, Sought not the garden, but retired unseen, To brood in secret on his gathered spleen, And methodize revenge: to death he grieved; And, but he saw the crime, had scarce believed. The appointment for the ensuing night he heard, } And therefore in the cavern had prepared } Two brawny yeomen of his trusty guard. } Scarce had unwary Guiscard set his foot Within the foremost entrance of the grot, When these in secret ambush ready lay, And rushing on the sudden seized the prey: Encumbered with his frock, without defence, } An easy prize, they led the prisoner thence, } And, as commanded, brought before the prince. } The gloomy sire, too sensible of wrong, To vent his rage in words, restrained his tongue, And only said,--Thus servants are preferred, And, trusted, thus their sovereigns they reward. Had I not seen, had not these eyes received Too clear a proof, I could not have believed.-- He paused, and choked the rest. The youth, who saw His forfeit life abandoned to the law, The judge the accuser, and the offence to him Who had both power and will to avenge the crime. No vain defence prepared; but thus replied:-- The faults of love by love are justified: With unresisted might the monarch reigns, He levels mountains, and he raises plains; And not regarding difference of degree, Abased your daughter, and exalted me.-- This bold return with seeming patience heard, The prisoner was remitted to the guard. The sullen tyrant slept not all the night, But lonely walking by a winking light, Sobbed, wept, and groaned, and beat his withered breast, But would not violate his daughter's rest; Who long expecting lay, for bliss prepared, Listning for noise, and grieved that none she heard; Oft rose, and oft in vain employed the key, } And oft accused her lover of delay, } And passed the tedious hours in anxious thoughts away. } The morrow came; and at his usual hour Old Tancred visited his daughter's bower; Her cheek (for such his custom was) he kissed, Then blessed her kneeling, and her maids dismissed. The royal dignity thus far maintained, Now left in private, he no longer feigned; But all at once his grief and rage appeared, And floods of tears ran trickling down his beard. O Sigismonda,--he began to say: } Thrice he began, and thrice was forced to stay, } Till words with often trying found their way:-- } I thought, O Sigismonda, (but how blind Are parents' eyes, their children's faults to find!) Thy virtue, birth, and breeding, were above A mean desire, and vulgar sense of love; Nor less than sight and hearing could convince } So fond a father, and so just a prince, } Of such an unforeseen and unbelieved offence. } Then what indignant sorrow must I have, To see thee lie subjected to my slave! A man so smelling of the people's lee, The court received him first for charity; And since with no degree of honour graced, But only suffered, where he first was placed. A grovelling insect still; and so designed By nature's hand, nor born of noble kind: A thing, by neither man nor woman prized, And scarcely known enough to be despised. To what has heaven reserved my age? Ah! why Should man, when nature calls, not chuse to die, Rather than stretch the span of life, to find Such ills as fate has wisely cast behind, For those to feel, whom fond desire to live Makes covetous of more than life can give! Each has his share of good; and when 'tis gone, The guest, though hungry, cannot rise too soon. But I, expecting more, in my own wrong Protracting life, have lived a day too long. If yesterday could be recalled again, Even now would I conclude my happy reign; But 'tis too late, my glorious race is run, And a dark cloud o'ertakes my setting sun. Had'st thou not loved, or, loving, saved the shame, If not the sin, by some illustrious name, This little comfort had relieved my mind, 'Twas frailty, not unusual to thy kind: But thy low fall beneath thy royal blood, Shews downward appetite to mix with mud. Thus not the least excuse is left for thee, Nor the least refuge for unhappy me. For him I have resolved; whom by surprise I took, and scarce can tell it, in disguise; For such was his attire, as, with intent Of nature, suited to his mean descent: The harder question yet remains behind, } What pains a parent and a prince can find } To punish an offence of this degenerate kind. } As I have loved, and yet I love thee more Than ever father loved a child before, So that indulgence draws me to forgive: Nature, that gave thee life, would have thee live. But, as a public parent of the state, My justice, and thy crime, requires thy fate. Fain would I choose a middle course to steer; Nature's too kind, and justice too severe: Speak for us both, and to the balance bring On either side the father and the king. Heaven knows, my heart is bent to favour thee; Make it but scanty weight, and leave the rest to me.-- Here stopping with a sigh, he poured a flood Of tears, to make his last expression good. She, who had heard him speak, nor saw alone The secret conduct of her love was known, But he was taken who her soul possessed, Felt all the pangs of sorrow in her breast: And little wanted, but a woman's heart, With cries and tears, had testified her smart: But inborn worth, that fortune can controul, New-strung, and stiffer bent her softer soul; The heroine assumed the woman's place, Confirmed her mind, and fortified her face: Why should she beg, or what could she pretend, When her stern father had condemned her friend! Her life she might have had; but her despair Of saving his, had put it past her care: Resolved on fate, she would not lose her breath, But, rather than not die, solicit death. Fixed on this thought, she, not as women use, Her fault by common frailty would excuse; But boldly justified her innocence, And while the fact was owned, denied the offence: Then with dry eyes, and with an open look, She met his glance mid-way, and thus undaunted spoke:-- Tancred, I neither am disposed to make Request for life, nor offered life to take; Much less deny the deed; but least of all Beneath pretended justice weakly fall. My words to sacred truth shall be confined, My deeds shall shew the greatness of my mind. That I have loved, I own; that still I love, I call to witness all the powers above: Yet more I own; to Guiscard's love I give The small remaining time I have to live; And if beyond this life desire can be, Not fate itself shall set my passion free. This first avowed; nor folly warped my mind, Nor the frail texture of the female kind Betrayed my virtue; for, too well I knew What honour was, and honour had his due: Before the holy priest my vows were tied, So came I not a strumpet, but a bride. This for my fame, and for the public voice; Yet more, his merits justified my choice: Which had they not, the first election thine, That bond dissolved, the next is freely mine: Or grant I erred, (which yet I must deny) Had parents power even second vows to tie, Thy little care to mend my widowed nights, } Has forced me to recourse of marriage-rites, } To fill an empty side, and follow known delights. } What have I done in this, deserving blame? State-laws may alter; nature's are the same; Those are usurped on helpless womankind, Made without our consent, and wanting power to bind. Thou, Tancred, better shouldst have understood, That, as thy father gave thee flesh and blood, So gavest thou me: not from the quarry hewed, But of a softer mould, with sense endued; Even softer than thy own, of suppler kind, More exquisite of taste, and more than man refined. Nor need'st thou by thy daughter to be told, Though now thy spritely blood with age be cold, Thou hast been young; and canst remember still, That when thou hadst the power, thou hadst the will; And from the past experience of thy fires, } Canst tell with what a tide our strong desires } Come rushing on in youth, and what their rage requires. } And grant thy youth was exercised in arms, When love no leisure found for softer charms, My tender age in luxury was trained, } With idle ease and pageants entertained; } My hours my own, my pleasures unrestrained. } So bred, no wonder if I took the bent That seemed even warranted by thy consent; For when the father is too fondly kind, Such seed he sows, such harvest shall he find. Blame then thyself, as reason's law requires, (Since nature gave, and thou foment'st my fires;) If still those appetites continue strong, Thou may'st consider I am yet but young. Consider too, that, having been a wife, I must have tasted of a better life; And am not to be blamed, if I renew, By lawful means, the joys which then I knew. Where was the crime, if pleasure I procured; Young, and a woman, and to bliss inured? That was my case, and this is my defence:-- } I pleased myself, I shunned incontinence, } And, urged by strong desires, indulged my sense. } Left to myself, I must avow, I strove From public shame to screen my secret love, And, well acquainted with thy native pride, } Endeavoured what I could not help, to hide; } For which a woman's wit an easy way supplied. } How this, so well contrived, so closely laid, Was known to thee, or by what chance betrayed, Is not my care; to please thy pride alone, I could have wished it had been still unknown. Nor took I Guiscard by blind fancy led, Or hasty choice, as many women wed; But with deliberate care, and ripened thought, At leisure first designed, before I wrought. On him I rested, after long debate, And, not without considering, fixed my fate. His flame was equal, though by mine inspired; (For so the difference of our birth required:) Had he been born like me, like me his love Had first begun, what mine was forced to move: But thus beginning, thus we persevere; } Our passions yet continue what they were, } Nor length of trial makes our joys the less sincere. } At this my choice, though not by thine allowed, (Thy judgment herding with the common crowd,) Thou tak'st unjust offence; and, led by them, Dost less the merit than the man esteem. Too sharply, Tancred, by thy pride betrayed, Hast thou against the laws of kind inveighed; For all the offence is in opinion placed, Which deems high birth by lowly choice debased. This thought alone with fury fires thy breast, (For holy marriage justifies the rest,) That I have sunk the glories of the state, And mixed my blood with a plebeian mate: In which I wonder thou shouldst oversee } Superior causes, or impute to me } The fault of fortune, or the Fates' decree. } Or call it heaven's imperial power alone, Which moves on springs of justice, though unknown; Yet this we see, though ordered for the best, The bad exalted, and the good oppressed; Permitted laurels grace the lawless brow; The unworthy raised, the worthy cast below. But leaving that: search we the secret springs, And backward trace the principles of things; There shall we find, that, when the world began, One common mass composed the mould of man; One paste of flesh on all degrees bestowed, And kneaded up alike with moistening blood. The same Almighty Power inspired the frame With kindled life, and formed the souls the same: The faculties of intellect and will } Dispensed with equal hand, disposed with equal skill, } Like liberty indulged, with choice of good or ill. } Thus born alike, from virtue first began The difference that distinguished man from man: He claimed no title from descent of blood, But that which made him noble made him good. Warmed with more particles of heavenly flame, } He winged his upward flight, and soared to fame; } The rest remained below, a tribe without a name. } This law, though custom now diverts the course, As nature's institute, is yet in force; Uncancelled, though disused: and he, whose mind Is virtuous, is alone of noble kind; Though poor in fortune, of celestial race; And he commits the crime, who calls him base. Now lay the line, and measure all thy court By inward virtue, not external port, And find whom justly to prefer above The man on whom my judgment placed my love; So shalt thou see his parts and person shine, And, thus compared, the rest a base degenerate line. Nor took I, when I first surveyed thy court, His valour or his virtues on report; But trusted what I ought to trust alone, Relying on thy eyes, and not my own; Thy praise (and thine was then the public voice) First recommended Guiscard to my choice: Directed thus by thee, I looked, and found A man I thought deserving to be crowned; First by my father pointed to my sight, Nor less conspicuous by his native light; His mind, his mien, the features of his face, Excelling all the rest of human race: These were thy thoughts, and thou couldst judge aright, Till interest made a jaundice in thy sight. Or should I grant thou didst not rightly see, Then thou wert first deceived, and I deceived by thee. But if thou shalt allege, through pride of mind, Thy blood with one of base condition joined, 'Tis false; for 'tis not baseness to be poor: His poverty augments thy crime the more; Upbraids thy justice with the scant regard Of worth; whom princes praise, they should reward. Are these the kings entrusted by the crowd With wealth, to be dispensed for common good? The people sweat not for their king's delight, To enrich a pimp, or raise a parasite; Theirs is the toil; and he, who well has served His country, has his country's wealth deserved. Even mighty monarchs oft are meanly born, And kings by birth to lowest rank return; All subject to the power of giddy chance, For fortune can depress, or can advance: But true nobility is of the mind, Not given by chance, and not to chance resigned. For the remaining doubt of thy decree, What to resolve, and how dispose of me; Be warned to cast that useless care aside, Myself alone will for myself provide. If in thy doating and decrepit age, Thy soul, a stranger in thy youth to rage, Begins in cruel deeds to take delight, Gorge with my blood thy barbarous appetite; For I so little am disposed to pray For life, I would not cast a wish away. Such as it is, the offence is all my own; And what to Guiscard is already done, Or to be done is doomed by thy decree, } That, if not executed first by thee, } Shall on my person be performed by me. } Away! with women weep, and leave me here, Fixed, like a man, to die without a tear; Or save, or slay us both this present hour, 'Tis all that fate has left within thy power.-- She said; nor did her father fail to find, In all she spoke, the greatness of her mind; Yet thought she was not obstinate to die, Nor deemed the death she promised was so nigh. Secure in this belief, he left the dame, Resolved to spare her life, and save her shame; But that detested object to remove, To wreck his vengeance, and to cure her love. Intent on this, a secret order signed The death of Guiscard to his guards enjoined; Strangling was chosen, and the night the time; A mute revenge, and blind as was the crime. His faithful heart, a bloody sacrifice, Torn from his breast, to glut the tyrant's eyes, Closed the severe command; for (slaves to pay) What kings decree, the soldier must obey: Waged against foes; and when the wars are o'er, Fit only to maintain despotic power; Dangerous to freedom, and desired alone By kings, who seek an arbitrary throne.[215] Such were these guards; as ready to have slain The prince himself, allured with greater gain: So was the charge performed with better will, By men inured to blood, and exercised in ill. Now, though the sullen sire had eased his mind, } The pomp of his revenge was yet behind, } A pomp prepared to grace the present he designed. } A goblet rich with gems, and rough with gold, Of depth and breadth the precious pledge to hold, With cruel care he chose; the hollow part Inclosed, the lid concealed the lover's heart. Then of his trusted mischiefs one he sent, And bade him, with these words, the gift present:-- "Thy father sends thee this to cheer thy breast, And glad thy sight with what thou lov'st the best; As thou hast pleased his eyes, and joyed his mind, With what he loved the most of human kind."-- Ere this, the royal dame, who well had weighed The consequence of what her sire had said, Fixed on her fate, against the expected hour, procured the means to have it in her power; For this, she had distilled, with early care, The juice of simples, friendly to despair, A magazine of death; and thus prepared, Secure to die, the fatal message heard: Then smiled severe; nor with a troubled look, Or trembling hand, the funeral present took; Even kept her countenance, when the lid removed Disclosed the heart, unfortunately loved. She needed not be told, within whose breast It lodged; the message had explained the rest. Or not amazed, or hiding her surprise, She sternly on the bearer fixed her eyes; Then thus:--Tell Tancred, on his daughter's part, The gold, though precious, equals not the heart: But he did well to give his best; and I, Who wished a worthier urn, forgive his poverty.-- At this she curbed a groan, that else had come, And, pausing, viewed the present in the tomb; Then to the heart, adored devoutly, glued Her lips, and, raising it, her speech renewed:-- Even from my day of birth to this, the bound Of my unhappy being, I have found My father's care and tenderness expressed; But this last act of love excels the rest: For this so dear a present, bear him back The best return that I can live to make.-- The messenger dispatched, again she viewed The loved remains, and, sighing, thus pursued:-- Source of my life, and lord of my desires, In whom I lived, with whom my soul expires! Poor heart! no more the spring of vital heat; Cursed be the hands that tore thee from thy seat! The course is finished which thy fates decreed, And thou from thy corporeal prison freed: Soon hast thou reached the goal with mended pace; A world of woes dispatched in little space. Forced by thy worth, thy foe, in death become Thy friend, has lodged thee in a costly tomb. There yet remained thy funeral exequies, The weeping tribute of thy widow's eyes; And those indulgent heaven has found the way, That I, before my death, have leave to pay. My father even in cruelty is kind, } Or heaven has turned the malice of his mind } To better uses than his hate designed; } And made the insult, which in his gift appears, The means to mourn thee with my pious tears; Which I will pay thee down before I go, And save myself the pains to weep below, If souls can weep. Though once I meant to meet My fate with face unmoved, and eyes unwet, Yet, since I have thee here in narrow room, My tears shall set thee first afloat within thy tomb. Then (as I know thy spirit hovers nigh) Under thy friendly conduct will I fly To regions unexplored, secure to share } Thy state; nor hell shall punishment appear; } And heaven is double heaven, if thou art there.-- } She said: Her brimful eyes, that ready stood, And only wanted will to weep a flood, Released their watery store, and poured amain, Like clouds low-hung, a sober shower of rain; Mute solemn sorrow, free from female noise, Such as the majesty of grief destroys; For, bending o'er the cup, the tears she shed, Seemed by the posture to discharge her head, O'er-filled before; and (oft her mouth applied To the cold heart) she kissed at once, and cried. Her maids, who stood amazed, nor knew the cause Of her complaining, nor whose heart it was, Yet all due measures of her mourning kept, Did office at the dirge, and by infection wept, And oft enquired the occasion of her grief, (Unanswered but by sighs) and offered vain relief. At length, her stock of tears already shed, She wiped her eyes, she raised her drooping head, And thus pursued:--O ever faithful heart, I have performed the ceremonial part, The decencies of grief; it rests behind, That, as our bodies were, our souls be joined; To thy whate'er abode my shade convey, And, as an elder ghost, direct the way!-- She said; and bade the vial to be brought, Where she before had brewed the deadly draught; First pouring out the med'cinable bane, The heart, her tears had rinsed, she bathed again; Then down her throat the death securely throws, And quaffs a long oblivion of her woes. This done, she mounts the genial bed, and there (Her body first composed with honest care) Attends the welcome rest; her hands yet hold, Close to her heart, the monumental gold; Nor farther word she spoke, but closed her sight, And quiet sought the covert of the night. The damsels, who the while in silence mourned, Not knowing, nor suspecting death suborned, Yet, as their duty was, to Tancred sent, Who, conscious of the occasion, feared the event. Alarmed, and with presaging heart, he came, And drew the curtains, and exposed the dame To loathsome light; then, with a late relief, Made vain efforts to mitigate her grief. She, what she could, excluding day, her eyes Kept firmly sealed, and sternly thus replies:-- Tancred, restrain thy tears, unsought by me, And sorrow unavailing now to thee: Did ever man before afflict his mind, To see the effect of what himself designed? Yet if thou hast remaining in thy heart Some sense of love, some unextinguished part Of former kindness, largely once professed, } Let me by that adjure thy hardened breast, } Not to deny thy daughter's last request: } The secret love which I so long enjoyed, And still concealed, to gratify thy pride, Thou hast disjoined; but, with my dying breath, Seek not, I beg thee, to disjoin our death: Where'er his corpse by thy command is laid, Thither let mine in public be conveyed; Exposed in open view, and side by side, Acknowledged as a bridegroom and a bride.-- The prince's anguish hindered his reply; And she, who felt her fate approaching nigh, Seized the cold heart, and heaving to her breast,-- Here, precious pledge, she said, securely rest.-- These accents were her last; the creeping death Benumbed her senses first, then stopped her breath. Thus she for disobedience justly died; The sire was justly punished for his pride; The youth, least guilty, suffered for the offence, Of duty violated to his prince; Who, late repenting of his cruel deed, One common sepulchre for both decreed; Entombed the wretched pair in royal state, And on their monument inscribed their fate.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 214: This minute circumstance, which is mentioned by Boccacio, seems to argue, that the story had a real, at least a traditional foundation; for there is no other reason why it should have been introduced.]

