Mr Drydens' FABLES.   

FABLES Ancient and Modern; Translated into VERSE, FROM Homer, Ovid, Boccace, & Chaucer: WITH ORIGINAL POEMS.  
By Mr DRYDEN.  Nunc ultrò ad Cineres ipsius & ossa parentis (Haud equidem sine ment, reor, sine numine divum) Adsumus. Virg. AEn. lib. 5. 
LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, within Gray's Inn Gate next Gray's Inn Lane. MDCC.   

TO HIS GRACE THE Duke of Ormond.  
My LORD,  
SOME Estates are held in England, by paying a Fine at the change of every Lord: I have enjoyed the Patronage of your Family, from the time of your excellent Grandfather to this present Day. I have dedicated the Lives of Plutarch to the first Duke; and have celebrated the Memory of your Heroic Father. Tho' I am very short of the Age of Nestor, yet I have lived to a third Generation of your House; and by your Grace's Favour am admitted still to hold from you by the same Tenure.  
I am not vain enough to boast that I have deserved the value of so Illustrious a Line; but my Fortune is the greater, that for three Descents they have been pleased to distinguish my Poems from those of other Men; and have accordingly made me their peculiar Care. May it be permitted me to say, That as your Grandfather and Father were cherished and adorned with Honours by two successive Monarches, so I have been esteemed, and patronised, by the Grandfather, the Father, and the Son, descended from one of the most Ancient, most Conspicuous, and most Deserving Families in Europe.  
'Tis true, that by delaying the Payment of my last Fine, when it was due by your Grace's Accession to the Titles, and Patrimonies of your House, I may seem in rigour of Law to have made a forfeiture of my Claim, yet my Heart has always been devoted to your Service: And since you have been graciously pleased, by your permission of this Address, to accept the tender of my Duty, 'tis not yet too late to lay these Poems at your Feet.  
The World is sensible that you worthily succeed, not only to the Honours of your Ancestors, but also to their Virtues. The long Chain of Magnanimity, Courage, easiness of Access, and desire of doing Good, even to the Prejudice of your Fortune, is so far from being broken in your Grace, that the precious Metal yet runs pure to the newest Link of it: Which I will not call the last, because I hope and pray, it may descend to late Posterity: And your flourishing Youth, and that of your excellent Duchess, are happy Omens of my Wish.  
'Tis observed by Livy and by others, That some of the noblest Roman Families retained a resemblance of their Ancestry, not only in their Shapes and Features, but also in their Manners, their Qualities, and the distinguishing Characters of their Minds: Some Lines were noted for a stern, rigid Virtue, savage, haughty, parsimonious and unpopular: Others were more sweet, and affable; made of a more pliant Past, humble, courteous, and obliging; studious of doing charitable Offices, and diffusive of the Goods which they enjoyed. The last of these is the proper and indelible Character of your Grace's Family. God Almighty has endued you with a Softness, a Beneficence, an attractive Behaviour winning on the Hearts of others; and so sensible of their Misery, that the Wounds of Fortune, seem not inflicted on them but on yourself. You are so ready to redress, that you almost prevent their Wishes, and always exceed their Expectations: As if what was yours, was not your own, and not given you to possess, but to bestow on wanting Merit. But this is a Topick which I must cast in Shades, left I offend your Modesty, which is so far from being ostentatious of the Good you do, that it blushes even to have it known: And therefore I must leave you to the Satisfaction and Testimony of your own Conscience, which though it be a silent Panegyric, is yet the best.  
You are so easy of Access, that Poplicola was not more, whose Doors were opened on the Outside to save the People even the common Civility of ask entrance; where all were equally admitted; where nothing that was reasonable was denied; where Misfortune was a powerful Recommendation, and where (I can scarce forbear saying) that Want itself was a powerful Mediator, and was next to Merit.  
The History of Peru assures us, That their Inca's above all their Titles, esteemed that the highest, which called them Lovers of the Poor: A Name more glorious, than the Felix, Pius, and Augustus of the Roman Emperors; which were Epithets of Flattery, deserved by few of them; and not running in a Blood like the perpetual Gentleness, and inherent Goodness of the ORMOND Family.  
Gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest, and most ductile of all Metals: Iron, which is the hardest, gathers Rust, corrodes its self; and is therefore subject to Corruption: It was never intended for Coins and Medals, or to bear the Faces and Inscriptions of the Great. Indeed 'tis fit for Armour, to bear off Insults, and preserve the Wearer in the Day of Battle: But the Danger once repelled, 'tis laid aside by the Brave, as a Garment too rough for civil Conversation; a necessary Guard in War, but too harsh and cumbersome in Peace, and which keeps off the embraces of a more human Life.  
For this Reason, my Lord, though you have Courage in a heroical Degree, yet I ascribe it to you, but as your second Attribute: Mercy, Beneficence, and Compassion, claim Precedence, as they are first in the divine Nature. An intrepid Courage, which is inherent in your Grace, is at best but a Holiday-kind of Virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never but in Cases of Necessity: Affability, Mildness, Tenderness, and a Word, which I would fain bring back to its original Signification of Virtue, I mean good Nature, are of daily use: They are the Bread of Mankind, and Staff of Life: Neither Sighs, nor Tears, nor Groans, nor Curses of the vanquished, follow Acts of Compassion, and of Charity: But a sincere Pleasure, and Serenity of Mind, in him who performs an Action of Mercy, which cannot suffer the Misfortunes of another, without redress; lest they should bring a kind of Contagion along with them, and pollute the Happiness which he enjoys.  
Yet since the perverse Tempers of Mankind, since Oppression on one side, and Ambition on the other, are sometimes the unavoidable Occasions of War; that Courage, that Magnanimity, and Resolution, which is born with you, cannot be too much commended: And here it grieves me that I am scanted in the pleasure of dwelling on many of your Actions: But 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 is an Expression which Tully often uses, when he would do what he dares not, and fears the Censure of the Romans.  
I have sometimes been forced to amplify on others; but here, where the Subject is so fruitful, that the Harvest overcomes the Reaper, I am shortened by my Chain, and can only see what is forbidden me to reach: Since it is not permitted me to commend you, according to the extent of my Wishes, and much less is it in my Power to make my Commendations equal to your Merits.  
Yet in this Frugality of your Praises, there are some Things which I cannot omit, without detracting from your Character. You have so formed your own Education, as enables you to pay the Debt you own your Country; or more properly speaking, both your Countries: Because you were born, I may almost say in Purple at the Castle of Dublin, when your Grandfather was Lord-Lieutenant, and have since been bred in the Court of England.  
If this Address had been in Verse, I might have called you as Claudian calls Mercury, Numen common, Gemino faciens commercia mundo. The better to satisfy this double Obligation you have early cultivated the Genius you have to Arms, that when the Service of Britain or Ireland shall require your Courage, and your Conduct, you may exert them both to the Benefit of either Country. You began in the Cabinet what you afterwards practised in the Camp; and thus both Lucullus and Caesar (to omit a crowd of shining Romans) formed themselves to the War by the Study of History; and by the Examples of the greatest Captains, both of Greece and Italy, before their time. I name those two Commanders in particular, because they were better read in Chronicle than any of the Roman Leaders; and that Lucullus in particular, having only the Theory of War from Books, was thought fit, without Practice, to be sent into the Field, against the most formidable Enemy of Rome. Tully indeed was called the learned Consul in derision; but then he was not born a Soldier: His Head was turned another way: When he read the Tactics he was thinking on the Bar, which was his Field of Battle. The Knowledge of Warfare is thrown away on a General who dares not make use of what he knows. I commend it only in a Man of Courage and of Resolution; in him it will direct his Martial Spirit; and teach him the way to the best Victories, which are those that are least bloody, and which tho' achieved by the Hand, are managed by the Head. Science distinguishes a Man of Honour from one of those Athletic Brutes whom undeservedly we call Heroes. Cursed be the Poet, who first honoured with that Name a mere Ajax, a Man-killing Idiot. The Ulysses of Ovid upbraids his Ignorance, that he understood not the Shield for which he pleaded: There was engraven on it, Plans of Cities, and Maps of Countries, which Ajax could not comprehend, but looked on them as stupidly as his Fellow-Beast the Lion. But on the other side, your Grace has given yourself the Education of his Rival; you have studied every Spot of Ground in Flanders, which for these ten Years past has been the Scene of Battles and of Sieges. No wonder if you performed your Part with such Applause on a Theatre which you understood so well.  
If I designed this for a Poetical Encomium, it were easy to enlarge on so copious a Subject; but confining myself to the Severity of Truth, and to what is becoming me to say, I must not only pass over many Instances of your Military Skill, but also those of your assiduous Diligence in the War; and of your Personal Bravery, attended with an ardent Thirst of Honour; a long Train of Generosity; Profuseness of doing Good; a Soul unsatisfied with all it has done; and an unextinguished Desire of doing more. But all this is Matter for your own Historians; I am, as Virgil says, Spatiis exclusus iniquis.  
Yet not to be wholly silent of all your Charities I must stay a little on one Action, which preferred the Relief of Others, to the Consideration of yourself. When, in the Battle of Landen, your Heat of Courage (a Fault only pardonable to your Youth) had transported you so far before your Friends, that they were unable to follow, much less to secure you; when you were not only dangerously, but in all appearance mortally wounded, when in that desperate Condition you were made Prisoner, and carried to Namur at that time in Possession of the French; than it was, my Lord, that you took a considerable Part of what was remitted to you of your own Revenues, and as a memorable Instance of your Heroic Charity, put it into the Hands of Count Guiscard, who was Governor of the Place, to be distributed among your Fellow-Prisoners. The French Commander, charmed with the greatness of your Soul, accordingly consigned it to the Use for which it was intended by the Donor: By which means the Lives of so many miserable Men were saved, and a comfortable Provision made for their Subsistance, who had otherwise perished, had not you been the Companion of their Misfortune: or rather sent by Providence, like another Joseph, to keep out Famine from invading those, whom in Humility you called your Brethren. How happy was it for those poor Creatures, that your Grace was made their Fellow-Sufferer? And how glorious for You, that you chose to want rather than not relieve the Wants of others? The Heathen Poet, in commending the Charity of Dido to the Trojans, spoke like a Christian: Non ignara mali miseris, succurere disco. All Men, even those of a different Interest, and contrary Principles, must praise this Action, as the most eminent for Piety, not only in this degenerate Age, but almost in any of the former; when Men were made de meliore luto; when Examples of Charity were frequent, and when there were in being, Teucri pulcherrima proles, Magnanimi Heroes nati melioribus annis. No Envy can detract from this; it will shine in History; and like Swans, grow whiter the longer it endures: And the Name of ORMOND will be more celebrated in his Captivity, than in his greatest Triumphs.  
But all Actions of your Grace are of a piece; as Waters keep the Tenor of their Fountains: your Compassion is general, and has the same Effect as well on Enemies as Friends. 'Tis so much in your Nature to do Good, that your Life is but one continued Act of placing Benesits on many; as the Sun is always carrying his Light to some Part or other of the World: And were it not that your Reason guides you where to give, I might almost say that you could not help bestowing more, than is consisting with the Fortune of a private Man, or with the Will of any but an Alexander.  
What Wonder is it then, that being born for a Blessing to Mankind, your supposed Death in that Engagement, was so generally lamented through the Nation? The Concernment for it was as universal as the Loss: And though the Gratitude might be counterfeit in some, yet the Tears of all were real: Where every Man deplored his private Part in that Calamity, and even those who had not tasted of your Favours, yet built so much on the Fame of your Beneficence, that they bemoaned the Loss of their Expectations.  
This brought the untimely Death of your Great Father into fresh remembrance; as if the same Decree had passed on two short successive Generations of the Virtuous; and I repeated to myself the same Verses, which I had formerly applied to him: Ostendunt terris hunc tantum fata, nec ultra, esse sinunt. But to the Joy not only of all good Men, but of Mankind in general, the unhappy Omen took not place. You are still living to enjoy the Blessings and Applause of all the Good you have performed, the Prayers of Multitudes whom you have obliged, for your long Prosperity; and that your Power of doing generous and charitable Actions, may be as extended as your Will; which is by none more zealously desired than by  
Your GRACE's most humble, most obliged, and most obedient Servant, John Dryden.   