[Footnote 215: The dispute between William and his Parliament about his favourite Dutch guards, was obviously in Dryden's recollection.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FOURTH DAY.

NOVEL I.

_Tancred, prince of Salerno, puts his daughter's lover to death, and sends his heart to her in a golden cup; she pours water upon it, which she had poisoned, and so dies._

Our king has given us a most melancholy subject for this day's discourse; considering that, as we came hither to be merry, we must now recount other people's misfortunes, which cannot be related without moving compassion, as well in those who tell, as in those who hear them. Perhaps it is designed as an allay to the mirth of the preceding days. But, whatever his reason may be for it, I have no business to make any alteration with regard to his pleasure. I shall, therefore, mention an unhappy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion.

Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had he not, in his old age, defiled his hands in a lover's blood. He, through the whole course of his life, had one only daughter; and happy had he been not to have possessed her. No child could be more dear to a parent than she was, which made him loth to part with her in marriage: at length, not till she was a little advanced in years, he married her to the duke of Capoa, when she was soon left a widow, and came home again to her father. She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and continuing thus in the court of her father, who took no care to marry her again, and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly, she made choice of a person of low parentage, but noble qualities, whose name was Guiscard, with whom she became violently in love; and by often seeing him, and evermore commending his manner and behaviour, he soon became sensible of it, and devoted himself entirely to the love of her. Affecting each other thus in secret, and she desiring nothing so much as to be with him, and not daring to trust any person with the affair, contrived a new stratagem in order to apprise him of the means. She wrote a letter, wherein she mentioned what she would have him do the next day for her; this she put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said, pleasantly, "You may make a pair of bellows of this, for your servant to blow the fire with this evening." He received it, supposing, very justly, that it had some meaning, and, taking it home, found the letter; which, when he had thoroughly considered, and knew what he had to do, he was the most overjoyed man that could be; and he applied himself accordingly to answer her assignation, in the manner she had directed him. On one side of the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto, which had been made time out of mind, and into which no light could come but through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the grotto had been long in disuse, was now grown over with briers and thorns. Into this grotto was a passage, by a private stair-case, out of one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady's apartment, and was secured by a very strong door. This passage was so far out of every one's thoughts, having been disused for so long a time, that nobody remembered any thing about it; but love, whose notice nothing can escape, brought it fresh into the mind of the enamoured lady; who, to keep this thing entirely private, laboured some days before she could get the door open; when having gone down into the cave, and observed the opening, and how high it might be from thence to the bottom, she acquainted him with the fact. Guiscard then provided a ladder of cords; and casing himself well with leather, to be defended from the thorns, fixing one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which was near, he slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he stayed expecting the lady. The following day, therefore, having sent her maids out of the way, under pretence that she was going to lie down, and locking herself up alone in her chamber, she opened the door, and descended into the grotto, where they met to their mutual satisfaction. From thence she shewed him the way to her chamber, where they were together the greatest part of the day, and taking proper measures for the time to come, he went away through the cave, and she returned to her maids. The same he did the next night; and he followed this course for a considerable time, when fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, thought fit to change their mirth into mourning. Tancred used sometimes to come into his daughter's chamber, to pass a little time away with her; and going thither one day after dinner, whilst the lady, whose name was Ghismond, was with her maids in the garden; and being perceived by no one, nor yet willing to take her from her diversion, finding also the windows shut, and the curtains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in a great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaning his head upon the bed, and drawing the curtain before him, as if he concealed himself on purpose, when he chanced to fall asleep. In the mean time, Ghismond having made an appointment with her lover, left the maids in the garden, and came into her chamber, which she secured, not thinking of any person being there, and went to meet Guiscard, who was in the cave waiting for her, and brought him into her chamber; when her father awoke, and was a witness to all that passed between them. This was the utmost affliction to him, and he was about to cry out; but, upon second thoughts, he resolved to keep it private, if possible, that he might be able to do more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved upon. The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving any thing of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of the window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without being seen by any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. The next night, according to his orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as he was coming out of the cave, and carried by them, in his leathern doublet, to Tancred, who, as soon as he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes: "Guiscard, you have ill requited my kindness towards you, by this outrage and shame which you have brought upon me, and of which this very day I have been an eye-witness." When he made no other answer but this: "Sir, love hath greater power than either you or I." Tancred then ordered a guard to be set over him. And the next day he went to his daughter's apartment as usual, she knowing nothing of what had happened, and shutting the door, that they might be private together, he said to her, weeping, "Daughter, I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could never have believed, had I not seen it with my own eyes, that you would have violated either, even so much as in thought. My reflecting on this will make the small pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you were determined to act in that manner, would to heaven you had made choice of a person more suitable to your own quality; but for this Guiscard, he is one of the very meanest persons about my court. This gives me such concern, that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. But, with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different motives; on one side, the tenderest regard that a father can have for a child; and on the other, the justest vengeance for the great folly you have committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and the other would excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But before I come to a resolution, I would hear what you have to say for yourself." And when he said this, he hung down his head, and wept like a child. She hearing this from her father, and perceiving that their amour was not only discovered, but her lover in prison, was under the greatest concern imaginable, and was going to break out into loud and grievous lamentations, as is the way of women in distress; but getting the better of this weakness, and putting on a settled countenance, as supposing Guiscard was dead, and being resolved firmly in her own mind not to outlive him, she spoke therefore with all the composure in the world to this purpose: "Sir, to deny what I have done, or to entreat any favour of you, is no part of my design at present; for as the one can avail me nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I will take no advantage of your love and tenderness towards me; but shall first, by an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and then do what the greatness of my soul prompts me to. 'Tis most true that I have loved, and do still love, Guiscard; and while I live, which will not be long, shall continue to love him: and if such a thing as love be after death, even that shall not dissolve it. To this I was induced by no frailty, so much as his superior virtue, and the little care you took to marry me again. I preferred him before all the world; and as to the meanness of his station, to which you so much object, that is more the fault of fortune, who often raises the most unworthy to an high estate, neglecting those of greater merit. We are all formed of the same materials, and by the same hand. The first difference amongst mankind was made by virtue; they who were virtuous were deemed noble, and the rest were all accounted otherwise. Though this law therefore may have been obscured by contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature, nor good manners. If you then alone regard the worth and virtue of your courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the only noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard to his worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever commended man more for every thing that was praise-worthy, than you have commended him? and deservedly in my judgement; but if I was deceived, it was by following your opinion. If you say then, that I have had an affair with a person base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to let such merit go unrewarded. Now concerning your last doubt, namely, how you are to deal with me; use your pleasure. If you are disposed to commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a resolution. But this I must apprise you of, that unless you do the same to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, my own hands shall do it for you. Reserve your tears then for women; and if you mean to act with severity, cut us off both together, if it appears to you that we have deserved it." The prince knew full well the greatness of her soul; but yet he could by no means persuade himself, that she would have resolution enough to do what her words seemed to threaten. Leaving her then, with a design of being favourable to her, and intending to wean her affection from her lover by taking him off, he gave orders to the two men, who guarded him, to strangle him privately in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it to him. Accordingly they executed his commands, and the next day he called for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he had it conveyed by a trusty servant to his daughter, with this message: "Your father sends this present to comfort you, with what was most dear to you; even as he was comforted by you, in what was most dear to him." She had departed from her father, not at all moved as to her resolution, and therefore had prepared the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed with water to be at hand, if what she feared should come to pass. When the servant had delivered the present, and reported the message according to his order, she took the cup, without changing countenance, and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the words that it must be Guiscard's, she looked stedfastly at the servant, and said: "My father has done very wisely; such a heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre than that of gold." And upon this she lifted it to her mouth and kissed it, thus continuing; "All my life long, even to this last period of it, have I found my father's love most abundant towards me; but now more than ever: therefore return him, in my name, the last thanks that I shall ever be able to give him for such a present." Looking then towards the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: "Alas! the dearest end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be the cruelty of him, by whom these eyes now see you; although my soul had long viewed and known you. You have finished your course; such a one indeed as fortune has thought fit to allot you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you have left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such a sepulchre from your very enemy, as your merit required. Nothing remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears of her who was so dear to you whilst you were living; and which, that you should not now want, heaven put it into the mind of my relentless father to send you to me. And you shall have them, though I had purposed to die unmoved, and without shedding a tear; and when I have done, I will instantly join my soul to yours: for in what other company can I go better and safer to those unknown regions? as I make no doubt your soul is hovering here, expecting mine." When she had done speaking, she shed a flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor what those her words imported; but being moved with pity, they joined with her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and endeavouring all they could to comfort her. After she had lamented as much as she thought proper, she raised up her head, and wiping her eyes, said, "Thou heart, most dearly beloved! all my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing more remains, but for my soul to accompany thine." Upon this she bade them reach the vessel of water, which she had prepared the day before, and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she had sufficiently washed with her tears, she drank it all off without the least dread or apprehension; and then threw herself upon the bed with the cup in her hand, composing her body as decently as she could, and pressing her lover's heart to her's, she lay without uttering a word more, expecting death. The maids, when they saw this, though they knew not what it was she had drunk, sent to acquaint Tancred; who fearing what had really happened, came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously. She then said to him, "Sir, save those tears against worse fortune that may happen, for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of your own doing? But if any part of that love now remains in you, which you once had for me, the last request I shall make is, that as you would not suffer us to be happy together whilst living, that our two bodies (wherever you have disposed of his) may be publicly interred together when dead." Extreme grief would suffer him to make no reply; when, finding herself drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to her breast, saying, "Receive us, heaven; I die!" Then closing her eyes, all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. Such an end had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you have now heard; whilst the prince, repenting of his cruelty when it was too late, had them buried in one grave, in the most public manner, to the general grief of all the people of Salerno.