PREFACE.  
'tIS with a Poet, as with a Man who designs to build, and is very exact, as he supposes, in casting up the Cost beforehand: But, generally speaking, he is mistaken in his Account, and reckons short of the Expense he first intended: He altars his Mind as the Work proceeds, and will have this or that Convenience more, of which he had not thought when he began. So has it happened to me; I have built a House, where I intended but a Lodge: Yet with better Success, than a certain Nobleman, who beginning with a Dogkennil, never lived to finish the Palace he had contrived.  
From translating the First of Homer's Iliads, (which I intended as an Essay to the whole Work) I proceeded to the Translation of the Twelfth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses, because it contains, among other Things, the Causes, the Beginning, and Ending, of the Trojan War: Here I ought in reason to have stopped; but the Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses lying next in my way, I could not balk 'em. When I had compassed them, I was so taken with the former Part of the Fifteenth Book, (which is the Masterpiece of the whole Metamorphoses) that I enjoined myself the pleasing Task of rendering it into English. And now I found, by the Number of my Verses, that they began to swell into a little Volume; which gave me an Occasion of looking backward on some Beauties of my Author, in his former Books: There occurred to me the Hunting of the Boar, Cinyras and Myrrah, the good-natured Story of Baucis and Philemon, with the rest, which I hope I have translated closely enough, and given them the same Turn of Verse, which they had in the Original; and this, I may say without vanity, is not the Talon of every Poet: He who has arrived the nearest to it, is the Ingenious and Learned Sandys, the best Versifier of the former Age; if I may properly call it by that Name, which was the former Part of this concluding Century. For Spencer and Fairfax both flourished in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth: Great Masters in our Language; and who saw much farther into the Beauties of our Numbers, than those who immediately followed them. Milton was the Poetical Son of Spencer, and Mr. Waller of Fairfax; for we have our Lineal Descents and Clans, as well as other Families: Spencer more than once insinuates, that the Soul of Chaucer was transsused into his Body; and that he was begotten by him Two hundred years after his Decease. Milton has acknowledged to me, that Spencer was his Original; and many besides myself have heard our famous Waller own, that he derived the Harmony of his Numbers from the Godfrey of Bulloign, which was turned into English by Mr. Fairfax. But to return: Having done with Ovid for this time, it came into my mind, that our old English Poet Chaucer in many Things resembled him, and that with no disadvantage on the Side of the Modern Author, as I shall endeavour to prove when I compare them: And as I am, and always have been studious to promote the Honour of my Native Country, so I soon resolved to put their Merits to the Trial, by turning some of the Canterbury Tales into our Language, as it is now refined: For by this Means both the Poets being set in the same Light, and dressed in the same English Habit, Story to be compared with Story, a certain Judgement may be made betwixt them, by the Reader, without obtruding my Opinion on him: Or if I seem partial to my Countryman, and Predecessor in the Laurel, the Friends of Antiquity are not few: And besides many of the Learned, Ovid has almost all the Beaux, and the whole Fair Sex his declared Patrons. Perhaps I have assumed somewhat more to myself than they allow me; because I have adventured to sum up the Evidence: But the Readers are the Jury; and their Privilege remains entire to decide according to the Merits of the Cause: Or, if they please to bring it to another Hearing, before some other Court. In the mean time, to follow the third of my Discourse, (as Thoughts, according to Mr. Hobbs, have always some Connexion) so from Chaucer I was led to think on Boccace, who was not only his Contemporary, but also pursued the same Studies; wrote Novels in Prose, and many Works in Verse; particularly is said to have invented the Octave Rhyme, or Stanza of Eight Lines, which ever since has been maintained by the Practice of all Italian Writers, who are, or at least assume the Title of Heroic Poets: He and Chaucer, among other Things, had this in common, that they refined their Mother-Tongues; but with this difference, that Dante had begun to file their Language, at least in Verse, before the time of Boccace, who likewise received no little Help from his Master Petrarch: But the Reformation of their Prose was wholly owing to Boccace himself; who is yet the Standard of Purity in the Italian Tongue; though many of his Phrases are become obsolete, as in process of Time it must needs happen. Chaucer (as you have formerly been told by our learned Mr. Rhymer) first adorned and amplified our barren Tongue from the Provencall, which was then the most polished of all the Modern Languages: But this Subject has been copiously treated by that great Critic, who deserves no little Commendation from us his Countrymen. For these Reasons of Time, and Resemblance of Genius, in Chaucer and Boccace, I resolved to join them in my present Work; to which I have added some Original Papers of my own; which whether they are equal or inferior to my other Poems, an Author is the most improper Judge; and therefore I leave them wholly to the Mercy of the Reader: I will hope the best, that they will not be condemned; but if they should, I have the Excuse of an old Gentleman, who mounting on Horseback before some Ladies, when I was present, got up somewhat heavily, but desired of the Fair Spectators, that they would count Fourscore and eight before they judged him. By the Mercy of God, I am already come within Twenty Years of his Number, a Cripple in my Limbs, but what Decays are in my Mind, the Reader must determine. I think myself as vigorous as ever in the Faculties of my Soul, excepting only my Memory, which is not impaired to any great degree; and if I lose not more of it, I have no great reason to complain. What Judgement I had, increases rather than diminishes; and Thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only Difficulty is to choose or to reject; to run them into Verse, or to give them the other Harmony of Prose, I have so long studied and practised both, that they are grown into a Habit, and become familiar to me. In short, though I may lawfully plead some part of the old Gentleman's Excuse; yet I will reserve it till I think I have greater need, and ask no Grains of Allowance for the Faults of this my present Work, but those which are given of course to Humane Frailty. I will not trouble my Reader with the shortness of Time in which I writ it; or the several Intervals of Sickness: They who think too well of their own Performances, are apt to boast in their Prefaces how little Time their Works have cost them; and what other Business of more importance interfered: But the Reader will be as apt to ask the Question, Why they allowed not a longer Time to make their Works more perfect? and why they had so despicable an Opinion of their Judges, as to thrust their indigested Stuff upon them, as if they deserved no better?  
With this Account of my present Undertaking, I conclude the first Part of this Discourse: In the second Part, as at a second Sitting, though I altar not the Draught, I must touch the same Features over again, and change the Dead-colouring of the Whole. In general I will only say, that I have written nothing which savours of Immorality or Profaneness; at least, I am not conscious to myself of any such Intention. If there happen to be found an irreverent Expression, or a Thought too wanton, they are crept into my Verses through my Inadvertency: If the Searchers find any in the Cargo, let them be staved or forfeited, like Counterbanded Goods; at least, let their Authors be answerable for them, as being but imported Merchandise, and not of my own Manufacture. On the other Side, I have endeavoured to choose such Fables, both Ancient and Modern, as contain in each of them some instructive Moral, which I could prove by Induction, but the Way is tedious; and they leap foremost into sight, without the Reader's Trouble of looking after them. I wish I could affirm with a safe Conscience, that I had taken the same Care in all my former Writings; for it must be owned, that supposing Verses are never so beautiful or pleasing, yet if they contain any thing which shocks Religion, or Good Manners, they are at best, what Horace says of good Numbers without good Sehse, Versus inopes rerum; nugaeque canorae: Thus far, I hope, I am Right in Court, without renouncing to my other Right of Self-defence, where I have been wrongfully accused, and my Sense wiredrawn into Blasphemy or Bawdry, as it has often been by a Religious Lawyer, in a late Pleading against the Stage; in which he mixes Truth with Falsehood, and has not forgotten the old Rule, of calumniating strongly, that something may remain.  
I resume the third of my Discourse with the first of my Translations, which was the First Iliad of Homer. If it shall please God to give me longer Life, and moderate Health, my Intentions are to translate the whole Ilias; provided still, that I meet with those Encouragements from the Public, which may enable me to proceed in my Undertaking with some Cheerfulness, And this I dare assure the World beforehand, that I have found by Trial, Homer a more pleasing Task than Virgil, (though I say not the Translation will be less laborious.) For the Grecian is more according to my Genius, than the Latin Poet. In the Works of the two Authors we may read their Manners, and natural Inclinations, which are wholly different. Virgil was of a quiet, sedate Temper; Homer was violent, impetuous, and full of Fire. The chief Talon of Virgil was Propriety of Thoughts, and Ornament of Words: Homer was rapid in his Thoughts, and took all the Liberties both of Numbers, and of Expressions, which his Language, and the Age in which he lived allowed him: Homer's Invention was more copious, Virgil's more confined So that if Homer had not led the Way, it was not in Virgil to have begun-Heroick Poetry: For, nothing can be more evident, than that the Roman Poem is but the Second Part of the Ilias; a Continuation of the same Story: And the Persons already formed: The Manners of AEneds, are those of Hector superadded to those which Homer gave him. The Adventures of Ulysses in the Odysseis, are imitated in the first Six Books of Virgil's AEneis: And though the Accidents are not the same, (which would have argued him of a servile, copying, and total Barrenness of Invention) yet the Seas were the same, in which both the Heroes-wandered; and Dido cannot be denied to be the Poetical Daughter of Calypso. The Six latter Books of Virgil's Poem, are the Four and twenty Iliads contracted: A Quarrel occasioned by a Lady, a Single Combat, Battles fought, and Town besieged. I say not this in derogation to Virgil, neither do I contradict any thing which I have formerly said in his just Praise: For his Episodes are almost wholly of his own Invention and the Form which he has given to the Telling, makes the Tale his own even though the Original Story had been the same. But this proves, however that Homer taught Virgil to design: And if Invention be the first Virtue of an Epic Poet, than the Latin Poem can only be allowed the second Place. Mr. Hobbs, in the Preface to his own bald Translation of the Ilias, (studying Poetry as he did Mathematics, when it was too late) Mr. Hobbs, I say, gins the Praise of Homer where he should have ended it. He tells us, that the first Beauty of an Epic Poem consists in Diction, that is, in the Choice of Words, and Harmony of Numbers: Now, the Words are the Colouring 〈◊〉 Work, which in the Order of Nature is last to be 〈◊〉. The Design, the Disposition, the Manners, and the Thoughts, are all before it: Where any of those are wanting or imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in the Imitation of Humane Life; which is in the very Definition of a Poem. Words Indeed, like glaring Colours, are the first Beauties that arise, and strike the Sight; but if the Draught be false or lame, the Figures ill disposed, the Manners obscure or inconsistent, or the Thoughts unnatural, than the finest Colours are but Daubing, and the Piece is a beautiful Monster at the best. Neither Virgil nor Homer were deficient in any of the former Beauties; but in this last, which is Expression, the Roman Poet is at least equal to the Grecian, as I have said elsewhere; supplying the Poverty of his Language, by his Musical Ear, and by his Diligence. But to return: Our two Great Poets, being so different in their Tempers, one Choleric and Sanguine, the other Phlegmatic and Melancholic; that which makes them excel in their several Ways, is, that each of them has followed his own natural Inclination, as well in Forming the Design, as in the Execution of it. The very Heroes show their Authors: Achilles is hot, impatient, revengeful, Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, etc. AEnoeas patiented, considerate, careful of his People, and merciful to his Enemies; ever submissive to the Will of Heaven, quo fata trahunt retrahuntque, sequamur. I could please myself with enlarging on this Subject, but am forced to defer it to a fit Time. From all I have said, I will only draw this Inference, That the Action of Homer being more full of Vigour than that of Virgil, according to the Temper of the Writer, is of consequence more pleasing to the Reader. One warms you by Degrees; the other sets you on fire all at once, and never intermits his Heat. 'Tis the same Difference which Longinus makes betwixt the Effects of Eloquence in Demosthenes, and Tully. One persuades; the other commands. You never cool while you read Homer, even not in the Second Book, (a graceful Flattery to his Countrymen;) but he hastens from the Ships, and concludes not that Book till he has made you an Amends by the violent playing of a new Machine. From thence he hurries on his Action with Variety of Events, and ends it in less Compass than Two Months. This Vehemence of his, I confess, is more suitable to my Temper: and therefore I have translated his First Book with greater Pleasure than any Part of Virgil: But it was not a Pleasure without Pains: The continual Agitations of the Spirits, must needs be a Weakening of any Constitution, especially in Age: and many Pauses are required for Refreshment betwixt the Heats; the Iliad of its self being a third part longer than all Virgil's Works together.  
This is what I thought needful in this Place to say of Homer. I proceed to Ovid, and Chaucer; considering the former only in relation to the latter. With Ovid ended the Golden Age of the Roman Tongue: From Chaucer the Purity of the English Tongue began. The Manners of the Poets were not unlike: Both of them were well-bred, well-natured, amorous, and Libertine, at least in their Writings, it may be also in their Lives. Their Studies were the same, Philosophy, and Philology. Both of them were knowing in Astronomy, of which Ovid's Books of the Roman Feasts, and Chaucer's Treatise of the Astrolabe, are sufficient Witnesses. But Chaucer was likewise an ginger, as were Virgil, Horace, Persius, and Manilius. Both writ with wonderful Facility and Clearness; neither were great Inventors: For Ovid only copied the Grecian Fables; and most of Chaucer's Stories were taken from his Italian Contemporaries, or their Predecessors: Boccace his Decameron was first published; and from thence our Englishman has borrowed many of his Canterbury Tales: Yet that of Palamon and Arcite was written in all probability by some Italian Wit, in a former Age; as I shall prove hereafter: The Tale of Grizzled was the Invention of Petrarch; by him sent to Boccace; from whom it came to Chaucer: Troilus and Cressida was also written by a Lombard Author; but much amplified by our English Translator, as well as beautified; the Genius of our Countrymen in general being rather to improve an Invention, than to invent themselves; as is evident not only in our Poetry, but in many of our Manufactures. I find I have anticipated already, and taken up from Boccace before I come to him: But there is so much less behind; and I am of the Temper of most Kings, who love to be in Debt, are all for present Money, no matter how they pay it afterwards: Besides, the Nature of a Preface is rambling; never wholly out of the Way, nor in it. This I have learned from the Practice of honest Montaign, and return at my pleasure to Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say. Both of them built on the Inventions of other Men; yet since Chaucer had something of his own, as The Wife of Baths Tale, The Cock and the Fox, which I have translated, and some others, I may justly give our Countryman the Precedence in that Part; since I can remember nothing of Ovid which was wholly his. Both of them understood the Manners; under which Name I comprehend the Passions, and, in a larger Sense, the Descriptions of Persons, and their very Habits: For an Example, I see Baucis and Philemon as perfectly before me, as if some ancient Painter had drawn them; and all the Pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales, their Humours, their Features, and the very Dress, as distinctly as if I had supped with them at the Tabard in Southwark: Yet even there too the Figures of Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better Light: Which though I have not time to prove; yet I appeal to the Reader, and am sure he will clear me from Partiality. The Thoughts and Words remain to be considered, in the Comparison of the two Poets; and I have saved myself one half of that Labour, by owning that Ovid lived when the Roman Tongue was in its Meridian; Chaucer, in the Dawning of our Language: Therefore that Part of the Comparison stands not on an equal Foot, any more than the Diction of Ennius and Ovid; or of Chaucer, and our present English. The Words are given up as a Post not to be defended in our Poet, because he wanted the Modern Art of Fortifying. The Thoughts remain to be considered: And they are to be measured only by their Propriety; that is, as they flow more or less naturally from the Persons described, on such and such Occasions. The Vulgar Judges, which are Nine Parts in Ten of all Nations, who call Conceits and Jingles Wit, who see Ovid full of them, and Chaucer altogether without them, will think me little less than mad, for preferring the Englishman to the Roman: Yet, with their leave, I must presume to say, that the Things they admire are only glittering Trifles, and so far from being Witty, that in a serious Poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. Would any Man who is ready to die for Love, describe his Passion like Narcissus? Would he think of inopem me copia fecit, and a Dozen more of such Expressions, poured on the Neck of one another, and signifying all the same Thing? If this were Wit, was this a Time to be witty, when the poor Wretch was in the Agony of Death? This is just John Littlewit in Bartholomew Fair, who had a Conceit (as he tells you) left him in his Misery; a miserable Conceit. On these Occasions the Poet should endeavour to raise Pity: But instead of this, Ovid is tickling you to laugh. Virgil never made use of such Machine's, when he was moving you to commiserate the Death of Dido: He would not destroy what he was building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his Love, and unjust in the Pursuit of it: Yet when he came to die, he made him think more reasonably: He reputes not of his Love, for that had altered his Character; but acknowledges the Injustice of his Proceed, and resigns Emilia to Palamon. What would Ovid have done on this Occasion? He would certainly have made Arcite witty on his Deathbed. He had complained he was farther off from Possession, by being so near, and a thousand such Boyisms, which Chaucer rejected as below the Dignity of the Subject. They who think otherwise, would by the same Reason prefer Lucan and Ovid to Homer and Virgil, and Martial to all Four of them. As for the Turn of Words, in which Ovid particularly excels all Poets; they are sometimes a Fault, and sometimes a Beauty, as they are used properly or improperly; but in strong Passions always to be shunned, because Passions are serious, and will admit no Playing. The French have a high Value for them; and I confess, they are often what they call Delicate, when they are introduced with Judgement; but Chaucer writ with more Simplicity, and followed Nature more closely, than to use them. I have thus far, to the best of my Knowledge, been an upright Judge betwixt the Parties in Competition, not meddling with the Design nor the Disposition of it; because the Design was not their own; and in the disposing of it they were equal. It remains that I say somewhat of Chaucer in particular.  
In the first place, As he is the Father of English Poetry, so I hold him in the same Degree of Veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the Romans Virgil: He is a perpetual Fountain of good Sense; learned in all Sciences; and therefore speaks properly on all Subjects: As he knew what to say, so he knows also when to leave off; a Continence which is practised by few Writers, and scarcely by any of the Ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace. One of our late great Poets is sunk in his Reputation, because he could never forgive any Conceit which came in his way; but swept like a Drag-net, great and small. There was plenty enough, but the Dishes were ill sorted; whole Pyramids of Sweetmeats, for Boys and Women; but little of solid Meat, for Men: All this proceeded not from any want of Knowledge, but of Judgement; neither did he want that in discerning the Beauties and Faults of other Poets; but only indulged himself in the Luxury of Writing; and perhaps knew it was a Fault, but hoped the Reader would not find it. For this Reason, though he must always be thought a great Poet, he is no longer esteemed a good Writer: And for Ten Impressions, which his Works have had in so many successive Years, yet at present a hundred Books are scarcely purchased once a Twelvemonth: For, as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat profanely, Not being of God, he could not stand.  
Chaucer followed Nature every where; but was never so bold to go beyond her: And there is a great Difference of being Poeta and nimis Poeta, if we may believe Catullus, as much as betwixt a modest Behaviour and Affectation. The Verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not Harmonious to us; but 'tis like the Eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends, it was auribus istius temporis accommodata: They who lived with him, and some time after him, thought it Musical; and it continues so even in our Judgement, if compared with the Numbers of Lidgate and Gower his Contemporaries: There is the rude Sweetness of a Scotch Tune in it, which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. 'Tis true, I cannot go so far as he who published the last Edition of him; for he would make us believe the Fault is in our Ears, and that there were really Ten Syllables in a Verse where we find but Nine: But this Opinion is not worth confuting; 'tis so gross and obvious an Error, that common Sense (which is a Rule in every thing but Matters of Faith and Revelation) must convince the Reader, that Equality of Numbers in every Verse which we call Heroic, was either not known, or not always practised in Chaucer's Age. It were an easy Matter to produce some thousands of his Verses, which are lame for want of half a Foot, and sometimes a whole one, and which no Pronunciation can make otherwise. We can only say, that he lived in the Infancy of our Poetry, and that nothing is brought to Perfection at the first. We must be Children before we grow Men. There was an Ennius, and in process of Time a Lucilius, and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Horace; even after Chaucer there was a Spencer, a Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller and Denham were in being: And our Numbers were in their Nonage till these last appeared. I need say little of his Parentage, Life, and Fortunes: They are to be found at large in all the Editions of his Works. He was employed abroad, and favoured by Edward the Third, Richard the Second, and Henry the Fourth, and was Poet, as I suppose, to all Three of them. In Richard's Time, I doubt, he was a little dipped in the Rebellion of the Commons; and being Brother-in-Law to John of Ghant, it was no wonder if he followed the Fortunes of that Family; and was well with Henry the Fourth when he had deposed his Predecessor. Neither is it to be admired, that Henry, who was a wise as well as a valiant Prince, who claimed by Succession, and was sensible that his Title was not sound, but was rightfully in Mortimer, who had married the Heir of York; it was not to be admired, I say, if that great Politician should be pleased to have the greatest Wit of those Times in his Interests, and to be the Trumpet of his Praises. Augustus had given him the Example, by the Advice of Maecenas, who recommended Virgil and Horace to him; whose Praises helped to make him Popular while he was alive, and after his Death have made him Precious to Posterity. As for the Religion of our Poet, he seems to have some little Bias towards the Opinions of Wickliff, after John of Ghant his Patron; somewhat of which appears in the Tale of Piers Ploughman: Yet I cannot blame him for inveighing so sharply against the Vices of the Clergy in his Age: Their Pride, their Ambition, their Pomp, their Avarice, their Worldly Interest, deserved the Lashes which he gave them, both in that, and in most of his Canterbury Tales: Neither has his Contemporary Boccace, spared them. Yet both those Poets lived in much esteem, with good and holy Men in Orders: For the Scandal which is given by particular Priesls, reflects not on the Sacred Function. Chaucer's Monk, his canon, and his Friar, took not from the Character of his Good Parson. A Satyrical Poet is the Check of the Laymen, on bad Priests. We are only to take care, that we involve not the Innocent with the Guilty in the same Condemnation. The Good cannot be too much honoured, nor the Bad too coarsely used: For the Corruption of the Best, becomes the Worst. When a Clergyman is whipped, his Gown is first taken off, by which the Dignity of his Order is secured: If he be wrongfully accused, he has his Action of Slander; and 'tis at the Poet's Peril, if he transgress the Law. But they will tell us, that all kind of Satire, though never so well deserved by particular Priests, yet brings the whole Order into Contempt. Is then the Peerage of England any thing dishonoured, when a Peer suffers for his Treason? If he be libelled, or any way defamed, he has his Scandalum Magnatum to punish the Offender. They who use this kind of Argument, seem to be conscious to themselves of somewhat which has deserved the Poet's Lash; and are less concerned for their Public Capacity, than for their Private: At least, there is Pride at the bottom of their Reasoning. If the Faults of Men in Orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort Parties: For, since they say the Honour of their Order is concerned in every Member of it, how can we be sure, that they will be impartial Judges? How far I may be allowed to speak my Opinion in this Case, I know not: But I am sure a Dispute of this Nature caused Mischief in abundance betwixt a King of England and an Archbishop of Canterbury; one standing up for the Laws of his Land, and the other for the Honour (as he called it) of God's Church; which ended in the Murder of the Prelate, and in the whipping of his Majesty from Post to Pillar for his Penance. The Learned and Ingenious Dr. Drake has saved me the Labour of enquiring into the Esteem and Reverence which the Priests have had of old; and I would rather extend than diminish any part of it: Yet I must needs say, that when a Priest provokes me without any Occasion given him, I have no Reason, unless it be the Charity of a Christian, to forgive him: Prior loesit is Justification sufficient in the Civil Law. If I answer him in his own Language, Self-defence, I am sure, must be allowed me; and if I carry it farther, even to a sharp Recrimination, somewhat may be indulged to Humane Frailty. Yet my Resentment has not wrought so far, but that I have followed Chaucer in his Character of a Holy Man, and have enlarged on that Subject with some Pleasure, reserving to myself the Right, if I shall think fit hereafter, to describe another sort of Priests, such as are more easily to be found than the Good Parson; such as have given the last Blow to Christianity in this Age, by a Practice so contrary to their Doctrine. But this will keep cold till another time. In the mean while, I take up Chaucer where I left him. He must have been a Man of a most wonderful comprehensive Nature, because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the Compass of his Canterbury Tales the various Manners and Humours (as we now call them) of the whole English Nation, in his Age. Not a single Character has escaped him. All his Pilgrims are severally distinguished from each other, and not only in their Inclinations, but in their very Phisiognomies and Persons. Baptista Porta could not have described their Nature's better, than by the Marks which the Poet gives them. The Matter and Manner of their Tales, and of their Telling, are so suited to their different Educations, Humours, and Callings, that each of them would be improper in any other Mouth. Even the grave and serious Characters are distinguished by their several sorts of Gravity: Their Discourses are such as belong to their Age, their Calling, and their Breeding; such as are becoming of them, and of them only. Some of his Persons are Vicious, and some Virtuous; some are unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them) Lewd, and some are Learned. Even the Ribaldry of the Low Characters is different: The Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook, are several Men, and distinguished from each other, as much as the mincing Lady Prioress, and the broad-speaking gap-toothed Wife of bath. But enough of this: There is such a Variety of Game springing up before me, that I am distracted in my Choice, and know not which to follow. 'Tis sufficient to say according to the Proverb, that here is God's Plenty. We have our Forefathers and Great Grand-dames all before us, as they were in Chaucer's Days; their general Chararacters are still remaining in Mankind, and even in England, though they are called by other Names than those of Monks, and Friars, and Canons, and Lady Abbesses, and Nuns: For Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of Nature, though every thing is altered. May I have leave to do myself the Justice, (since my Enemies will do me none, and are so far from granting me to be a good Poet, that they will not allow me so much as to be a Christian, or a Moral Man) may I have leave, I say, to inform my Reader, that I have confined my Choice to such Tales of Chaucer, as savour nothing of Immodesty. If I had desired more to please than to instruct, the Reve, the Miller, the Shipman, the Merchant, the Sumner, and above all, the Wife of bath, in the Prologue to her Tale, would have procured me as many Friends and Readers, as there are Beaux and Ladies of Pleasure in the Town. But I will no more offend against Good Manners: I am sensible as I ought to be of the Scandal I have given by my lose Writings; and make what Reparation I am able, by this Public Acknowledgement. If any thing of this Nature, or of Profaneness, be crept into these Poems, I am so far from defending it, that I disown it. Totum hoc indictum volo. Chaucer makes another manner of Apology for his broad-speaking, and Boccace makes the like; but I will follow neither of them. Our Countryman, in the end of his Characters, before the Canterbury Tales, thus excuses the Ribaldry, which is very gross, in many of his Novels.  
But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,  
That ye ne arrete it nought my villainy,  
Though that I plainly speak in this matter  
To tell you her words, and eke her cheer:  
Ne though I speak her words properly,  
For this ye known as well as I,  
Who shall tell a tale after a man  
He moat rehearse as nigh, as ever He can:  
Everich word of it been in his charge,  
All speak he, never so rudely, ne large.  
Or else he moat tell his tale untrue,  
Or feign things, or find words new:  
He may not spare, although he were his brother,  
He moat as well say o word as another.  
Christ spoke himself full broad in holy Writ,  
And well I wot no Villainy is it.  
Eke Plato saith, who so can him read,  
The words mote been Cousin to the deed.  
Yet if a Man should have enquired of Boccace or of Chaucer, what need they had of introducing such Characters, where obscene Words were proper in their Mouths, but very undecent to be heard; I know not what Answer they could have made: For that Reason, such Tales shall be left untold by me. You have here a Specimen of Chaucer's Language, which is so obsolete, that his Sense is scarce to be understood; and you have likewise more than one Example of his unequal Numbers, which were mentioned before. Yet many of his Verses consist of Ten Syllables, and the Words not much behind our present English: As for Example, these two Lines, in the Description of the Carpenter's Young Wife:  
Wincing she was, as is a jolly Colt,  
Long as a Mast, and upright as a Bolt.  
I have almost done with Chaucer, when I have answered some Objections relating to my present Work. I find some People are offended that I have turned these Tales into modern English; because they think them unworthy of my Pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned Wit, not worth receiving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester say, that Mr. Cowley himself was of that opinion; who having read him over at my Lord's Request, declared he had no Taste of him. I dare not advance my Opinion against the Judgement of so great an Author: But I think it fair, however, to leave the Decision to the Public: Mr. Cowley was too modest to set up for a dictator; and being shocked perhaps with his old Style, never examined into the depth of his good Sense. Chaucer, I confess, is a rough Diamond, and must first be polished e'er he shines. I deny not likewise, that living in our early Days of Poetry, he writes not always of a piece; but sometimes mingles trivial Things, with those of greater Moment. Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and knows not when he has said enough. But there are more great Wits, beside Chaucer, whose Fault is their Excess of Conceits, and those ill sorted. An Author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. Having observed this Redundancy in Chaucer, (as it is an easy Matter for a Man of ordinary Parts to find a Fault in one of greater) I have not tied myself to a Literal Translation; but have often omitted what I judged unnecessary, or not of Dignity enough to appear in the Company of better Thoughts. I have presumed farther in some Places, and added somewhat of my own where I thought my Author was deficient, and had not given his Thoughts their true Lustre, for want of Words in the Beginning of our Language. And to this I was the more emboldened, because (if I may be permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a Soul congenial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same Studies. Another Poet, in another Age, may take the same Liberty with my Writings; if at least they live long enough to deserve Correction. It was also necessary sometimes to restore the Sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled in the Errors of the Press: Let this Example suffice at present in the Story of Palamon and Arcite, where the Temple of Diana is described, you find these Verses, in all the Editions of our Author: 
There saw I Danè turned unto a Tree,  
I mean not the Goddess Diane,  
But Venus' Daughter, which that height Danè.  Which after a little Consideration I knew was to be reformed into this Sense, that Daphne the Daughter of Peneus was turned into a Tree. I durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future Milbourn should arise, and say, I varied from my Author, because I understood him not.  
But there are other Judges who think I ought not to have translated Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary Notion: They suppose there is a certain Veneration due to his old Language; and that it is little less than Profanation and Sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of opinion, that somewhat of his good Sense will suffer in this Transfusion, and much of the Beauty of his Thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more Grace in their old Habit. Of this Opinion was that excellent Person, whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer as much as Mr. Cowley despised him. My Lord dissuaded me from this Attempt, (for I was thinking of it some Years before his Death) and his Authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my Undertaking while he lived, in deference to him: Yet my Reason was not convinced with what he urged against it. If the first End of a Writer be to be understood, then as his Language grows obsolete, his Thoughts must grow obscure, multa renascuntur quoe nunc cecidere; cadentque quoe nunc sunt in honore vacabula, si volet usus, quem penes arbitrium est & jus & norma loquendi. When an ancient Word for its Sound and Significancy deserves to be revived, I have that reasonable Veneration for Antiquity, to restore it. All beyond this is Superstition. Words are not like Landmarks, so sacred as never to be removed: Customs are changed, and even Statutes are silently repealed, when the Reason ceases for which they were enacted. As for the other Part of the Argument, that his Thoughts will lose of their original Beauty, by the innovation of Words; in the first place, not only their Beauty, but their Being is lost, where they are no longer understood, which is the present Case. I grant, that something must be lost in all Transfusion, that is, in all Translations; but the Sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at least be maimed, when it is scarce intelligible; and that but to a few. How few are there who can read Chaucer, so as to understand him perfectly? And if imperfectly, then with less Profit, and no Pleasure. 'Tis not for the Use of some old Saxon Friends, that I have taken these Pains with him: Let them neglect my Version, because they have no need of it. I made it for their sakes who understand Sense and Poetry, as well as they; when that Poetry and Sense is put into Words which they understand. I will go farther, and dare to add, that what Beauties I lose in some Places, I give to others which had them not originally: But in this I may be partial to myself; let the Reader judge, and I submit to his Decision. Yet I think I have just Occasion to complain of them, who because they understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their Countrymen of the same Advantage, and hoard him up, as Misers do their Grandam Gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from making use of it. In sum, I seriously protest, that no Man ever had, or can have, a greater Veneration for Chaucer, than myself. I have translated some part of his Works, only that I might perpetuate his Memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my Countrymen. If I have altered him any where for the better, I must at the same time acknowledge, that I could have done nothing without him: Facile est inventis addere, is no great Commendation; and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a greater. I will conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one Remark: A Lady of my Acquaintance, who keeps a kind of Correspondence with some Authors of the Fair Sex in France, has been informed by them, that Mademoiselle de Scudery, who is as old as Sibyl, and inspired like her by the same God of Poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into modern French. From which I gather, that he has been formerly translated into the old Provencall, (for, how she should come to understand Old English, I know not.) But the Matter of Fact being true, it makes me think, that there is something in it like Fatality; that after certain Periods of Time, the Fame and Memory of Great Wits should be renewed, as Chaucer is both in France and England. If this be wholly Chance, 'tis extraordinary; and I dare not call it more, for fear of being taxed with Superstition.  
Boccace comes last to be considered, who living in the same Age with Chaucer, had the same Genius, and followed the same Studies: Both writ Novels, and each of them cultivated his Mother-Tongue: But the greatest Resemblance of our two Modern Authors being in their familiar Style, and pleasing way of relating Comical Adventures, I may pass it over, because I have translated nothing from Boccace of that Nature. In the serious Part of Poetry, the Advantage is wholly on Chaucer's Side; for though the Englishman has borrowed many Tales from the Italian, yet it appears, that those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but taken from Authors of former Ages, and by him only modelled: So that what there was of Invention in either of them, may be judged equal. But Chaucer has refin'd on Boccace, and has mended the Stories which he has borrowed, in his way of telling; though Prose allows more Liberty of Thought, and the Expression is more easy, when unconfined by Numbers. Our Countryman carries Weight, and yet wins the Race at disadvantage. I desire not the Reader should take my Word; and therefore I will set two of their Discourses on the same Subject, in the same Light, for every Man to judge betwixt them. I translated Chaucer first, and amongst the rest, pitched on the Wise of Bath's Tale; not daring, as I have said, to adventure on her Prologue; because 'tis too licentious: There Chaucer introduces an old Woman of mean Parentage, whom a youthful Knight of Noble Blood was forced to marry, and consequently loathed her: The Crone being in bed with him on the wedding Night, and finding his Aversion, endeavours to win his Affection by Reason, and speaks a good Word for herself, (as who could blame her?) in hope to mollify the sullen Bridegroom. She takes her Topiques from the Benefits of Poverty, the Advantages of old Age and Ugliness, the Vanity of Youth, and the silly Pride of Ancestry and Titles without inherent Virtue, which is the true Nobility. When I had closed Chaucer, I returned to Ovid, and translated some more of his Fables; and by this time had so far forgotten the Wise of Bath's Tale, that when I took up Boccace, unawares I fell on the same Argument of preferring Virtue to Nobility of Blood, and Titles, in the Story of Sigismonda; which I had certainly avoided for the Resemblance of the two Discourses, if my Memory had not failed me. Let the Reader weigh them both; and if he thinks me partial to Chaucer, 'tis in him to right Boccace.  
I prefer in our Countryman, far above all his other Stories, the Noble Poem of Palamon and Arcite, which is of the Epique kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the Ilias or the AEneis: the Story is more pleasing than either of them, the Manners as perfect, the Diction as poetical, the Learning as deep and various; and the Disposition full as artful: only it includes a greater length of time; as taking up seven years at least; but Aristotle has left undecided the Duration of the Action; which yet is easily reduced into the Compass of a year, by a Narration of what preceded the Return of Palamon to Athens. I had thought for the Honour of our Nation, and more particularly for his, whose Laurel, tho' unworthy, I have worn after him, that this Story was of English Growth, and Chaucer's own: But I was undeceived by Boccace; for casually looking on the End of his seventh Giornata, I found Dioneo (under which name he shadows himself) and Fiametta (who represents his Mistress, the natural Daughter of Robert King of Naples) of whom these Words are spoken. Dioneo e Fiametta gran pezza eantarono insieme d'Arcita, e di Palamone: by which it appears that this Story was written before the time of Boccace; but the Name of its Author being wholly lost, Chaucer is now become an Original; and I question not but the Poem has received many Beauties by passing through his Noble Hands. Besides this Tale, there is another of his own Invention, after the manner of the Provencalls, called The Flower and the Leaf; with which I was so particularly pleased, both for the Invention and the Moral; that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the Reader.  
As a Corollary to this Preface, in which I have done Justice to others, I own somewhat to myself: not that i think it worth my time to enter the Lists with one M—, or one B—, but barely to take notice, that such Men there are who have written scurrilously against me without any Provocation. M—, who is in Orders, pretends amongst the rest this Quarrel to me, that I have fallen soul on Priesthood; If I have, I am only to ask Pardon of good Priests, and am afraid his part of the Reparation will come to little. Let him be satisfied that he shall not be able to force himself upon me for an Adversary. I contemn him too much to enter into Competition with him. His own Translations of Virgil have answered his Criticisms on mine. If (as they say, he has declared in Print) he prefers the Version of Ogilby to mine, the World has made him the same Compliment: For 'tis agreed on all hands, that he writes even below Ogilby: That, you will say, is not easily to be done; but what cannot M— bring about? I am satisfied however, that while he and I live together, I shall not be thought the worst Poet of the Age. It looks as if I had desired him underhand to write so ill against me: But upon my honest Word I have not bribed him to do me this Service, and am wholly guiltless of his Pamphlet. 'Tis true I should be glad, if I could persuade him to continue his good Offices, and write such another Critic on any thing of mine: For I find by Experience he has a great Stroke with the Reader, when he condemns any of my Poems to make the World have a better Opinion of them. He has taken some Pains with my Poetry; but no body will be persuaded to take the same with his. If I had taken to the Church (as he affirms, but which was never in my Thoughts) I should have had more Sense, if not more Grace, than to have turned myself out of my Benefice by writing Libels on my Parishioners. But his Account of my Manners and my Principles, are of a Piece with his Cavils and his Poetry: And so I have done with him for ever.  
As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his Quarrel to me is, that I was the Author of Absalon and Architophel, which he thinks is a little hard on his Fanatique Patrons in London.  
But I will deal the more civilly with his two Poems, because nothing ill is to be spoken of the Dead: And therefore Peace be to the Manes of his Arthur's. I will only say that it was not for this Noble Knight that I drew the Plan of an Epic Poem on King Arthur in my Preface to the Translation of juvenal. The Guardian Angels of Kingdoms were Machine's too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected them as Dares did the Whirl-bats of Eryx when they were thrown before him by Entellus: Yet from that Preface he plainly took his Hint: For he began immediately upon the Story; though he had the Baseness not to acknowledge his Benefactor; but in Head of it, to traduce me in a Libel.  
I shall say the less of Mr. Collier, because in many Things he has taxed me justly; and I have pleaded Guilty to all Thoughts and Expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of Obscenity, Profaneness, or Immorality; and retract them. If he be my Enemy, let him triumph; if he be my Friend, as I have given him no Personal Occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my Repentance. It becomes me not to draw my Pen in the Defence of a bad Cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that in many Places he has perverted my Meaning by his Glosles; and interpreted my Words into Blasphemy and Baudry, of which they were not guilty. Besides that, he is too much given to Horseplay in his Raillery; and comes to Battle, like a dictator from the Plough. I will not say, The Zeal of God s House has eaten him up; but I am sure it has devoured some Part of his Good Manners and Civility. It might also be doubted, whether it were altogether Zeal, which prompted him to this rough manner of Proceeding; perhaps it became not one of his Function to rake into the Rubbish of Ancient and Modern Plays; a Divine might have employed his Pains to better purpose, than in the Nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes; whose Examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed, that he read them not without some Pleasure. They who have written Commentaries on those Poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have explained some Vices, which without their Interpretation had been unknown to Modern Times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the former Age and us.  
There is more Baudry in one Play of Fletcher's, called The Custom of the Country, than in all ours together. Yet this has been often acted on the Stage in my remembrance. Are the Times so much more reformed now, than they were Five and twenty Years ago? If they are, I congratulate the Amendment of our Morals. But I am not to prejudice the Cause of my Fellow-Poets, though I abandon my own Defence: They have some of them answered for themselves, and neither they nor I can think Mr. Collier so formidable an Enemy, that we should shun him. He has lost Ground at the latter end of the Day, by pursuing his Point too far, like the Prince of Condé at the Battle of Senneph: From Immoral Plays, to No Plays; ab abusu ad usum, non valet consequentia. But being a Party, I am not to erect myself into a Judge. As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such Scoundrels, that they deserve not the least Notice to be taken of them. B— and M— are only distinguished from the Crowd, by being remembered to their Infamy.  
— Demetri, Teque Tigelli  
Discipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.   

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND, With the following POEM of Palamon and Arcite, FROM CHAUCER.  
TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND. MADAM,  

THe Bard who first adorned our Native Tongue  
Tuned to his British Lyre this ancient Song:  
Which Homer might without a Blush rehearse,  
And leaves a doubtful Palm in Virgil's Verse:  
He matched their Beauties, where they most excel;  
Of Love sung better, and of Arms as well.   

Vouchsafe, Illustrious Ormond, to behold  
What Power the Charms of Beauty had of old;  
Nor wonder if such Deeds of Arms were done,  
Inspired by two fair Eyes, that sparkled like your own.   

If Chaucer by the best Idea wrought,  
And Poets can divine each others Thought,  
The fairest Nymph before his Eyes he set;  
And then the fairest was Plantagenet;  
Who three contending Princes made her Prize,  
And ruled the Rival-Nations with her Eyes:  
Who left Immortal Trophies of her Fame,  
And to the Noblest Order gave the Name.   

Like Her, of equal Kindred to the Throne,  
You keep her Conquests, and extend your own:  
As when the Stars, in their Etherial Race,  
At length have rolled around the Liquid Space,  
At certain Periods they resume their Place,  
From the same Point of Heaven their Course advance,  
And move in Measures of their former Dance;  
Thus, after length of Ages, she returns,  
Restored in you, and the same Place adorns;  
Or you perform her Office in the Sphere,  
Born of her Blood, and make a new Platonic Year.   

O true Plantagenet, O Race Divine,  
(For Beauty still is fatal to the Line,)  
Had Chaucer lived that Angel-Face to view,  
Sure he had drawn his Emily from You:  
Or had You lived, to judge the doubtful Right,  
Your Noble Palamon had been the Knight:  
And Conquering Theseus from his Side had sent  
Your Generous Lord, to guide the Theban Government.   

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see  
A Palamon in Him, in You an Emily.   

Already have the Fates your Path prepared,  
And sure Presage your future Sway declared:  
When Westward, like the Sun, you took your Way,  
And from benighted Britain bore the Day,  
Blue Triton gave the Signal from the Shore,  
The ready Nereids heard, and swum before  
To smooth the Seas; a soft Etesian Gale  
But just inspired, and gently swelled the Sail;  
Portunus took his Turn, whose ample Hand  
Heaved up the lightened Keel, and sunk the Sand,  
And steered the sacred Vessel safe to Land.  
The Land, if not restrained, had met Your Way,  
Projected out a Neck, and jutted to the Sea.  
Hibernia, prostrate at Your Feet, adored,  
In You, the Pledge of her expected Lord;  
Due to her Isle; a venerable Name;  
His Father and his Grandsire known to Fame:  
Awed by that House, accustomed to command,  
The sturdy Kerns in due Subjection stand;  
Nor hear the Reins in any Foreign Hand.   

At Your Approach, they crowded to the Port;  
And scarcely Landed, You create a Court:  
As Ormond's Harbinger, to You they run;  
For Venus is the Promise of the Sun.   

The Waste of Civil Wars, their Towns destroyed,  
Pales unhonoured, Ceres' unemployed,  
Were all forgot; and one Triumphant Day  
Wip d all the Tears of three Campaigns away.  
Blood, Rapines, Massacres, were cheaply bought,  
So mighty Recompense Your Beauty brought.   

As when the Dove returning, bore the Mark  
Of Earth restored to the long-lab'ring Ark,  
The Relics of Mankind, secure of Rest,  
Opened every Window to receive the Guest,  
And the fair Bearer of the Message blessed;  
So, when You came, with loud repeated Cries,  
The Nation took an Omen from your Eyes,  
And God advanced his Rainbow in the Skies,  
To sign inviolable Peace restored;  
The Saints with solemn Shouts proclaimed the new accord.   

When at Your second Coming You appear,  
(For I foretell that Millenary Year)  
The sharpened Share shall vex the Soil no more,  
But Earth unbidden shall produce her Store:  
The Land shall laugh, the circling Ocean smile,  
And heavens Indulgence bless the Holy Isle.   

Heaven from all Ages has reserved for You  
That happy Clime, which Venom never knew;  
Or if it had been there, Your Eyes alone  
Have Power to chase all Poison, but their own.   

Now in this Interval, which Fate has cast  
Betwixt Your Future Glories, and Your Past,  
This Pause of Power, 'tis Ireland's Hour to mourn;  
While England celebrates Your safe Return,  
By which You seem the Seasons to command,  
And bring our Summer's back to their forsaken Land.   

The Vanquished Isle our Leisure must attend,  
Till the Fair Blessing we vouchsafe to send;  
Nor can we spare You long, though often we may lend.  
The Dove was twice employed abroad, before  
The World was dried; and she returned no more.   

Nor dare we trust so soft a Messenger,  
New from her Sickness to that Northern Air;  
Rest here a while, Your Lustre to restore,  
That they may fee You as You shone before:  
For yet, th' Eclipse not wholly passed, You wade  
Through some Remains, and Dimness of a Shade.   

A Subject in his Prince may claim a Right,  
Nor suffer him with Strength impaired to fight;  
Till Force returns, his Ardour we restrain,  
And curb his Warlike Wish to cross the Main.   

Now past the Danger, let the Learned begin  
Th' Enquiry, where Disease could enter in;  
How those malignant Atoms forced their Way,  
What in the faultless Frame they found to make their Prey?  
Where every Element was weighed so well,  
That Heaven alone, who mixed the Mass, could tell  
Which of the Four Ingredients could rebel;  
And where, imprisoned in so sweet a Cage,  
A Soul might well be pleased to pass an Age.   

And yet the fine Materials made it weak;  
Porcelain by being Pure, is apt to break:  
Even to Your Breast the Sickness durst aspire;  
And forced from that fair Temple to retire,  
Profanely set the Holy Place on Fire.  
In vain Your Lord like young Vespasian mourned,  
When the fierce Flames the Sanctuary burned:  
And I prepared to pay in Verses rude  
A most detested Act of Gratitude:  
Even this had been Your Elegy, which now  
Is offered for Your Health, the Table of my Vow.   

Your Angel sure our Morley's Mind inspired,  
To find the Remedy Your Ill required;  
As once the Macedon, by Jove's Decree,  
Was taught to dream an Herb for Ptolomee:  
Or Heaven, which had such Over-cost bestowed,  
As scarce it could afford to Flesh and Blood,  
So liked the Frame, he would not work anew,  
To save the Charges of another You.  
Or by his middle Science did he steer,  
And saw some great contingent Good appear,  
Well worth a Miracle to keep You here:  
And for that End, preserved the precious Mould,  
Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;  
And meditated in his better Mind  
An Heir from You, who may redeem the failing Kind.   

Blessed be the Power which has at once restored  
The Hopes of lost Succession to Your Lord,  
Joy to the first, and last of each Degree,  
Virtue to Courts, and what I longed to see,  
To You the Graces, and the Muse to me.   

O Daughter of the Rose, whose Cheeks unite  
The differing Titles of the Red and White;  
Who heavens alternate Beauty well display,  
The Blush of Morning, and the Milky Way;  
Whose Face is Paradise, but fenced from Sin:  
For God in either Eye has placed a Cherubin.   

All is Your Lord's alone; even absent, He  
Employs the Care of chaste Penelope.  
For him You waste in Tears Your Widowed Hours,  
For him Your curious Needle paints the Flowers:  
Such Works of Old Imperial Dames were taught;  
Such for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought.   

The soft Recesses of Your Hours improve  
The Three fair Pledges of Your Happy Love:  
All other Parts of Pious Duty done,  
You own Your Ormond nothing but a Son:  
To fill in future Times his Father's Place,  
And wear the Garter of his Mother's Race.    

PALAMON AND ARCITE: OR, The Knight's Tale, FROM CHAUCER. In Three Books.  
PALAMON AND ARCITE: OR, The Knights Tale. In Three Books. BOOK 1.  

IN Days of old, there lived, of mighty Fame  
A valiant Prince; and Theseus was his Name:  
A Chief, who more in Feats of Arms excelled  
The Rising nor the Setting Sun beheld.  
Of Athens he was Lord; much Land he won,  
And added Foreign Countries to his Crown:  
In Scythia with the Warrior Queen he strove,  
Whom first by Force he conquered, then by Love;  
He brought in Triumph back the beauteous Dame,  
With whom her Sister, fair Emilia, came.  
With Honour to his Home let Theseus ride,  
With Love to Friend, and Fortune for his Guide,  
And his victorious Army at his Side.  
I pass their warlike Pomp, their proud Array,  
Their Shouts, their Songs, their Welcome on the Way:  
But, were it not too long, I would recite  
The Feats of Amazons, the fatal Fight  
Betwixt the hardy Queen, and Hero Knight.  
The Town besieged, and how much Blood it cost  
The Female Army, and th' Athenian Host;  
The Spousals of Hippolita the Queen;  
What Tilts, and Attorneys at the Feast were seen;  
The Storm at their Return, the Ladies Fear:  
But these and other Things I must forbear.  
The Field is spacious I design to sow,  
With Oxen far unfit to draw the Blow:  
The Remnant of my Tale is of a length  
To tyre your Patience, and to waste my Strength;  
And trivial Accidents shall be forborn,  
That others may have time to take their Turn;  
As was at first enjoined us by mine Host:  
That he whose Tale is best, and pleases most,  
Should win his Supper at our common Cost.   

And therefore where I left, I will pursue  
This ancient Story, whether false or true,  
In hope it may be mended with a new.  
The Prince I mentioned, full of high Renown,  
In this Array drew near th' Athenian Town;  
When in his Pomp and utmost of his Pride,  
Marching, he chanced to cast his Eye aside,  
And saw a Choir of mourning Dames, who lay  
By Two and Two across the common Way:  
At his Approach they raised a rueful Cry,  
And beat their Breasts, and held their Hands on high,  
Creeping and crying, till they seized at last  
His Courser's Bridle, and his Feet embraced.   

Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are,  
And why this Funeral Pageant you prepare?  
Is this the Welcome of 〈◊〉 worthy Deeds,  
To meet my Triumph in Ill-omened Weeds?  
Or envy you my Praise, and would destroy  
With Grief my Pleasures, and pollute my Joy?  
Or are you injured, and demand Relief?  
Name your Request, and I will ease your Grief.   

The most in Years of all the Mourning Train  
Began; (but sounded first away for Pain)  
Then scarce recovered, spoke: Nor envy we  
Thy great Renown, nor grudge thy Victory;  
'Tis thine, O King, th' Afflicted to redress,  
And Fame has filled the World with thy Success:  
We wretched Women sue for that alone,  
Which of thy Goodness is refused to none:  
Let fall some Drops of Pity on our Grief,  
If what we beg be just, and we deserve Relief:  
For none of us, who now thy Grace implore,  
But held the Rank of Sovereign Queen before;  
Till, thanks to giddy Chance, which never bears  
That Mortal Bliss should last for length of Years,  
She cast us headlong from our high Estate,  
And here in hope of thy Return we wait:  
And long have waited in the Temple nigh,  
Built to the gracious Goddess Clemency.  
But reverence thou the Power whose Name it bears,  
Relieve th' Oppressed, and wipe the Widow's Tears.  
I, wretched I, have other Fortune seen,  
The Wife of Capaneus, and once a Queen:  
At Thebes he fell; cursed be the fatal Day!  
And all the rest thou seest in this Array,  
To make their moan, their Lords in Battle lost  
Before that Town besieged by our confederate Host:  
But Creon, old and impious, who commands  
The Theban City, and usurps the Lands,  
Denies the Rites of Funeral Fires to those  
Whose breathless Bodies yet he calls his Foes.  
Unburned, unburied, on a Heap they lie;  
Such is their Fate, and such his Tyranny;  
No Friend has leave to bear away the Dead,  
But with their Lifeless Limbs his Hounds are fed:  
At this she skrieked aloud, the mournful Train  
Echoed her Grief, and groveling on the Plain,  
With Groans, and Hands upheld, to move his Mind,  
Besought his Pity to their helpless Kind!   