THEODORE AND HONORIA.

Boccacio, who, according to Benvenuto da Imola, was a curious investigator of all delectable histories, is said to have taken this goblin tale from the Chronicle of Helinandus, a French monk, who flourished in the reign of Philip Augustus,[216] and composed a history of the world from its creation, as was the fashion of monkish historians. The Florentine novelist, however, altered the place of action, and disguised the names of the persons, whom he calls Nastagio and Traversari, the designations of two noble families in Ravenna. So good a subject for a ballad did not escape our English makers, by one of whom the novel of Boccacio was turned into the ballad stanza[217]. Dryden, however, converted that into a poem, which, in the hands of the old rhymer, was only a tale, and has given us a proof how exquisitely his powers were adapted for the management of the machinery, or supernatural agency of an epic poem, had his situation suffered him to undertake the task he so long meditated. Nothing can be more highly painted than the circumstances preliminary of the apparition;--the deepening gloom, the falling wind, the commencement of an earthquake; above all, the indescribable sensation of horror with which Theodore is affected, even ere he sees the actors in the supernatural tragedy. The appearance of the female, of the gaunt mastiffs by which she is pursued, and of the infernal huntsman, are all in the highest tone of poetry, and could only be imitated by the pencil of Salvator. There is also a masterly description of Theodore's struggles between his native courage, prompted by chivalrous education, and that terror which the presence of supernatural beings imposes upon the living. It is by the account of the impression, which such a sight makes upon the supposed spectator, more even than by a laboured description of the vision itself, that the narrator of such a tale must hope to excite the sympathetic awe of his audience. Thus, in the vision so sublimely described in the book of Job, chap. iv. no external cause of terror is even sketched in outline, and our feelings of dread are only excited by the fear which came upon the spectator, and the trembling which made all his bones to shake. But the fable of Dryden combines a most impressive description of the vision, with a detailed account of its effect upon Theodore, and both united make the most admirable poem of the kind that ever was written. It is somewhat derogatory from the dignity of the apparition, that Theodore, having once witnessed its terrors, should coolly lay a scheme for converting them to his own advantage; but this is an original fault in the story, for which Dryden is not answerable. The second apparition of the infernal hunter to the assembled guests, is as striking as the first; a circumstance well worthy of notice, when we consider the difficulty and hazard of telling such a story twice. But in the second narration, the poet artfully hurries over the particulars of the lady's punishment, which were formerly given in detail, and turns the reader's attention upon the novel effect produced by it, upon the assembled guests, which is admirably described, as "a mute scene of sorrow mixed with fear." The interrupted banquet, the appalled gallants, and the terrified women, grouped with the felon knight, his meagre mastiffs, and mangled victim, displays the hand of the master poet. The conclusion of the story is defective from the cause already hinted at. The machinery is too powerful for the effect produced by it; a lady's hard heart might have been melted without so terrible an example of the punishment of obduracy.

It is scarcely worth while to mention, that Dryden has changed the Italian names into others better adapted to English heroic verse.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 216: _Manni Della Illustrazione del Boccario_, p. 355.]

[Footnote 217: There is a copy in the late Duke John of Roxburghe's library, under the title of "Nastagio and Traversari."]

THEODORE AND HONORIA.

Of all the cities in Romanian lands, The chief, and most renowned, Ravenna stands; Adorned in ancient times with arms and arts, And rich inhabitants, with generous hearts. But Theodore the brave, above the rest, With gifts of fortune and of nature blessed, The foremost place for wealth and honour held, And all in feats of chivalry excelled. This noble youth to madness loved a dame, Of high degree, Honoria was her name; Fair as the fairest, but of haughty mind, And fiercer than became so soft a kind: Proud of her birth, (for equal she had none;) The rest she scorned, but hated him alone. His gifts, his constant courtship, nothing gained; For she, the more he loved, the more disdained. He lived with all the pomp he could devise, } At tilts and tournaments obtained the prize, } But found no favour in his lady's eyes: } Relentless as a rock, the lofty maid Turned all to poison that he did or said: Nor prayers, nor tears, nor offered vows, could move. } The work went backward; and the more he strove } To advance his suit, the farther from her love. } Wearied at length, and wanting remedy, He doubted oft, and oft resolved to die. But pride stood ready to prevent the blow, For who would die to gratify a foe? His generous mind disdained so mean a fate; That passed, his next endeavour was to hate. But vainer that relief than all the rest; } The less he hoped, with more desire possessed; } Love stood the siege, and would not yield his breast. } Change was the next, but change deceived his care; He sought a fairer, but found none so fair. He would have worn her out by slow degrees, } As men by fasting starve the untamed disease; } But present love required a present ease. } Looking, he feeds alone his famished eyes, Feeds lingering death; but, looking not, he dies. Yet still he chose the longest way to fate, Wasting at once his life, and his estate. His friends beheld, and pitied him in vain, For what advice can ease a lover's pain! Absence, the best expedient they could find, Might save the fortune, if not cure the mind: This means they long proposed, but little gained, Yet after much pursuit, at length obtained. Hard you may think it was to give consent, But, struggling with his own desires, he went; With large expence, and with a pompous train, } Provided as to visit France or Spain, } Or for some distant voyage o'er the main. } But love had clipped his wings, and cut him short, Confined within the purlieus of his court. Three miles he went, nor farther could retreat; His travels ended at his country-seat: To Chassis' pleasing plains he took his way, There pitched his tents, and there resolved to stay. The spring was in the prime; the neighbouring grove Supplied by birds, the choristers of love; Music unbought, that ministered delight To morning walks, and lulled his cares by night: There he discharged his friends; but not the expence Of frequent treats, and proud magnificence. He lived as kings retire, though more at large From public business, yet with equal charge; With house and heart still open to receive; As well content as love would give him leave: He would have lived more free; but many a guest, Who could forsake the friend, pursued the feast. It happ'd one morning, as his fancy led, Before his usual hour he left his bed, To walk within a lonely lawn, that stood On every side surrounded by the wood: Alone he walked, to please his pensive mind, And sought the deepest solitude to find: 'Twas in a grove of spreading pines he strayed; } The winds within the quivering branches played, } And dancing trees a mournful music made. } The place itself was suiting to his care, Uncouth and savage, as the cruel fair. He wandered on, unknowing where he went, Lost in the wood, and all on love intent: The day already half his race had run, } And summoned him to due repast at noon, } But love could feel no hunger but his own. } While listening to the murmuring leaves he stood, More than a mile immersed within the wood, At once the wind was laid; the whispering sound Was dumb; a rising earthquake rocked the ground; With deeper brown the grove was overspread, } A sudden horror seized his giddy head, } And his ears tinkled, and his colour fled. } Nature was in alarm; some danger nigh Seemed threatened, though unseen to mortal eye. Unused to fear, he summoned all his soul, And stood collected in himself, and whole: Not long; for soon a whirlwind rose around, And from afar he heard a screaming sound, As of a dame distressed, who cried for aid, And filled with loud laments the secret shade. A thicket close beside the grove there stood, With briers and brambles choked, and dwarfish wood: From thence the noise, which now approaching near, With more distinguished notes invades his ear; He raised his head, and saw a beauteous maid, With hair dishevelled, issuing through the shade; Stripped of her clothes, and even those parts revealed, Which modest nature keeps from sight concealed. Her face, her hands, her naked limbs, were torn, With passing through the brakes and prickly thorn; Two mastiffs gaunt and grim her flight pursued, And oft their fastened fangs in blood embrued: Oft they came up, and pinched her tender side,-- Mercy, O mercy! heaven, she ran, and cried; When heaven was named, they loosed their hold again; Then sprung she forth, they followed her amain. Not far behind, a knight of swarthy face, High on a coal-black steed pursued the chace; With flashing flames his ardent eyes were filled, And in his hand a naked sword he held: He cheered the dogs to follow her who fled, And vowed revenge on her devoted head. As Theodore was born of noble kind, The brutal action roused his manly mind; Moved with th' unworthy usage of the maid, He, though unarmed, resolved to give her aid. A saplin pine he wrenched from out the ground, The readiest weapon that his fury found. Thus furnished for offence, he crossed the way Betwixt the graceless villain and his prey. The knight came thundering on, but, from afar, Thus in imperious tone forbade the war:-- Cease, Theodore, to proffer vain relief, Nor stop the vengeance of so just a grief; But give me leave to seize my destined prey, And let eternal justice take the way: I but revenge my fate, disdained, betrayed, And suffering death for this ungrateful maid.-- He said, at once dismounting from the steed; For now the hell-hounds with superior speed Had reached the dame, and fastening on her side, The ground with issuing streams of purple dyed. Stood Theodore surprised in deadly fright, With chattering teeth, and bristling hair upright; Yet armed with inborn worth,--Whate'er, said he, Thou art, who know'st me better than I thee, Or prove thy rightful cause, or be defied.-- The spectre, fiercely staring, thus replied: Know, Theodore, thy ancestry I claim, And Guido Cavalcanti was my name. One common sire our fathers did beget, My name and story some remember yet: Thee, then a boy, within my arms I laid, When for my sins I loved this haughty maid; Not less adored in life, nor served by me, Than proud Honoria now is loved by thee. What did I not, her stubborn heart to gain? } But all my vows were answered with disdain; } She scorned my sorrows, and despised my pain. } Long time I dragged my days in fruitless care; Then loathing life, and plunged in deep despair, To finish my unhappy life, I fell On this sharp sword, and now am damned in hell. Short was her joy; for soon the insulting maid By heaven's decree in the cold grave was laid; And as in unrepented sin she died, Doomed to the same bad place, is punished for her pride, Because she deemed I well deserved to die, And made a merit of her cruelty. There, then, we met; both tried, and both were cast, And this irrevocable sentence passed; That she, whom I so long pursued in vain, Should suffer from my hands a lingering pain: Renewed to life, that she might daily die, I daily doomed to follow, she to fly; No more a lover, but a mortal foe, I seek her life (for love is none below;) As often as my dogs with better speed Arrest her flight, is she to death decreed: Then with this fatal sword, on which I died, I pierce her open back, or tender side, And tear that hardened heart from out her breast, Which, with her entrails, makes my hungry hounds a feast. Nor lies she long, but as her fates ordain, } Springs up to life, and, fresh to second pain, } Is saved to-day, to-morrow to be slain-- } This, versed in death, the infernal knight relates, And then for proof fulfilled their common fates; Her heart and bowels through her back he drew, And fed the hounds that helped him to pursue. Stern looked the fiend, as frustrate of his will, Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill. And now the soul expiring through the wound, Had left the body breathless on the ground, When thus the grisly spectre spoke again:-- Behold the fruit of ill-rewarded pain! As many months as I sustained her hate, So many years is she condemned by fate To daily death; and every several place, Conscious of her disdain, and my disgrace, Must witness her just punishment; and be A scene of triumph and revenge to me. As in this grove I took my last farewell, As on this very spot of earth I fell, As Friday saw me die, so she my prey Becomes even here, on this revolving day.-- Thus while he spoke, the virgin from the ground Upstarted fresh, already closed the wound, And, unconcerned for all she felt before, Precipitates her flight along the shore: The hell-hounds, as ungorged with flesh and blood, Pursue their prey, and seek their wonted food: The fiend remounts his courser, mends his pace, And all the vision vanished from the place. Long stood the noble youth oppressed with awe, } And stupid at the wondrous things he saw, } Surpassing common faith, transgressing nature's law: } He would have been asleep, and wished to wake, But dreams, he knew, no long impression make, Though strong at first; if vision, to what end, } But such as must his future state portend? } His love the damsel, and himself the fiend. } But yet reflecting that it could not be From heaven, which cannot impious acts decree, Resolved within himself to shun the snare, Which hell for his destruction did prepare; And as his better genius should direct, From an ill cause to draw a good effect. Inspired from heaven, he homeward took his way, Nor palled his new design with long delay; But of his train a trusty servant sent, To call his friends together at his tent. They came, and usual salutations paid, With words premeditated thus he said:-- What you have often counselled, to remove My vain pursuit of unregarded love, By thrift my sinking fortune to repair, Though late, yet is at last become my care: My heart shall be my own; my vast expence Reduced to bounds, by timely providence: This only I require; invite for me Honoria, with her father's family, Her friends, and mine, (the cause I shall display,) On Friday next; for that's the appointed day.-- Well pleased were all his friends; the task was light, The father, mother, daughter, they invite; Hardly the dame was drawn to this repast, But yet resolved, because it was the last. The day was come, the guests invited came, And, with the rest, the inexorable dame: A feast prepared with riotous expence, Much cost, more care, and more magnificence. The place ordained was in that haunted grove, Where the revenging ghost pursued his love: The tables in a proud pavilion spread, With flowers below, and tissue overhead: The rest in rank, Honoria, chief in place, } Was artfully contrived to set her face } To front the thicket, and behold the chace. } The feast was served, the time so well forecast, That just when the desert and fruits were placed, The fiend's alarm began; the hollow sound } Sung in the leaves, the forest shook around, } Air blackened, rolled the thunder, groaned the ground. } Nor long before the loud laments arise, Of one distressed, and mastiffs' mingled cries; And first the dame came rushing through the wood, } And next the famished hounds that sought their food, } And griped her flanks, and oft essayed their jaws in blood. } Last came the felon, on the sable steed, Armed with his naked sword, and urged his dogs to speed. She ran, and cried, her flight directly bent, } (A guest unbidden) to the fatal tent, } The scene of death, and place ordained for punishment. } Loud was the noise, aghast was every guest, The women shrieked, the men forsook the feast; The hounds at nearer distance hoarsely bayed; } The hunter close pursued the visionary maid, } She rent the heaven with loud laments, imploring aid. } The gallants to protect the lady's right, } Their faulchions brandished at the grisly sprite; } High on his stirrups he provoked the fight. } Then on the crowd he cast a furious look, And withered all their strength before he strook:--[218] Back, on your lives! let be, said he, my prey, And let my vengeance take the destined way: Vain are your arms, and vainer your defence, Against the eternal doom of Providence: Mine is the ungrateful maid by heaven designed; Mercy she would not give, nor mercy shall she find.-- At this the former tale again he told With thundering tone, and dreadful to behold: Sunk were their hearts with horror of the crime, Nor needed to be warned a second time, But bore each other back; some knew the face, } And all had heard the much-lamented case } Of him who fell for love, and this the fatal place. } And now the infernal minister advanced, Seized the due victim, and with fury lanced Her back, and piercing through her inmost heart, Drew backward, as before, the offending part. The reeking entrails next he tore away, And to his meagre mastiffs made a prey. The pale assistants on each other stared, With gaping mouths for issuing words prepared; The still-born sounds upon the palate hung, And died imperfect on the faultering tongue. The fright was general; but the female band (A helpless train) in more confusion stand: With horror shuddering, on a heap they run, } Sick at the sight of hateful justice done; } For conscience rung the alarm, and made the case their own. } So, spread upon a lake, with upward eye, A plump of fowl behold their foe on high; They close their trembling troop; and all attend On whom the sowsing eagle will descend. But most the proud Honoria feared the event, And thought to her alone the vision sent. Her guilt presents to her distracted mind } Heaven's justice, Theodore's revengeful kind, } And the same fate to the same sin assigned; } Already sees herself the monster's prey, And feels her heart and entrails torn away. 'Twas a mute scene of sorrow, mixed with fear; Still on the table lay the unfinished cheer: The knight and hungry mastiffs stood around, The mangled dame lay breathless on the ground; When on a sudden, re-inspired with breath, Again she rose, again to suffer death; Nor stayed the hell-hounds, nor the hunter stayed, But followed, as before, the flying maid: The avenger took from earth the avenging sword, And mounting, light as air, his sable steed he spurred; The clouds dispelled, the sky resumed her light, And nature stood recovered of her fright. But fear, the last of ills, remained behind, And horror heavy sat on every mind. Nor Theodore encouraged more his feast, But sternly looked, as hatching in his breast Some deep design; which when Honoria viewed, The fresh impulse her former fright renewed: She thought herself the trembling dame who fled, And him the grisly ghost that spurred the infernal steed: The more dismayed, for when the guests withdrew, } Their courteous host, saluting all the crew, } Regardless passed her o'er, nor graced with kind adieu. } That sting infixed within her haughty mind, } The downfal of her empire she divined; } And her proud heart with secret sorrow pined. } Home as they went, the sad discourse renewed, } Of the relentless dame to death pursued, } And of the sight obscene so lately viewed. } None durst arraign the righteous doom she bore; Even they, who pitied most, yet blamed her more: The parallel they needed not to name, But in the dead they damned the living dame. At every little noise she looked behind, For still the knight was present to her mind: And anxious oft she started on the way, And thought the horseman-ghost came thundering for his prey. Returned, she took her bed, with little rest, But in short slumbers dreamt the funeral feast: Awaked, she turned her side, and slept again; } The same black vapours mounted in her brain, } And the same dreams returned with double pain. } Now forced to wake, because afraid to sleep, Her blood all fevered, with a furious leap She sprung from bed, distracted in her mind, And feared, at every step, a twitching sprite behind. Darkling and desperate with a staggering pace, Of death afraid, and conscious of disgrace; Fear, pride, remorse, at once her heart assailed, Pride put remorse to flight, but fear prevailed. Friday, the fatal day, when next it came, Her soul forethought the fiend would change his game, And her pursue, or Theodore be slain, And two ghosts join their packs to hunt her o'er the plain. This dreadful image so possessed her mind, That desperate any succour else to find, She ceased all farther hope; and now began To make reflection on the unhappy man. Rich, brave, and young, who past expression loved, Proof to disdain, and not to be removed: Of all the men respected and admired, Of all the dames, except herself, desired: Why not of her? preferred above the rest } By him, with knightly deeds, and open love, professed? } So had another been, where he his vows addressed. } This quelled her pride, yet other doubts remained, That, once disdaining, she might be disdained. The fear was just, but greater fear prevailed, Fear of her life by hellish hounds assailed: He took a lowering leave; but who can tell, What outward hate might inward love conceal? Her sex's arts she knew, and why not, then, Might deep dissembling have a place in men? Here hope began to dawn; resolved to try, } She fixed on this her utmost remedy; } Death was behind, but hard it was to die. } 'Twas time enough at last on death to call, } The precipice in sight: a shrub was all, } That kindly stood betwixt to break the fatal fall. } One maid she had, beloved above the rest; Secure of her, the secret she confessed; And now the cheerful light her fears dispelled, } She with no winding turns the truth concealed, } But put the woman off, and stood revealed: } With faults confessed commissioned her to go, If pity yet had place, and reconcile her foe. The welcome message made, was soon received; 'Twas what he wished, and hoped, but scarce believed; Fate seemed a fair occasion to present, } He knew the sex, and feared she might repent, } Should he delay the moment of consent. } There yet remained to gain her friends, (a care The modesty of maidens well might spare;) But she with such a zeal the cause embraced, (As women, where they will, are all in haste,) That father, mother, and the kin beside, Were overborne by fury of the tide: With full consent of all she changed her state; Resistless in her love, as in her hate. By her example warned, the rest beware; More easy, less imperious, were the fair; And that one hunting, which the devil designed For one fair female, lost him half the kind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 218: Derrick, _spoke_. The reading of the folio, besides furnishing an accurate rhyme, is in itself far more picturesque. The spectre is described in the very attitude of assault.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FIFTH DAY.

NOVEL VIII.

_Anastasio being in love with a young lady, spent a good part of his fortune without being able to gain her affections. At the request of his relations he retires to Chiassi, where he sees a lady pursued and slain by a gentleman, and then given to the dogs to be devoured. He invites his friends, along with his mistress, to come and dine with him, when they see the same thing, and she, fearing the like punishment, takes him for her husband._

When Lauretta had made an end, Philomena began, by the queen's command, thus: Most gracious lady, as pity is a commendable quality in us, in like manner do we find cruelty most severely punished by divine justice; which, that I may make plain to you all, and afford means to drive it from your hearts, I mean to relate a novel as full of compassion as it is agreeable.