The Prince was touched, his Tears began to flow,  
And, as his tender Heart would break in two,  
He sighed; and could not but their Fate deplore,  
So wretched now, so fortunate before.  
Then lightly from his lofty Steed he flew,  
And raising one by one the suppliant Crew,  
To comfort each, full solemnly he swore,  
That by the Faith which Knights to Knighthood bore,  
And what e'er else to Chivalry belongs,  
He would not cease, till he revenged their Wrongs:  
That Greece should see performed what the declared,  
And cruel Creon find his just Reward.  
He said no more, but shunning all Delay,  
Road on; nor entered Athens on his Way:  
But left his Sister and his Queen behind,  
And waved his Royal Banner in the Wind:  
Where in an Argent Field the God of War  
Was drawn triumphant on his Iron Carr;  
Red was his Sword, and Shield, and whole Attire,  
And all the Godhead seemed to glow with Fire;  
Even the Ground glittered where the Standard flew,  
And the green Grass was died to sanguine Hue.  
High on his pointed Lance his Pennon bore  
His Cretan Fight, the conquered Minotaur:  
The Soldiers shout around with generous Rage,  
And in that Victory, their own presage.  
He praised their Ardour: inly pleased to see  
His Host the Flower of Grecian Chivalry.  
All Day he marched; and all th' ensuing Night;  
And saw the City with returning Light.  
The Process of the War I need not tell,  
How Theseus conquered, and how Creon fell:  
Or after, how by Storm the Walls were won,  
Or how the Victor sacked and burned the Town:  
How to the Ladies he restored again  
The Bodies of their Lords in Battle slain:  
And with what ancient Rites they were interred;  
All these to fit time shall be deferred:  
I spare the Widow's Tears, their woeful Cries  
And Howling at their Husband's Obsequies;  
How Theseus at these funerals did assist,  
And with what Gifts the mourning Dames dismissed.   

Thus when the Victor Chief had Creon slain,  
And conquered Thebes, he pitched upon the Plain  
His mighty Camp; and when the Day returned,  
The Country wasted, and the Hamlets burned;  
And left the Pillagers, to Rapine bred,  
Without Control to strip and spoil the Dead:   

There, in a Heap of Slain, among the rest  
Two youthful Knights they found beneath a Load oppress '  
Of slaughtered Foes, whom first to Death they sent,  
The Trophies of their Strength, a bloody Monument.  
Both fair, and both of Royal Blood they seemed,  
Whom Kinsmen to the Crown the Heralds deemed;  
That Day in equal Arms they fought for Fame;  
Their Swords, their Shields, their Surcoats were the same.  
Close by each other laid they pressed the Ground,  
Their manly Bosoms pierced with many a grisly Wound;  
Nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were,  
But some faint Signs of feeble Life appear:  
The wand'ring Breath was on the Wing to part,  
Weak was the Pulse, and hardly heaved the Heart.  
These two were Sister's Sons; and Arcite one,  
Much famed in Fields, with valiant Palamon.  
From These their costly Arms the Spoilers rend,  
And softly both conveyed to Theseus' Tent;  
Whom known of Creon's Line, and cured with care,  
He to his City sent as Prisoners of the War,  
Hopeless of Ransom, and condemned to lie  
In Durance, doomed a lingering Death to die.   

This done, he marched away with warlike Sound,  
And to his Athens turned with Laurels crowned,  
Where happy long he lived, much loved, and more renowned.  
But in a Tower, and never to be loosed,  
The woeful captive Kinsmen are enclosed;   

Thus Year by Year they pass, and Day by Day;  
Till once ('twas on the Morn of cheerful May)  
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen  
Than the fair Lily on the Flowery Green,  
More fresh than May herself in Blossoms new  
(For with the Rosy Colour strove her Hue)  
Waked as her Custom was before the Day,  
To do th' Observance due to sprightly May:  
For sprightly May commands our Youth to keep  
The Vigils of her Night, and breaks their sluggard Sleep:  
Each gentle Breast with kindly Warmth she moves;  
Inspires new Flames, revives extinguished Loves;  
In this Remembrance Emily e'er Day  
Arose, and dressed herself in rich Array;  
Fresh as the Month, and as the Morning fair:  
Adown her Shoulders fell her length of Hair:  
A Ribbon did the braided Tresses bind,  
The rest was lose, and wantoned in the Wind:  
Aurora had but newly chased the Night,  
And purpled o'er the Sky with blushing Light,  
When to the Garden-walk she took her way,  
To sport and trip along in Cool of Day,  
And offer Maiden Vows in honour of the May.   

At every Turn, she made a little Stand,  
And thrust among the Thorns her Lily Hand  
To draw the Rose, and every Rose she drew  
She shook the Stalk, and brushed away the Dew:  
Then particoloured Flowers of white and red  
She wove, to make a Garland for her Head:  
This done, she sung and carolled out so clear,  
That Men and Angels might rejoice to hear.  
Even wondering Philomela forgot to sing;  
And learned from Her to welcome in the Spring.  
The Tower, of which before was mention made,  
Within whose Keep the captive Knights were laid,  
Built of a large Extent, and strong withal,  
Was one Partition of the Palace Wall:  
The Garden was enclosed within the Square  
Where young Emilia took the Morning-Air.   

It happened Palamon the Prisoner Knight,  
Restless for Woe, arose before the Light,  
And with his Jaylor's leave desired to breathe  
An Air more wholesome than the Damps beneath.  
This granted, to the Tower he took his way,  
Cheered with the Promise of a glorious Day:  
Then cast a languishing Regard around,  
And saw with hateful Eyes the Temples crowned  
With golden Spires, and all the Hostile Ground.  
He sighed, and turned his Eyes, because he knew  
'Twas but a larger Jail he had in view:  
Then looked below, and from the Castle's height  
Beheld a nearer and more pleasing Sight:  
The Garden, which before he had not seen,  
In Springs new Livery clad of White and Green,  
Fresh Flowers in wide Parterres, and shady Walks between.  
This viewed, but not enjoyed, with Arms across  
He stood, reflecting on his Country's Loss;  
Himself an Object of the Public Scorn,  
And often wished he never had been born.  
At last (for so his Destiny required)  
With-walking giddy, and with thinking tired,  
He through a little Window cast his Sight,  
Tho' thick of Bars, that gave a scanty Light:  
But even that Glimmering served him to descry  
Th' inevitable Charms of Emily.   

Scarce had he seen, but seized with sudden Smart,  
Stung to the Quick, he felt it at his Heart;  
Struck blind with overpowering Light he stood,  
Then started back amazed, and cried aloud.   

Young Arcite heard; and up he ran with haste,  
To help his Friend, and in his Arms embraced;  
And asked him why he looked so deadly wan,  
And whence, and how his change of Cheer began?  
Or who had done th' Offence? But if, said he,  
Your Grief alone is hard Captivity;  
For Love of Heaven, with Patience undergo  
A cureless Ill, since Fate will have it so:  
So stood our Horoscope in Chains to lie,  
And Saturn in the Dungeon of the Sky,  
Or other baleful Aspect, ruled our Birth,  
When all the friendly Stars were under Earth:  
Whate'er betides, by Destiny 'tis done;  
And better bear like Men, than vainly seek to shun.  
Nor of my Bonds, said Palamon again,  
Nor of unhappy Planets I complain;  
But when my mortal Anguish caused my Cry,  
That Moment I was hurt through either Eye;  
Pierced with a Random-shaft, I faint away  
And perish with insensible Decay:  
A Glance of some new Goddess gave the Wound,  
Whom, like Actaeon, unaware I found.  
Look how she walks along yond shady Space,  
Not Juno moves with more Majestic Grace;  
And all the Cyprian Queen is in her Face.  
If thou art Venus, (for thy Charms confess  
That Face was formed in Heaven) nor art thou less;  
Disguised in Habit, undisguised in Shape,  
O help us Captives from our Chains to scape;  
But if our Doom be passed in Bonds to lie  
For Life, and in a loathsome Dungeon die;  
Then be thy Wrath appeased with our Disgrace,  
And show Compassion to the Theban Race,  
Oppressed by Tyrant Power! While yet he spoke,  
Arcite on Emily had fixed his Look;  
The fatal Dart a ready Passage found,  
And deep within his Heart infixed the Wound:  
So that if Palamon were wounded sore,  
Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more:  
Then from his inmost Soul he sighed, and said,  
The Beauty I behold has struck me dead:  
Unknowingly she strikes; and kills by chance;  
Poison is in her Eyes, and Death in every Glance.  
O, I must ask; nor ask alone, but move  
Her Mind to Mercy, or must die for Love.   

Thus Arcite: And thus Palamon replies,  
(Eager his Tone, and ardent were his Eyes.)  
Speakest thou in earnest, or in jesting Vein?  
Jesting, said Arcite, suits but ill with Pain.  
It suits far worse (said Palamon again,  
And bent his Brows) with Men who Honour weigh,  
Their Faith to break, their Friendship to betray;  
But worst with Thee, of Noble Lineage born,  
My Kinsman, and in Arms my Brother sworn.  
Have we not plighted each our holy Oath,  
That one should be the Common Good of both?  
One Soul should both inspire, and neither prove  
His Fellows Hindrance in pursuit of Love?  
To this before the Gods we gave our Hands,  
And nothing but our Death can break the Bands.  
This binds thee, then, to farther my Design;  
As I am bound by Vow to farther thine:  
Nor canst, nor darest thou, Traitor, on the Plain  
Appeach my Honour, or thy own maintain,  
Since thou art of my Council, and the Friend  
Whose Faith I trust, and on whose Care depend:  
And wouldst thou court my Lady's Love, which I  
Much rather than release, would choose to die?  
But thou false Arcite never shalt obtain  
Thy bad Pretence; I told thee first my Pain:  
For first my Love began e'er thine was born;  
Thou, as my Council, and my Brother sworn,  
Art bound t'assist my Eldership of Right,  
Or justly to be deemed a perjured Knight.   

Thus Palamon: But Arcite with disdain  
In haughty Language thus replied again:  
Forsworn thyself: The traitor's odious Name  
I first return, and then disprove thy Claim.  
If Love be Passion, and that Passion nursed  
With strong Desires, I loved the Lady first.  
Canst thou pretend Desire, whom Zeal inflamed  
To worship, and a Power Celestial named?  
Thine was Devotion to the Blessed above,  
I saw the Woman, and desired her Love;  
First owned my Passion, and to thee commend  
Th'importantimportant Secret, as my chosen Friend.  
Suppose (which yet I grant not) thy Desire  
A Moment elder than my Rival Fire;  
Can Chance of seeing first thy Title prove?  
And knowst thou not, no Law is made for Love?  
Law is to Things which to free Choice relate;  
Love is not in our Choice, but in our Fate:  
Laws are but positive: Loves Power we see  
Is Nature's Sanction, and her first Decree.  
Each Day we break the Bond of Humane Laws  
For Love, and vindicate the Common Cause.  
Laws for Defence of Civil Rights are placed,  
Love throws the Fences down, and makes a general Waste:  
Maids, Widows, Wives, without distinction fall;  
The sweeping Deluge, Love, comes on, and covers all.  
If then the Laws of Friendship I transgress,  
I keep the Greater, while I break the Less;  
And both are mad alike, since neither can possess.  
Both hopeless to be ransomed, never more  
To see the Sun, but as he passes over.   

Like Esop's Hounds contending for the Bone,  
Each pleaded Right, and would be Lord alone:  
The fruitless Fight continued all the Day;  
A Cur came by, and snatched the Prize away.  
As Courtiers therefore justle for a Grant,  
And when they break their Friendship, plead their Want,  
So thou, if Fortune will thy Suit advance,  
Love on; nor envy me my equal Chance:  
For I must love, and am resolved to try  
My Fate, or failing in th' Adventure die.   

Great was their Strife, which hourly was renewed,  
Till each with mortal Hate his Rival viewed:  
Now Friends no more, nor walking Hand in Hand;  
But when they met, they made a surly Stand;  
And glared like angry Lions as they passed,  
And wished that every Look might be their last.   

It chanced at length, Pirithous came, t' attend  
This worthy Theseus, his familiar Friend:  
Their Love in early Infancy began,  
And risen as Childhood ripened into Man.  
Companions of the War; and loved so well,  
That when one died, as ancient Stories tell,  
His Fellow to redeem him went to Hell.   

But to pursue my Tale; to welcome home  
His Warlike Brother, is Pirithous come:  
Arcite of Thebes was known in Arms long since,  
And honoured by this young Thessalian Prince.  
Theseus, to gratify his Friend and Guest,  
Who made our Arcite's Freedom his Request,  
Restored to Liberty the Captive Knight,  
But on these hard Conditions I recite:  
That if hereafter Arcite should be found  
Within the Compass of Athenian Ground,  
By Day or Night, or on whate'er Pretence,  
His Head should pay the Forfeit of th' Offence.  
To this, Pirithous for his Friend, agreed,  
And on his Promise was the Prisoner freed.   

Unpleased and pensive hence he takes his way,  
At his own Peril; for his Life must pay.  
Who now but Arcite mourns his bitter Fate,  
Finds his dear Purchase, and reputes too late?  
What have I gained, he said, in Prison penned,  
If I but change my Bonds for Banishment?  
And banished from her Sight, I suffer more  
In Freedom, than I felt in Bonds before;  
Forced from her Presence, and condemned to live:  
unwelcome Freedom, and unthanked Reprieve:  
Heaven is not but where Emily abides,  
And where she's absent, all is Hell besides.  
Next to my Day of Birth, was that accursed  
Which bond my Friendship to Pirithous first:  
Had I not known that Prince, I still had been  
In Bondage, and had still Emilia seen:  
For tho' I never can her Grace deserve,  
'Tis Recompense enough to see and serve.  
O Palamon, my Kinsman and my Friend,  
How much more happy Fates thy Love attend!  
Thine is th' Adventure; thine the Victory:  
Well has thy Fortune turned the Dice for thee:  
Thou on that Angel's Face mayst feed thy Eyes,  
In Prison, no; but blissful Paradise!  
Thou daily seest that Sun of Beauty shine,  
And lov'st at least in Love's extremest Line.  
I mourn in Absence, Loves Eternal Night,  
And who can tell but since thou hast her Sight,  
And art a comely, young, and valiant Knight,  
Fortune (a various Power) may cease to frown,  
And by some Ways unknown thy Wishes crown:  
But I, the most forlorn of Humane Kind,  
Nor Help can hope, nor Remedy can find;  
But doomed to drag my loathsome Life in Care,  
For my Reward, must end it in Despair.  
Fire, Water, Air, and Earth, and Force of Fates  
That governs all, and Heaven that all creates,  
Nor Art, nor Nature's Hand can ease my Grief,  
Nothing but Death, the Wretches last Relief:  
Then farewell Youth, and all the Joys that dwell  
With Youth and Life, and Life itself farewell.   

But why, alas! do mortal Men in vain  
Of Fortune, Fate, or Providence complain?  
God gives us what he knows our Wants require,  
And better Things than those which we desire:  
Some pray for Riches; Riches they obtain;  
But watched by Robbers, for their Wealth are slain:  
Some pray from Prison to be freed; and come  
When guilty of their Vows, to fall at home;  
Murdered by those they trusted with their Life,  
A favoured Servant, or a Bosom Wife.  
Such dear-bought Blessings happen every Day,  
Because we know not for what Things to pray.  
Like drunken Sots about the Streets we roam;  
Well knows the Sot he has a certain Home;  
Yet knows not how to find th' uncertain Place,  
And blunders on, and staggers every Pace.  
Thus all seek Happiness; but few can find,  
For far the greater Part of Men are blind.  
This is my Case, who thought our utmost Good  
Was in one Word of Freedom understood:  
The fatal Blessing came: From Prison free,  
I starve abroad, and lose the Sight of Emily.   

Thus Arcite; but if Arcite thus deplore  
His Sufferings, Palamon yet suffers more.  
For when he knew his Rival freed and gone,  
He swells with Wrath; he makes outrageous Moan:  
He frets, he fumes, he stairs, he stamps the Ground;  
The hollow Tower with Clamours rings around:  
With briny Tears he bathed his fettered Feet,  
And dropped all over with Agony of Sweat.  
Alas! he cried, I Wretch in Prison pine,  
Too happy Rival, while the Fruit is thine:  
Thou liv'st at large, thou drawest thy Native Air,  
Pleased with thy Freedom, proud of my Despair:  
Thou may'st, since thou hast Youth and Courage joined,  
A sweet Behaviour, and a solid Mind,  
Assemble ours, and all the Theban Race,  
To vindicate on Athens thy Disgrace.  
And after (by some Treaty made) possess  
Fair Emily, the Pledge of lasting Peace.  
So thine shall be the beauteous Prize, while I  
Must languish in Despair, in Prison die.  
Thus all th' Advantage of the Strife is thine,  
Thy Portion double Joys, and double Sorrows mine.   

The Rage of Jealousy then fired his Soul,  
And his Face kindled like a burning Coal:  
Now cold Despair, succeeding in her stead,  
To livid Paleness turns the glowing Red.  
His Blood scarce Liquid, creeps within his Veins,  
Like Water, which the freezing Wind constrains.  
Then thus he said; Eternal Deities,  
Who rule the World with absolute Decrees,  
And writ whatever Time shall bring to pass  
With Pens of Adamant, on Plates of Brass;  
What is the Race of Humane Kind your Care  
Beyond what all his Fellow-Creatures are?  
He with the rest is liable to Pain,  
And like the Sheep, his Brother-Beast, is slain.  
Cold, Hunger, Prisons, Ills without a Cure,  
All these he must, and guiltless oft, endure:  
Or does your Justice, Power, or Prescience fail,  
When the Good suffer, and the Bad prevail?  
What worse to wretched Virtue could befall,  
If Fate, or giddy Fortune governed all?  
Nay, worse than other Beasts is our Estate;  
Them, to pursue their Pleasures you create;  
We, bound by harder Laws, must curb our Will,  
And your Commands, not our Desires fulfil:  
Then when the Creature is unjustly slain,  
Yet after Death at least he feels no Pain;  
But Man in Life surcharged with Woe before,  
Not freed when dead, is doomed to suffer more.  
A Serpent shoots his Sting at unaware;  
An ambushed Thief forelays a Traveller;  
The Man lies murdered, while the Thief and Snake,  
One gains the Thickets, and one thirds the Brake.  
This let Divines decide; but well I know,  
Just, or unjust, I have my Share of Woe:  
Through Saturn seated in a luckless Place,  
And Juno's Wrath, that persecutes my Race;  
Or Mars and Venus in a Quartil, move  
My Pangs of Jealousy for Arcite's Love.   

Let Palamon oppressed in Bondage mourn,  
While to his exiled Rival we return.  
By this the Sun declining from his Height,  
The Day had shortened to prolong the Night:  
The lengthened Night gave length of Misery  
Both to the Captive Lover, and the Free.  
For Palamon in endless Prison mourns,  
And Arcite forfeits Life if he returns.  
The Banished never hopes his Love to see,  
Nor hopes the Captive Lord his Liberty:  
'Tis hard to say who suffers greater Pains,  
One sees his Love, but cannot break his Chains:  
One free, and all his Motions uncontrolled,  
Beholds whate'er he would, but what he would behold.  
Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell  
What Fortune to the banished Knight befell.  
When Arcite was to Thebes returned again,  
The Loss of her he loved renewed his Pain;  
What could be worse, than never more to see  
His Life, his Soul, his charming Emily?  
He raved with all the Madness of Despair,  
He roared, he beat his Breast, he tore his Hair.  
Dry Sorrow in his stupid Eyes appears,  
For wanting Nourishment, he wanted Tears:  
His Eyeballs in their hollow Sockets sink,  
Bereft of Sleep; he loathes his Meat and Drink.  
He withers at his Heart, and looks as wan  
As the pale Spectre of a murdered Man:  
That Pale turns Yellow, and his Face receives  
The faded Hue of sapless Boxes Leaves:  
In solitary Groves he makes his Moan,  
Walks early out, and ever is alone.  
Nor mixed in Mirth, in youthful Pleasure shares,  
But sighs when Songs and Instruments he hears:  
His Spirits are so low, his Voice is drowned,  
He hears as from afar, or in a swoon,  
Like the deaf Murmurs of a distant Sound:  
Uncombed his Locks, and squalid his Attire,  
Unlike the Trim of Love and gay Desire;  
But full of museful Moping, which presage  
The loss of Reason, and conclude in Rage.   

This when he had endured a Year and more,  
Now wholly changed from what he was before,  
It happened once, that slumbering as he lay,  
He dreamt (his Dream began at Break of Day)  
That Hermes o'er his Head in Air appeared,  
And with soft Words his drooping Spirits cheered:  
His Hat, adorned with Wings, disclosed the God,  
And in his Hand he bore the Sleep-compelling Rod:  
Such as he seemed, when at his Sire's Command  
On Argus' Head he laid the Snaky Wand;  
Arise, he said, to conquering Athens go,  
There Fate appoints an End of all thy Woe.  
The Fright awakened Arcite with a Start,  
Against his Bosom bounced his heaving Heart;  
But soon he said, with scarce-recovered Breath,  
And thither will I go, to meet my Death,  
Sure to be slain; but Death is my Desire,  
Since in Emilia's Sight I shall expire.  
By chance he spied a Mirror while he spoke,  
And gazing there beheld his altered Look;  
Wondering, he saw his Features and his Hue  
So much were changed, that scarce himself he knew.  
A sudden Thought then starting in his Mind,  
Since I in Arcite cannot Arcite find,  
The World may search in vain with all their Eyes,  
But never penetrate through this Disguise.  
Thanks to the Change which Grief and Sickness give,  
In low Estate I may securely live,  
And see unknown my Mistress Day by Day:  
He said; and clothed himself in course Array;  
A labouring Hind in show: Then forth he went,  
And to th' Athenian towers his Journey bend:  
One Squire attended in the same Disguise,  
Made conscious of his Master's Enterprise.  
Arrived at Athens, soon he came to Court,  
Unknown, unquestioned in that thick Resort;  
proffering for Hire his Service at the Gate,  
To drudge, draw Water, and to run or wait.   

So fair befell him, that for little Gain  
He served at first Emilia's Chamberlain;  
And watchful all Advantages to spy,  
Was still at Hand, and in his Master's Eye;  
And as his Bones were big, and Sinews strong,  
Refused no Toil that could to Slaves belong;  
But from deep Wells with Engines Water drew,  
And used his Noble Hands the Wood to hue.  
He passed a Year at least attending thus  
On Emily, and called Philostratus.  
But never was there Man of his Degree  
So much esteemed, so well beloved as he.  
So gentle of Condition was he known,  
That through the Court his Courtesy was blown:  
All think him worthy of a greater Place,  
And recommend him to the Royal Grace;  
That exercised within a higher Sphere,  
His Virtues more conspicuous might appear.  
Thus by the general Voice was Arcite praised,  
And by Great Theseus to high Favour raised;  
Among his Menial Servants first enroled,  
And largely entertained with Sums of Gold:  
Besides what secretly from Thebes was sent,  
Of his own Income; and his Annual Rent.  
This well employed, he purchased Friends and Fame,  
But cautiously concealed from whence it came.  
Thus for three Years he lived with large Increase,  
In Arms of Honour, and Esteem in Peace;  
To Theseus' Person he was ever near,  
And Theseus for his Virtues held him dear.   
The End of the First Book.   

PALAMON AND ARCITE: OR, The Knights Tale. BOOK II.  

WHile Arcite lives in Bliss, the Story turns  
Where hopeless Palamon in Prison mourns.  
For six long Years immured, the captive Knight  
Had dragged his Chains, and scarcely seen the Light:  
Lost Liberty, and Love at once he bore;  
His Prison pained him much, his Passion more:  
Nor dares he hope his Fetters to remove,  
Nor ever wishes to be free from Love.   

But when the sixth revolving Year was run,  
And May within the Twins received the Sun,  
Were it by Chance, or forceful Destiny,  
Which forms in Causes first whate'er shall be,  
Assisted by a Friend one Moonless Night,  
This Palamon from Prison took his Flight:  
A pleasant Beverage he prepared before  
Of Wine and Honey mixed, with added Store  
Of Opium; to his Keeper this he brought,  
Who swallowed unaware the sleepy Draught,  
And snored secure till Morn, his Senses bound  
In Slumber, and in long Oblivion drowned.  
Short was the Night, and careful Palamon  
Sought the next Covert e'er the Rising Sun.  
A thick spread Forest near the City lay,  
To this with lengthened Strides he took his way,  
(For far he could not fly, and feared the Day:)  
Safe from Pursuit, he meant to shun the Light,  
Till the brown Shadows of the friendly Night  
To Thebes might favour his intended Flight.  
When to his Country, come, his next Design  
Was all the Theban Race in Arms to join,  
And war on Theseus, till he lost his Life,  
Or won the Beauteous Emily to Wife.  
Thus while his Thoughts the lingering Day beguile,  
To gentle Arcite let us turn our Style;  
Who little dreamt how nigh he was to Care,  
Till treacherous Fortune caught him in the Snare.  
The Morning-Lark, the Messenger of Day,  
Saluted in her Song the Morning grey;  
And soon the Sun arose with Beams so bright,  
That all th' Horizon laughed to see the joyous Sight;  
He with his tepid Rays the Rose renews,  
And licks the dropping Leaves, and dries the Dews;  
When Arcite left his Bed, resolved to pay  
Observance to the Month of merry May:  
Forth on his fiery Steed betimes he road,  
That scarcely prints the Turf on which he trod:  
At ease he seemed, and prancing o'er the Plains,  
Turned only to the Grove his Horse's Reins,  
The Grove I named before; and lighting there,  
A Woodbine Garland sought to crown his Hair;  
Then turned his Face against the rising Day,  
And raised his Voice to welcome in the May.   

For thee, sweet Month, the Groves green Liv'ries wear:  
If not the first, the fairest of the Year:  
For thee the Graces lead the dancing Hours,  
And Nature's ready Pencil paints the Flowers:  
When thy short Reign is past, the Fev'rish Sun  
The sultry Tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.  
So may thy tender Blossoms fear no Blite,  
Nor Goats with venomed Teeth thy Tendrils by't,  
As thou shalt guide my wand'ring Feet to find  
The fragrant Greene's I seek, my Brows to bind.   

His Vows addressed, within the Grove he strayed,  
Till Fate, or Fortune, near the Place conveyed  
His Steps where secret Palamon was laid.  
Full little thought of him the gentle Knight,  
Who flying Death had there concealed his Flight,  
In Brakes and Brambles hid, and shunning Mortal Sight.  
And less he knew him for his hated Foe,  
But feared him as a Man he did not know.  
But as it has been said of ancient Years,  
That Fields are full of Eyes, and Woods have Ears;  
For this the Wise are ever on their Guard,  
For, Unforeseen, they say, is unprepared.  
Uncautious Arcite thought himself alone,  
And less than all suspected Palamon,  
Who listening heard him, while he searched the Grove,  
And loudly sung his Roundelay of Love.  
But on the sudden stopped, and silent stood,  
(As Lovers often muse, and change their Mood;)  
Now high as Heaven, and then as low as Hell;  
Now up, now down, as Buckets in a Well:  
For Venus, like her Day, will change her Cheer,  
And seldom shall we see a Friday clear.  
Thus Arcite having sung, with altered Hue  
Sunk on the Ground, and from his Bosom drew  
A desperate Sigh, accusing Heaven and Fate,  
And angry Juno's unrelenting Hate.  
Cursed be the Day when first I did appear;  
Let it be blotted from the Calendar,  
Lest it pollute the Month, and poison all the Year.  
Still will the jealous Queen pursue our Race?  
Cadmus is dead, the Theban City was:  
Yet ceases not her Hate: For all who come  
From Cadmus are involved in Cadmus' Doom.  
I suffer for my Blood: Unjust Decree!  
That punishes another's Crime on me.  
In mean Estate I serve my mortal Foe,  
The Man who caused my Countries Overthrow.  
This is not all; for Juno, to my shame,  
Has forced me to forsake my former Name;  
Arcite I was, Philostratus I am.  
That Side of Heaven is all my Enemy:  
Mars ruin'd Thebes; his Mother ruin'd me.  
Of all the Royal Race remains but one  
Beside myself, th'unhappy Palamon,  
Whom Theseus holds in Bonds, and will not free;  
Without a Crime, except his Kin to me.  
Yet these, and all the rest I could endure;  
But Love's a Malady without a Cure:  
Fierce Love has pierced me with his fiery Dart,  
He fries within, and hisses at my Heart.  
Your Eyes, fair Emily, my Fate pursue;  
I suffer for the rest, I die for you.  
Of such a Goddess no Time leaves Record,  
Who burned the Temple where she was adored:  
And let it burn, I never will complain,  
Pleased with my Sufferings, if you knew my Pain.   

At this a sickly Qualm his Heart assailed,  
His Ears ring inward, and his Senses failed.  
No Word missed Palamon of all he spoke,  
But soon to deadly Pale he changed his Look:  
He trembled every Limb, and felt a Smart,  
As if cold Steel had glided through his Heart;  
Nor longer stayed, but starting from his Place,  
Discovered stood, and showed his hostile Face:  
False Traitor Arcite, Traitor to thy Blood,  
Bound by thy sacred Oath to seek my Good,  
Now art thou found forsworn, for Emily;  
And darest attempt her Love, for whom I die.  
So hast thou cheated Theseus with a Wile,  
Against thy Vow, returning to beguile  
Under a borrowed Name: As false to me,  
So false thou art to him who set thee free:  
But rest assured, that either thou shalt die,  
Or else renounce thy Claim in Emily:  
For though unarmed I am, and (freed by Chance)  
Am here without my Sword, or pointed Lance;  
Hope not, base Man, unquestioned hence to go,  
For I am Palamon thy mortal Foe.   

Arcite, who heard his Tale, and knew the Man,  
His Sword unsheathed, and fiercely thus began:  
Now by the Gods, who govern Heaven above,  
Wert thou not weak with Hunger, mad with Love,  
That Word had been thy last, or in this Grove  
This Hand should force thee to renounce thy Love.  
The Surety which I gave thee, I defy;  
Fool, not to know that Love endures no Tie,  
And Jove but laughs at Lover's Perjury.  
Know I will serve the Fair in thy despite;  
But since thou art my Kinsman, and a Knight,  
Here, have my Faith, to morrow in this Grove  
Our Arms shall plead the Titles of our Love:  
And Heaven so help my Right, as I alone  
Will come, and keep the Cause and Quarrel both unknown;  
With Arms of Proof both for myself and thee;  
Choose thou the best, and leave the worst to me.  
And, that at better ease, thou mayst abide,  
Bedding and Clothes I will this Night provide,  
And needful Sustenance, that thou mayst be  
A Conquest better won, and worthy me.  
His Promise Palamon accepts; but prayed,  
To keep it better than the first he made.  
Thus fair they parted till the Morrows Dawn,  
For each had laid his plighted Faith to pawn.  
Oh Love! Thou sternly dost thy Power maintain,  
And wilt not bear a Rival in thy Reign,  
Tyrants and thou all Fellowship disdain.  
This was in Arcite proved, and Palamon,  
Both in Despair, yet each would love alone.  
Arcite returned, and, as in Honour tied,  
His Foe with Bedding, and with Food supplied;  
Then, e'er the Day, two Suits of Armour sought,  
Which born before him on his Steed he brought:  
Both were of shining Steel, and wrought so pure,  
As might the Strokes of two such Arms endure.  
Now, at the Time, and in th' appointed Place,  
The Challenger, and Challenged, Face to Face,  
Approach; each other from afar they knew,  
And from afar their Hatred changed their Hue.  
So stands the Thracian Herdsman with his Spear,  
Full in the Gap, and hopes the hunted Bear,  
And hears him rustling in the Wood, and sees  
His Course at Distance by the bending Trees;  
And thinks, Here comes my mortal Enemy,  
And either he must fall in Fight, or I:  
This while he thinks, he lifts aloft his Dart;  
A generous Chillness seizes every Part;  
The Veins pour back the Blood, and fortify the Heart.   