In Ravenna, an ancient city of Romagna, dwelt formerly many persons of quality; amongst the rest was a young gentleman named Anastasio de gli Honesti, who, by the deaths of his father and uncle, was left immensely rich; and, being a bachelor, fell in love with one of the daughters of Signor Paolo Traversaro (of a family much superior to his own) and was in hopes, by his constant application, to gain her affection: but though his endeavours were generous, noble, and praise-worthy, so far were they from succeeding, that, on the contrary, they rather turned out to his disadvantage; and so cruel, and even savage, was the beloved fair one, (either her singular beauty, or noble descent, having made her thus haughty and scornful,) that neither he, nor any thing that he did, could ever please her. This so afflicted Anastasio, that he was going to lay violent hands upon himself; but, thinking better of it, he frequently thought to leave her entirely; or else to hate her, if he could, as much as she had hated him. But this proved a vain design; for he constantly found that the less his hope, the greater always his love. Persevering then in his love and extravagant way of life, his friends looked upon him as destroying his constitution, as well as wasting his substance; they therefore advised and entreated that he would leave the place, and go and live somewhere else; for, by that means, he might lessen both his love and expence. For some time he made light of this advice, till being very much importuned, and not knowing how to refuse them, he promised to do so; when, making extraordinary preparations, as if he was going some long journey either into France or Spain, he mounted his horse and left Ravenna, attended by many of his friends, and went to a place about three miles off, called Chiassi, where he ordered tents and pavilions to be brought, telling those who had accompanied him, that he meant to stay there, but that they might return to Ravenna. Here he lived in the most splendid manner, inviting sometimes this company, and sometimes that, both to dine and sup as he had used to do before. Now it happened in the beginning of May, the season being extremely pleasant, that, thinking of his cruel mistress, he ordered all his family to retire, and leave him to his own thoughts, when he walked along, step by step, and lost in reflection, till he came to a forest of pines. It being then the fifth hour of the day, and he advanced more than half a mile into the grove, without thinking either of his dinner, or any thing else but his love, on a sudden he seemed to hear a most grievous lamentation, with the loud shrieks of a woman: this put an end to his meditation, when, looking round him, to know what the matter was, he saw come out of a thicket full of briers and thorns, and run towards the place where he was, a most beautiful lady, naked, with her flesh all scratched and rent by the bushes, crying terribly, and begging for mercy: in close pursuit of her were two fierce mastiffs, biting and tearing wherever they could lay hold, and behind, upon a black steed, rode a gloomy knight, with a dagger in his hand, loading her with the bitterest imprecations. The sight struck him at once with wonder and consternation, as well as pity for the lady, whom he was desirous to rescue from such trouble and danger, if possible; but finding himself without arms, he seized the branch of a tree, instead of a truncheon, and went forward with it, to oppose both the dogs and the knight. The knight observing this, called out, afar off, "Anastasio, do not concern thyself; but leave the dogs and me to do by this wicked woman as she has deserved." At these words the dogs laid hold of her, and he coming up to them, dismounted from his horse. Anastasio then stept up to him, and said, "I know not who you are, that are acquainted thus with me; but I must tell you, that it is a most villainous action for a man armed as you are to pursue a naked woman, and to set dogs upon her also, as if she were a wild beast; be assured, that I shall defend her to the utmost of my power." The knight replied, "I was once your countryman, when you were but a child, and was called Guido de gli Anastagi, at which time I was more enamoured with this woman, than ever you were with Traversaro's daughter; but she treated me so cruelly, and with so much insolence, that I killed myself with this dagger which you now see in my hand, for which I am doomed to eternal punishment. Soon afterwards she, who was over and above rejoiced at my death, died likewise, and for that cruelty, as also for the joy which she expressed at my misery, she is condemned as well as myself; our sentences are for her to flee before me, and for me, who loved her so well, to pursue her as a mortal enemy; and when I overtake her, with this dagger, with which I murdered myself, do I murder her; then I open her through the back, and take out that hard and cold heart, which neither love nor pity could pierce, with all her entrails, and throw them to the dogs; and in a little time (so wills the justice and power of heaven) she rises, as though she had never been dead, and renews her miserable flight, whilst we pursue her over again. Every Friday in the year, about this time, do I sacrifice her here, as you see, and on other days in other places, where she has ever thought or done any thing against me; and thus being from a lover become her mortal enemy, I am to follow her as many years as she was cruel to me months. Then let the divine justice take its course, nor offer to oppose what you are no way able to withstand." Anastasio drew back at these words, terrified to death, and waited to see what the other was going to do: who having made an end of speaking, ran at her with the utmost fury, as she was seized by the dogs, and kneeled down begging for mercy, when with his dagger he pierced through her breast, drawing forth her heart and entrails, which they immediately, as if half famished, devoured. And in a little time she rose again, as if nothing had happened, and fled towards the sea, the dogs biting and tearing her all the way, the knight also being remounted, and taking his dagger, pursued her as before, till they soon got out of sight. Upon seeing these things, Anastasio stood divided betwixt fear and pity, and at length it came into his mind that, as it happened always on a Friday, it might be of particular use. Returning then to his servants, he sent for some of his friends and relations, when he said to them, "You have often importuned me to leave off loving this my enemy, and to contract my expences; I am ready to do so, provided you grant me one favour, which is this, that next Friday, you engage Paolo Traversaro, his wife and daughter, with all their women-friends and relations to come and dine with me: the reason of my requiring this you will see at that time." This seemed to them a small matter, and returning to Ravenna they invited all those whom he had desired, and though they found it difficult to prevail upon the young lady, yet the others carried her at last along with them. Anastasio had provided a magnificent entertainment in the grove where that spectacle had lately been; and, having seated all his company, he contrived that the lady should sit directly opposite to the scene of action. The last course then was no sooner served up, but the lady's shrieks began to be heard. This surprised them all, and they began to enquire what it was, and, as nobody could inform them, they all arose; when immediately they saw the lady, dogs, and knight, who were soon amongst them. Great was consequently the clamour, both against the dogs and knight, and many of them went to her assistance. But the knight made the same harangue to them, that he had done to Anastasio, which terrified and filled them with wonder; whilst he acted the same part over again, the ladies, of whom there were many present, related to both the knight and lady, who remembered his love and unhappy death, all lamenting as much as if it happened to themselves. This tragical affair being ended, and the lady and knight both gone away, they had various arguments together about it; but none seemed so much affected as Anastasio's mistress, who had heard and seen every thing distinctly, and was sensible that it concerned her more than any other person, calling to mind her usage of and cruelty towards him; so that she seemed to flee before him all incensed, with the mastiffs at her heels; and her terror was such, lest this should ever happen to her, that, turning her hatred into love, she sent that very evening a trusty damsel privately to him, who entreated him in her name to come to see her, for that she was ready to fulfil his desires. Anastasio replied, that nothing could be more agreeable to him; but that he desired no favour from her, but what was consistent with her honour. The lady, who was sensible that it had been always her fault they were not married, answered, that she was willing; and going herself to her father and mother, she acquainted them with her intention. This gave them the utmost satisfaction; and the next Sunday the marriage was solemnized with all possible demonstrations of joy. And that spectacle was not attended with this good alone; but all the women of Ravenna, for the time to come, were so terrified with it, that they were more ready to listen to, and oblige the men, than ever they had been before.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.

Beroaldus, who translated this novel into Latin, and published it in Paris in 1499, affirms, that it is taken from the annals of the kingdom of Cyprus; and from his intimacy with Hugo IV., king of that island, may perhaps have had grounds for saying so, besides Boccaccio's own allegation to the same effect. Whether entirely fictitious, or grounded upon historical fact, it is one of those novels which have added most to the reputation of the "Decameron;" nor has the version of Dryden been the least admired among his poems. This popularity seems entirely due to the primary incident, the reforming of Cymon from his barbarism and idiocy, by the influence of a passion, which almost all have felt at one period of their life, and love to read and hear of ever afterwards. Perhaps the original idea of Cymon's conversion is to be found in the Idyl of Theocritus, entitled ΒΟΥΚΟΛΙΣΚΟΣ. There is not in our language a strain of more beautiful and melodious poetry, than that so often quoted, in which Dryden describes the sleeping nymph, and the effect of her beauty upon the clownish Cymon. But it is only sufficient to mention that passage, to recal it to the recollection of every general reader, and of most who have read any poetry at all. The narrative, it must be confessed, is otherwise inartificial, and bears little proportion, or even reference, to this most striking and original incident. Cymon might have carried off Iphigene, and all the changes of fortune which afterwards take place might have happened, though his love had commenced in an ordinary manner; nor is there any thing in his character or mode of conduct, which calls back to our recollection, his having such a miraculous instance of the power of love. In short, in the progress of the tale, we quite lose sight of its original and striking commencement; nor do we find much compensation by the introduction of the new actor Lysander, with whose passion and disappointment we have little sympathy; and whose expedients, as Dryden plainly confesses, are no other than an abuse of his public office by the commission of murder and rape. These are perhaps too critical objections to a story, which Dryden took from Boccaccio, as Boccaccio had probably taken it from some old annalist, as containing a striking instance of the power of the gentler affections, in regulating and refining the human mind, and a curious illustration of the mutability of fortune, in the subsequent incidents attending the loves of Cymon and Iphigene.

Dryden, in the introductory verses, has hazarded a more direct attack upon Collier, than his consciousness of having merited his accusations had yet permitted him to bring forward.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.

_Poeta loquitur_.

Old as I am, for ladies love unfit, } The power of beauty I remember yet, } Which once inflamed my soul, and still inspires my wit. } If love be folly, the severe divine Has felt that folly, though he censures mine; Pollutes the pleasures of a chaste embrace, } Acts what I write, and propagates in grace, } With riotous excess, a priestly race. } Suppose him free, and that I forge the offence, He shewed the way, perverting first my sense; In malice witty, and with venom fraught, He makes me speak the things I never thought. Compute the gains of his ungoverned zeal; Ill suits his cloth the praise of railing well. The world will think that what we loosely write, Though now arraigned, he read with some delight; Because he seems to chew the cud again, When his broad comment makes the text too plain; And teaches more in one explaining page, Than all the double meanings of the stage.[219] What needs he paraphrase on what we mean? We were at worst but wanton; he's obscene. I, nor my fellows, nor myself excuse; But love's the subject of the comic muse; Nor can we write without it, nor would you A tale of only dry instruction view. Nor love is always of a vicious kind, But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind, Awakes the sleepy vigour of the soul, And, brushing o'er, adds motion to the pool. Love, studious how to please, improves our parts With polished manners, and adorns with arts. Love first invented verse, and formed the rhime, The motion measured, harmonised the chime; To liberal acts enlarged the narrow soul'd, Softened the fierce, and made the coward bold; The world, when waste, he peopled with increase, And warring nations reconciled in peace. Ormond, the first, and all the fair may find, } In this one legend, to their fame designed, } When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind. }

In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court, And every grace, and all the loves, resort; Where either sex is formed of softer earth, And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth; There lived a Cyprian lord above the rest, Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue blessed. But as no gift of fortune is sincere, Was only wanting in a worthy heir; His eldest born, a goodly youth to view, Excelled the rest in shape, and outward shew; Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion joined, But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind. His soul belied the features of his face; Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace. A clownish mein, a voice with rustic sound, And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground. He looked like nature's error, as the mind } And body were not of a piece designed, } But made for two, and by mistake in one were joined. } The ruling rod, the father's forming care, Were exercised in vain on wit's despair; The more informed, the less he understood, And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud. Now scorned of all, and grown the public shame, The people from Galesus changed his name, And Cymon called, which signifies a brute; So well his name did with his nature suit. His father, when he found his labour lost, And care employed, that answered not the cost, Chose an ungrateful object to remove, And loathed to see what nature made him love; So to his country farm the fool confined; Rude work well suited with a rustic mind. Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went, A squire among the swains, and pleased with banishment. His corn and cattle were his only care, And his supreme delight, a country fair. It happened on a summer's holiday, } That to the green-wood shade he took his way; } For Cymon shunned the church, and used not much to pray. } His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake, Hung half before, and half behind his back. He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought. By chance conducted, or by thirst constrained, The deep recesses of the grove he gained; Where in a plain defended by the wood, } Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood, } By which an alabaster fountain stood; } And on the margin of the fount was laid, (Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid. Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tired with sport, To rest by cool Eurotas they resort. The dame herself the goddess well expressed, Not more distinguished by her purple vest, Than by the charming features of her face, And even in slumber a superior grace; Her comely limbs composed with decent care, } Her body shaded with a slight cymarr; } Her bosom to the view was only bare; } Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied, For yet their places were but signified: The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, } To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose; } The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue her repose. } The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, And gaping mouth, that testified surprise, Fixed on her face, nor could remove his sight, New as he was to love, and novice in delight; Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff, His wonder witnessed with an idiot laugh; Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering sense, First found his want of words, and feared offence; Doubted for what he was he should be known, By his clown accent, and his country tone. Through the rude chaos thus the running light Shot the first ray that pierced the native night; Then day and darkness in the mass were mixed, Till gathered in a globe the beams were fixed; Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere, Illumined heaven and earth, and rolled around the year. So reason in this brutal soul began: Love made him first suspect he was a man; Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound; By love his want of words, and wit, he found; That sense of want prepared the future way To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day. What not his father's care, nor tutor's art, Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart, The best instructor, love, at once inspired, As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired; Love taught him shame, and shame, with love at strife, Soon taught the sweet civilities of life. His gross material soul at once could find Somewhat in her excelling all her kind; Exciting a desire till then unknown, Somewhat unfound, or found in her alone. This made the first impression in his mind, Above, but just above, the brutal kind. For beasts can like, but not distinguish too, Nor their own liking by reflection know; Nor why they like or this or t'other face, Or judge of this, or that peculiar grace; But love in gross, and stupidly admire; As flies, allured by light, approach the fire. Thus our man-beast, advancing by degrees, First likes the whole, then separates what he sees; On several parts a several praise bestows, The ruby lips, the well-proportioned nose, The snowy skin, the raven-glossy hair, } The dimpled cheek, the forehead rising fair, } And even in sleep itself, a smiling air. } From thence his eyes descending viewed the rest, Her plump round arms, white hands, and heaving breast. Long on the last he dwelt, though every part A pointed arrow sped to pierce his heart. Thus in a trice a judge of beauty grown, (A judge erected from a country clown,) He longed to see her eyes, in slumber hid, And wished his own could pierce within the lid: He would have waked her, but restrained his thought, And love new-born the first good manners taught. An awful fear his ardent wish withstood, Nor durst disturb the goddess of the wood; For such she seemed by her celestial face, Excelling all the rest of human race; And things divine, by common sense he knew, Must be devoutly seen at distant view: So checking his desire, with trembling heart Gazing he stood, nor would, nor could depart; Fixed as a pilgrim wildered in his way, } Who dares not stir by night, for fear to stray, } But stands with awful eyes to watch the dawn of day. } At length awaking, Iphigene the fair, (So was the beauty called, who caused his care,) Unclosed her eyes, and double day revealed, While those of all her slaves in sleep were sealed. The slavering cudden, propped upon his staff, Stood ready gaping with a grinning laugh, To welcome her awake, nor durst begin To speak, but wisely kept the fool within. Then she; What make you, Cymon, here alone?-- For Cymon's name was round the country known, Because descended of a noble race, (And for a soul ill sorted with his face.) But still the sot stood silent with surprise, With fixed regard on her new-opened eyes, And in his breast received the envenomed dart, A tickling pain that pleased amid the smart. But conscious of her form, with quick distrust She saw his sparkling eyes, and feared his brutal lust; This to prevent, she waked her sleepy crew, And, rising hasty, took a short adieu. Then Cymon first his rustic voice essayed, With proffered service to the parting maid To see her safe; his hand she long denied, But took at length, ashamed of such a guide. So Cymon led her home, and leaving there, No more would to his country clowns repair, But sought his father's house, with better mind, Refusing in the farm to be confined. The father wondered at the son's return, And knew not whether to rejoice or mourn; But doubtfully received, expecting still To learn the secret causes of his altered will. Nor was he long delayed; the first request } He made, was like his brothers to be dress'd, } And, as his birth required, above the rest. } With ease his suit was granted by his sire, Distinguishing his heir by rich attire: His body thus adorned, he next designed With liberal arts to cultivate his mind; He sought a tutor of his own accord, And studied lessons he before abhorred. Thus the man-child advanced, and learned so fast, That in short time his equals he surpassed: His brutal manners from his breast exiled, His mien he fashioned, and his tongue he filed; In every exercise of all admired, He seemed, nor only seemed, but was inspired; Inspired by love, whose business is to please; He rode, he fenced, he moved with graceful ease, More famed for sense, for courtly carriage more, Than for his brutal folly known before. What then of altered Cymon shall we say, But that the fire which choked in ashes lay, A load too heavy for his soul to move, Was upward blown below, and brushed away by love. Love made an active progress through his mind, The dusky parts he cleared, the gross refined, The drowsy waked; and, as he went, impressed The Maker's image on the human breast. Thus was the man amended by desire, And, though he loved perhaps with too much fire, His father all his faults with reason scan'd, And liked an error of the better hand; Excused the excess of passion in his mind, By flames too fierce, perhaps too much refined; So Cymon, since his sire indulged his will, Impetuous loved, and would be Cymon still; Galesus he disowned, and chose to bear The name of fool, confirmed and bishoped by the fair. To Cipseus by his friends his suit he moved, Cipseus, the father of the fair he loved; But he was pre-engaged by former ties, While Cymon was endeavouring to be wise; And Iphigene, obliged by former vows, Had given her faith to wed a foreign spouse: Her sire and she to Rhodian Pasimond, Though both repenting, were by promise bound, Nor could retract; and thus, as fate decreed, Though better loved, he spoke too late to speed. The doom was past; the ship already sent Did all his tardy diligence prevent; Sighed to herself the fair unhappy maid, While stormy Cymon thus in secret said:-- The time is come for Iphigene to find The miracle she wrought upon my mind; Her charms have made me man, her ravished love In rank shall place me with the blessed above. For mine by love, by force she shall be mine, Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design.-- Resolved he said; and rigged with speedy care A vessel strong, and well equipped for war. The secret ship with chosen friends he stored; And bent to die, or conquer, went aboard. Ambushed he lay behind the Cyprian shore, Waiting the sail that all his wishes bore; Nor long expected, for the following tide Sent out the hostile ship and beauteous bride. To Rhodes the rival bark directly steered, When Cymon sudden at her back appeared, And stopped her flight; then standing on his prow, In haughty terms he thus defied the foe:-- Or strike your sails at summons, or prepare To prove the last extremities of war.-- Thus warned, the Rhodians for the fight provide; } Already were the vessels side by side, } These obstinate to save, and those to seize the bride. } But Cymon soon his crooked grapples cast, } Which with tenacious hold his foes embraced, } And, armed with sword and shield, amid the press he passed. } Fierce was the fight, but, hastening to his prey, By force the furious lover freed his way; Himself alone dispersed the Rhodian crew, The weak disdained, the valiant overthrew; Cheap conquest for his following friends remained, He reaped the field, and they but only gleaned. His victory confessed, the foes retreat, And cast their weapons at the victor's feet. Whom thus he cheared:--O Rhodian youth, I fought For love alone, nor other booty sought; Your lives are safe; your vessel I resign, Yours be your own, restoring what is mine: In Iphigene I claim my rightful due, Robbed by my rival, and detained by you; Your Pasimond a lawless bargain drove, The parent could not sell the daughter's love; Or if he could, my love disdains the laws, And, like a king, by conquest gains his cause; Where arms take place, all other pleas are vain, Love taught me force, and force shall love maintain. You, what by strength you could not keep, release, And at an easy ransom buy your peace.-- Fear on the conquered side soon signed the accord, And Iphigene to Cymon was restored. While to his arms the blushing bride he took, To seeming sadness she composed her look; As if by force subjected to his will, Though pleased, dissembling, and a woman still. And, for she wept, he wiped her falling tears, And prayed her to dismiss her empty fears;-- For yours I am, he said, and have deserved Your love much better whom so long I served, Than he to whom your formal father tied Your vows, and sold a slave, not sent a bride.