Thus pale they meet; their Eyes with Fury burn;  
None greets; for none the Greeting will return:  
But in dumb Surliness, each armed with Care  
His Foe professed, as Brother of the War:  
Then both, no Moment lost, at once advance  
Against each other, armed with Sword and Lance:  
They lash, they foin, they pass, they strive to boar  
Their Corslets, and the thinnest Parts explore.  
Thus two long Hours in equal Arms they stood,  
And wounded, wound; till both were bathed in Blood;  
And not a Foot of Ground had either got,  
As if the World depended on the Spot.  
Fell Arcite like an angry Tiger fared,  
And like a Lion Palamon appeared:  
Or as two Boars whom Love to Battle draws,  
With rising Bristles, and with frothy Jaws,  
Their adverse Breasts with Tusks obliqne they wound;  
With Grunts and Groans the Forest rings around.  
So fought the Knights, and fight must abide,  
Till Fate an Umpire sends their Difference to decide.  
The Power that ministers to God's Decrees,  
And executes on Earth what Heaven foresees,  
Called Providence, or Chance, or fatal Sway,  
Comes with resistless Force, and finds or makes her Way.  
Nor Kings, nor Nations, nor united Power  
One Moment can retard th' appointed Hour.  
And some one Day, some wondrous Chance appears,  
Which happened not in Centuries of Years:  
For sure, whate'er we Mortals hate or love,  
Or hope, or fear, depends on Powers above;  
They move our Appetites to Good or Ill,  
And by Foresight necessitate the Will.  
In Theseus this appears; whose youthful Joy  
Was Beasts of Chase in Forests to destroy;  
This gentle Knight, inspired by jolly May,  
Forsook his easy Couch at early Day,  
And to the Wood and wild's pursued his Way.  
Beside him road Hippolita the Queen,  
And Emily attired in lively Green:  
With Horns, and Hounds, and all the tuneful Cry,  
To hunt a Royal Hart within the Covert nigh:  
And as he followed Mars before, so now  
He serves the Goddess of the Silver Bow.  
The Way that Theseus took was to the Wood  
Where the two Knights in cruel Battle stood:  
The Land on which they fought; th' appointed Place  
In which th' uncoupled Hounds began the Chase.  
Thither forthright he road to rouse the Prey,  
That shaded by the Fern in Harbour lay;  
And thence dislodged, was wont to leave the Wood,  
For open Fields, and cross the Crystal Flood.  
Approached, and looking underneath the Sun,  
He saw proud Arcite, and fierce Palamon,  
In mortal Battle doubling Blow on Blow,  
Like Lightning flamed their Falchions to and fro,  
And shot a dreadful Gleam; so strong they struck,  
There seemed less Force required to fell an Oak:  
He gazed with Wonder on their equal Might,  
Looked eager on, but knew not either Knight:  
Resolved to learn, he spurred his fiery Steed  
With goring Rowels, to provoke his Speed.  
The Minute ended that began the Race.  
So soon he was betwixt 'em on the Place;  
And with his Sword unsheathed, on pain of Life  
Commands both Combatants to cease their Strife:  
Then with imperious Tone pursues his Threat;  
What are you? Why in Arms together met?  
How dares your Pride presume against my Laws,  
As in a listed Field to fight your Cause?  
Unasked the Royal Grant; no Marshal by,  
As Knightly Rites require; nor Judge to try?  
Then Palamon, with scarce recovered Breath,  
Thus hasty spoke; We both deserve the Death,  
And both would die; for look the World around,  
A Pair so wretched is not to be found.  
Our Life's a Load; encumbered with the Charge,  
We long to set th' imprisoned Soul at large.  
Now as thou art a Sovereign Judge, decree  
The rightful Doom of Death to him and me,  
Let neither find thy Grace; for Grace is Cruelty.  
Me first, O kill me first; and cure my Woe:  
Then sheathe the Sword of Justice on my Foe:  
Or kill him first; for when his Name is heard,  
He foremost will receive his due Reward.  
Arcite of Thebes is he; thy mortal Foe,  
On whom thy Grace did Liberty bestow,  
But first contracted, that if ever found  
By Day or Night upon th' Athenian Ground,  
His Head should pay the Forfeit: See returned  
The perjured Knight, his Oath and Honour scorned.  
For this is he, who with a borrowed Name  
And proffered Service, to thy Palace came,  
Now called Philostratus: retained by thee,  
A Traitor trusted, and in high Degree,  
Aspiring to the Bed of beauteous Emily.  
My Part remains: From Thebes my Birth I own,  
And call myself th' unhappy Palamon.  
Think me not like that Man; since no Disgrace  
Can force me to renounce the Honour of my Race.  
Know me for what I am: I broke thy Chain,  
Nor promised I thy Prisoner to remain:  
The Love of Liberty with Life is given,  
And Life itself th' inferior Gift of Heaven.  
Thus without Crime I fled; but farther know,  
I with this Arcite am thy mortal Foe:  
Then give me Death, since I thy Life pursue,  
For Safeguard of thyself, Death is my Due.  
More wouldst thou know? I love bright Emily,  
And for her Sake, and in her Sight will die:  
But kill my Rival too; for he no less  
Deserves; and I thy righteous Doom will bless,  
Assured that what I lose, he never shall possess.  
To this replied the stern Athenian Prince,  
And sow'rly smiled, In owning your Offence  
You judge yourself; and I but keep Record  
In place of Law, while you pronounce the Word.  
Take your Desert, the Death you have decreed;  
I seal your Doom, and ratify the Deed.  
By Mars, the Patron of my Arms, you die.   

He said; dumb Sorrow seized the Standards by.  
The Queen above the rest, by Nature Good,  
(The Pattern formed of perfect Womanhood)  
For tender Pity wept: When she began,  
Through the bright Choir th' infectious Virtue ran.  
All dropped their Tears, even the contended Maid;  
And thus among themselves they softly said:  
What Eyes can suffer this unworthy Sight!  
Two Youths of Royal Blood, renowned in Fight,  
The Mastership of Heaven in Face and Mind,  
And Lovers, far beyond their faithless Kind;  
See their wide streaming Wounds; they neither came  
From Pride of Empire, nor desire of Fame:  
Kings fight for Kingdoms, Madmen for Applause;  
But love for Love alone; that crowns the Lover's Cause.  
This Thought, which ever bribe's the beauteous Kind,  
Such Pity wrought in every Lady's Mind,  
They left their Steeds; and prostrate on the Place,  
From the fierce King, implored th' Offenders Grace.   

He paused a while, stood silent in his Mood,  
(For yet, his Rage was boiling in his Blood)  
But soon his tender Mind th' Impression felt,  
(As softest Metals are not slow to melt  
And Pity soon runs in gentle Minds:)  
Than reasons with himself; and first he finds  
His Passion cast a Mist before his Sense,  
And either made, or magnified th' Offence.  
Offence! of what? to whom? Who judged the Cause?  
The Prisoner freed himself by Nature's Laws:  
Born free, he sought his Right: The Man he freed  
Was perjured, but his Love excused the Deed:  
Thus pondering, he looked under with his Eyes,  
And saw the women's Tears, and heard their Cries;  
Which moved Compassion more: He shook his Head,  
And softly sighing to himself, he said,   

Curse on th' unpard'ning Prince, whom Tears can draw  
To no Remorse; who rules by Lion's Law;  
And deaf to Prayers, by no Submission bowed,  
Rends all alike; the Penitent, and Proud:  
At this, with Look serene, he raised his Head,  
Reason resumed her Place, and Passion fled:  
Then thus aloud he spoke: The Power of Love,  
In Earth, and Seas, and Air, and Heaven above,  
Rules, unresisted, with an awful Nod;  
By daily Miracles declared a God:  
He blinds the Wise, gives Eyesight to the Blind;  
And moulds and stamps anew the Lover's Mind.  
Behold that Arcite, and this Palamon,  
Freed from my Fetters, and in Safety gone,  
What hindered either in their Native Soil  
At ease to reap the Harvest of their Toil?  
But Love, their Lord, did otherwise ordain,  
And brought 'em in then own despite again,  
To suffer Death deserved; for well they know,  
'Tis in my Power, and I their deadly Foe;  
The Proverb holds, That to be wise and love,  
Is hardly granted to the Gods above.  
See how the Madmen bleed: Behold the Gains  
With which their Master, Love, rewards their Pains:  
For seven long Years, on Duty every Day,  
Lo their Obedience, and their Monarch's Pay:  
Yet, as in Duty bound, they serve him on,  
And ask the Fools, they think it wisely done:  
Nor Ease, nor Wealth, nor Life itself regard,  
For 'tis their Maxim, Love is Love's Reward.  
This is not all; the Fair for whom they strove  
Nor knew before, nor could suspect their Love,  
Nor thought, when she beheld the Fight from far,  
Her Beauty was th' Occasion of the War.  
But sure a gen'ral Doom on Man is past,  
And all are Fools and Lovers, first or last:  
This both by others and myself I know,  
For I have served their Sovereign, long ago.  
Oft have been caught within the winding Train  
Of Female Snares, and felt the Lover's Pain,  
And learned how far the God can Humane Hearts constrain.  
To this Remembrance, and the Prayers of those  
Who for th' offending Warriors interpose,  
I give their forfeit Lives; on this accord,  
To do me Homage as their sovereign Lord;  
And as my Vassals, to their utmost Might,  
Assist my Person, and assert my Right.  
This, freely sworn, the Knights their Grace obtained;  
Then thus the King his secret Thoughts explained:  
If Wealth, or Honour, or a Royal Race,  
Or each, or all, may win a Lady's Grace,  
Then either of you Knights may well deserve  
A Princess born; and such is she you serve:  
For Emily is Sister to the Crown,  
And but too well to both her Beauty known:  
But should you combat till you both were dead,  
Two Lovers cannot share a single Bed:  
As therefore both are equal in Degree,  
The Lot of both be left to Destiny.  
Now hear th' Award, and happy may it prove  
To her, and him who best deserves her Love.  
Depart from hence in Peace, and free as Air,  
Search the wide World, and where you please repair;  
But on the Day when this returning Sun  
To the same Point through every Sign has run,  
Then each of you his Hundred Knights shall bring,  
In Royal Lists, to fight before the King;  
And then, the Knight whom Fate or happy Chance  
Shall with his Friends to Victory advance,  
And grace his Arms so far in equal Fight,  
From out the Bars to force his Opposite,  
Or kill, or make him Recreant on the Plain,  
The Prize of Valour and of Love shall gain;  
The vanquished Party shall their Claim release,  
And the long Jars conclude in lasting Peace.  
The Charge be mine t' adorn the chosen Ground,  
The Theatre of War, for Champions so renowned;  
And take the Patrons Place of either Knight,  
With Eyes impartial to behold the Fight;  
And Heaven of me so judge, as I shall judge aright.  
If both are satisfied with this Accord,  
Swear by the Laws of Knighthood on my Sword.   

Who now but Palamon exults with Joy?  
And ravished Arcite seems to touch the Sky:  
The whole assembled Troop was pleased as well,  
Extolled th' Award, and on their Knees they fell  
To bless the gracious King. The Knights with Leave  
Departing from the Place, his last Commands receive;  
On Emily with equal Ardour look,  
And from her Eyes their Inspiration took.  
From thence to Thebes old Walls pursue their Way,  
Each to provide his Champions for the Day.   

It might be deemed on our Historian's Part,  
Or too much Negligence, or want of Art,  
If he forgot the vast Magnificence  
Of Royal Theseus, and his large Expense.  
He first enclosed for Lists a level Ground,  
The whole Circumference a Mile around:  
The Form was Circular; and all without  
A Trench was sunk, to Moat the Place about.  
Within; an Amphitheatre appeared,  
Raised in Degrees; to sixty Paces reared:  
That when a Man was placed in one Degree,  
Height was allowed for him above to see.   

Eastward was built a Gate of Marble white;  
The like adorned the Western opposite.  
A nobler Object than this Fabric was,  
Rome never saw; nor of so vast a Space.  
For, rich with Spoils of many a conquered Land,  
All Arts and Artists Theseus could command;  
Who sold for Hire, or wrought for better Fame:  
The Master-Painters, and the Carvers came.  
So risen within the Compass of the Year  
An Ages Work, a glorious Theatre.  
Then, o'er its Eastern Gate was raised above  
A Temple, sacred to the Queen of Love;  
An Altar stood below: On either Hand  
A Priest with Roses crowned, who held a Myrtle Wand.   

The Dome of Mars was on the Gate opposed,  
And on the North a Turret was enclosed,  
Within the Wall, of Alabaster white,  
And crimson Coral, for the Queen of Night,  
Who takes in Sylvan Sports her chaste Delight.   

Within these Oratories might you see  
Rich Carving, Portraitures, and Imagery:  
Where every Figure to the Life expressed  
The Godhead's Power to whom it was addressed.  
In Venus' Temple, on the Sides were seen  
The broken Slumbers of enamoured Men:  
Prayers that even spoke, and Pity seemed to call,  
And issuing Sighs that smoked along the Wall.  
Complaints, and hot Desires, the Lover's Hell,  
And scalding Tears, that wore a Channel where they fell:  
And all around were Nuptial Bonds, the Ties  
Of Love's Assurance, and a Train of Lies,  
That, made in Lust, conclude in Perjuries.  
Beauty, and Youth, and Wealth, and Luxury,  
And sprightly Hope, and short-enduring Joy;  
And Sorceries to raise th' Infernal Powers,  
And Sigils framed in Planetary Hours:  
Expense, and After-thought, and idle Care,  
And Doubts of motley Hue, and dark Despair:  
Suspicions, and fantastical Surmise,  
And Jealousy suffused, with Jaundice in her Eyes;  
Discolouring all she viewed, in Tawny dressed;  
Down-looked, and with a Cuckoo on her Fist.  
Opposed to her, on the other Side, advance  
The costly Feast, the Carol, and the Dance,  
Minstrels, and Music, Poetry, and Play,  
And Balls by Night, and Tournaments by Day.  
All these were painted on the Wall, and more;  
With Acts, and Monuments of Times before:  
And others added by Prophetic Doom,  
And Lovers yet unborn, and Loves to come:  
For there, th' Idalian Mount, and Cithaeron,  
The Court of Venus, was in Colours drawn:  
Before the Palace-gate, in careless Dress,  
And lose Array, sat Portress Idleness:  
There, by the Fount, Narcissus pined alone;  
There Samson was; with wiser Solomon,  
And all the mighty Names by Love undone:  
Medea's Charms were there, Circean Feasts,  
With Bowls that turned enamoured Youth to Beasts.  
Here might be seen, that Beauty, Wealth, and Wit,  
And Prowess, to the Power of Love submit:  
The spreading Snare for all Mankind is laid;  
And Lovers all betray, and are betrayed.  
The Goddess self, some noble Hand had wrought;  
Smiling she seemed, and full of pleasing Thought:  
From Ocean as she first began to rise,  
And smoothed the ruffled Seas, and cleared the Skies;  
She trod the Brine all bare below the Breast,  
And the green Waves, but ill concealed the rest,  
A Lute she held; and on her Head was seen  
A Wreath of Roses red, and Myrtles green:  
Her Turtles fanned the buxom Air above;  
And, by his Mother, stood an Infant-Love:  
With Wings unfledged; his Eyes were banded over;  
His Hands a Bow, his Back a Quiver bore,  
Supplied with Arrows bright and keen, a deadly Store.   

But in the Dome of mighty Mars the Red,  
With different Figures all the Sides were spread:  
This Temple, less in Form, with equal Grace  
Was imitative of the first in Thrace:  
For that cold Region was the loved Abode,  
And sovereign Mansion of the Warriour-God.  
The Landscape was a Forest wide and bare;  
Where neither Beast, nor Humane Kind repair;  
The Fowl, that scent afar, the Borders fly,  
And shun the bitter Blast, and wheel about the Sky.  
A Cake of Scurf lies baking on the Ground,  
And prickly Stubs, instead of Trees, are found;  
Or Woods with Knots, and Knares deformed and old;  
Headless the most, and hideous to behold:  
A rattling Tempest through the Branches went,  
That stripped 'em bare, and one sole way they bend.  
Heaven froze above, severe, the Clouds congeal,  
And through the Crystal Vault appeared the standing Hail.  
Such was the Face without, a Mountain stood  
Threatening from high, and overlooked the Wood:  
Beneath the lowering Brow, and on a Bent,  
The Temple stood of Mars Armipotent:  
The Frame of burnished Steel, that cast a Glare  
From far, and seemed to thaw the freezing Air.  
A straight, long Entry, to the Temple led,  
Blind with high Walls; and Horror over Head:  
Thence issued such a Blast, and hollow Roar,  
As threatened from the Hinge, to heave the Door;  
In, through that Door, a Northern Light there shone;  
'Twas all it had, for Windows there were none.  
The Gate was Adamant; Eternal Frame!  
Which hewed by Mars himself, from Indian Quarries came,  
The Labour of a God; and all along  
Tough Iron Plates were clenched to make it strong.  
A Tun about, was every Pillar there;  
A polished Mirror shone not half so clear.  
There saw I how the secret Felon wrought,  
And Treason labouring in the traitor's Thought;  
And Midwife Time the ripened Plot to Murder brought.  
There, the Red Anger dared the Pallid Fear;  
Next stood Hypocrisy, with holy Lear:  
Soft, smiling, and demurely looking down,  
But hide the Dagger underneath the Gown:  
Th' assassinating Wife, the Household Fiend;  
And far the blackest there, the Traytor-Friend.  
On t' other Side there stood Destruction bare;  
Unpunished Rapine, and a Waste of War.  
Contest, with sharpened Knives in Cloisters drawn,  
And all with Blood bespread the holy Lawn.  
Loud Menaces were heard, and foul Disgrace,  
And bawling Infamy, in Language base;  
Till Sense was lost in Sound, and Silence fled the Place.  
The Slayer of Himself yet saw I there,  
The Gore congealed was clottered in his Hair:  
With Eyes half closed, and gaping Mouth he lay,  
And grim, as when he breathed his sullen Soul away.  
In midst of all the Dome, Misfortune sat,  
And gloomy Discontent, and fell Debate:  
And Madness laughing in his ireful Mood;  
And armed Complaint on Theft; and Cries of Blood.  
There was the murdered Corpse, in Covert laid,  
And Violent Death in thousand Shapes displayed:  
The City to the Soldier's Rage resigned:  
Successless Wars, and Poverty behind:  
Ships burnt in Fight, or forced on Rocky Shores,  
And the rash Hunter strangled by the Boars:  
The newborn Babe by Nurses overlaid;  
And the Cook caught within the raging Fire he made.  
All Ills of Mars his Nature, Flame and Steel:  
The gasping Charioteer, beneath the Wheel  
Of his own Car; the ruin'd House that falls  
And intercepts her Lord betwixt the Walls:  
The whole Division that to Mars pertains,  
All Trades of Death that deal in Steel for Gains,  
Were there: The Butcher, Armorer, and Smith,  
Who forges sharpened Falchions, or the Scythe.  
The scarlet Conquest on a Tower was placed,  
With Shouts, and Soldiers Acclamations graced:  
A pointed Sword hung threatening o'er his Head,  
Sustained but by a slender Twine of Thread.  
There saw I Mars, his Ideses, the Capitol,  
The Seer in vain foretelling Caesar's Fall,  
The last Triumvirs, and the Wars they move,  
And Antony, who lost the World for Love.  
These, and a thousand more, the Fane adorn;  
Their Fates were painted e'er the Men were born,  
All copied from the heavens, and ruling Force  
Of the Red Star, in his revolving Course.  
The Form of Mars high on a Chariot stood,  
All sheathed in Arms, and gruffly looked the God:  
Two Geomantic Figures were displayed  
Above his Head, a 
* Rubeus, & Puella.  Warrior and a Maid,  
One when Direct, and one when Retrograde.   

Tired with Deformities of Death, I haste  
To the third Temple of Diana chaste;  
A Sylvan Scene with various Greene's was drawn,  
Shades on the Sides, and on the midst a Lawn:  
The Silver Cynthia, with her Nymphs around,  
Pursued the flying Deer, the Woods with Horns resound:  
Calistho there stood manifest of Shame,  
And turned a Bear, the Northern Star became:  
Her Son was next, and by peculiar Grace  
In the cold Circle held the second Place:  
The Stag Actaeon in the Stream had spied  
The naked Huntress, and, for seeing, died:  
His Hounds, unknowing of his Change, pursue  
The Chase, and their mistaken Master slew.  
Peneian Daphne too was there to see  
Apollo's Love before, and now his Tree:  
Th' adjoining Fane th' assembled Greeks expressed,  
And hunting of the Caledonian Beast.  
Oenides Valour, and his envied Prize;  
The fatal Power of Atalanta's Eyes;  
Diana's Vengeance on the Victor shown,  
The Murderess Mother, and consuming Son.  
The Volscian Queen extended on the Plain;  
The Treason punished, and the Traitor slain.  
The rest were various Hunt, well designed,  
And Savage Beasts destroyed, of every Kind:  
The graceful Goddess was arrayed in Green;  
About her Feet were little Beagles seen,  
That watched with upward Eyes the Motions of their Queen.  
Her Legs were Buskined, and the Left before,  
In act to shoot, a Silver Bow she bore,  
And at her Back a painted Quiver wore.  
She trod a waxing Moon, that soon would wane,  
And drinking borrowed Light, be filled again:  
With downcast Eyes, as seeming to survey  
The dark Dominions, her alternate Sway.  
Before her stood a Woman in her Throws,  
And called Lucina's Aid, her Burden to disclose.  
All these the Painter drew with such Command,  
That Nature snatched the Pencil from his Hand,  
Ashamed and angry that his Art could feign  
And mend the Tortures of a Mother's Pain.  
Theseus beheld the Fanes of every God,  
And thought his mighty Cost was well bestowed:  
So Princes now their Poets should regard;  
But few can write, and fewer can reward.   

The Theatre thus raised, the Lists enclosed,  
And all with vast Magnificence disposed,  
We leave the Monarch pleased, and haste to bring  
The Knights to combat; and their Arms to sing.   
The End of the Second Book.   

PALAMON AND ARCITE: OR, The Knights Tale. BOOK III.  

THE Day approached when Fortune should decide  
Th' important Enterprise, and give the Bride;  
For now, the Rivals round the World had fought,  
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 〈◊〉 his Life to puchase 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 〈◊〉 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.  
One hung a Poleax at his Saddlebow,  
And one a heavy Mace, to stun the Foe:  
One for his Legs and Knees provided well,  
With Jambeux armed, and double Plates of Steel:  
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 Eyebrows 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 lose, 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 Fields Lycurgus took his way;  
His hundred Knights attend in Pomp and proud Array.   

To match this Monarch, with strong Arcite came  
Emetrius' King of Ind, 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.  
Whenever 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-springs, 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 th' 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 road,  
And Beasts in Gambols frisked before their 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 Flowrs the Pots 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 sat;  
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 th' ensuing Day.  
'Twas ebbing Darkness, past the Noon of Night;  
And Phospher on the Confines of the Light,  
Promised the Sun, e'er Day began to spring  
The tuneful Lark already stretched her Wing,  
And flick'ring 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 runnest 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 loathes 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 Cithaeron,  
Increase of Jove, Companion of the Sun;  
If e'er Adonis touched thy tender Heart,  
Have pity, Goddess, for thou knowst 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 knowst 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 professed 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 courser 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 risen the Sun, and up risen 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 Votaress from my tender Years I am,  
And love, like thee, the Woods and Sylvan Game.  
Like Death, thou knowst, I joath 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 theirs 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 Rival's 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 choose 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 Chase 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 other Victour-Flame a Moment stood,  
Then fell, and lifeless left th' extinguished Wood;  
For ever lost, th' irrevocable Light  
Forsook the blackening 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 rend 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 bend 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 heavens 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 mixed.   

The next returning Planetary Hour  
Of Mars, who shared the Heptarchy of Power,  
His Steps bold Arcite to the Temple bend,  
T' 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 fling  
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 ought 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 Morrows 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, th' 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 Ir'n, 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 bend,  
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 th' Etherial 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 I send 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.  
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 Samson, 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 Chrono's Care;  
Now turn we to th' Effect, and sing the War.   

In Athens, all was Pleasure, Mirth, and Play,  
All proper to the Spring, and sprightly May:  
Which every Soul inspired with such Delight,  
'Twas just 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 roused 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,  
Clatt ring of Armour, furbished for the Field.  
Crowds to the Castle mounted up the Street,  
Battering the Pavement with their Courser's 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 Liv'ries march, and acquaint 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.  
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 ask a Gygantick Force to rear.  
All spoke as partial Favour moved the Mind;  
And safe themselves, at others Cost divined.   

Waked by the Cries, th' Athenian Chief arose,  
The Knightly Forms of Combat to dispose;  
And passing through th' obsequious Guards, he sat  
Conspicuous on a Throne, sublime in State;  
There, for the two contending Knights he sent:  
Armed Cap-a-pe, with Rev'rende 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 fight, not for Hate.  
He wills, not Death should terminate their Strife;  
And Wounds, if Wounds ensue, be short of Life.  
But issues, e'er 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 Turney 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 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 rend:  
Heaven guard a Prince so gracious and so good,  
So just, and yet so provident of Blood!  
This was the gen'ral 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 Tap'ftry tread.  
The King goes midmost, and the Rivals ride  
In equal Rank, and close his either Side.  
Next after these, there road the Royal Wife,  
With Emily, the Cause, and the Reward of Strife.  
The following Cavalcade, by Three and Three,  
Proceed by Titles marshaled in Degree.  
Thus through the Southern Gate they take their Way,  
And at the Lists arrived e'er Prime of Day.  
There, parting from the King, the Chiefs divide,  
And wheeling East and West, before their Many ride,  
Th' 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 overbare,  
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 th' 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 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 Trumpet 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 envellops either Host,  
And all at once the Combatants are lost:  
Darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen,  
Coursers with Courser's justling, 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 grizly Sight.  
Two Troops in fair Array one Moment showed,  
The next, a Field with fallen Bodies strowed:  
Not half the Number in their Seats are found,  
But Men and Steeds lie groveling 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 Falchions cast a gleaming Light:  
Hauberks and Helms are hewed with many a Wound;  
Out spins the streaming Blood, and dies 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 Football to his Foes;  
One with a broken Truncheon deals his Blows.  
This halting, this disabled with his Wound,  
In Trumph 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 bend,  
That 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 Falchions by't, that every Struck  
Pierced to the Quick; and equal Wounds they gave and took.  
Born far asunder by the Tides of Men,  
Like Adamant and Steel they meet again.   

So when a Tiger sucks the Bullock's Blood,  
A familhed 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 by't, 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 struck with all his Might  
Full on the Helmet of th' 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 cloven the Circle of his Golden Crown.  
But Arcite's Men, who now prevailed in Fight,  
Twice Ten at once surround the single Knight:  
O'erpowred 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,  
Bad 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 Lifts 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.  
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, th' 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 it could be called)  
Their Joy with unexpected Sorrow pall'd.  
The Victor Knight had laid his Helm aside,  
Part for his Ease; the greater part for Pride:  
Bareheaded, popularly low he bowed,  
And paid the Salurations 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 Saddlebow 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,  
By Pluto sent, at Saturn's bad Desire;  
The startling Steed was seized with sudden Fright,  
And, bounding, o'er the Pummel 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 cumbrous Arms his Limbs unbound;  
Then lanced a Vein, and watched returning Breath;  
It came, but clogged with Symptoms of his Death.  
The Saddlebow the Noble Parts had pressed,  
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.   

Mean time 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 'em 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 was 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 overpow'red 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.   

Mean while 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 gins to swell:  
All out of frame is every secret Cell,  
Nor can the Good receive, nor Bade expel.  
Those breathing Organs thus within oppressed,  
With Venom soon distend the Sinews of his Breast.  
Nought profits him to save abandoned Life,  
Nor Vomits upward aid, nor downward Laxatife.  
The midmost Region battered, and destroyed,  
When Nature cannot work, th' 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 begun.  
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 faltering 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 choose 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, than 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, than 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 reins 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.  
Not 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 wouldst thou go, with one Consent they cry,  
When thou hadst Gold enough, and Emily!   

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 Humane 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 th' appointed Place we tend;  
The World's an Inn, and Death the Journeys 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,  
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 Howl 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 Aubourn 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 th' Achievements of the Knight.  
The Riders road 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 stayed,  
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 Rightside 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 th' 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 barred:  
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 Serewood was the second Row;  
The third of Greene's, 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 guests.  
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 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 Stories 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 th' 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 risen, and paid  
Becoming reverence to the Royal Maid.  
And first soft Whispers through th' Assembly went:  
With silent Wonder than they watched th' 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  
Th' 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 th' 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 th' appointed Destiny.  
So Men oppressed; when weary of their Breath,  
Throw off the Burden, and subborn their Death.  
Then since those Forms begin, and have their End,  
On some unalter'd 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, th' Etherial 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 th' 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 Pibble 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 gins 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 choose the Time, and choose 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 Deathbed every Friend should run,  
And joy us of our Conquest, early won:  
While the malicious World with envious Tears  
Should grudge our happy End, and wish it Theirs.  
Since than 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 recall 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 th' 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 th' Assent  
Of my free People in full Parliament.  
Long Love to her has born 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 th' 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 passed  
From grateful Souls exact Reward at last:  
Pity is heavens and yours: 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 Afterlife,  
No Day discoloured with Domestic Strife;  
No Jealousy, but mutual Truth believed,  
Secure Repose, and Kindness undeceived.  
Thus Heavn, 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.   
The End of the Third Book.   

TO MY Honoured Kinsman, JOHN DRIDEN, OF CHESTERTON IN THE COUNTY OF HUNTINGDON, ESQUIRE.  
TO My Honoured Kinsman, JOHN DRIDEN, OF CHESTERTON IN THE COUNTY of HUNTINGDON, ESQUIRE.  

HOW Blessed is He, who leads a Country Life,  
Unvexed with anxious Cares, and void of Strife!  
Who studying Peace, and shunning Civil Rage,  
Enjoyed his Youth, and now enjoys his Age:  
All who deserve his Love, he makes his own;  
And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.   

Just, Good, and Wise, contending Neighbours come  
From your Award, to wait their final Doom;  
And, Foes before, return in Friendship home.  
Without their Cost, you terminate the Cause;  
And save th' Expense of long Litigious Laws:  
Where Suits are traversed; and so little won,  
That he who conquers, is but last undone:  
Such are not your Decrees; but so designed,  
The Sanction leaves a lasting Peace behind;  
Like your own Soul, Serene; a Pattern of your Mind.   

Promoting Concord, and composing Strife,  
Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a Wife;  
Where, for a Year, a Month, perhaps a Night,  
Long Penitence succeeds a short Delight:  
Minds are so hardly matched, that even the first,  
Though paired by Heaven, in Paradise, were cursed.  
For Man and Woman, though in one they grow,  
Yet, first or last, return again to Two.  
He to God's Image, She to His was made;  
So, farther from the Fount, the Stream at random strayed.   

How could He stand, when put to double Pain,  
He must a Weaker than himself sustain!  
Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone;  
Two Wrestlers help to pull each other down.   

Not that my Verse would blemish all the Fair;  
But yet, if some be Bad, 'tis Wisdom to beware;  
And better shun the Bait, than struggle in the Snare.  
Thus have you shunned, and shun the married State,  
Trusting as little as you can to Fate.   

No Porter guards the Passage of your Door;  
T' admit the Wealthy, and exclude the Poor:  
For God, who gave the Riches, gave the Heart  
To sanctify the Whole, by giving Part:  
Heaven, who foresaw the Will, the Means has wrought,  
And to the Second Son, a Blessing brought:  
The First-begotten had his Father's Share;  
But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's Heir.   

So may your Stores, and fruitful Fields increase;  
And ever be you blessed, who live to bless.  
As Ceres sowed, where e'er her Chariot flew;  
As Heaven in Deserts reigned the Bread of Dew,  
So free to Many, to Relations most,  
You feed with Manna your own Israel-Host.   

With Crowds attended of your ancient Race,  
You seek the Champian-Sports, or Sylvan-Chace:  
With well-breathed Beagles, you surround the Wood;  
Even then, industrious of the Common Good:  
And often have you brought the wily Fox  
To suffer for the Firstlings of the Flocks;  
Chased even amid the Folds; and made to bleed,  
Like Felons, where they did the murderous Deed.  
This fiery Game, your active Youth maintained;  
Not yet, by Years extinguished, though restrained;  
You season still with Sports your serious Hours;  
For Age but tastes of Pleasures, Youth devours.  
The Hare, in Pastures or in Plains is found,  
Emblem of Humane Life, who runs the Round;  
And, after all his wandering Ways are done,  
His Circle fills, and ends where he begun,  
Just as the Setting meets the Rising Sun.   

Thus Princes ease their Cares: But happier he,  
Who seeks not Pleasure through Necessity,  
Than such as once on slippery Thrones were placed;  
And chase, sigh to think themselves are chased.   

So lived our Sires, e'er Doctors learned to kill,  
And multiplied with theirs, the Weekly Bill:  
The first Physicians by Debauch were made:  
Excess began, and Sloth sustains the Trade.  
Pity the generous Kind their Cares bestow  
To search forbidden Truths; (a Sin to know:)  
To which, if Humane Science could attain,  
The Doom of Death, pronounced by God, were vain.  
In vain the Leech would interpose Delay;  
Fate fastens first, and vindicates the Prey.  
What Help from Arts Endeavours can we have!  
Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save:  
But Maurus sweeps whole Parishes, and Peoples every Grave.  
And no more Mercy to Mankind will use,  
Than when he robbed and murdered Maro's Muse.  
Wouldst thou be soon dispatched, and perish whole?  
Trust Maurus with thy Life, and M—lb— rn with thy Soul.   

By Chase our long-lived Fathers earned their Food;  
Toil strung the Nerves, and purified the Blood:  
But we, their Sons, a pampered Race of Men,  
Are dwindled down to threescore Years and ten.  
Better to hunt in Fields, for Health unbought,  
Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous Draught.  
The Wise, for Cure, on Exercise depend;  
God never made his Work, for Man to mend.   

The Tree of Knowledge, once in Eden placed,  
Was easy found, but was forbid the Taste:  
O, had our Grandsire walked without his Wife,  
He first had sought the better Plant of Life!  
Now, both are lost: Yet, wand'ring in the dark,  
Physicians for the Tree, have found the Bark:  
They, labouring for Relief of Humane Kind,  
With sharpened Sight some Remedies may find;  
Th' Apothecary-Train is wholly blind.  
From Files, a Random- Recipe they take,  
And Many Deaths of One Prescription make.  
Garth, generous as his Muse, prescribes and gives;  
The Shop-man sells; and by Destruction lives:  
Ungrateful Tribe! who, like the Viper's Brood,  
From Medicine issuing, suck their Mother's Blood!  
Let These obey; and let the Learned prescribe;  
That Men may die, without a double Bribe:  
Let Them, but under their Superiors kill;  
When Doctors first have signed the bloody Bill:  
He escapes the best, who Nature to repair,  
Draws Physic from the Fields, in Draughts of Vital Air.   

You hoard not Health, for your own private Use;  
But on the Public spend the rich Produce.  
When, often urged, unwilling to be Great,  
Your Country calls you from your loved Retreat,  
And sends to Senates, charged with Common Care,  
Which none more shuns; and none can better bear.  
Where could they find another formed so fit,  
To poise, with solid Sense, a sprightly Wit!  
Were these both wanting, (as they both abound)  
Where could so firm Integrity be found?   

Wellborn, and Wealthy; wanting no Support,  
You steer betwixt the Country and the Court:  
Nor gratify whate'er the Great desire,  
Nor grudging give, what Public Needs require.  
Part must be left, a Fund when Foes invade;  
And Part employed to roll the Watery Trade:  
Even Canaan's happy Land, when worn with Toil,  
Required a Sabbath-Year, to mend the meager Soil.   

Good Senators, (and such are you,) so give,  
That Kings may be supplied, the People thrive.  
And He, when Want requires, is truly Wise,  
Who slights not Foreign Aids, nor over-buys;  
But, on our Native Strength, in time of need, relies.  
Munster was bought, we boast not the Success;  
Who fights for Gain, for greater, makes his Peace.   

Our Foes, compelled by Need, have Peace embraced:  
The Peace both Parties want, is like to last:  
Which, if secure, securely we may trade;  
Or, not secure, should never have been made.  
Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,  
The Sea is ours, and that defends the Land.  
Be, then, the Naval Stores the Nation's Care,  
New Ships to build, and battered to repair.   

Observe the War, in every Annual Course;  
What has been done, was done with British Force:  
Namur Subdued, is England's Palm alone;  
The Rest Besieged; but we Constrained the Town:  
We saw th' Event that followed our Success;  
France, though pretending Arms, pursued the Peace;  
Obliged, by one sole Treaty, to restore  
What Twenty Years of War had won before.  
Enough for Europe has our Albion fought:  
Let us enjoy the Peace our Blood has bought.  
When once the Persian King was put to Flight,  
The weary Macedons refused to fight:  
Themselves their own Mortality confessed;  
And left the Son of Jove, to quarrel for the rest.   

Even Victors are by Victories undone;  
Thus Hannibal, with Foreign Laurels won,  
To Carthage was recalled, too late to keep his own.  
While sore of Battle, while our Wounds are green,  
Why should we tempt the doubtful Dye again?  
In Wars renewed, uncertain of Success,  
Sure of a Share, as Umpires of the Peace.   

A Patriot, both the King and Country serves;  
Prerogative, and Privilege preserves:  
Of Each, our Laws the certain Limit show;  
One must not ebb, nor t' other overflow:  
Betwixt the Prince and Parliament we stand;  
The Barriers of the State on either Hand:  
May neither overflow, for than they drown the Land.  
When both are full, they feed our blessed Abode;  
Like those, that watered once, the Paradise of God.   

Some Overpoife of Sway, by Turns they share;  
In Peace the People, and the Prince in War:  
Consuls of moderate Power in Calms were made;  
When the Gauls came, one sole Dictator swayed.   

Patriots, in Peace, assert the People's Right;  
With noble Stubbornness resisting Might:  
No Lawless Mandates from the Court receive,  
Nor lend by Force; but in a Body give.  
Such was your generous Grandsire; free to grant  
In Parliaments, that weighed their Prince's Want:  
But so tenacious of the Common Cause,  
As not to lend the King against his Laws.  
And, in a loathsome Dungeon doomed to lie,  
In Bonds retained his Birthright Liberty,  
And shamed Oppression, till it set him free.   

O true Descendent of a Patriot Line,  
Who, while thou sharest their Lustre, lendest 'em thine,  
Vouchsafe this Picture of thy Soul to see;  
'Tis so far Good, as it resembles thee:  
The Beauties to th' Original I own;  
Which, when I miss, my own Defects I show:  
Nor think the Kindred-Muses thy Disgrace;  
A Poet is not born in every Race.  
Two of a House, few Ages can afford;  
One to perform, another to record.  
Praiseworthy Actions are by thee embraced;  
And 'tis my Praise, to make thy Praises last.  
For even when Death dissolves our Humane Frame,  
The Soul returns to Heaven, from whence it came;  
Earth keeps the Body, Verse preserves the Fame.    

MELEAGER AND ATALANTA, Out of the Eighth Book OF OVID'S Metamorphosis.  
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA, Out of the Eighth Book of OVID's METAMORPHOSIS.  
CONNEXION to the Former STORY.  
Ovid, having told how Theseus had freed Athens from the Tribute of Children, (which was imposed on them by Minos' King of Creta) by killing the Minotaur, here makes a Digression to the Story of Meleager and Atalanta, which is one of the most inartificial Connexion's in all the Metamorphoses: For he only says, that Theseus obtained such Honour from that Combat, that all Greece had recourse to him in their Necessities; and, amongst others, Calydon, though the Hero of that Country, Prince Meleager, was then living.  

FRom him, the Caledonians sought Relief;  
Tho' valiant Meleagrus was their Chief.  
The Cause, a Boar, who ravaged far and near:  
Of Cynthia's Wrath, th' avenging Minister.  
For Oeneus with Autumnal Plenty blessed,  
By Gifts to Heaven his Gratitude expressed:  
Culled Sheafs, to Ceres; to Lyaeus, Wine;  
To Pan, and Pales, offered Sheep and Kine;  
And Fat of Olives, to Minerva's Shrine.  
Beginning from the Rural Gods, his Hand  
Was liberal to the Powers of high Command:  
Each Deity in every Kind was blessed,  
Till at Diana's Fane th'invidious Honour ceased.   

Wrath touches even the Gods; the Queen of Night  
Fired with Disdain, and jealous of her Right,  
Unhonoured though I am, at least, said she,  
Not unrevenged that impious Act shall be.  
Swift as the Word, she sped the Boar away,  
With Charge on those devoted Fields to prey.  
No larger Bulls th' Egyptian Pastures feed,  
And none so large Sicilian Meadows breed:  
His Eyeballs glare with Fire suffused with Blood;  
His Neck shoots up a thick-set thorny Wood;  
His bristled Back a Trench impaled appears,  
And stands erected, like a Field of Spears.  
Froth fills his Chaps, he sends a grunting Sound,  
And part he churns, and part befoams the Ground.  
For Tusks with Indian Elephants he strove,  
And Jove's own Thunder from his Mouth he drove.  
He burns the Leaves; the scorching Blast invades  
The tender Corn, and shrivels up the Blades:  
Or suffering not their yellow Beards to rear,  
He tramples down the Spikes, and intercepts the Year.  
In vain the Barns expect their promised Load,  
Nor Barns at home, nor Reeks are heaped abroad:  
In vain the Hinds the Threshing-Floor prepare,  
And exercise their Flails in empty Air.  
With Olives ever-green the Ground is strowed,  
And Grapes ungathered shed their generous Blood.  
Amid the Fold he rages, nor the Sheep  
Their Shepherds, nor the Grooms their Bulls can keep.   

From Fields to Walls the frighted Rabble run,  
Nor think themselves secure within the Town:  
Till Meleagros, and his chosen Crew,  
Contemn the Danger, and the Praise pursue.  
Fair Leda's Twins (in time to Stars decreed)  
One fought on Foot, one curbed the fiery Steed;  
Then issued forth famed Jason after These,  
Who manned the foremost Ship that sailed the Seas;  
Then Theseus joined with bold Pirithous came;  
A single Concord in a double Name:  
The Thestian Sons, Idas who swiftly ran,  
And Ceneus, once a Woman, now a Man.  
Lynceus, with eagle's Eyes, and Lion's Heart;  
Leucippus, with his never-erring Dart;  
Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamonius,  
Echion, Lelex, and Eurytion,  
Achilles' Father, and Great Phocus Son;  
Dryas the Fierce, and Hippasus the Strong;  
With twice old jolas', and Nestor then but young.  
Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold;  
Mopsus the Sage, who future Things foretold;  
And t' other Seer, yet by his Wife 
* Amphiaraus.  unfold.  
A thousand others of immortal Fame;  
Among the rest, fair Atalanta came,  
Grace of the Woods: A Diamond Buckle bound  
Her Vest behind, that else had flowed upon the Ground,  
And showed her buskined Legs; her Head was bare,  
But for her Native Ornament of Hair;  
Which in a simple Knot was tied above,  
Sweet Negligence! unheeded Bait of Love!  
Her sounding Quiver, on her Shoulder tied,  
One Hand a Dart, and one a Bow supplied.  
Such was her Face, as in a Nymph displayed  
A fair fierce Boy, or in a Boy betrayed  
The blushing Beauties of a modest Maid.  
The Caledonian Chief at once the Dame  
Beheld, at once his Heart received the Flame,  
With heavens averse. O happy Youth, he cried,  
For whom thy Fates reserve so fair a Bride!  
He sighed, and had no leisure more to say;  
His Honour called his Eyes another way,  
And forced him to pursue the now neglected Prey.   

There stood a Forest on a Mountain's Brow,  
Which overlooked the shaded Plains below.  
No sounding Axe presumed those Trees to by't;  
Coeval with the World, a venerable Sight.  
The Heroes there arrived, some spread around  
The Toils; some search the Footsteps on the Ground:  
Some from the Chains the faithful Dogs unbound.  
Of Action eager, and intent in Thought,  
The Chiefs their honourable Danger sought:  
A Valley stood below; the common Drain  
Of Waters from above, and falling Rain:  
The Bottom was a moist and marshy Ground,  
Whose Edges were with bending Oziers' crowned:  
The knotty Bulrush next in Order stood,  
And all within of Reeds a trembling Wood   

From hence the Boar was roused, and sprung amain  
Like Lightning sudden, on the Warriour-Train;  
Beats down the Trees before him, shakes the Ground,  
The Forest echoes to the crackling Sound;  
Shout the fierce Youth, and Clamours ring around.  
All stood with their protended Spears prepared,  
With broad Steel Heads, the brandished Weapons glared.  
The Beast impetuous with his Tusks aside  
Deals glancing Wounds; the fearful Dogs divide:  
All spend their Mouth aloof, but none abide.  
Echion threw the first, but missed his Mark,  
And stuck his Boar-spear on a Maples Bark.  
Then Fason: and his Javelin seemed to take,  
But failed with over-force, and whized above his Back.  
Mopsus was next; but e'er he threw, addressed  
To Phoebus, thus: O Patron, help thy Priest:  
If I adore, and ever have adored  
Thy Power Divine, thy present Aid afford;  
That I may reach the Beast. The God allowed  
His Prayer, and smiling, gave him what he could:  
He reached the Savage, but no Blood he drew,  
Diana, unarmed the Javelin as it flew.   

This chafed the Boar, his Nostrils Flames expire,  
And his red Eyeballs roll with living Fire.  
Whirled from a Sling, or from an Engine thrown,  
Amid the Foes, so flies a mighty Stone,  
As flew the Beast: The Left Wing put to flight,  
The Chiefs o'erborn, he rushes on the Right.  
Empalamos and Pelagon he laid  
In Dust, and next to Death, but for their Fellows Aid.  
Onesimus fared worse, prepared to fly,  
The fatal Fang drove deep within his Thigh,  
And cut the Nerves: The Nerves no more sustain  
The Bulk; the Bulk unproped, falls headlong on the Plain.   

Nestor had failed the Fall of Troy to see,  
But leaning on his Lance, he vaulted on a Tree;  
Then gathering up his Feet, looked down with Fear,  
And thought his monstrous Foe was still too near.  
Against a Stump his Tusk the Monster grinds,  
And in the sharpened Edge new Vigour finds;  
Then, trusting to his Arms, young Othrys found,  
And ranched his Hips with one continued Wound.  
Now Leda's Twins, the future Stars, appear;  
White were their Habits, white their Horses were:  
Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw,  
Their trembling Lances brandished at the Foe:  
Nor had they missed; but he to Thickets fled,  
Concealed from aiming Spears, not pervious to the Steed.  
But Telamonius rushed in, and happened to meet  
A rising Root, that held his fastened Feet;  
So down he fell; whom, sprawling on the Ground,  
His Brother from the Wooden Gyves unbound.   

Mean time the Virgin-Huntress was not slow  
T' expel the Shaft from her contracted Bow:  
Beneath his Ear the fastened Arrow stood,  
And from the Wound appeared the trickling Blood.  
She blushed for Joy: But Meleagros raised  
His voice with loud Applause, and the fair Archer praised.  
He was the first to see, and first to show  
His Friends the Marks of the successful Blow.  
Nor shall thy Valour want the Praises due,  
He said; a virtuous Envy seized the Crew.  
They shout; the Shouting animates their Hearts,  
And all at once employ their thronging Darts:  
But out of Order thrown, in Air they join;  
And Multitude makes frustrate the Design.  
With both his Hands the proud Anceus takes,  
And flourishes his double-biting Axe:  
Then forward to his Fate, he took a Stride  
Before the rest, and to his Fellows cried,  
Give place, and mark the difference, if you can,  
Between a Woman Warrior, and a Man;  
The Boar is dommed; nor though Diana lend  
Her Aid, Diana can her Beast defend.  
Thus boasted he; then stretched, on Tiptoe stood,  
Secure to make his empty Promise good.  
But the more wary Beast prevents the Blow,  
And upward rips the Groin of his audacious Foe.  
Ancaeus falls; his Bowels from the Wound  
Rush out, and clottered Blood distains the Ground.   

Pirithous, no small Portion of the War  
Pressed on, and shook his Lance: To whom from far  
Thus Theseus cried; O stay, my better Part,  
My more than Mistress; of my Heart, the Heart.  
The Strong may fight aloof; Anceus tried  
His Force too near, and by presuming died:  
He said, and while he spoke his Javelin threw,  
Hissing in Air th' unerring Weapon flew;  
But on an Arm of Oak, that stood betwixt  
The Marksman and the Mark, his Launce he fixed.   

Once more bold Jason threw, but failed to wound  
The Boar, and slew an undeserving Hound;  
And through the Dog the Dart was nailed to Ground.   

Two Spears from Meleager's Hand were sent,  
With equal Force, but various in th' Event:  
The first was fixed in Earth, the second stood  
On the Boars bristled Back, and deeply drank his Blood.  
Now while the tortured Savage turns around,  
And flings about his Foam, impatient of the Wound,  
The Wounds great Author close at Hand; provokes  
His Rage, and plies him with redoubled Strokes;  
Wheels as he wheels; and with his pointed Dart  
Explores the nearest Passage to his Heart.  
Quick, and more quick he spins in giddy Gires,  
Then falls, and in much Foam his Soul expires.  
This Act with Shouts Heaven high the friendly Band  
Applaud, and strain in theirs the Victor Hand.  
Then all approach the Slain with vast Surprise,  
Admire on what a Breadth of Earth he lies,  
And scarce secure, reach out their Spears afar,  
And blood their Points, to prove their Partnership of War.   

But he, the conquering Chief, his Foot impressed  
On the strong Neck of that destructive Beast;  
And gazing on the Nymph with ardent Eyes,  
Accept, said he, fair Nonacrine, my Prize,  
And, though inferior, suffer me to join  
My Labours, and my Part of Praise with thine:  
At this presents her with the Tusky Head  
And Chine, with rising Bristles roughly spread.  
Glad, she received the Gift; and seemed to take  
With double Pleasure, for the Giver's sake.  
The rest were seized with sullen Discontent,  
And a deaf Murmur through the Squadron went:  
All envied; but the Thestyan Brethren showed  
The least Respect, and thus they vent their Spleen aloud:  
Lay down those honoured Spoils, nor think to share,  
Weak Woman as thou art, the Prize of War:  
Ours is the Title, thine a foreign Claim,  
Since Meleagros from our Lineage came.  
Trust not thy Beauty; but restore the Prize,  
Which he, besotted on that Face and Eyes,  
Would rend from us: At this, inflamed with Spite,  
From her they snatch the Gift, from him the Givers Right.   

But soon th' impatient Prince his Falchion drew,  
And cried, Ye Robbers of another's Due,  
Now learn the Difference, at your proper Cost,  
Betwixt true Valour, and an empty Boast.  
At this advanced, and sudden as the Word,  
In proud Ploxippus Bosom plunged the Sword:  
Toxeus amazed, and with Amazement slow,  
Or to revenge, or ward the coming Blow,  
Stood doubting; and, while doubting thus he stood,  
Received the Steel bathed in his Brother's Blood.   

Pleased with the first, unknown the second News,  
Althaea, to the Temples, pays their Deuce,  
For her Son's Conquest; when at length appear  
Her grisly Brethren stretched upon the Bier:  
Pale at the sudden Sight, she changed her Cheer,  
And with her Cheer her Robes; but hearing tell  
The Cause, the Manner, and by whom they fell,  
'Twas Grief no more, or Grief and Rage were one  
Within her Soul; at last 'twas Rage alone;  
Which burning upwards in succession dries  
The Tears that stood considering in her Eyes.   

There lay a Log unlighted on the Hearth:  
When she was labouring in the Throws of Birth  
For th' unborn Chief, the Fatal Sisters came,  
And raised it up, and tossed it on the Flame:  
Then on the Rock a scanty Measure place  
Of Vital Flax, and turned the Wheel apace;  
And turning sung, To this red Brand and thee,  
O newborn Babe, we give an equal Destiny:  
So vanished out of View. The frighted Dame  
Sprung hasty from her Bed, and quenched the Flame:  
The Log in secret locked, she kept with Care,  
And that, while thus preserved, preserved her Heir.  
This Brand she now produced; and first she strews  
The Hearth with Heaps of Chips, and after blows;  
Thrice heaved her Hand, and heaved, she thrice repressed:  
The Sister and the Mother long contest  
Two doubtful Titles in one tender Breast:  
And now her Eyes and Cheeks with Fury glow,  
Now pale her Cheeks, her Eyes with Pity flow:  
Now lowering Looks presage approaching Storms,  
And now prevailing Love her Face reforms:  
Resolved, she doubts again; the Tears she dried  
With burning Rage, are by new Tears supplied;  
And as a Ship, which Winds and Waves assail,  
Now with the Current drives, now with the Gale,  
Both opposite, and neither long prevail:  
She feels a double Force, by Turns obeys  
Th'imperious Tempest, and th' impetuous Seas:  
So fares Althoea's Mind; she first relents  
With Pity, of that Pity than reputes:  
Sister and Mother long the Scales divide,  
But the Beam nodded on the Sister's side.  
Sometimes she softly sighed, then roared aloud;  
But Sighs were stifled in the Cries of Blood.   

The pious, impious Wretch at length decreed,  
To please her Brother's Ghost, her Son should bleed:  
And when the Funeral Flames began to rise,  
Receive, she said, a Sister's Sacrifice;  
A Mother's Bowels burn: High in her Hand  
Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal Brand;  
Then thrice before the kindled Pyle she bowed,  
And the three Furies thrice invoked aloud:  
Come, come, revenging Sisters, come and view  
A Sister paying her dead Brothers Due:  
A Crime I punish, and a Crime commit;  
But Blood for Blood, and Death for Death is fit:  
Great Crimes must be with greater Crimes repaid,  
And second Funerals on the former laid.  
Let the whole Household in one Ruin fall,  
And may Diana's Curse overtake us all.  
Shall Fate to happy Oeneus still allow  
One Son, while Thestius stands deprived of two?  
Better three lost, than one unpunished go.  
Take then, dear Ghosts, (while yet admitted new  
In Hell you wait my Duty) take your Due:  
A costly Offering on your Tomb is laid,  
When with my Blood the Price of yours is paid.   

Ah! Whither am I hurried? Ah! forgive,  
Ye Shades, and let your Sister's Issue live:  
A Mother cannot give him Death, though he  
Deserves it, he deserves it not from me.   

Then shall th' unpunished Wretch insult the Slain,  
Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign?  
While you, thin Shades, the Sport of Winds, are tossed  
O'er dreary Plains, or tread the burning Coast.  
I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done;  
Perish this impious, this detested Son:  
Perish his Sire, and perish I withal;  
And let the Houses Heir, and the hoped Kingdom fall.   

Where is the Mother fled, her pious Love,  
And where the Pains with which ten Months I strove!  
Ah! hadst thou died, my Son, in Infant-years,  
Thy little Hearse had been bedewed with Tears.   

Thou liv'st by me; to me thy Breath resign;  
Mine is the Merit, the Demerit thine.  
Thy Life by double Title I require;  
Once given at Birth, and once preserved from Fire:  
One Murder pay, or add one Murder more,  
And me to them who fell by thee restore.   

I would, but cannot: My Son's Image stands  
Before my Sight; and now their angry Hands  
My Brothers hold, and Vengeance these exact,  
This pleads Compassion, and reputes the Fact.   

He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his Doom:  
My Brothers, though unjustly, shall overcome.  
But having paid their injured Ghosts their Due,  
My Son requires my Death, and mine shall his pursue.   

At this, for the last time she lifts her Hand,  
Averts her Eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the Brand.  
The Brand, amid the flaming Fuel thrown,  
Or drew, or seemed to draw a dying Groan:  
The Fires themselves but faintly licked their Prey,  
Then loathed their impious Food, and would have shrunk away.   

Just than the Hero cast a doleful Cry,  
And in those absent Flames began to fry:  
The blind Contagion raged within his Veins;  
But he with manly Patience bore his Pains:  
He feared not Fate, but only grieved to die  
Without an honest Wound, and by a Death so dry.  
Happy Ancaeus, thrice aloud he cried,  
With what becoming Fate in Arms he died!  
Then called his Brothers, Sisters, Sire, around,  
And her to whom his Nuptial Vows were bound;  
Perhaps his Mother; a long Sigh he drew,  
And his Voice failing, took his last Adieu:  
For as the Flames augment, and as they stay  
At their full Height, then languish to decay,  
They rise, and sink by Fits; at last they soar  
In one bright Blaze, and then descend no more:  
Just so his inward Heats at height, impair,  
Till the last burning Breath shoots out the Soul in Air.   

Now lofty Calydon in Ruins lies;  
All Ages, all Degrees unsluice their Eyes;  
And Heaven & Earth resound with Murmurs, Groans, & Cries.  
Matrons and Maidens beat their Breasts, and tear  
Their Habits, and root up their scattered Hair:  
The wretched Father, Father now no more,  
With Sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the Floor,  
Deforms his hoary Locks with Dust obscene,  
And curses Age, and joaths a Life prolonged with Pain.  
By Steel her stubborn Soul his Mother freed,  
And punished on herself her impious Deed.   

Had I a hundred Tongues, a Wit so large  
As could their hundred Offices discharge;  
Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestowed  
In all the Streams inspiring all the God;  
Those Tongues, that Wit, those Streams, that God, in vain  
Would offer to describe his Sister's pain:  
They beat their Breasts with many a bruising Blow,  
Till they turned livid, and corrupt the Snow.  
The Corpse they cherish, while the Corpse remains,  
And exercise and rub with fruitless Pains;  
And when to Funeral Flames 'tis born away,  
They kiss the Bed on which the Body lay:  
And when those Funeral Flames no longer burn,  
(The Dust composed within a pious Urn)  
Even in that Urn their Brother they confess,  
And hug it in their Arms, and to their Bosoms press.   

His Tomb is raised; then, stretched along the Ground,  
Those living Monuments his Tomb surround:  
Even to his Name, inscribed, their Tears they pay,  
Till Tears and Kisses wear his Name away.   

But Cynthia now had all her Fury spent,  
Not with less Ruin than a Race, content:  
Excepting Gorge, perished all the Seed,  
And 
* Dejanira.  Her whom Heaven for Hercules decreed.  
Satiate at last, no longer she pursued  
The weeping Sisters; but with Wings endued,  
And Horny Beaks, and sent to flit in Air;  
Who yearly round the Tomb in Feathered Flocks repair.    

SIGISMONDA AND GUISCARDO, FROM BOCCACE.  
SIGISMONDA AND GUISCARDO, FROM BOCCACE.  

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 unsupplyed her only Want;  
And she, betwixt her Modesty and Pride,  
Her Wishes, which she could not help, would hid.   

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 penned, 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.  
Th' 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 enclosed 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 Laymens' Powed 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 Expense,  
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.  
It's Outlet ended in a Broke overgrown  
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 th' Apartment of the Royal Dame,  
The Cavern only to her Father known,  
By him was to his Darling-Daughter shown.   

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 th' 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,  
Th' 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:  
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, th' 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 th' 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 bend 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 fond loved, and whose Delight  
Was placed in his fair Daughters 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 th' 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 screen,  
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 enclosed 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 others Arms, embraced;  
Rush to the conscious Bed, a mutual Freight,  
And heedless press it with their wont Weight.   

The sudden Bound awaked the sleeping Sire,  
And showed 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 th' Attempt.  
Th' 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 risen 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 methodise Revenge: To Death he grieved;  
And, but he saw the Crime, had scarce believed.  
Th' Appointment for th' 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 farmost 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 Sov'reigns 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 th' Accuser, and th' Offence to him  
Who had both Power and Will t'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 Daughters Rest;  
Who long expecting lay, for Bliss prepared,  
Listening for Noise, and grieved that none she heard;  
Oft risen, 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 Parent's 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 groveling Infect 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 choose 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.  
Hadst 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,  
Shows 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 call 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 bend 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 control,  
New strung, and stiffer bend 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 th' Offence:  
Then with dry Eyes, and with an open Look,  
She met his Glance midway, 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 show 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 emed, (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-Woman-kind,  
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 gav'st 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 needest thou by thy Daughter to be told,  
Though now thy sprightly 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 fond kind,  
Such Seed he sows, such Harvest shall he find.  
Blame then thyself, as Reason's Law requires,  
(Since Nature gave, and thou soment'st my Fires;)  
If still those Apperites continue strong,  
Thou mayst 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 inur'd?  
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 hid;  
For which, a Woman's Wit an casre 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 delib'rate 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 Judgement 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 th' 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 heavens 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,  
Th' 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 Judgement 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 Humane 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 Prince's 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,  
T' enrich a Pimp, or raise a Parasite;  
Theirs is the Toil; and he who well has served.  
His Country, has his Countries Wealth deserved.   

Even mighty Monarches 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 doting, and decrepit Age,  
Thy Soul, a Stranger in thy Youth to Rage,  
Gins 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, th' 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 wreak 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 over,  
Fit only to maintain Despotic Power:  
Dangerous to Freedom, and desired alone  
By Kings, who seek an Arbitrary Throne:  
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 inur'd to Blood, and exercised in iii.   

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  
Enclosed; 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 Humane Kind.   

E'er this the Royal Dame, who well had weighed  
The Consequence of what her Sire had said,  
Fixed on her Fate, against th' 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 Exequys,  
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 th' 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 th' 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 medicinable 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 Govert 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 th' Occasion, feared th' 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 th' 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 Daughters 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:  
wherever 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 th' 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.    

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON, Out of the Eighth Book OF OVID'S Metamorphoses.  
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON, Out of the Eighth Book of OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  
The Author pursuing the Deeds of Theseus; relates how He, with his Friend Pirithous, were invited by Achelous, the River-God, to stay with him, till his Waters were abated. Achelous entertains them with a Relation of his own Love to Perimele, who was changed into an Island by Neptune, at his Request. Pirithous, being an Atheist, derides the Legend, and denies the Power of the Gods, to work that Miracle. Lelex, another Companion of Theseus, to constrm the Story of Achelous, relates another Metamorphosis of Baucis and Philemon, into Trees; of which he was partly an Eye-witness.  