-- Thus while he spoke, he seized the willing prey, As Paris bore the Spartan spouse away. Faintly she screamed, and even her eyes confessed She rather would be thought, than was, distressed. Who now exults but Cymon in his mind? } Vain hopes and empty joys of human kind, } Proud of the present, to the future blind! } Secure of fate, while Cymon plows the sea, And steers to Candy with his conquered prey, Scarce the third glass of measured hours was run, When like a fiery meteor sunk the sun, The promise of a storm; the shifting gales Forsake by fits, and fill, the flagging sails; Hoarse murmurs of the main from far were heard, And night came on, not by degrees prepared, But all at once; at once the winds arise, The thunders roll, the forky lightning flies. In vain the master issues out commands, In vain the trembling sailors ply their hands; The tempest unforeseen prevents their care, And from the first they labour in despair. The giddy ship, betwixt the winds and tides Forced back and forwards, in a circle rides, Stunned with the different blows; then shoots amain, Till, counterbuffed, she stops, and sleeps again. Not more aghast the proud archangel fell, Plunged from the height of heaven to deepest hell, Than stood the lover of his love possessed, Now cursed the more, the more he had been blessed; More anxious for her danger, than his own, Death he defies, but would be lost alone. Sad Iphigene to womanish complaints Adds pious prayers, and wearies all the saints; Even, if she could, her love she would repent, But since she cannot, dreads the punishment: Her forfeit faith, and Pasimond betrayed, Are ever present, and her crime upbraid. She blames herself, nor blames her lover less, Augments her anger, as her fears increase: From her own back the burden would remove, And lays the load on his ungoverned love, Which interposing durst, in heaven's despite, Invade, and violate another's right: The powers incensed awhile deferred his pain, And made him master of his vows in vain: But soon they punished his presumptuous pride, } That for his daring enterprise she died, } Who rather not resisted, than complied. } Then, impotent of mind, with altered sense, She hugged the offender, and forgave the offence, Sex to the last: meantime with sails declined The wandering vessel drove before the wind: Tossed and retossed, aloft, and then alow, } Nor port they seek, nor certain course they know, } But every moment wait the coming blow. } Thus blindly driven, by breaking day they viewed The land before them, and their fears renewed; The land was welcome, but the tempest bore The threatened ship against a rocky shore. A winding bay was near; to this they bent, And just escaped; their force already spent: Secure from storms, and panting from the sea, The land unknown at leisure they survey; And saw (but soon their sickly sight withdrew) The rising towers of Rhodes at distant view; And cursed the hostile shore of Pasimond, Saved from the seas, and shipwrecked on the ground. The frighted sailors tried their strength in vain To turn the stern, and tempt the stormy main; But the stiff wind withstood the labouring oar, And forced them forward on the fatal shore! The crooked keel now bites the Rhodian strand, And the ship moored constrains the crew to land: Yet still they might be safe, because unknown; But, as ill fortune seldom comes alone, The vessel they dismissed was driven before, Already sheltered on their native shore; Known each, they know, but each with change of chear; The vanquished side exults, the victors fear; Not them but theirs, made prisoners ere they fight, Despairing conquest, and deprived of flight. The country rings around with loud alarms, And raw in fields the rude militia swarms;[220] Mouths without hands; maintained at vast expence, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence; Stout once a month they march, a blustering band, And ever, but in times of need, at hand: This was the morn when, issuing on the guard, Drawn up in rank and file they stood prepared Of seeming arms to make a short essay, Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day. The cowards would have fled, but that they knew Themselves so many, and their foes so few; But, crowding on, the last the first impel, Till overborne with weight the Cyprians fell; Cymon enslaved, who first the war begun, And Iphigene once more is lost and won. Deep in a dungeon was the captive cast, Deprived of day, and held in fetters fast; His life was only spared at their request, Whom taken he so nobly had released: But Iphigenia was the ladies care, } Each in their turn addressed to treat the fair; } While Pasimond and his the nuptial feast prepare. } Her secret soul to Cymon was inclined, } But she must suffer what her fates assigned; } So passive is the church of womankind. } What worse to Cymon could his fortune deal, Rolled to the lowest spoke of all her wheel? It rested to dismiss the downward weight, Or raise him upward to his former height: The latter pleased; and love (concerned the most) Prepared the amends, for what by love he lost. The sire of Pasimond had left a son, Though younger, yet for courage early known, Ormisda called, to whom by promise tied, A Rhodian beauty was the destined bride; Cassandra was her name, above the rest Renowned for birth, with fortune amply blessed. Lysimachus, who ruled the Rhodian state, Was then by choice their annual magistrate: He loved Cassandra too with equal fire, But fortune had not favoured his desire; Crossed by her friends, by her not disapproved, Nor yet preferred, or like Ormisda loved: So stood the affair; some little hope remained, That, should his rival chance to lose, he gained. Meantime young Pasimond his marriage pressed, Ordained the nuptial day, prepared the feast; And frugally resolved (the charge to shun, } Which would be double should he wed alone,) } To join his brother's bridal with his own. } Lysimachus, oppressed with mortal grief, Received the news, and studied quick relief: The fatal day approached; if force were used, The magistrate his public trust abused; To justice liable, as law required, For when his office ceased, his power expired: While power remained, the means were in his hand By force to seize, and then forsake the land: Betwixt extremes he knew not how to move, A slave to fame, but more a slave to love: Restraining others, yet himself not free, Made impotent by power, debased by dignity. Both sides he weighed; but after much debate, The man prevailed above the magistrate. Love never fails to master what he finds, } But works a different way in different minds, } The fool enlightens, and the wise he blinds. } This youth, proposing to possess and scape, Began in murder, to conclude in rape: Unpraised by me; though heaven sometime may bless An impious act with undeserved success; The great, it seems, are privileged alone To punish all injustice but their own. But here I stop, not daring to proceed, } Yet blush to flatter an unrighteous deed; } For crimes are but permitted, not decreed. } Resolved on force, his wit the prætor bent, To find the means that might secure the event; Not long he laboured, for his lucky thought In captive Cymon found the friend he sought. The example pleased; the cause and crime the same; An injured lover, and a ravished dame. How much he durst he knew by what he dared; } The less he had to lose, the less he cared } To manage loathsome life when love was the reward. } This pondered well, and fixed on his intent, In depth of night he for the prisoner sent; In secret sent the public view to shun, Then with a sober smile he thus begun:-- The powers above, who bounteously bestow Their gifts and graces on mankind below, Yet prove our merit first, nor blindly give To such as are not worthy to receive: For valour and for virtue they provide Their due reward, but first they must be tried: These fruitful seeds within your mind they sowed; 'Twas yours to improve the talent they bestowed: They gave you to be born of noble kind, They gave you love to lighten up your mind, And purge the grosser parts; they gave you care To please, and courage to deserve the fair. Thus far they tried you, and by proof they found The grain intrusted in a grateful ground: But still the great experiment remained, They suffered you to lose the prize you gained, That you might learn the gift was theirs alone; And, when restored, to them the blessing own. Restored it soon will be; the means prepared, The difficulty smoothed, the danger shared: Be but yourself, the care to me resign, Then Iphigene is yours, Cassandra mine. Your rival Pasimond pursues your life, Impatient to revenge his ravished wife, But yet not his; to-morrow is behind, And love our fortunes in one band has joined: Two brothers are our foes, Ormisda mine, As much declared as Pasimond is thine: To-morrow must their common vows be tied: } With love to friend, and fortune for our guide, } Let both resolve to die, or each redeem a bride. } Right I have none, nor hast thou much to plead; 'Tis force, when done, must justify the deed: Our task performed, we next prepare for flight, And let the losers talk in vain of right: We with the fair will sail before the wind; If they are grieved, I leave the laws behind. Speak thy resolves; if now thy courage droop, Despair in prison, and abandon hope; But if thou darest in arms thy love regain, (For liberty without thy love were vain,) Then second my design to seize the prey, Or lead to second rape, for well thou know'st the way. Said Cymon, overjoyed,--Do thou propose The means to fight, and only shew the foes: For from the first, when love had fired my mind, Resolved, I left the care of life behind.-- To this the bold Lysimachus replied,-- Let heaven be neuter, and the sword decide; The spousals are prepared, already play The minstrels, and provoke the tardy day: By this the brides are waked, their grooms are dressed; } All Rhodes is summoned to the nuptial feast, } All but myself, the sole unbidden guest. } Unbidden though I am, I will be there, And, joined by thee, intend to joy the fair. Now hear the rest; when day resigns the light, And cheerful torches gild the jolly night, Be ready at my call; my chosen few With arms administered shall aid thy crew. Then, entering unexpected, will we seize Our destined prey, from men dissolved in ease, By wine disabled, unprepared for fight; And hastening to the seas, suborn our flight: The seas are ours, for I command the fort, A ship well manned expects us in the port: If they, or if their friends, the prize contest, Death shall attend the man who dares resist.-- It pleased; the prisoner to his hold retired, } His troop with equal emulation fired, } All fixed to fight, and all their wonted work required. } The sun arose; the streets were thronged around, The palace opened, and the posts were crowned. The double bridegroom at the door attends The expected spouse, and entertains the friends: They meet, they lead to church, the priests invoke The powers, and feed the flames with fragrant smoke. This done, they feast, and at the close of night } By kindled torches vary their delight, } These lead the lively dance, and those the briming bowls invite. } Now, at the appointed place and hour assigned, With souls resolved the ravishers were joined: Three bands are formed; the first is sent before To favour the retreat, and guard the shore; The second at the palace-gate is placed, And up the lofty stairs ascend the last: A peaceful troop they seem with shining vests, But coats of mail beneath secure their breasts. Dauntless they enter, Cymon at their head, And find the feast renewed, the table spread: Sweet voices, mixed with instrumental sounds, Ascend the vaulted roof, the vaulted roof rebounds. When, like the harpies, rushing through the hall The sudden troop appears, the tables fall, Their smoking load is on the pavement thrown; Each ravisher prepares to seize his own: The brides, invaded with a rude embrace, Shriek out for aid, confusion fills the place. Quick to redeem the prey their plighted lords Advance, the palace gleams with shining swords. But late is all defence, and succour vain; The rape is made, the ravishers remain: Two sturdy slaves were only sent before To bear the purchased prize in safety to the shore. The troop retires, the lovers close the rear, With forward faces not confessing fear: Backward they move, but scorn their pace to mend; Then seek the stairs, and with slow haste descend. Fierce Pasimond, their passage to prevent, } Thrust full on Cymon's back in his descent, } The blade returned unbathed, and to the handle bent. } Stout Cymon soon remounts, and cleft in two His rival's head with one descending blow: And as the next in rank Ormisda stood, } He turned the point; the sword, inured to blood, } Bored his unguarded breast, which poured a purple flood. } With vowed revenge the gathering crowd pursues The ravishers turn head, the fight renews; The hall is heaped with corpse; the sprinkled gore Besmears the walls, and floats the marble floor. Dispersed at length the drunken squadron flies, } The victors to their vessel bear the prize, } And hear behind loud groans and lamentable cries. } The crew with merry shouts their anchors weigh, } Then ply their oars, and brush the buxom sea, } While troops of gathered Rhodians crowd the key. } What should the people do when left alone? The governor and government are gone; The public wealth to foreign parts conveyed; Some troops disbanded, and the rest unpaid. Rhodes is the sovereign of the sea no more; Their ships unrigged, and spent their naval store, They neither could defend, nor can pursue, But grin'd their teeth, and cast a helpless view: In vain with darts a distant war they try, Short, and more short, the missive weapons fly. Meanwhile the ravishers their crimes enjoy, And flying sails and sweeping oars employ: The cliffs of Rhodes in little space are lost, Jove's isle they seek, nor Jove denies his coast. In safety landed on the Candian shore, With generous wines their spirits they restore; There Cymon with his Rhodian friend resides, Both court, and wed at once the willing brides. A war ensues, the Cretans own their cause, Stiff to defend their hospitable laws: Both parties lose by turns; and neither wins, Till peace propounded by a truce begins. The kindred of the slain forgive the deed, But a short exile must for show precede: The term expired, from Candia they remove; And happy each at home, enjoys his love.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 219: Although this interpretation is invidious, it might have been wished, that Collier, against whom the insinuation is directed, had been less coarse, and somewhat veiled the indecencies which he justly censures.]