THus Achelous ends: His Audience hear,  
With admiration, and admiring, fear  
The Powers of Heaven; except Ixion's Son,  
Who laughed at all the Gods, believed in none:  
He shook his impious Head, and thus replies,  
These Legends are no more than pious Lies:  
You attribute too much to Heavenly Sway,  
To think they give us Forms, and take away.   

The rest of better Minds, their Sense declared  
Against this Doctrine, and with Horror heard.  
Then Lelex risen, an old experienced Man,  
And thus with sober Gravity began;  
heavens Power is Infinite: Earth, Air, and Sea,  
The Manufacture Mass, the making Power obey:  
By Proof to clear your Doubt; In Phrygian Ground  
Two neighbouring Trees, with Walls encompassed round,  
Stand on a moderate Rise, with wonder shown,  
One a hard Oak, a softer Linden one:  
I saw the Place and them, by Pittheus sent  
To Phrygian Realms, my Grandsire's Government.  
Not far from thence is seen a Lake, the Haunt  
Of Coats, and of the fishing Cormorant:  
Here Jove with Hermes came; but in Disguise  
Of mortal Men concealed their Deities;  
One laid aside his Thunder, one his Rod;  
And many toilsome Steps together trod:  
For Harbour at a thousand Doors they knocked,  
Not one of all the thousand but was locked.  
At last an hospitable House they found,  
A homely Shed, the Roof, not far from Ground,  
Was thatched with Reeds, and Straw together bound.  
There Baucis and Philemon lived, and there  
Had lived long married, and a happy Pair:  
Now old in Love, though little was their Store,  
Inur'd to Want, their Poverty they bore,  
Nor aimed at Wealth, professing to be poor.  
For Master or for Servant here to call,  
Was all alike, where only Two were All.  
Command was none, where equal Love was paid,  
Or rather both commanded, both obeyed.   

From lofty Roofs the Gods repulsed before,  
Now stooping, entered through the little Door:  
The Man (their hearty Welcome first expressed)  
A common Settle drew for either Guest,  
Inviting each his weary Limbs to rest.  
But e'er they sat, officious Baucis lays  
Two Cushions stuffed with Straw, the Seat to raise;  
Course, but the best she had; then rakes the Load  
Of Ashes from the Hearth, and spreads abroad  
The living Coals; and, lest they should expire,  
With Leaves and Barks she feeds her Infant-fire:  
It smokes; and then with trembling Breath she blows,  
Till in a cheerful Blaze the Flames arose.  
With Brush-wood and with Chips she strengthens these,  
And adds at last the Boughs of rotten Trees.  
The Fire thus formed, she sets the Kettle on,  
(Like burnished Gold the little Seether shone)  
Next took the Coleworts which her Husband got  
From his own Ground, (a small well-watered Spot;)  
She stripped the Stalks of all their Leaves; the best  
She culled, and then with handy-care she dressed.  
High o'er the Hearth a Chine of Bacon hung;  
Good old Philemon seized it with a Prong,  
And from the sooty Rafter drew it down,  
Then cut a Slice, but scarce enough for one;  
Yet a large Portion of a little Store,  
Which for their Sakes alone he wished were more.  
This in the Pot he plunged without delay,  
To tame the Flesh, and drain the Salt away.  
The Time between, before the Fire they sat,  
And shortened the Delay by pleasing Chat.   

A Beam there was, on which a Beechen Pail  
Hung by the Handle, on a driven Nail:  
This filled with Water, gently warmed, they set  
Before their Guests; in this they bathed their Feet,  
And after with clean Towels dried their Sweat:  
This done, the Host produced the genial Bed,  
Sallow the Feet, the Borders, and the Sted,  
Which with no costly Coverlet they spread;  
But course old Garments, yet such Robes as these  
They laid alone, at Feasts, on Holydays.  
The good old Huswife tucking up her Gown,  
The Table sets; th' invited Gods lie down.  
The Trivet-Table of a Foot was lame,  
A Blot which prudent Baucis overcame,  
Who thrusts beneath the limping Leg, a Sherd,  
So was the mended Board exactly reared:  
Then rubbed it over with newly-gathered Mint,  
A wholesome Herb, that breathed a grateful Scent.  
Pallas began the Feast, where first was seen  
The party coloured Olive, Black, and Green:  
Autumnal Cornels next in order served,  
In Lees of Wine well pickled, and preserved.  
A Garden-Sallad was the third Supply,  
Of Endive, Radishes, and Succory:  
Then Curds and Cream, the Flower of Country-Fare,  
And new-laid Eggs, which Baucis busy Care  
Turned by a gentle Fire, and roasted rear.  
All these in Earthen Ware were served to Board;  
And next in place, an Farthen Pitcher stored,  
With Liquor of the best the Cottage could afford.  
This was the Table's Ornament, and Pride,  
With Figures wrought: Like Pages at his Side  
Stood Beechen Bowls; and these were shining clean,  
Varnished with Wax without, and lined within.  
By this the boiling Kettle had prepared,  
And to the Table sent the smoking Lard;  
On which with eager Appetite they dine,  
A savoury Bit, that served to relish Wine:  
The Wine itself was suiting to the rest,  
Still working in the Must, and lately pressed,  
The Second Course succeeds like that before,  
Plums, Apples, Nuts, and of their Wintry Store,  
Dry Figs, and Grapes, and wrinkled Dates were set  
In Canisters, t' enlarge the little Treat:  
All these a Milk-white Honeycomb surround,  
Which in the midst the Country-Banquet crowned:  
But the kind Hosts their Entertainment grace  
With hearty Welcome, and an open Face:  
In all they did, you might discern with ease,  
A willing Mind, and a Desire to please.   

Mean time the Beechen Bowls went round, and still  
Though often emptied, were observed to fill;  
Filled without Hands, and of their own accord  
Ran without Feet, and danced about the Board.  
Devotion seized the Pair, to see the Feast  
With Wine, and of no common Grape increased;  
And up they held their Hands, and fell to Prayer,  
Excusing as they could, their Country Far.   

One Goose they had, ('twas all they could allow)  
A wakeful Cent'ry, and on Duty now,  
Whom to the Gods for Sacrifice they vow:  
Her, with malicious Zeal, the Couple viewed;  
She ran for Life, and limping they pursued:  
Full well the Fowl perceived their bad intent,  
And would not make her Master's Compliment;  
But persecuted, to the Powers she flies,  
And close between the Legs of Jove she lies:  
He with a gracious Ear the Suppliant heard,  
And saved her Life; than what he was declared,  
And owned the God. The Neighbourhood, said he,  
Shall justly perish for Impiety:  
You stand alone exempted; but obey  
With speed, and follow where we lead the way:  
Leave these accursed; and to the Mountain's Height  
Ascend; nor once look backward in your Flight.   

They haste, and what their tardy Feet denied,  
The trusty Staff (their better Leg) supplied.  
An Arrows Flight they wanted to the Top,  
And there secure, but spent with Travel, stop;  
Then turn their now no more forbidden Eyes;  
Lost in a Lake the floated Level lies:  
A Watery Desert covers all the Plains,  
Their Cot alone, as in an Isle, remains:  
Wondering with weeping Eyes, while they deplore  
Their Neighbour's Fate, and Country now no more,  
Their little Shed, scarce large enough for Two,  
Seems, from the Ground increased, in Height and Bulk to grow.  
A stately Temple shoots within the Skies,  
The Crotches of their Got in Columns rise:  
The Pavement polished Marble they behold,  
The Gates with Sculpture graced, the Spires and Tiles of Gold.   

Then thus the Sire of Gods, with Look serene,  
Speak thy Desire, thou only Just of Men;  
And thou, O Woman, only worthy found  
To be with such a Man in Marriage bound.   

A while they whisper; then to Jove addressed,  
Philemon thus prefers their joint Request.  
We crave to serve before your sacred Shrine,  
And offer at your Altars Rites Divine:  
And since not any Action of our Life  
Has been polluted with Domestic Strife,  
We beg one Hour of Death; that neither she  
With Widow's Tears may live to bury me,  
Nor weeping I, with withered Arms may bear  
My breathless Baucis to the Sepulchre.   

The Godheads sign their Suit. They run their Race  
In the same Tenor all th' appointed Space:  
Then, when their Hour was come, while they relate  
These past Adventures at the Temple-gate,  
Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen  
Sprouting with sudden Leaves of sprightly Green:  
Old Baucis looked where old Philemon stood,  
And saw his lengthened Arms a sprouting Wood:  
New Roots their fastened Feet begin to bind,  
Their Bodies stiffen in a rising Rind:  
Then e'er the Bark above their Shoulders grew,  
They give and take at once their last Adieu:  
At once, Farewell, O faithful Spouse, they said;  
At once th' encroaching Rinds their closing Lips invade.  
Even yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows  
A spreading Oak, that near a Linden grows;  
The Neighbourhood confirm the Prodigy,  
Grave Men, not vain of Tongue, or like to lie.  
I saw myself the Garlands on their Boughs,  
And Tablets hung for Gifts of granted Vows;  
And offering fresher up, with pious Prayer,  
The Good, said I, are God's peculiar Care,  
And such as honour Heaven, shall heavenly Honour share.    

PYGMALION AND THE STATUE, Out of the Tenth Book OF OVID'S Metamorphoses.  
PYGMALION AND THE STATUE, Out of the Tenth Book of OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.  
The Propaetides, for their impudent Behaviour, being turned into Stone by Venus, Pygmalion, Prince of Cyprus, detested all Women for their Sake, and resolved never to marry: He falls in love with a Statue of his own making, which is changed into a Maid, whom he marries. One of his Descendants is Cinyras, the Father of Myrrah; the Daughter incestuously loves her own Father; for which she is changed into the Tree which bears her Name. These two Stories immediately follow each other, and are admirably well connected.  

PYgmalion loathing their lascivious Life,  
Abhorred all Womankind, but most a Wife:  
So single chose to live, and shunned to wed,  
Well pleased to want a Consort of his Bed.  
Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,  
In Sculpture exercised his happy Skill;  
And carved in Ivory such a Maid, so fair,  
As Nature could not with his Art compare,  
Were she to work; but in her own Defence  
Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.  
Pleased with his Idol, he commends, admires,  
Adores; and last, the Thing adored, desires.  
A very Virgin in her Face was seen,  
And had she moved, a living Maid had been:  
One would have thought she could have stirred; but strove  
With Modesty, and was ashamed to move.  
Art hid with Art, so well performed the Cheat,  
It caught the Carver with his own Deceit:  
He knows 'tis Madness, yet he must adore;  
And still the more he knows it, loves the more:  
The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,  
Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.  
Fired with this Thought, at once he strained the Breast,  
And on the Lips a burning Kiss impressed.  
'Tis true, the hardened Breast resists the Gripe,  
And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe:  
But when, retiring back, he looked again,  
To think it Ivory, was a Thought too mean:  
So would believe she kissed, and courting more,  
Again embraced her naked Body over;  
And straining hard the Statue, was afraid  
His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid:  
Explored her, Limb by Limb, and feared to find  
So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind:  
With Flattery now, he seeks her Mind to move,  
And now with Gifts, (the powerful Bribes of Love:)  
He furnishes her Closet first; and fills  
The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells;  
Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conches he drew,  
And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue:  
And Parrots, imitating Humane Tongue,  
And Singing-birds in Silver Cages hung;  
And every fragrant Flower, and odorous Green,  
Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between:  
Rich, fashionable Robes her Person deck,  
Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her Neck:  
Her tapered Fingers too with Rings are graced,  
And an embroidered Zone surrounds her slender Waste.  
Thus like a Queen arrayed, so richly dressed,  
Beauteous she showed, but naked showed the best.  
Then, from the Floor, he raised a Royal Bed,  
With coverings of Sydonian Purple spread:  
The Solemn Rites performed, he calls her Bride,  
With Blandishments invites her to his Side,  
And as she were with Vital Sense possessed,  
Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest.   

The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day,  
To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay;  
With gilded Horns, the Milk-white Heifers led,  
Slaughtered before the sacred Altars, bled:  
Pygmalion offering, first, approached the Shrine,  
And then with Prayers implored the Powers Divine,  
Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want,  
If all we can require, be yours to grant;  
Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said,  
But changed his Words, for shame; and only prayed,  
Give me the Likeness of my Ivory Maid.   

The Golden Goddess, present at the Prayer,  
Well knew he meant th' inanimated Fair,  
And gave the Sign of granting his Desire;  
For thrice in cheerful Flames ascends the Fire.  
The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies,  
And impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes,  
And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies.  
He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss,  
And looks, and thinks they redden at the Kiss;  
He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays,  
But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays;  
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,  
It seemed, the Breast beneath his Fingers bend;  
He felt again, his Fingers made a Print,  
'Twas Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it risen against the Dint:  
The pleasing Task he fails not to renew;  
Soft, and more soft at every Touch it grew;  
Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce  
The former Mass to Form, and frame for Use.  
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,  
And tries his Argument of Sense again,  
Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein.  
Convinced, overjoyed, his studied Thanks and Praise,  
To her who made the Miracle, he pays:  
Then Lips to Lips he joined; now freed from Fear,  
He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere:  
At this the wakened Image opened her Eyes,  
And viewed at once the Light and Lover, with surprise.  
The Goddess present at the Match she made,  
So blessed the Bed, such Fruitfulness conveyed,  
That e'er ten Moons had sharpened either Horn,  
To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;  
Paphos his Name, who grown to Manhood, walled  
The City Paphos, from the Founder called.    

CINYRAS AND MYRRAH, Out of the Tenth Book OF OVID'S Metamorphoses.  
CINYRAS AND MYRRAH, Out of the Tenth Book of OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.  
There needs no Connection of this Story with the Former; for the Beginning of This immediately follows the End of the Last: The Reader is only to take notice, that Orpheus, who relates both, was by Birth a Thracian; and his Country far distant from Cyprus where Myrrah was born, and from Arabia whither she fled. You will see the Reason of this Note, soon after the first Lines of this Fable.  

NOr him alone produced the fruitful Queen;  
But Cinyras, who like his Sire had been  
A happy Prince, had he not been a Sire.  
Daughters and Fathers from my Song retire;  
I sing of Horror; and could I prevail,  
You should not hear, or not believe my Tale.  
Yet if the Pleasure of my Song be such,  
That you will hear, and credit me too much,  
Attentive listen to the last Event,  
And with the Sin believe the Punishment:  
Since Nature could behold so dire a Crime,  
I gratulate at least my Native Clime,  
That such a Land, which such a Monster bore,  
So far is distant from our Thracian Shore.  
Let Araby extol her happy Coast,  
Her Cinnamon, and sweet Amomum boast,  
Her fragrant Flowers, her Trees with precious Tears,  
Her second Harvests, and her double Years;  
How can the Land be called so blessed that Myrrah bears?  
Nor all her odorous Tears can cleanse her Crime,  
Her Plant alone deforms the happy Olime:  
Cupid denies to have inflamed thy Heart,  
Disowns thy Love, and vindicates his Dart:  
Some Fury gave thee those infernal Pains,  
And shot her venomed Vipers in thy Veins.  
To hate thy Sire, had merited a Curse;  
But such an impious Love deserved a worse.  
The Neighbouring Monarches, by thy Beauty led,  
Contend in Crowds, ambitious of thy Bed:  
The World is at thy Choice; except but one,  
Except but him thou canst not choose alone.  
She knew it too, the miserable Maid,  
E'er impious Love her better Thoughts betrayed,  
And thus within her secret Soul she said:  
Ah Myrrah! whither would thy Wishes tend?  
Ye Gods, ye sacred Laws, my Soul defend  
From such a Crime, as all Mankind detest,  
And never lodged before in Humane Breast!  
But is it Sin? Or makes my Mind alone  
Th' imagined Sin? For Nature makes it none.  
What Tyrant then these envious Laws began,  
Made not for any other Beast, but Man!  
The Father-Bull his Daughter may bestride,  
The Horse may make his Mother-Mare a Bride;  
What Piety forbids the lusty Ram  
Or more salacious Goat, to rut their Dam?  
The Hen is free to wed the Chick she bore,  
And make a Husband, whom she hatched before.  
All Creatures else are of a happier Kind,  
Whom nor ill-natured Laws from Pleasure bind,  
Nor Thoughts of Sin disturb their Peace of Mind.  
But Man, a Slave of his own making lives;  
The Fool denies himself what Nature gives:  
Too busy Senates, with an over-care  
To make us better than our Kind can bear;  
Have dashed a Spice of Envy in the Laws,  
And straining up too high, have spoiled the Cause.  
Yet some wise Nations break their cruel Chains,  
And own no Laws, but those which Love ordains:  
Where happy Daughters with their Sires are joined,  
And Piety is doubly paid in Kind.  
O that I had been born in such a Clime,  
Not here, where 'tis the Country makes the Crime!  
But whither would my impious Fancy stray?  
Hence Hopes, and ye forbidden Thoughts away!  
His Worth deserves to kindle my Desires,  
But with the Love, that Daughters bear to Sires.  
Then had not Cinyras my Father been,  
What hindered Myrrha's Hopes to be his Queen?  
But the Perverseness of my Fate is such,  
That he's not mine, because he's mine too much:  
Our Kindred-Blood debars a better Tie;  
He might be nearer, were he not so nigh.  
Eyes and their Ojects never must unite,  
Some Distance is required to help the Sight:  
Fain would I travel to some Foreign Shore,  
Never to see my Native Country more,  
So might I to myself my self restore;  
So might my Mind these impious Thoughts remove,  
And ceasing to behold, might cease to love.  
But stay I must, to seed my famished Sight,  
To talk, to kiss; and more, if more I might:  
More, impious Maid! What more canst thou design,  
To make a monstrous Mixture in thy Line,  
And break all Statutes Humane and Divine?  
Canst thou be called (to save thy wretched Life)  
Thy Mother's Rival, and thy Father's Wife?  
Confound so many sacred Names in one,  
Thy Brother's Mother, Sister to thy Son!  
And fearest thou not to see th' Infernal Bands,  
Their Heads with Snakes, with Torches armed their Hands;  
Full at thy Face, th' avenging Brands to bear,  
And shake the Serpents from their hissing Hair?  
But thou in time th' increasing Ill control,  
Nor first debauch the Body by the Soul;  
Secure the sacred Quiet of thy Mind,  
And keep the Sanctions Nature has designed.  
Suppose I should attempt, th' Attempt were vain,  
No Thoughts like mine his sinless Soul profane:  
Observant of the Right; and O, that he  
Could cure my Madness, or be mad like me!  
Thus she: But Cinyras who daily sees  
A Crowd of Noble Suitors at his Knees,  
Among so many, knew not whom to choose,  
Irresolute to grant, or to refuse.  
But having told their Names, enquired of her,  
Who pleased her best, and whom she would prefer?  
The blushing Maid stood silent with Surprise,  
And on her Father fixed her ardent Eyes,  
And looking sighed, and as she sighed, began  
Round Tears to shed, that scalded as they ran.  
The tender Sire, who saw her blush, and cry,  
Ascribed it all to Maiden-modesty,  
And dried the falling Drops; and yet more kind,  
He stroked her Cheeks, and holy Kisses joined.  
She felt a secret Venom fire her Blood,  
And found more Pleasure than a Daughter should;  
And, asked again, what Lover of the Crew  
She liked the best, she answered, One like you.  
Mistaking what she meant, her pious Will  
He praised, and bade her so continue still:  
The Word of Pious heard, she blushed with shame  
Of secret Gild, and could not bear the Name.   

'Twas now the mid of Night, when Slumbers close  
Our Eyes, and soothe our Cares with soft Repose;  
But no Repose could wretched Myrrah find,  
Her Body rolling, as she rolled her Mind:  
Mad with Desire, she ruminates her Sin,  
And wishes all her Wishes o'er again:  
Now she despairs, and now resolves to try;  
Would not, and would again, she knows not why;  
Stops, and returns, makes and retracts the Vow;  
Feign would begin, but understands not how.  
As when a Pine is hewed upon the Plains,  
And the last mortal Stroke alone remains,  
Labouring in Pangs of Death, and threatening all,  
This way, and that she nods, considering where to fall:  
So Myrrha's Mind, impelled on either Side,  
Takes every Bent, but cannot long abide:  
Irresolute on which she should rely,  
At last unfixed in all, is only fixed to die;  
On that sad Thought she rests, resolved on Death,  
She rises, and prepares to choke her Breath:  
Then while about the Beam her Zone she ties,  
Dear Cinyras, farewell, she softly cries;  
For thee I die, and only wish to be  
Not hated, when thou knowst I die for thee:  
Pardon the Crime, in pity to the Cause:  
This said, about her Neck the Noose she draws.  
The Nurse, who lay without, her faithful Guard,  
Though not the Words; the Murmurs overheard,  
And Sighs, and hollow Sounds: Surprised with Fright,  
She starts, and leaves her Bed and springs a Light;  
Unlocks the Door, and entering out of Breath,  
The Dying saw, and Instruments of Death;  
She shrieks, she cuts the Zone, with trembling haste,  
And in her Arms, her fainting Charge embraced:  
Next, (for she now had leisure for her Tears)  
She weeping asked, in these her blooming Years,  
What unforeseen Misfortune caused her Care,  
To loathe her Life, and languish in Despair!  
The Maid, with downcast Eyes, and mute with Grief  
For Death unfinished, and ill-timed Relief,  
Stood sullen to her Suit: The Beldame pressed.  
The more to know, and barred her withered Breast,  
Adjured her by the kindly Food show drew  
From those dry Founts, her secret Ill to show.  
Sad Myrrah sighed, and turned her Eyes aside;  
The Nurse still urged, and would not be denied:  
Nor only promised Secrecy; but prayed  
She might have leave to give her offered Aid.  
goodwill, she said, my want of Strength supplies,  
And Diligence shall give, what Age denies:  
If strong Desires thy Mind to Fury move,  
With Charms, and Medicines, I can cure thy Love:  
If envious Eyes their hurtful Rays have cast,  
More powerful Verse shall free thee from the Blast:  
If Heaven offended sends thee this Disease,  
Offended Heaven with Prayers we can appease.  
What then remains, that can these Cares procure?  
Thy House is flourishing, thy Fortune sure:  
Thy careful Mother yet in Health survives,  
And, to thy Comfort, thy kind Father lives.  
The Virgin started at her Father's Name,  
And sighed profoundly, conscious of the Shame:  
Nor yet the Nurse her impious Love divined;  
But yet surmised, that Love disturbed her Mind:  
Thus thinking, she pursued her Point, and laid  
And lulled within her Lap the mourning Maid;  
Then softly soothed her thus, I guess your Grief:  
You love, my Child; your Love shall find Relief.  
My long experienced Age shall be your Guide;  
Rely on that, and lay Distrust aside:  
No Breath of Air shall on the Secret blow,  
Nor shall (what most you fear) your Father know.  
Struck once again, as with a Thunderclap,  
The guilty Virgin bounded from her Lap,  
And threw her Body prostrate on the Bed,  
And, to conctal her Blushes, hid her Head:  
There silent lay, and warned her with her Hand  
To go: But she received not the Command;  
Remaining still importunate to know:  
Then Myrrah thus; Or ask no more, or go:  
I prithee go, or staying spare my Shame;  
What thou wouldst hear, is impious even to name.  
At this, on high the Beldame holds her Hands,  
And trembling, both with Age, and Terror, stands;  
Adjures, and falling at her Feet entreats,  
Soothes her with Blandishments, and frights with Threats,  
To tell the Crime intended, or disclose  
What Part of it she knew, if she no farther knows.  
And last; if conscious to her Counsel made,  
Confirms anew the Promise of her Aid.  
Now Myrrah raised her Head; but soon oppressed  
With Shame, reclined it on her Nurse's Breast;  
Bathed it with Tears, and strove to have confessed;  
Twice she began, and stopped; again she tried;  
The falt'ring Tongue its Office still denied.  
At last her Veil before her Face she spread,  
And drew a long preluding Sighs, and said,  
O happy Mother, in thy Marriagebed!  
Then groaned, and ceased; the good Old Woman shook,  
Stiff were her Eyes, and ghastly was her Look:  
Her hoary Hair upright with Horror stood,  
Made (to her Grief) more knowing than she would:  
Much she reproached, and many Things she said,  
To cure the Madness of th' unhappy Maid:  
In vain: For Myrrah stood convict of Ill;  
Her Reason vanquished, but unchanged her Will:  
Perverse of Mind, unable to reply;  
She stood resolved or to possess, or die.  
At length the Fondness of a Nurse prevailed  
Against her better Sense, and Virtue failed:  
Enjoy, my Child, since such is thy Desire,  
Thy Love, she said; she durst notisay, thy Sire,  
Live, though unhappy, live on any Terms:  
Then with a second Oath her Faith confirms.   

The Solemn Feast of Ceres now was near,  
When long white Linen Stoles the Matrons wear;  
Ranked in Procession walk the pious Train,  
Offering First-fruits, and Spikes of yellow Grain:  
For nine long Nights the Nuptial-Bed they eat,  
And sanctifying Harvest, lie alone.   

mixed with the Crowd, the Queen forsook her Lord,  
And Ceres Power with secret Rites adored:  
The Royal Couch now vacant for a time,  
The crafty Crone, officious in her Crime,  
The cursed Occasion took: The King she found  
Easie with Wine, and deep in Pleasures drowned,  
Prepared for Love: The Beldame blew the Flame,  
Confessed the Passion, but concealed the Name.  
Her Form she praised; the Monarch asked her Years,  
And she replied, The same thy Myrrah bears.  
Wine and commended Beauty fired his Thought;  
Impatient, he commands her to be brought.  
Pleased with her Charge performed, she hies, her home,  
And gratulates the Nymph, the Task was overcome.  
Myrrah was joyed the welcome News to hear;  
But clogged with Gild, the Joy was unsincere:  
So various, so discordant is the Mind,  
That in our Will, a different Will we find.  
Ill she presaged, and yet pursued her Lust;  
For guilty Pleasures give a double Gust.  
'Twas Depth of Night: Arctophylax had driven  
His lazy Wain half round the Northern Heaven;  
When Myrrah hastened to the Crime desired,  
The Moon beheld her first, and first retired:  
The Stars amazed, ran backward from the Sight,  
And (shrunk within their Sockets) lost their Light.  
Icarius first withdraws his holy Flame:  
The Virgin Sign, in Heaven the second Name,  
Slides down the Belt, and from her Station flies,  
And Night with Sable Clouds involves the Skies.  
Bold Myrrah still pursues her black Intent;  
She stumbled thrice, (an Omen of th' Event;)  
Thrice shrieked the Funeral Owl, yet on she went,  
Secure of Shame, because secure of Sight;  
Even bashful Sins are impudent by Night.  
Linked Hand in Hand, th' Accomplice, and the Dame,  
Their Way exploring, to the Chamber came:  
The Door was open, they blindly grope their Way,  
Where dark in Bed th' expecting Monarch lay:  
Thus far her Courage held, but here forsakes;  
Her faint Knees knock at every Step she makes.  
The nearer to her Crime, the more within  
She feels Remorse, and Horror of her Sin;  
Reputes too late her criminal Desire,  
And wishes, that unknown she could retire.  
Her, lingering thus, the Nurse (who feared Delay  
The fatal Secret might at length betray)  
Pulled forward, to complete the Work begun,  
And said to Cinyras, Receive thy own:  
Thus saying, she delivered Kind to Kind,  
Accursed, and their devoted Bodies joined.  
The Sire, unknowing of the Crime, admits  
His Bowels, and profanes the hallowed Sheets;  
He found she trembled, but believed she strove  
With Maiden Modesty, against her Love,  
And sought with flattering Words vain Fancies to remove.  
Perhaps he said, My Daughter, cease thy Fears,  
(Because the Title suited with her Years;)  
And Father, she might whisper him again,  
That Names might not be wanting to the Sin.  
Full of her Sire, she left th' incestuous Bed,  
And carried in her Womb the Crime she bred:  
Another, and another Night she came;  
For frequent Sin had left no Sense of Shame:  
Till Cinyras desired to see her Face,  
Whose Body he had held in close Embrace,  
And brought a Taper; the Revealer, Light,  
Exposed both Crime, and Criminal to Sight:  
Grief, Rage, Amazement, could no Speech afford,  
But from the Sheath he drew th' avenging Sword;  
The Guilty fled: The Benefit of Night,  
That favoured first the Sin, secured the Flight.  
Long wand'ring through the spacious Fields, she bent  
Her Voyage to th' Arabian Continent;  
Then passed the Region which Panchaea joined,  
And flying left the Palmy Plains behind.  
Nine times the Moon had mewed her Horns; at length  
With Travel weary, unsupplyed with Strength,  
And with the Burden of her Womb oppressed,  
Sabaean Fields afford her needful Rest:  
There, loathing Life, and yet of Death afraid,  
In anguish of her Spirit, thus she prayed.  
Ye Powers, if any so propitious are  
T' accept my Penitence, and hear my Prayer;  
Your Judgements, I confess, are justly sent;  
Great Sins deserve as great a Punishment:  
Yet since my Life the Living will profane,  
And since my Death the happy Dead will slain,  
A middle State your Mercy may bestow,  
Betwixt the Realms above, and those below:  
Some other Form to wretched Myrrah give,  
Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live.  
The Prayers of Penitents are never vain;  
At least, she did her last Request obtain:  
For while she spoke, the Ground began to rise,  
And gathered round her Feet, her Legs, and Thighs;  
Her Toes in Roots descend, and spreading wide,  
A firm Foundation for the Trunk provide:  
Her solid Bones convert to solid Wood,  
To Pith her Marrow, and to Sap her Blood:  
Her Arms are Boughs, her Fingers change their Kind,  
Her tender Skin is hardened into Rind.  
And now the rising Tree her Womb invests,  
Now, shooting upwards still, invades her Breasts,  
And shades the Neck; when, weary with Delay,  
She sunk her Head within, and met it half the Way.  
And though with outward Shape she lost her Sense,  
With bitter Tears she wept her last Offence;  
And still she weeps, nor sheds her Tears in vain;  
For still the precious Drops her Name retain.  
Mean time the misbegotten Infant grows,  
And, ripe for Birth, distends with deadly Throws  
The swelling Rind, with unavailing Strife,  
To leave the wooden Womb, and bushes into Life.  
The Mother-Tree, as if oppressed with Pain,  
Writhes here and there, to break the Bark, in vain;  
And, like a Labouring Woman, would have prayed,  
But wants a Voice to call Lucina's Aid:  
The bending Bowl sends out a hollow Sound,  
And trickling Tears fall thicker on the Ground.  
The mild Lucina came uncalled, and stood  
Beside the struggling Boughs, and heard the groaning Wood:  
Then reached her Midwife-Hand, to speed the Throws,  
And spoke the powerful Spells that Babes to Birth disclose.  
The Bark divides, the living Load to free,  
And safe delivers the Convulsive Tree.  
The ready Nymphs receive the crying Child,  
And wash him in the Tears the Parent-Plant distilled.  
They swathed him with their Scarves; beneath him spread  
The Ground with Herbs; with Roses raised his Head.  
The lovely Babe was born with every Grace,  
Even Envy must have praised so fair a Face:  
Such was his Form, as Painters when they show  
Their utmost Art, on naked Loves bestow:  
And that their Arms no Difference might betray,  
Give him a Bow, or his from Cupid take away.  
Time glides along, with undiscovered haste,  
The Future but a Length behind the past;  
So swift are Years: The Babe whom just before  
His Grandsire got, and whom his Sister bore;  
The Drop, the Thing which late the Tree enclosed,  
And late the yawning Bark to Life exposed;  
A Babe, a Boy, a beauteous Youth appears,  
And lovelier than himself at riper Years.  
Now to the Queen of Love he gave Desires,  
And, with her Pains, revenged his Mother's Fires.    

THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAS.  
The First Book of Homer's Ilias.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Chryses, Priest of Apollo, brings Presents to the Grecian Princes, to ransom his Daughter Chryseis, who was Prisoner in the Fleet. Agamemnon, the General, whose Captive and Mistress the young Lady was, refuses to deliver her, threatens the Venerable Old Man, and dismisses him with Contumely. The Priest craves Vengeance of his God; who sends a Plague among the Greeks: Which occasions Achilles, their Great Champion, to summon a Council of the Chief Officers: He encourages Calchas, the High Priest and Prophet, to tell the Reason, why the Gods were so much incensed against them. Calchas is fearful of provoking Agamemnon, till Achilles engages to protect him: Then, emboldened by the Hero, he accuses the General as the Cause of all, by detaining the Fair Captive, and refusing the Presents offered for her Ransom. By this Proceeding, Agamemnon is obliged, against his Will, to restore Chryseis, with Gifts, that he might appease the Wrath of Phoebus; but, at the same time, to revenge himself on Achilles, sends to seize his Slave Briseis. Achilles, thus affronted, complains to his Mother Thetis; and begs her to revenge his Injury, not only on the General, but on all the Army, by giving Victory to the Trojans, till the ungrateful King became sensible of his Injustice. At the same time, he retires from the Camp into his Ships, and withdraws his Aid from his Countrymen. Thetis prefers her Son's Petition to Jupiter, who grants her Suit. Juno suspects her Errand, and quarrels with her Husband, for his Grant; till Vulcan reconciles his Parents with a Bowl of Nectar, and sends them peaceably to Bed.  

THe Wrath of Peleu's Son, O Muse, resound;  
Whose dire Effects the Grecian Army found:  
And many a Hero, King, and hardy Knight,  
Were sent, in early Youth, to Shades of Night:  
Their Limbs a Prey to Dogs and Praetors made;  
So was the sovereign Will of Jove obeyed:  
From that ill-omened Hour when Strife begun,  
Betwixt Atrides Great, and Thetis Godlike Son.   

What Power provoked, and for what Cause, relate,  
Sowed, in their Breasts, the Seeds of stern Debate:  
Jove's and Latona's Son his Wrath expressed,  
In Vengeance of his violated Priest,  
Against the King of Men; who swollen with Pride,  
Refused his Presents, and his Prayers denied.  
For this the God a swift Contagion spread  
Amid the Camp; where Heaps on Heaps lay dead.   

For Venerable Chryses came to buy,  
With Gold and Gifts of Price, his Daughter's Liberty.  
Suppliant before the Grecian Chiefs he stood;  
Awful, and armed with Ensigns of his God:  
Bare was his hoary Head; one holy Hand  
Held forth his Laurel Crown and one his Sceptre of Command.  
His Suit was common; but above the rest,  
To both the Brother-Princes thus addressed:   

Ye Sons of Atreus, and ye Grecian Powers,  
So may the Gods who dwell in Heavenly Bowers  
Succeed your Siege, accord the Vows you make,  
And give you Troy's Imperial Town to take;  
So, by their happy Conduct, may you come  
With Conquest back to your sweet Native Home;  
As you receive the Ransom which I bring,  
(Respecting Jove, and the far-shooting King,)  
And break my Daughter's Bonds, at my desire;  
And glad with her Return her grieving Sire.   

With Shouts of loud Acclaim the Greeks decree  
To take the Gifts, to set the Damsel free.  
The King of Men alone with Fury burned;  
And haughty, these opprobrious Words returned:  
Hence, Holy Dotard, and avoid my Sight,  
E'er Evil intercept thy tardy Flight:  
Nor dare to tread this interdicted Strand,  
Lest not that idle Sceptre in thy Hand,  
Nor thy God's Crown, my vowed Revenge withstand.  
Hence on thy Life: The Captive-Maid is mine;  
Whom not for Price or Prayers I will resign:  
Mine she shall be, till creeping Age and Time  
Her Bloom have withered, and consumed her Prime:  
Till than my Royal Bed she shall attend;  
And having first adorned it, late ascend:  
This, for the Night; by Day, the Web and Loom  
And homely Houshold-task, shall be her Doom,  
Far from thy loved Embrace, and her sweet Native Home.  
He said: The helpless Priest replied no more,  
But sped his Steps along the hoarse-resounding Shore:  
Silent he fled; secure at length he stood,  
Devoutly cursed his Foes, and thus invoked his God.   

O Source of Sacred Light, attend my Prayer,  
God with the Silver Bow, and Golden Hair;  
Whom Chrysa, Cilla, Tenedos obeys,  
And whose broad Eye their happy Soil surveys:  
If, Smintheus, I have poured before thy Shrine  
The Blood of Oxen, Goats, and ruddy Wine,  
And Larded Thighs on loaded Altars laid,  
Hear, and my just Revenge proptious aid.  
Pierce the proud Greeks, and with thy Shafts attest.  
How much thy Power is injured in thy Priest.   

He prayed, and Phoebus hearing, urged his Flight,  
With Fury kindled, from Olympus' Height;  
His Quiver o'er his ample Shoulders threw;  
His Bow twanged, and his Arrows rattled as they flew.  
Black as a stormy Night, he ranged around  
The Tents, and compassed the devoted Ground.  
Then with full Force his deadly Bow he bend,  
And Feathered Fates among the Mules and Sumpters sent:  
Th'essay of Rage, on faithful Dogs the next;  
And last, in Humane Hearts his Arrows fixed.  
The God nine Days the Greeks at Rovers killed,  
Nine Days the Camp with Funeral Fires was filled;  
The Tenth, Achilles, by the Queen's Command,  
Who bears heavens awful Sceptre in her Hand,  
A Council summoned: for the Goddess grieved  
Her favoured Host should perish unrelieved.   

The Kings, assembled, soon their Chief enclose;  
Then from his Seat the Goddess-born arose,  
And thus undaunted spoke: What now remains,  
But that once more we tempt the marry Plains,  
And wand'ring homeward, seek our Safety hence,  
In Flight at least if we can find Defence?  
Such Woes at once encompass us about,  
The Plague within the Camp, the Sword without.  
Consult, O King, the Prophets of th' event:  
And whence these Ills, and what the God's intent,  
Let them by Dreams explore; for Dreams from Jove are sent.  
What want of offered Victims, what Offence  
In Fact committed could the Sun incense,  
To deal his deadly Shafts? What may remove  
His settled Hate, and reconcile his Love?  
That he may look propitious on our Toils;  
And hungry Graves no more be glutted with our Spoils.   

Thus to the King of Men the Hero spoke,  
Then Calchas the desired Occasion took:  
Calchas the sacred Seer, who had in view  
Things present and the past; and Things to come foreknew.  
Supreme of Angurs, who by Phoebus taught  
The Grecian Powers to Troy's Destruction brought.  
Skilled in the secret Causes of their Woes,  
The Reverend Priest in graceful Act arose:  
And thus bespoke Pelides: Care of Jove,  
Favoured of all th' Immortal Powers above;  
Wouldst thou the Seeds deep sown of Mischief know,  
And why, provoked Apollo bends his Bow?  
Plight first thy Faith, inviolably true,  
To save me from those Ills, that may ensue.   

For I shall tell ungrateful Truths, to those  
Whose boundless Power of Life and Death dispose.  
And Sov'reigns ever jealous of their State,  
Forgive not those whom once they mark for Hate;  
Even tho' th' Offence they seemingly digest,  
Revenge, like Embers, raked within their Breast,  
Bursts forth in Flames; whose unresisted Power  
Will seize th' unwary Wretch and soon devour.  
Such, and no less is he, on whom depends  
The sum of Things; and whom my Tongue of force offends.  
Secure me then from his foreseen Intent,  
That what his Wrath may doom, thy Valour may prevent.   

To this the stern Achilles made Reply:  
Be bold; and on my plighted Faith rely,  
To speak what Phoebus has inspired thy Soul  
For common Good; and speak without control.  
His Godhead I invoke, by him I swear,  
That while my Nostrils draw this vital Air,  
None shall presume to violate those Bands;  
Or touch thy Person with unhallowed Hands:  
Even not the King of Men that all commands.   

At this, resuming Heart, the Prophet said:  
Nor Hecatombs unslain, nor Vows unpaid,  
On Greeks, accursed, this dire Contagion bring;  
Or call for Vengeance from the Bowyer King;  
But he the Tyrant, whom none dares resist,  
Affronts the Godhead in his injured Priest:  
He keeps the Damsel Captive in his Chain,  
And Presents are refused, and Prayers preferred in vain.  
For this th' avenging Power employs his Darts;  
And empties all his Quiver in our Hearts.  
Thus will persist, relentless in his Ire,  
Till the fair Slave be rendered to her Sire:  
And Ransom-free restored to his Abode,  
With Sacrifice to reconcile the God:  
Then he, perhaps, atoned by Prayer, mav cease  
His Vengeance justly vowed; and give the Peace.   

Thus having said he sat: Thus answered then  
Upstarting from his Throne, the King of Men,  
His Breast with Fury filled his Eyes with Fire;  
Which rolling round, he shot in Sparkles on the Sire:  
Augur of Ill, whose Tongue was never found  
Without a Priestly Curse or boding Sound;  
For not one blessed Event foretold to me  
Passed through that Mouth, or passed unwillingly.  
And now thou dost with Lies the Throne invade,  
By Practice hardened in thy slandering Trade.  
Obtending Heaven, for what e'er Ills befall;  
And sputtring under specious Names thy Gall.  
Now Phoebus is provoked; his Rites and Laws  
Are in his Priest profaned, and I the Cause:  
Since I detain a Slave, my sovereign Prize;  
And sacred Gold, your Idol-God, despise.  
I love her well: And well her Merits claim,  
To stand preferred before my Grecian Dame:  
Not Clytaemnestra's self in Beauties Bloom  
More charmed, or better plied the various Loom:  
Mine is the Maid; and brought in happy Hour  
With every Houshold-grace adorned, to bless my Nuptial Bower.  
Yet shall she be restored; since public Good.  
For private Interest ought not be withstood,  
To save th' Effusion of my People's Blood.  
But Right requires, if I resign my own,  
I should not suffer for your sakes alone;  
Alone excluded from the Prize I gained,  
And by your common Suffrage have obtained.  
The Slave without a Ransom shall be sent:  
It rests for you to make th' Equivalent.   

To this the fierce Thessalian Prince replied:  
O first in Power, but passing all in Pride,  
Griping, and still tenacious of thy Hold,  
Wouldst thou the Grecian Chiefs, though largely Sold,  
Should give the Prizes they had gained before;  
And with their Loss thy Sacrilege restore?  
Whate'er by force of Arms the Soldier got,  
Is each his own, by dividend of Lot:  
Which to resume, were both unjust, and base:  
Not to be born but by a servile Race.  
But this we can: If Saturn's Son, bestows  
The Sack of Troy, which he by Promise owes;  
Then shall the conquering Greeks thy Loss restore,  
And with large Interest, make th' advantage more.   

To this Atrides answered, Though thy Boast  
Assumes the foremost Name of all our Host,  
Pretend not, mighty Man, that what is mine  
Controlled by thee, I tamely should resign.  
Shall I release the Prize I gained by Right,  
In taken Towns, and many a bloody Fight,  
While thou detainest Briseis in thy Bands,  
By priestly glozing on the God's Commands?  
Resolve on this, (a short Alternative)  
Quit mine, or, in exchange, another give;  
Else I, assure thy Soul, by sovereign Right  
Will seize thy Captive in thy own Despite.  
Or from stout Ajax, or Ulysses, bear  
What other Prize my Fancy shall prefer:  
Then softly murmur, or aloud complain,  
Rage as you please, you shall resist in vain.  
But more of this, in proper Time and Place,  
To Things of greater moment let us pass.  
A Ship to fail the sacred Seas prepare;  
Proud in her Trim; and put on board the Fair,  
With Sacrifice and Gifts, and all the pomp of Prayer.  
The Crew well chosen, the Command shall be  
In Ajax; or if other I decree,  
In Creta's King, or Ithacus, or if I please in Thee:  
Most fit thyself to see performed th' intent  
For which my Prisoner from my Sight is sent;  
(Thanks to thy pious Care) that Phoebus may relent.   

At this, Achilles roul'd his furious Eyes,  
Fixed on the King askant; and thus replies.  
O, Impudent, regardful of thy own,  
Whose Thoughts are centred on thyself alone,  
Advanced to Sovereign Sway, for better Ends  
Than thus like abject Slaves to treat thy Friends.  
What Greek is he, that urged by thy Command,  
Against the Trojan Troops will lift his Hand?  
Not I: Nor such enforced Respect I own;  
Nor Pergamus I hate, nor Priam is my Foe.  
What Wrong from Troy remote, could I sustain,  
To leave my fruitful Soil, and happy Reign,  
And plough the Surges of the stormy Main?  
Thee, frontless Man; we followed from afar;  
Thy Instruments of Death, and Tools of War.  
Thine is the Triumph; ours the Toil alone:  
We bear thee on our Backs, and mount thee on the Throne.  
For thee we fall in Fight; for thee redress  
Thy baffled Brother; not the Wrongs of Greece.  
And now thou threaten'st with unjust Decree,  
To punish thy affronting Heaven, on me.  
To seize the Prize which I so dearly bought;  
By common Suffrage given, confirmed by Lot.  
Mean Match to thine: For still above the rest,  
Thy hooked rapacious Hands usurp the best.  
Though mine are first in Fight, to force the Prey;  
And last sustain the Labours of the Day.  
Nor grudge I thee, the much the Grecians give;  
Nor murmuring take the little I receive.  
Yet even this little, thou, who wouldst engross  
The whole, Insatiate, envy'st as thy Loss.  
Know, then, for Phthya, fixed is my return:  
Better at home my ill-paid Pains to mourn,  
Than from an Equal here sustain the public Scorn.   

The King, whose Brows with shining Gold were bound;  
Who saw his Throne with sceptered Slaves encompassed round,  
Thus answered stern! Go, at thy Pleasure, go:  
We need not such a Friend, nor fear we such a Foe.  
There will not want to follow me in Fight:  
Jove will assist, and Jove assert my Right.  
But thou of all the Kings (his Care below)  
Art lest at my Command, and most my Foe.  
Debates, Dissensions, Uproars are thy Joy;  
Provoked without Offence, and practised to destroy.  
Strength is of Brutes; and not thy Boast alone;  
At lest 'tis lent from Heaven; and not thy own.  
Fly then, ill-mannered, to thy Native Land,  
And there, thy Ant-born Myrmidons command.  
But mark this Menace; since I must resign  
My black-eyed Maid, to please the Powers divine:  
(A well-rigged Vessel in the Port attends,  
Man'd at my Charge! commanded by my Friends;)  
The Ship shall waste her to her wished Abode,  
Full fraught with holy Bribes to the far-shooting God.  
This thus dispatched, I own myself the Care,  
My Fame and injured Honour to repair:  
From thy own Tent, proud Man, in thy despite,  
This Hand shall ravish thy pretended Right.  
Briseis shall be mine, and thou shalt see,  
What odds of awful Power I have on thee:  
That others at thy cost may learn the difference of degree.   

At this th' Impatient Hero sowrly smiled:  
His Heart, impetuous in his Bosom boiled,  
And justled by two Tides of equal sway,  
Stood, for a while, suspended in his way.  
Betwixt his Reason, and his Rage untamed;  
One whispered soft, and one aloud reclaimed:  
That only counselled to the safer side;  
This to the Sword, his ready Hand applied.  
Unpunished to support th' Affrong was hard:  
Nor easy was th' Attempt to force the Guard.  
But soon the thirst of Vengeance fired his Blood:  
Half shone his Falchion, and half sheathed it stood.   

In that nice moment, Pallas, from above,  
Commission'd by th' Imperial Wife of Jove,  
Descended swift: (the white armed Queen was loath  
The Fight should follow; for she favoured both:)  
Just as in Act he stood, in Clouds enshrined,  
Her Hand she fastened on his Hair behind;  
Then backward by his yellow Curls she drew:  
To him, and him alone confessed in view.  
Tamed by superior Force he turned his Eyes  
Aghast at first, and stupid with Surprise:  
But by her sparkling Eyes, and ardent Look,  
The Virgin-Warrior known, he thus bespoke.   

Comest thou, Celestial, to behold my Wrongs?  
Then view the Vengeance which to Crimes belongs.   

Thus Herald The blue-eyed Goddess thus rejoined:  
I come to calm thy turbulence of Mind.  
If Reason will resume her sovereign Sway,  
And sent by Juno, her Commands obey.  
Equal she loves you both, and I protect:  
Then give thy Guardian Gods their due respect;  
And cease Contention; be thy Words severe,  
Sharp as he merits: But the Sword forbear.  
An Hour unhoped already wings her way,  
When he his dire Affront shall dearly pay:  
When the proud King shall sue, with treble Gain,  
To quit thy Loss, and conquer thy Disdain.  
But thou secure of my unfailing Word,  
Compose thy swelling Soul; and sheathe the Sword.   

The Youth thus answered mild; Auspicious Maid,  
heavens will be mine; and your Commands obeyed.  
The Gods are just, and when subduing Sense,  
We serve their Powers, provide the Recompense.  
He said; with surly Faith believed her Word,  
And, in the Sheath, reluctant, plunged the Sword.  
Her Message done, she mounts the blessed Abodes,  
And mixed among the Senate of the Gods.   

At her departure his Disdain returned:  
The Fire she fanned, with greater Fury burned;  
Rumbling within till thus it found a vent:  
Dastard, and Drunkard, Mean and Insolent:  
Tongue-valiant Hero, Vaunter of thy Might,  
In Threats the foremost, but the lag in Fight;  
When didst thou thrust amid the mingled Press,  
Content to bid the War aloof in Peace?  
Arms are the Trade of each Plebeian Soul;  
'Tis Death to fight; but Kingly to control.  
Lordlike at ease, with arbitrary Power,  
To peel the Chiefs, the People to devour.  
These, Traitor, are thy Talents; safer far  
Than to contend in Fields, and Toils of War.  
Nor couldst thou thus have dared the common Hate,  
Were not their Souls as abject as their State.  
But, by this Sceptre, solemnly I swear,  
(Which never more green Leaf or growing Branch shall bear:  
Torn from the Tree, and given by Jove to those  
Who Laws dispense and mighty Wrongs oppose)  
That when the Grecians want my wont Aid,  
No Gift shall bribe it, and no Prayer persuade.  
When Hector comes, the Homicide, to wield  
His conquering Arms, with Corpse to strew the Field:  
Then shalt thou mourn thy Pride; and late confess,  
My Wrong repent when 'tis past redress:  
He said: And with Disdain in open view,  
Against the Ground his golden Sceptre threw.  
Then sat, with boiling Rage Altrides burned:  
And Foam betwixt his gnashing Grinders churned.   

But from his Seat the Pylian Prince arose,  
With Reas'ning mild, their Madness to compose:  
Words, sweet as Honey, from his Mouth distilled;  
Two Centuries already he fulfilled;  
And now began the third; unbroken yet:  
Once famed for Courage; still in Council great.   

What worse, he said, can Argos undergo,  
What can more gratify the Phrygian Foe,  
Than these distempered Heats? If both the Lights  
Of Greece their private Interest disunites!  
Believe a Friend, with thrice your Years increased,  
And let these youthful Passions be repressed:  
I flourished long before your Birth; and then  
Lived equal with a Race of braver Men,  
Than these dim Eyes shall e'er behold again.  
Ceneus and Dryas, and, excelling them,  
Great Theseus, and the force of greater Polypheme.  
With these I went, a Brother of the War,  
Their Dangers to divide; their Fame to share.  
Nor idle stood with unassisting Hands,  
When savage Beasts, and Men's more savage Bands,  
Their virtuous Toil subdued: Yet those I swayed,  
With powerful Speech: I spoke and they obeyed.  
If such as those, my Councils could reclaim,  
Think not, young Warriors, your diminished Name,  
Shall lose of Lustre, by subjecting Rage  
To the cool Dictates of experienced Age.  
Thou, King of Men, stretch not thy sovereign Sway  
Beyond, the Bounds free Subjects can obey:  
But let Pelides in his Prize rejoice,  
Achieved in Arms, allowed by public Voice.  
Nor Thou, brave Champion, with his Power contend,  
Before whose Throne, even Kings their lowered Sceptres bend.  
The Head of Action He, and Thou the Hand,  
Matchless thy Force; but mightier his Command:  
Thou first, O King, release the rights of Sway,  
Power, self-restrained, the People best obey.  
Sanctions of Law from Thee derive their Source;  
Command thyself, whom no Commands can force.  
The Son of Thetis Rampire of our Host,  
Is worth our Care to keep; nor shall my Prayers be lost.   

Thus Nestor said, and ceased: Atrides broke  
His Silence next; but pondered e'er he spoke.  
Wise are thy Words, and glad I would obey,  
But this proud Man affects Imperial Sway.  
Controlling Kings, and trampling on our State  
His Will is Law; and what he wills is Fate.  
The Gods have given him Strength: But whence the Style,  
Of lawless Power assumed, or Licence to revile?   

Achilles, cut him short; and thus replied:  
My Worth allowed in Words, is in effect denied.  
For who but a Poltroon, possessed with Fear,  
Such haughty Insolence, can tamely bear?  
Command thy Slaves: My freeborn soul disdains  
A Tyrant's Curb; and restiff breaks the Reins.  
Take this along; that no Dispute shall rise  
(Though mine the Woman) for my ravished Prize:  
But she excepted, as unworthy Strife,  
Dare not, I charge thee dare not, on thy Life,  
Touch aught of mine beside, by Lot my due,  
But stand aloof, and think profane to view:  
This Falchion, else, not hitherto withstood,  
These hostile Fields shall fatten with thy Blood.   

He said; and risen the first; the Council broke;  
And all their grave Consults dissolved in Smoke.   

The Royal Youth retired, on Vengeance bend,  
Patroclus followed silent to his Tent.   

Mean time, the King with Gifts a Vessel stores;  
Supplies the Banks with twenty chosen Oars:  
And next, to reconcile the shooter God,  
Within her hollow Sides the Sacrifice he stowed:  
Chryseis last was set on board; whose Hand  
Ulysses took, entrusted with Command;  
They blow the liquid Seas; and leave the lessening Land.   

Atrides then his outward Zeal to boast,  
Bade purify the Sin-polluted Host.  
With perfect Hecatombs the God they graced;  
Whose offered Entrails in the Main were cast.  
Black Bulls, and bearded Goats on Altars lie;  
And clouds of savoury stench, involve the Sky.  
These Pomp's the Royal Hypocrite designed,  
For Show: But harboured Vengeance in his Mind:  
Till holy Malice, longing for a vent,  
At length, discovered his concealed Intent.  
Talthybius, and Eurybates the just  
Heralds of Arms, and Ministers of Trust,  
He called; and thus bespoke: Haste hence your way;  
And from the Goddess-born demand his Prey.  
If yielded, bring the Captive: If denied,  
The King (so tell him) shall chastise his Pride:  
And with armed Multitudes in Person come  
To vindicate his Power, and justify his Doom.   

This hard Command unwilling they obey,  
And o'er the barren Shore pursue their way,  
Where quartered in their Camp, the fierce Thessalians lay.  
Their sovereign seated on his Chair, they find;  
His pensive Cheek upon his Hand reclined,  
And anxious Thoughts revolving in his Mind.  
With gloomy Looks he saw them entering in  
Without Salute: Nor durst they first begin,  
Fearful of rash Offence and Death foreseen.  
He soon the Cause divining, cleared his Brow;  
And thus did liberty of Speech allow.   

Interpreters of Gods and Men, be bold:  
Awful your Character, and uncontrolled,  
However unpleasing, be the News you bring,  
I blame not you, but your Imperious King.  
You come, I know, my Captive to demand;  
Patroclus, give her, to the Herald's Hand.  
But you, authentic Witnesses I bring,  
Before the Gods, and your ungrateful King,  
Of this my Manifest: That never more  
This Hand shall combat on the crooked Shore:  
No, let the Grecian Powers oppressed in Fight,  
Unpityed perish in their Tyrant's sight.  
Blind of the future and by Rage misled,  
He pulls his Crimes upon his People's Head.  
Forced from the Field in Trenches to contend,  
And his Insulted Camp from Foes defend.  
He said, and soon obeying his intent,  
Patroclus brought Briseis from her Tent;  
Then to th' entrusted Messengers resigned:  
She wept, and often cast her Eyes behind:  
Forced from the Man she loved: They led her thence,  
Along the Shore a Prisoner to their Prince.   

Sole on the barren Sands the suffering Chief  
Roared out for Anguish, and indulged his Grief.  
Cast on his Kindred Seas a stormy Look,  
And his upbraided Mother thus bespoke.   

Unhappy Parent, of a short-lived Son,  
Since Jove in pity by thy Prayers was won  
To grace my small Remains of Breath with Fame,  
Why loads he this imbittered Life with Shame?  
Suffering his King of Men to force my Slave,  
Whom well deserved in War, the Grecians gave.   

Set by old Ocean's side the Goddess heard;  
Then from the sacred Deep her Head she reared:  
Rose like a Morning-mist; and thus begun  
To soothe the Sorrows of her plaintive Son.  
Why cries my Care, and why conceals his Smart,  
Let thy afflicted Parent, share her part?   

Then, sighing from the bottom of his Breast,  
To the Sea-Goddess thus the Goddess-born addressed.  
Thou knowst my Pain, which telling but recals:  
By force of Arms we razed the Theban Walls;  
The ransacked City, taken by our Toils,  
We left, and hither brought the golden Spoils:  
Equal we shared them; but before the rest,  
The proud Prerogative had seized the best.  
Chryseis was the greedy Tyrant's Prize,  
Chryseis rosy Cheeked with charming Eyes.  
Her Sire, Apollo's Priest, arrived to buy  
With proffered Gifts of Price, his Daughter's liberty.  
Suppliant before the Grecians Chiefs he stood,  
Awful, and armed with Ensigns of his God:  
Bare was his hoary Head, one holy Hand,  
Held forth his Lawrel-Crown, and one, his Sceptre of Com-  
His Suit was common, but above the rest (manned.  
To both the Brother-Princes was addressed.  
With Shouts of loud Acclaim the Greeks agree  
To take the Gifts, to set the Prisoner free.  
Not so the Tyrant, who with scorn the Priest  
Received, and with opprobrious Words dismissed.  
The good old Man, forlorn, of human Aid,  
For Vengeance to his heavenly Patron prayed:  
The Godhead gave a favourable Ear,  
And granted all to him he held so dear;  
In an ill hour his piercing Shafts he sped;  
And heaps on heaps of slaughtered Greeks lay dead.  
While round the Camp he ranged: At length arose  
A Seer who well divined; and durst disclose  
The Source of all our Ills: I took the Word;  
And urged the sacred Slave to be restored,  
The God appeased: The swelling Monarch stormed;  
And then, the Vengeance, vowed; he since performed:  
The Greeks 'tis true, their Ruin to prevent  
Have to the Royal Priest, his Daughter sent;  
But from their haughty King his Heralds came  
And seized by his Command, my Captive Dame,  
By common Suffrage given; but, thou, be won  
If, in thy Power, t'avenge thy injured Son:  
Ascend the Skies; and supplicating move,  
Thy just Complaint, to Cloud-compelling Jove.  
If thou by either Word or Deed hast wrought  
A kind remembrance in his grateful Thought,  
Urge him by that: For often hast thou said  
Thy Power was once not useless in his Aid.  
When He who high above the Highest reigns,  
Surprised by Traytor-Gods, was bound in Chains.  
When Juno, Pallas, with Ambition fired,  
And his blue Brother of the Seas conspired.  
Thou freed'st the Sovereign from unworthy Bands,  
Thou brought'st Briareus with his hundred Hands,  
(So called in Heaven, but mortal Men below  
By his terrestrial Name, AEgeon know:  
Twice stronger than his Sire, who sat above  
Assessor to the Throne of thundering Jove.)  
The Gods, dismayed at his approach, withdrew  
Nor durst their unaccomplished Crime, pursue.  
That Action to his grateful Mind recall;  
Embrace his Knees, and at his Footstool fall:  
That now if ever, he will aid our Foes;  
Let Troy's triumphant Troops the Camp enclose:  
Ours beat to the Shore, the Siege fasake;  
And what their King deserves with him partake.  
That the proud Tyrant at his proper cost,  
May learn the value of the Man he lost.   

To whom the Mother-Goddess thus replied,  
Sighed e'er she spoke, and while she spoke she cried,  
Ah wretched me! by Fates averse, decreed,  
To bring thee forth with Pain, with care to breed!  
Did envious Heaven not otherwise ordain,  
Safe in thy hollow Ships thou shouldst remain;  
Nor ever tempt the fatal Field again.  
But now thy Planet sheds his poisonous Rays:  
And short, and full of Sorrow are thy Days.  
For what remains, to Heaven I will ascend,  
And at the thunderer's Throne thy Suit commend.  
Till then, secure in Ships, abstain from Fight;  
Indulge thy Grief in Tears, and vent thy Spite.  
For yesterday the Court of Heaven with Jove,  
Removed: 'Tis dead Vacation now above.  
Twelve Days the Gods their solemn Revels keep,  
And quaff with blameless Ethiopes in the Deep.  
Returned from thence, to Heaven my Flight I take,  
Knock at the brazen Gates, and Providence awake.  
Embrace his Knees, and suppliant to the Sire,  
Doubt not I will obtain the grant of thy desire.   

She said: And parting left him on the place,  
Swollen with Disdain, resenting his Disgrace:  
Revengeful Thoughts revolving in his Mind,  
He wept for Anger and for Love he pined.   

Mean time with prosperous Gales, Ulysses brought  
The Slave, and Ship with Sacrifices fraught,  
To Chrysa's Port: Where entering with the Tide  
He dropped his Anchors, and his Oars he plied.  
Furl'd every Sail, and drawing down the Mast,  
His Vessel moored; and made with Haulsers fast.  
Descending on the Plain, ashore they bring  
The Hecatomb to please the shooter King.  
The Dame before an Altars holy Fire,  
Ulysses led; and thus bespoke her Sire.   

Reverenced be thou, and be thy God adored:  
The King of Men thy Daughter has restored;  
And sent by me with Presents and with Prayer;  
He recommends him to thy pious Care.  
That Phoebus at thy Suit his Wrath may cease,  
And give the penitent Offenders Peace.   

He said, and gave her to her Father's Hands,  
Who glad received her, free from servile Bands.  
This done, in Order they with sober Grace,  
Their Gifts around the well-built Altar place.  
Then washed, and took the Cakes; while Chryses stood  
With Hands upheld, and thus invoked his God.   

God, of the Silver Bow, whose Eyes survey  
The sacred Cilla, thou whose awful Sway  
Chrysa the blessed, and Tenedos obey:  
Now hear, as thou before my Prayer hast heard,  
Against the Grecians, and their Prince, preferred:  
Once thou hast honoured, honour once again  
Thy Priest; nor let his second Vows be vain.  
But from th' afflicted Host and humbled Prince,  
Avert thy Wrath, and cease thy Pestilence.  
Apollo heard, and conquering his Disdain,  
Unbent his Bow and Greece respired again.   

Now when the solemn Rites of Prayer were passed,  
Their salted Cakes on crackling Flames they cast.  
Then, turning back, the Sacrifice they sped:  
The fatted Oxen slew, and flayed the Dead.  
Chopped off their nervous Thighs, and next prepared  
T'involve the lean in Cauls', and mend with Lard.  
Sweetbreads and Collops, were with Skewers pricked  
About the Sides; inbibing what they decked.  
The Priest with holy Hands was seen to tine  
The cloven Wood, and pour the ruddy Wine.  
The Youth approached the Fire and as it burned  
On five sharp Broachers ranked, the Roast they turned:  
These Morsels stayed their Stomaches; then the rest  
They cut in Legs and Fillets for the Feast;  
Which drawn and served, their Hunger they appease  
With savoury Meat, and set their Minds at ease.   