[Footnote 220: Dryden willingly seizes the opportunity of being witty at the expence of the militia of England, which were then drawn out, and exercised once a month, instead of being formed as at present into permanent fencible regiments; differing from those of the line, only in the mode of raising them, and the extent of service.]

ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FIFTH DAY.

NOVEL I.

_Cymon becomes wise by being in love, and by force of arms wins Ephigenia his mistress upon the seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. Being delivered from thence by Lysimachus, with him he recovers Ephigenia, and flies with her to Crete, where he is married to her, and is afterwards recalled home._

A great many novels come now fresh into my mind, for the beginning of such an agreeable day's discourse as this is likely to be; but one I am more particularly pleased with, because it not only shews the happy conclusion which we are to treat about, but how sacred, how powerful also, as well as advantageous, the force of love is; which some people, without knowing what they say, unjustly blame and vilify, and which I judge will rather be had in esteem by you, as I suppose you all to be subject to the tender passion.

According to the ancient histories of Cyprus, there lived sometime in that island, one of great rank and distinction, called Aristippus, by far the wealthiest person in all the country; and if he was unhappy in any one respect, it was in having, amongst his other children, a son, who, though he exceeded most young people of his time in stature and comeliness, yet was he a perfect natural; his true name was Galeso, but as neither the labour nor skill of his master, nor the correction of his father, was ever able to beat one letter into his head, or the least instruction of any kind, and as his voice and manner of speaking were strangely harsh and uncouth, he was, by way of disdain, called only Cymon; which, in their language, signified _beast_. The father had long beheld him with infinite concern; and as all hopes were vanished concerning him, to remove out of his sight an object which afforded constant matter of grief, he ordered him away to his country-house, to be there with his slaves. This was extremely agreeable to Cymon, because people of that sort had been always most to his mind. Residing there, and doing all sorts of drudgery pertaining to that kind of life, it happened one day, as he was going, about noontide, with his staff upon his shoulder, from one farm to another, that he passed through a pleasant grove, which, as it was then the month of May, was all in bloom; from whence, as his stars led him, he came into a meadow surrounded with high trees, in one corner of which was a crystal spring, and by the side of it, upon the grass, lay a most beautiful damsel asleep, clothed with a mantle so exceedingly fine and delicate, as scarcely to conceal underneath the exquisite whiteness of her skin; only from her waist downwards she wore a white silken quilt, and at her feet were sleeping likewise two women and a man servant. As soon as Cymon cast his eye upon her, as if he had never seen the face of a woman before, he stood leaning upon his staff, and began to gaze with the utmost astonishment, without speaking a word. When suddenly in his rude uncivilized breast, which had hitherto been incapable of receiving the least impression of politeness whatsoever, a sudden thought arose, which seemed to intimate to his gross and shallow understanding, that this was the most agreeable sight that ever was seen. From thence he began to examine each part by itself, commending every limb and feature; and being now become a judge of beauty from a mere idiot, he grew very desirous of seeing her eyes, on which account he was going several times to wake her; but as she so far excelled all other women that he ever saw, he was in doubt whether she was a mortal creature. This made him wait to see if she would awake of her own accord; and though that expectation seemed tedious to him, yet so pleasing was the object, that he had no power to leave it. After a long time she came to herself, and raising up her head, saw Cymon stand propt upon his stick before her, at which she was surprised, and said: "Cymon, what are you looking for here at this time of day?" Now he was known all over the country, as well for his own rusticity, as his father's nobility and great wealth. He made no answer, but stood with his eyes fixed upon hers, which seemed to dart a sweetness, that filled him with a kind of joy to which he had hitherto been a stranger; whilst she observing this, and not knowing what his rudeness might prompt him to, called up her women, and then said: "Cymon, go about your business." He replied, "I will go along with you." And though she was afraid, and would have avoided his company, yet he would not leave her till he had brought her to her own house; from thence he went home to his father, when he declared, that he would return no more into the country, which was very disagreeable to all his friends, but yet they let him alone, waiting to see what this change of temper could be owing to. Love thus having pierced his heart, when no lesson of any kind could ever find admittance, in a little time his way of thinking and behaviour were so far changed, that his father and friends were strangely surprised at it, as well as every body that knew him. First of all then, he asked his father to let him have clothes, and every thing else like his brethren; to which the father very willingly consented. Conversing too with young gentlemen of character, and observing their ways and manner of behaving, in a very short time he not only got over the first rudiments of learning, but attained to some knowledge in philosophy. Afterwards, his love for Ephigenia being the sole cause of it, his rude and rustic speech was changed into a tone more agreeable and civilized: he grew also a master of music: and with regard to the military art, as well by sea as land, he became as expert and gallant as the best. In short, not to run over all his excellencies, before the expiration of the fourth year from his being first in love, he turned out the most accomplished young gentleman in every respect that ever Cyprus could boast of. What then, most gracious ladies, shall we say of Cymon? Surely nothing less than this; that all the noble qualities, which had been infused by heaven into his generous soul, were shut up as it were by invidious fortune, and bound fast with the strongest fetters in a small corner of his heart, till love broke the enchantment, and drove with all its might these virtues out of that cruel obscurity, to which they had been long doomed, to a clear and open day; plainly shewing from whence it draws those spirits that are its votaries, and whither its mighty influence conducts them. Cymon, therefore, though he might have his flights like other young people, with regard to his love for Ephigenia, yet when Aristippus considered it was that had made a man of him, he not only bore with it, but encouraged him in the pursuit of his pleasures. Cymon, nevertheless, who refused to be called Galeso, remembering that Ephigenia had styled him Cymon, being desirous of bringing that affair to an happy conclusion, had often requested her in marriage of her father, who replied, that he had already promised her to one Pasimunda, a young nobleman of Rhodes, and that he intended not to break his word. The time then being come, that was appointed for their nuptials, and the husband having sent in form to demand her, Cymon said to himself: O, Ephigenia, the time is now come when I shall give proof how I love you! I am become a man on your account; and could I but obtain you, I should be as glorious and happy as the gods themselves; and have you I will, or else I will die. Immediately he prevailed upon some young noblemen who were his friends, to assist him; and, fitting out a ship of war privately, they put to sea, in order to way-lay the vessel that was to transport Ephigenia; who, after great respect and honour shewed by her father to her husband's friends, embarked with them for Rhodes. Cymon, who had but little rest that night, overtook them on the following day, when he called out, "Stop, and strike your sails; or expect to go to the bottom of the sea." They, on the other hand, had got all their arms above deck, and were preparing for a vigorous defence. He therefore threw a grappling iron upon the other ship, which was making the best of its way, and drew it close to his own; when, like a lion, without waiting for any one to second him, he jumped singly among his enemies, as if he cared not for them, and, love spurring him on with incredible force, he cut and drove them all like so many sheep before him, till they soon threw down their arms, acknowledging themselves his prisoners; when he addressed himself to them in the following manner: "Gentlemen, it is no desire of plunder, nor enmity to any of your company, that made me leave Cyprus to fall upon you here in this manner. What occasioned it is a matter, the success of which is of the utmost consequence to myself, and as easy for you quietly to grant me: it is Ephigenia, whom I love above all the world; and as I could not have her from her father peaceably, and as a friend, my love constrains me to win her from you as an enemy, by force of arms. Therefore I am resolved to be to her what your Pasimunda was to have been. Resign her then to me, and go away in God's name." The people, more by force than any good will, gave her, all in tears, up to Cymon; who seeing her lament in that manner, said: "Fair lady, be not discouraged; I am your Cymon, who have a better claim to your affection, on account of my long and constant love, than Pasimunda can have by virtue of a promise." Taking her then on board his ship, without meddling with any thing else that belonged to them, he suffered them to depart. Cymon thus being the most overjoyed man that could be, after comforting the lady under her calamity, consulted with his friends what to do, who were of opinion that they should by no means return to Cyprus yet; but that it were better to go directly to Crete, where they had all relations and friends, but Cymon especially, on which account they might be more secure there along with Ephigenia; and accordingly they directed their course that way. But fortune, who had given the lady to Cymon by an easy conquest, soon changed his immoderate joy into most sad and bitter lamentation. In about four hours from his parting with the Rhodians, night came upon them, which was more welcome to Cymon than any of the rest, and with it a most violent tempest, which overspread the face of the heavens in such a manner, that they could neither see what they did, nor whither they were carried; nor were they able at all to steer the ship. You may easily suppose what Cymon's grief must be on this occasion. He concluded, that heaven had crowned his desires only to make death more grievous to him, which before would have been but little regarded. His friends also were greatly affected, but especially Ephigenia, who trembled at every shock, still sharply upbraiding his ill-timed love, and declaring that this tempest was sent by Providence for no other reason, but that as he had resolved to have her, contrary to the will and disposal of heaven, to disappoint that presumption; and that, seeing her die first, he might die likewise in the same miserable manner. Amongst such complaints as these, they were carried at last, the wind growing continually more violent, near the island of Rhodes; and not knowing where they were, they endeavoured, for the safety of their lives, to get to land if possible. In this they succeeded, and got into a little bay, where the Rhodian ship had arrived just before them; nor did they know they were at Rhodes till the next morning, when they saw, about a bow-shot from them, the same ship they had parted with the day before. Cymon was greatly concerned at this; and fearing what afterwards came to pass, he bid them put to sea if possible, and trust to fortune, for they could never be in a worse place. They used all possible means then to get out, but in vain; the wind was strongly against them, and drove them to shore in spite of all they could do to prevent it. They were soon known by the sailors of the other ship, who had now gained the shore, and who ran to a neighbouring town, where the young gentlemen that had been on board were just gone before, and informed them how Cymon and Ephigenia were, like themselves, driven thither by stress of weather. They, hearing this, brought a great many people from the town to the sea-side, and took Cymon and his companions prisoners, who had got on shore, with a design of flying to a neighbouring wood, as also Ephigenia, and brought them all together to the town. Pasimunda, upon hearing the news, went and made his complaints to the senate, who accordingly sent Lysimachus, who was chief magistrate that year, along with a guard of soldiers, to conduct them to prison. Thus the miserable and enamoured Cymon lost his mistress soon after he had gained her, and without having scarcely so much as a kiss for his pains. In the mean time Ephigenia was handsomely received by many ladies of quality, and comforted for the trouble she had sustained in being made a captive, as well as in the storm at sea; and she remained with them till the day appointed for her nuptials. However, Cymon and his friends had their lives granted them (though Pasimunda used all his endeavours to the contrary) for the favour shewed to the Rhodians the day before; but they were sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, where they remained sorrowfully enough, as they had no hopes of obtaining their liberty. Now whilst Pasimunda was making preparation for his nuptials, fortune, as if she had repented the injury done to Cymon, produced a new circumstance for his deliverance. Pasimunda had a brother, beneath him in years, but not in virtue, called Ormisda, who had been long talked of as about to marry a beautiful lady of that city, called Cassandra, whom Lysimachus was also in love with, and had for some time been prevented marrying her, by diverse unlucky accidents. Now as Pasimunda was to celebrate his own nuptials with great state and feasting, he supposed it would save a great deal of expence and trouble, if his brother was to marry at the same time. He consequently proposed the thing again to Cassandra's friends, and soon brought it to a conclusion; when it was agreed by all parties, that the same day that Pasimunda brought home Ephigenia, Ormisda should bring home Cassandra. This was very grating to Lysimachus, who saw himself now deprived of the hope which he had hitherto entertained of marrying her himself; but he was wise enough to conceal it, contriving a way to prevent its taking effect if possible; none however appeared, but that of taking her away by force. This seemed easy enough on account of his office; still he thought it not so reputable as if he had borne no office at all at that time; but in short, after a long debate with himself, honour gave way to love, and he resolved, happen what would, to bear away Cassandra. Thinking then what companions he should make choice of for this enterprise, as well as the means that were to be taken, he soon called Cymon to mind, whom he had in custody, as also his companions; and thinking he could have nobody better to assist him, nor one more trusty and faithful on that occasion than Cymon, the next night he had him privately into his chamber, where he spoke to him in this manner:--"Cymon, as the gods are the best and most liberal givers of all things to mankind, so are they also the ablest judges of our several virtues and merits: such then as they find to be firm and constant in every respect, them do they make worthy of the greatest things. Now concerning your worth and valour, they are willing to have a more certain trial of both, than it was possible for you to shew within the scanty limits of your father's house, whom I know to be a person of the greatest distinction; for first then, by the pungent force of love, as I am informed, have they, from a mere insensible creature, made a man of you; and afterwards by adverse fortune, and now by a miserable imprisonment, are they willing to see if your soul be changed from what it was, when you appeared flushed so lately with the prize you had won. If that continues the same, I can propose nothing so agreeable to you, as what I am now going to offer; which, that you may resume your former might and valour, I shall immediately disclose. Pasimunda, overjoyed with your disappointment, and a zealous promoter, as far as in him lay, of your being put to death, is now about to celebrate his marriage with your Ephigenia, that he may enjoy that blessing, which fortune, when she was favourable, first put into your power, and afterwards snatched away from you; but how this must afflict you, I can easily suppose by myself, who am like to undergo the same injury, and at the same time, with regard to my mistress Cassandra, who is to be married then to his brother Ormisda. Now I see no remedy for either of us, but what consists in our own resolution, and the strength of our arms: it will be necessary, therefore, to make our way with our swords, for each of us to gain his lady: if then you value (I will not say your liberty, because that without her would be of little weight with you; but, I say, if you value) your mistress, you need only follow me, and fortune has put her into your hands." These words spoke comfort to the drooping soul of Cymon, who immediately replied, "Lysimachus, you could never have a more stout, nor a more trusty friend for such an enterprize than myself, if it be as you seem to promise: tell me then what you would have me do, and you shall see me put it nobly into execution." Lysimachus made answer, "Three days hence the ladies are to be brought home to their espoused husbands, when you, with your friends and myself, with some people whom I can confide in, will go armed in the evening, and enter their house whilst they are in the midst of their mirth, where we will seize on the two brides, and carry them away to a ship which I have secretly provided, killing all that shall presume to oppose us." This scheme was entirely to Cymon's good liking, and he waited quietly till the time appointed. The wedding-day being now come, and every part of their house full of mirth and feasting, Lysimachus, after giving the necessary orders at the time fixed, divided Cymon and his companions with his own friends into three parties, and putting arms under their several cloaks, and animating them boldly to pursue what they had undertaken, he sent one party to the haven to secure their escape, and with the other two they went to Pasimunda's house; one they stationed at the gate, to prevent any persons shutting them up in the house; whilst he, along with Cymon, went up stairs with the remaining part.--Coming then into the dining-room, where the two brides, with many other ladies, were seated orderly at supper, they advanced up to them, and throwing down all the tables, each seized his lady, and giving them into the arms of their followers, ordered them to carry them away to their ship. The brides, as well as the other ladies and the servants, cried out so much, that immediately there was a great tumult. In the mean time, Cymon and Lysimachus, with their followers, all drew their swords, and came down stairs again without any opposition, till they met with Pasimunda, having in his hand a great club, whom the noise had drawn thither, when Cymon, at one stroke, laid him dead at his feet, and whilst Ormisda was running to his assistance, he was likewise killed by Cymon; many others also of their friends, who came to their relief, were wounded and beaten back. Leaving the house then all full of blood and confusion, they joined parties, and went directly on to their ship with their booty, without the least hindrance whatever; when putting the ladies on board, and they with all their friends following them, the shore was soon filled with crowds of people, who came to rescue them, upon which they plied their oars, and sailed joyfully away for Crete. There they were cheerfully received by all their friends and relations, when they espoused their ladies, and were well pleased with their several prizes. This occasioned great quarrels afterwards between the two islands of Cyprus and Rhodes. At length, by the interposition of friends, every thing was amicably adjusted, and then Cymon returned along with Ephigenia to Cyprus, and Lysimachus in like manner carried Cassandra back to Rhodes, where they lived very happily to the end of their days.

END OF THE ELEVENTH VOLUME.

* * * * *

EDINBURGH:

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

+-----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's notes: | | | | P.36. 'Hoddesden' changed to 'Hoddesdon'. | | P.119. 'Eleanora' changed to 'Eleonora'. | | P.120. 'Eleanora' changed to 'Eleonora'. | | P.152. 'copartment' changed to 'compartment'. | | P.232. In footnote 130 'reason to thing' changed to 'reason to think'.| | P.260. 'musk ask' changed to 'must ask'. | | P.279. 'profered' is 'proffer'd' in another volume, changed. | | P.301. 'atchievements' changed to 'achievements'. | | P.436. 'mein' changed to 'mien'. | | P.453. 'criti- objections' changed to 'critical objections'. | | P.475. 'disagreeble' changed to 'disagreeable'. | | Various punctuation fixed. | | Note: text surrounded by _this_ indicates italics. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------------------+