Now when the rage of Eating was repelled,  
The Boys with generous Wine the Goblets filled.  
The first Libations to the Gods they pour:  
And then with Songs indulge the Genial Hour.  
Holy Debauch! Till Day to Night they bring,  
With Hymns and Paeans to the Bowyer King.  
At Sunset to their Ship they make return,  
And snore secure on Decks, till rosy Morn.   

The Skies with dawning Day were purpled over;  
Awaked, with labouring Oars they leave the Shore:  
The Power appeased, with Winds sufficed the Sail,  
The bellying Canvas strutted with the Gale;  
The Waves indignant roar with surly Pride,  
And press against the Sides, and beaten off divide.  
They cut the foamy way, with Force impelled  
Superior, till the Trojan Port they held:  
Then hauling on the Strand their Galley Moor,  
And pitch their Tents along the crooked Shore.   

Mean time the Goddess-born, in secret pined;  
Nor visited the Camp, nor in the Council joined,  
But keeping close, his gnawing Heart he fed  
With hopes of Vengeance on the Tyrant's Head:  
And wished for bloody Wars and mortal Wounds,  
And of the Greeks oppressed in Fight, to hear the dying Sounds.   

Now, when twelve Days complete had run their Race,  
The Gods bethought them of the Cares belonging to their place.  
Jove at their Head ascending from the Sea,  
A shoal of puny Powers attend his way.  
Then Thetis not unmindful of her Son  
Emerging from the Deep; to beg her Boon,  
Pursued their Track; and wakened from his rest,  
Before the Sovereign stood a Morning Guest.  
Him in the Circle but apart, she found:  
The rest at awful distance stood around.  
She bowed, and e'er she durst her Suit begin,  
One Hand embraced his Knees, one propped his Chin.  
Then thus. If I, Celestial Sire, in aught  
Have served thy Will, or gratified thy Thought,  
One glimpse of Glory to my Issue give;  
Graced for the little time he has to live.  
Dishonoured by the King of Men he stands:  
His rightful Prize is ravished from his Hands.  
But thou, O Father, in my Son's Defence,  
Assume thy Power, assert thy Providence.  
Let Troy prevail, till Greece th' Affront has paid,  
With doubled Honours; and redeemed his Aid.   

She ceased, but the considering God was mute:  
Till she resolved to win, renewed her Suit:  
Nor loosed her Hold, but forced him to reply,  
Or grant me my Petition, or deny:  
Jove cannot fear: Then tell me to my Face  
That I, of all the Gods am least in grace.  
This I can bear: The Cloud-Compeller mourned,  
And sighing, first, this Answer he returned.   

knowst thou what Clamours will disturb my Reign,  
What my stun'd Ears from Juno must sustain?  
In Council she gives Licence to her Tongue,  
Loquacious, Brawling, ever in the wrong.  
And now she will my partial Power upbraid,  
If alienate from Greece, I give the Trojans Aid.  
But thou depart, and shun her jealous Sight,  
The Care be mine, to do Pelides right.  
Go then, and on the Faith of Jove rely;  
When nodding to thy Suit, he bows the Sky.  
This ratifies th' irrevocable Doom:  
The Sign ordained, that what I will shall come:  
The Stamp of Heaven, and Seal of Fate: He said,  
And shook the sacred Honours of his Head.  
With Terror trembled heavens subsiding Hill:  
And from his shaken Curls Ambrosial Dews distil.  
The Goddess goes exulting from his Sight,  
And seeks the Seas profound; and leaves the Realms of Light.   

He moves into his Hall: The Powers resort,  
Each from his House to fill the Sovereign's Court.  
Nor waiting Summons, nor expecting stood;  
But met with Reverence, and received the God.  
He mounts the Throne; and Juno took her place:  
But sullen Discontent sat lowering on her Face.  
With jealous Eyes, at distance she had seen,  
Whispering with Jove the Silver-footed Queen;  
Then, impotent of Tongue (her Silence broke)  
Thus turbulent in rattling Tone she spoke.   

Author of Ills, and close Contriver Jove,  
Which of thy Dames, what Prostitute of Love,  
Has held thy Ear so long and begged so hard  
For some old Service done, some new Reward?  
Apart you talked, for that's your special care  
The Consort never must the Council share.  
One gracious Word is for a Wife too much:  
Such is a Marriage-Vow, and Jove's own Faith is such.   

Then thus the Sire of Gods, and Men below,  
What I have hidden, hope not thou to know.  
Even Goddesses are Women: And no Wife  
Has Power to regulate her Husband's Life:  
Counsel she may; and I will give thy Ear  
The Knowledge first, of what is fit to hear.  
What I transact with others, or alone,  
Beware to learn; nor press too near the Throne.   

To whom the Goddess with the charming Eyes,  
What hast thou said, O Tyrant of the Skies,  
When did I search the Secrets of thy Reign,  
Though privileged to know, but privileged in vain?  
But well thou dost, to hid from common Sight  
Thy close Intrigues, too bad to bear the Light.  
Nor doubt I, but the Silver-footed Dame,  
Tripping from Sea, on such an Errand came,  
To grace her Issue, at the Grecians Cost,  
And for one peevish Man destroy an Host.   

To whom the thunderer made this stern Reply;  
My Household Curse, my lawful Plague, the Spy  
Of Jove's Designs, his other squinting Eye;  
Why this vain prying, and for what avail?  
Jove will be Master still and Juno fail.  
Should thy suspicious Thoughts divine aright,  
Thou but becomest more odlous to my Sight,  
For this Attempt: uneasy Life to me  
Still watched, and importuned, but worse for thee.  
Curb that impetuous Tongue, before too late  
The Gods behold, and tremble at thy Fate.  
Pitying, but daring not in thy Defence,  
To lift a Hand against Omnipotence.   

This heard, the Imperious Queen sat mute with Fear;  
Nor further durst incense the gloomy Thunderer.  
Silence was in the Court at this Rebuke:  
Nor could the Gods abashed, sustain their Sov'reigns Look.   

The Limping Smith, observed the saddened Feast;  
And hopping here and there (himself a Jest)  
Put in his Word, that neither might offend;  
To Jove obsequious, yet his Mother's Friend.  
What end in Heaven will be of civil War,  
If Gods of Pleasure will for Mortals jar?  
Such Discord but disturbs our Jovial Feast;  
One Grain of Bad, embitters all the best.  
Mother, tho' wise yourself, my Counsel weigh;  
'Tis much unsafe my Sire to disobey.  
Not only you provoke him to your Cost,  
But Mirth is marred, and the good Cheer is lost.  
Tempt not his heavy Hand; for he has Power  
To throw you Headlong; from his Heavenly Tower.  
But one submissive 〈◊〉 which you let fall;  
Will make 〈◊〉 good 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 All.   

He said no more but crowned a Bowl, unbid:  
The laughing Nectar overlooked the Lid:  
Then put it to her Hand; and thus pursued,  
This cursed Quarrel be no more renewed.  
Be, as becomes a, Wife, 〈◊〉 still.  
Though grieved, yet subject to her Husband's Will.  
I would not see you beaten; yet afraid  
Of Jove's superior Force, I dare not aid.  
Too well I know him, since that hapless Hour  
When I, and all the Gods employed our Power  
To break your Bonds: Me by the Heel he drew;  
And o'er heavens Battlements with Fury threw.  
All Day I fell; My Flight at Morn begun,  
And ended not but with the setting Sun.  
Pitched on my Head, at length the Lemnian ground,  
Received my battered Skull, the Sinthians healed my Wound.   

At Vulcan's homely Mirth his Mother smiled,  
And smiling took the Cup the Clown had filled.  
The Reconciler Bowl, went round the Board,  
Which emptied, the rude Skinker still restored.  
Loud Fits of Laughter seized the Guests, to see  
The limping God so deft at his new Ministry.  
The Feast continued till declining Light:  
They drank, they laughed, they loved, and than 'twas Night.  
Nor wanted tuneful Harp, nor vocal Choir;  
The Muses sung; Apollo touched the Lyre.  
Drunken at last, and drowsy they depart,  
Each to his House; Adorned with laboured Art  
Of the lame Architect: The thundering God  
Even he withdrew to rest, and had his Load.  
His swimming Head to needful Sleep applied;  
And Juno lay unheeded by his Side.    

THE COCK and the FOX: OR, THE TALE OF THE NUN's PRIEST, FROM CHAUCER.  
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:  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 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 Huswifing the little Heaven had lent,  
She duly paid a Groat for Quarter-Rent;   

  

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 height her Cock, whose singing did surpass  
The merry Notes of Organs at the Mass.  
More certain was the crowing of a 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 Castlewall;  
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, tho' 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 showed them near allied.  
But make the worst, the Monarch did no more,  
Than all the Ptolomeys 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 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  
Tho' loath: 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 Seven-night 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 born.  
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 happened that perching on the Parlor-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,  
Herd 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 Spirit.   

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 not baffled Knight,  
How darest thou talk of Love, and darest not Fight?  
How darest thou tell thy Dame thou art affered,  
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 Gaul that in your Stomach floats,  
Engenders all these visionary Thoughts.  
When Choler overflows, than 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 bond,  
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.  
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 joath 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 over nor above,  
Because the God's 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 th'Immortal Powers as wise as He  
Maintain, with sounder Sense, that Dreams forbade;  
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  
Th' 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, 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 stayed 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.   

Roused 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 Tumbril laid; among  
The Filth, and Ordure, and enclosed with Dung.  
That Cart arrest, and raise a common Cry,  
For sacred hunger of my Gold I die;  
Then showed 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 enquiring 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  
Strait to the Western-Gate his way he took.  
There, as his Dream foretold, a Cart he found,  
That carried Composs 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, 〈◊〉 thronged the Place.  
All in a trice they cast the Cart to Ground,  
And in the Dung the murdered Body bound;  
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 overtake 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, th' Offence was known,  
And public Justice on th' 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 befell that looking out.  
The Wind they long had 〈◊〉 was borne about:  
Well pleased they went to Rest; and if the Gale  
Till Morn continued, both resolved to fail.  
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,  
Not 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 attends the watery 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 Cobblers, and a Court of Kings:  
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,  
What e'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 rend,  
But down at once with all her 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,  
Whose holy Life the Legends loudly sing,  
Warned, in a Dream, his Murder did foretell  
From Point to Point as after it befell:  
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 th' Egyptian Land,  
The Years of Plenty and of Dearth foretold,  
When for their Bread, their Liberty they sold.  
Nor must th' exalted Butler be forgot,  
Nor he whose Dream presaged his hanging Lot.   

And did not Croesus 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:  
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 gins 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 Doctor's good.  
Their Tribe, Trade, Trinkets, I defy them all,  
With every Work of ' Apothecary'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,  
Mulier est hominis confusio.  
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 Daylight now began apace to spring,  
The Thrush to whistle, and the Lark to sing.  
Then crowing clapped his Wings, th' 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 showed 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 e'er 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 th'exhaust,  
For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.   

Thus numb'ring 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 fits couring o'er a Kitchin-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 Lancelot 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,  
Who looked like Lent; and had the holy Leer,  
And dust not sin before he said his Prayer:  
This pious Cheat that never sucked the Blood,  
Nor chawed the Flesh of Lambs but when he could,  
Had passed three Summers in the neighbouring Wood;  
And musing long, whom next to circumvent,  
On Chanticleer his wicked Fancy bend:  
And in his high Imagination cast,  
By Stratagem to gratify his Tast.   

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 Colworts he concealed his wily Head;  
There skulked till Afternoon, and watched his time,  
(As Murderers use) to perpetrare 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 Gana was to Charlemaign!  
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 lie 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 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 Galleyslaves 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, tho' 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 Points too high for me;  
For heavens 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 prefumed 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 in idle Stuff:  
Legends of lying Wits together bound,  
The Wife of Bath would throw 'em 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 befell, 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  
Kind's 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 to 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 th' infernal Gods,  
And banished Horror from the dark Abodes:  
Had Orphans 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 pained 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 sov'raign Rome such loud Alarms,  
That even the Priests were not excused from Arms.   

Besides, a famous Monk of modern times,  
Has left of Cocks recorded in his Rhimes,  
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 〈◊〉 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 list'ned to than modest Truth is heard.   

This Chanticleer of whom the Story sings,  
Stood high upon his 〈◊〉 and clapped his Wings;  
Then stretched his Neck and winked with both his Eyes;  
Ambitious, as he sought, th' 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 wont 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,  
E'er 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, 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.  
Gaufride, 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 Ceur de Lion slain.   

Not louder Cries when Ilium was in Flames,  
Were sent to Heaven by woeful 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 born 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 smouldering 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 th' Imperial Town,  
Shrieked for the downfall 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 woeful 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 born.   

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.  
Run Coll our Dog, and Talbot with the Band,  
And Malkin, with her Distaff in her Hand:  
Run 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 betid,  
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 Waxed 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 French Man, or an unbelieving Jew:  
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 chased the murderous Fox,  
With brazen Trumpets, and inflated Box,  
To kindle Mars with military Sounds,  
Nor wanted Horns t'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:  
Yours is the Prize, victorious Prince, said he,  
The Vicar my defeat, and all the Village see.  
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 mast'ring both, th' Artificer of Lie  
Renews th' Assault, and his last Battery tries.   

Though I, said he, did ne'er in Thought offend,  
How justly may my Lord suspect his Friend?  
Th' 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 soothe 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 mixed,  
'Tis my concern to have the Tree betwixt.   

The MORAL.  
In this plain Fable you th' 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.    

THEODORE AND HONORIA, FROM BOCCACE.  
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  
T'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 th' 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 Expense, 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 Countryseat:  
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 with 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 th' Expense  
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 happened 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 overspred:  
A sudden Horror seized his giddy Head,  
And his Ears tinckled, 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 risen 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 Breers, 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 Coalblack Steed pursued the Chase;  
With flashing Flames his ardent Eyes were filled,  
And in his Hands 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 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 Hellhounds with superior Speed  
Had reached the Dame, and fastening on her Side,  
The Ground with issuing Streams of Purple died.  
Stood Theodore surprised in deadly Fright,  
With chattering Teeth and bristling Hair upright;  
Yet armed with inborn Worth, What e'er, said he,  
Thou art, who knowst 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, than 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 th' insulting Maid  
By heavens Decree in the cold Grave was laid,  
And as in unrepenting 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 opened 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, th' 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.  
Sterned 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  
Upstart fresh, already closed the Wound,  
And unconcerned for all she felt before  
Precipitates her Flight along the Shore:  
The Hellhounds, as ungorged with Flesh and Blood  
Pursue their Prey, and seek their wont 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 pall'd 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 unreguarded Love;  
By Thrift my sinking Fortune to repair,  
Tho' late, yet is at last become my Care:  
My Heart shall be my own; my vast Expense  
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 th'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, th'inexorable Dame:  
A Feast prepared with riotons' Expense,  
Much Cost, more Care, and most 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 Chase.  
The Feast was served; the time so well forecast,  
That just when the Dessert, 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 gripped 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 bend,  
(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 hoarsly bayed;  
The Hunter closed pursued the visionary Maid,  
She rend the Heaven with loud Laments, imploring Aid.   

The Gallants to protect the Ladies right,  
Their Falchions brandished at the grisly Spirit;  
High on his Stirups, he provoked the Fight.  
Then on the Crowd he cast a furious Look,  
And withered all their Strength before he struck:  
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 th' eternal Doom of Providence:  
Mine is th' ungrateful Maid by Heaven designed:  
Mercy she would hot 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 th' infernal Minister advanced,  
Seized the due Victim, and with Fury launched  
Her Back, and piercing through her inmost Heart,  
Drew backward, as before, th' offending part.  
The reeking Entrails next he tore away,  
And to his meager Mastiffs made a Prey:  
The pale Assistants, on each other stared  
With gaping Mouths for issuing Words prepared;  
The still born found'st upon the Palate hung,  
And died imperfect on the faltering 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 th' 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 sousing Eagle will descend.   

But most the proud Honoria feared th' event,  
And thought to her alone the Vision sent.  
Her Gild presents to her distracted Mind  
heavens Justice, Theodore's revengeful Kind,  
And the same Fate to the same Sin assigned;  
Already sees herself the Monster's Prey,  
And fecls her Heart, and Entrails torn away.  
'Twas a mute Scene of Sorrow, mixed with fear,  
Still on the Table lay th' unfinished Cheer;  
The Knight, and hungry Mastiffs stood around,  
The mangled Dame lay breathless on the Ground:  
When on a sudden reinspired with Breath,  
Again she risen, again to suffer Death;  
Nor stayed the Hellhounds, nor the Hunter stayed,  
But followed, as before, the flying Maid:  
Th' Avenger took from Earth th' 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 th' infernal Steed:  
The more dismayed, for when the Guests withdrew  
Their courteous Host saluting all the Crew,  
Regardless passed her over; nor graced with kind adieu.  
That Sting infixed within her haughty Mind,  
The downfall 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 Spirit 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 th' 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.    

CEYX AND ALCYONE.  
Connection of this Fable with the former.  
Ceyx's, the Son of Lucifer, (the Morning Star) and King of Trachin in Thessaly, was married to Alcyone Daughter to AEolus God of the Winds. Both the Husband and the Wife loved each other with an entire Affection. Daedalion, the Elder Brother of Ceyx (whom he succeeded) having been turned into a Falcon by Apollo, and Chione, Daedalion's Daughter, slain by Diana. Ceyx's prepares a Ship to sail to Claros there to consult the Oracle of Apollo, and (as Ovid seems to intimate) to inquire how the Anger of the Gods might be atoned.  

THESE Prodigies afflict the pious Prince,  
But more perplexed with those that happened since,  
He purposes to seek the Clarian God,  
Avoiding Delphos, his more famed Abode;  
Since Phlegyan Robbers made unsafe the Road.  
Yet could he not from her he loved so well  
The fatal Voyage, he resolved, conceal;  
But when she saw her Lord prepared to part,  
A deadly Cold ran shivering to her Heart:  
Her faded Cheeks are changed to Boxes Hue,  
And in her Eyes the Tears are ever new:  
She thrice assayed to Speak; her Accents hung  
And faltering died unfinished on her Tongue,  
Or vanished into Sighs: With long delay  
Her Voice returned; and found the wont way.   

Tell me, my Lord, she said, what Fault unknown  
Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done?  
Whether, ah whether is thy Kindness gone!  
Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his Wife,  
And unconcerned forsake the Sweets of Life?  
What can thy Mind to this long Journey move,  
Or needest thou absence to renew thy Love?  
Yet, if thou go'st by Land, tho' Grief possess  
My Soul even then, my Fears will be the less.  
But ah! be warned to shun the Watery Way,  
The Face is frightful of the stormy Sea.  
For late I saw a-drift disjointed Planks,  
And empty Tombs erected on the Banks.  
Nor let false Hopes to trust betray thy Mind,  
Because my Sire in Caves constrains the Wind,  
Can with a Breath their clamorous Rage appease,  
They fear his Whistle, and forsake the Seas;  
Not so, for once indulged, they sweep the Main;  
Deaf to the Call, or hearing hear in vain;  
But bend on Mischief bear the Waves before,  
And not content with Seas insult the Shoar,  
When Ocean, Air, and Earth, at once engage  
And rooted Forests fly before their Rage:  
At once the clashing Clouds to Battle move,  
And Lightnings run across the Fields above:  
I know them well, and marked their rude Comport,  
While yet a Child, within my Father's Court:  
In times of Tempest they command alone,  
And he but sits precarious on the Throne:  
The more I know, the more my Fears augment,  
And Fears are oft prophetic of th' event.  
But if not Fears, or Reasons will prevail,  
If Fate has fixed thee obstinate to sail,  
Go not without thy Wife, but let me bear  
My part of Danger with an equal share,  
And present, what I suffer only fear:  
Then o'er the bounding Billows shall we fly,  
Secure to live together, or to die.   

These Reasons moved her starlike Husband's Heart,  
But still he held his Purpose to departed:  
For as he loved her equal to his Life,  
He would not to the Seas expose his Wife;  
Nor could be wrought his Voyage to refrain,  
But sought by Arguments to soothe her Pain:  
Nor these availed; at length he lights on one,  
With which, so difficult a Cause he won:  
My Love, so short an absence cease to fear,  
For by my Father's holy Flame, I swear,  
Before two Moons their Orb with Light adorn,  
If Heaven allow me Life, I will return.   

This Promise of so short a stay prevails;  
He soon equips the Ship, supplies the Sails,  
And gives the Word to launch; she trembling views  
This pomp of Death, and parting Tears renews:  
Last with a Kiss, she took a long farewell,  
Sighed, with a sad Presage, and swooning fell:  
While Ceyx seeks Delays, the lusty Crew  
Raised on their Banks their Oars in order drew,  
To their broad Breasts, the Ship with fury flew.   

The Queen recovered rears her humid Eyes,  
And first her Husband on the Poop espies  
Shaking his Hand at distance on the Main;  
She took the Sign; and shook her Hand again.  
Still as the Ground recedes, contracts her View  
With sharpened Sight, till she no longer knew  
The much-loved Face; that Comfort lost supplies  
With less, and with the Galley feeds her Eyes;  
The Galley born from view by rising Gales  
She followed with her Sight the flying Sails:  
When even the flying Sails were seen no more  
Forsaken of all Sight, she left the Shoar.   

Then on her Bridal-Bed her Body throws,  
And sought in sleep her wearied Eyes to close:  
Her Husband's Pillow, and the Widowed part  
Which once he pressed, renewed the former Smart.   

And now a Breeze from Shoar began to blow,  
The Sailor's ship their Oars, and cease to row;  
Then hoist their Yards a-trip, and all their Sails  
Let fall, to court the Wind, and catch the Gales:  
By this the Vessel half her Course had run,  
And as much rested till the rising Sun;  
Both Shores were lost to Sight, when at the close  
Of Day, a stiffer Gale at East arose:  
The Sea grew White, the rolling Waves from far  
Like Heralds first denounce, the Wat'ry War.   

This seen, the Master soon began to cry,  
Strike, strike the Topsail; let the Main-sheet fly,  
And furl your Sails: The Winds repel the sound,  
And in the Speaker's Mouth the Speech is drowned.  
Yet of their own accord, as Danger taught  
Each in his way, officiously they wrought;  
Some stow their Oars, or stop the leaky Sides,  
Another bolder yet the Yard bestrides,  
And folds the Sails; a fourth with Labour, laves,  
Th' intruding Seas, and Waves ejects on Waves.   

In this Confusion while their Work they ply,  
The Winds augment the Winter of the Sky,  
And wage intestine Wars; the suffering Seas  
Are tossed, and mingled as their Tyrants please.  
The Master would command, but in despair  
Of Safety, stands amazed with stupid Care,  
Nor what to bid, or what forbidden he knows,  
Th' ungoverned Tempest to such Fury grows:  
Vain is his Force, and vainer is his Skill;  
With such a Concourse comes the Flood of Ill:  
The Cries of Men are mixed with rattling Shrowds;  
Seas dash on Seas, and Clouds encounter Clouds:  
At once from East to West, from Pole to Pole,  
The forky Lightnings flash, the roaring Thunders roll.   

Now Waves on Waves ascending scale the Skies,  
And in the Fires above, the Water fries:  
When yellow Sands are sifted from below,  
The glittering Billows give a golden Show:  
And when the fouler bottom spews the Black,  
The Stygian Dye the tainted Waters take:  
Then frothy White appear the flatted Seas,  
And change their Colour, changing their Disease.  
Like various Fits the Trachin Vessel finds,  
And now sublime, she rides upon the Winds;  
As from a lofty Summet looks from high,  
And from the Clouds beholds the nether Sky;  
Now from the depth of Hell they lift their Sight,  
And at a distance see superior Light:  
The lashing Billows make a loud report  
And beat her Sides, as battering Rams, a Fort:  
Or as a Lion, bounding in his way  
With Force augmented bears against his Prey;  
Sidelong to seize; or unappaled with fear  
Springs on the Toils, and rushes on the Spear:  
So Seas impelled by Winds with added Power  
Assault the Sides, and o'er the Hatches tower.   

The Planks (their pitchy Covering washed away)  
Now yield; and now a yawning Breach display:  
The roaring Waters with a hostile Tide  
Rush through the Ruins of her gaping Side.  
Mean time in Sheets of Rain the Sky descends,  
And Ocean swelled with Waters upwards tends,  
One rising, falling one, the heavens, and Sea  
Meet at their Confines, in the middle Way:  
The Sails are drunk with Showers, and drop with Rain,  
Sweet Waters mingle with the briny Main.  
No Star appears to lend his friendly Light:  
Darkness and Tempest make a double Night.  
But flashing Fires disclose the Deep by turns,  
And while the Light'ning blaze, the Water burns.   

Now all the Waves, their scattered Force unite,  
And as a Soldier, foremost in the Fight  
Makes way for others: And an Host alone  
Still presses on, and urging gains the Town;  
So while th' invading Billows come abreast,  
The Hero tenth advanced before the rest,  
Sweeps all before him with impetuous Sway,  
And from the Walls descends upon the Prey;  
Part following enter, part remain without,  
With Envy hear their Fellows conquering Shout:  
And mount on others Backs, in hope to share  
The City, thus become the Seat of War.   

An universal Cry resounds aloud,  
The Sailors run in heaps, a helpless Crowd;  
Art fails, and Courage falls, no Succour near;  
As many Waves, as many Deaths appear,  
One weeps, and yet despairs of late Relief;  
One cannot weep, his Fears congeal his Grief,  
But stupid, with dry Eyes expects his Fate:  
One with loud Shrieks laments his lost Estate,  
And calls those happy whom their Funerals wait.  
This Wretch with Prayers, and Vows the Gods implores,  
And even the Sky's he cannot see, adores.  
That other on his Friends his Thoughts bestows,  
His careful Father, and his faithful Spouse.  
The covetous Worldling in his anxious Mind  
Thinks only on the Wealth he left behind.   

All Ceyx his Alcyone employs,  
For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys:  
His Wife he wishes, and would still be near,  
Not her with him, but wishes him with her:  
Now with last Looks he seeks his Native Shoar,  
Which Fate has destined him to see no more;  
He sought, but in the dark tempestuous Night  
He knew not whether to direct his Sight.  
So whirl the Seas, such Darkness blinds the Sky,  
That the black Night receives a deeper Dye.   

The giddy Ship ran round; the Tempest tore  
Her Mast, and overboard the Rudder bore.  
One Billow mounts; and with a scornful Brow  
Proud of her Conquest gained insults the Waves below;  
Nor lighter falls, than if some Giant tore  
Pyndus and Athos, with the Freight they bore:  
And tossed on Seas; pressed with the ponderous Blow  
Down sinks the Ship within th' Abyss below:  
Down with the Vessel sink into the Main  
The many, never more to rise again.  
Some few on scattered Planks with fruitless Care  
Lay hold, and swim, but while they swim, despair.   

Even he who late a Sceptre did command  
Now grasps a floating Fragment in his Hand,  
And while he struggles on the stormy Main,  
Invokes his Father, and his Wife's, in vain;  
But yet his Consort is his greatest Care;  
Alcyone he names amidst his Prayer,  
Names as a Charm against the Waves, and Wind;  
Most in his Mouth, and ever in his Mind:  
Tired with his Toil, all hopes of Safety past,  
From Prayers to Wishes he descends at last:  
That his dead Body wafted to the Sands,  
Might have its Burial from her Friendly Hands.  
As oft as he can catch a gulp of Air,  
And peep above the Seas, he names the Fair,  
And even when plunged beneath, on her he raves,  
Murmuring Alcyone below the Waves:  
At last a falling Billow stops his Breath,  
Breaks o'er his Head, and whelms him underneath.  
Bright Lucifer unlike himself appears  
That Night, his heavenly Form obscured with Tears,  
And since he was forbid to leave the Skies,  
He muffled with a Cloud his mournful Eyes.   

Mean time Alcyone (his Fate unknown)  
Computes how many Nights he had been gone,  
Observes the waning Moon with hourly view  
Numbers her Age, and wishes for a new;  
Against the promised Time provides with care,  
And hastens in the Woof the Robes he was to wear:  
And for herself employs another Loom,  
New-dressed to meet her Lord returning home,  
Flattering her Heart with Joys that never were to come:  
She summed the Temples with an odrous Flame,  
And oft before the sacred Altars came,  
To pray for him, who was an empty Name.  
All Powers implored, but far above the rest  
To Juno she her pious Vows addressed,  
Her much-loved Lord from Perils to protect  
And safe o'er Seas his Voyage to direct:  
Then prayed that she might still possess his Heart,  
And no pretending Rival share a part;  
This last Petition heard of all her Prayer,  
The rest dispersed by Winds were lost in Air.   

But she, the Goddess of the Nuptial-Bed,  
Tired with her vain Devotions for the Dead,  
Resolved the tainted Hand should be repelled  
Which Incense offered, and her Altar held:  
Then Iris thus bespoke; Thou faithful Maid  
By whom thy Queen's Commands are well conveyed,  
Hast to the House of Sleep, and bid the God  
Who rules the Night by Visions with a Nod,  
Prepare a Dream, in Figure and in Form  
Resembling him who perished in the Storm;  
This Form before Alcyone present,  
To make her certain of the sad Event.   

Endued with Robes of various Hue she flies,  
And flying draws an Arch, (a segment of the Skies:)  
Then leaves her bending Bow, and from the steep  
Descends to search the silent House of Sleep.   

Near the Cymmerians, in his dark Abode  
Deep in a Cavern, dwells the drowsy God;  
Whose gloomy Mansion nor the rising Sun  
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome Noon:  
But lazy Vapours round the Region fly,  
Perpetual Twilight, and a doubtful Sky;  
No crowing Cock does there his Wings display  
Nor with his horny Bill provoke the Day:  
Nor watchful Dogs, nor the more wakeful Geese,  
Disturb with nightly Noise the sacred Peace:  
Nor Beast of Nature, nor the Tame are nigh,  
Nor Trees with Tempests rocked, nor human Cry,  
But safe Repose without an air of Breath  
Dwells here, and a dumb Quiet next to Death.   

An Arm of Lethe with a gentle flow  
Arising upwards from the Rock below,  
The Palace moats, and o'er the Pebbles creeps  
And with soft Murmurs calls the coming Sleeps:  
Around its Entry nodding Poppies grow,  
And all cool Simples that sweet Rest bestow;  
Night from the Plants their sleepy Virtue drains,  
And passing sheds it on the silent Plains:  
No Door there was th' unguarded House to keep,  
On creaking Hinges turned, to break his Sleep.   

But in the gloomy Court was raised a Bed  
Stuffed with black Plumes, and on an Ebon-sted:  
Black was the Covering too, where lay the God  
And slept supine, his Limbs displayed abroad:  
About his Head fantastic Visions fly,  
Which various Images of Things supply,  
And mock their Forms, the Leaves on Trees not more;  
Nor bearded Ears in Fields, nor Sands upon the Shore.   

The Virgin entering bright indulged the Day  
To the brown Cave, and brushed the Dreams away:  
The God disturbed with this new glare of Light  
Cast sudden on his Face, unsealed his Sight,  
And raised his tardy Head, which sunk again,  
And sinking on his Bosom knocked his Chin;  
At length shook off himself; and asked the Dame,  
(And ask yawned) for what intent she came?   

To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred Rest,  
Sweet pleasing Sleep, of all the Powers the best!  
O Peace of Mind, repairer of Decay,  
Whose Balms renews the Limbs to Labours of the Day,  
Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away!  
Adorn a Dream, expressing human Form,  
The Shape of him who suffered in the Storm,  
And send it flitting to the Trachin Court,  
The Wreck of wretched Ceyx to report:  
Before his Queen bid the pale Spectre stand,  
Who begs a vain Relief at Juno's Hand.  
She said, and scarce awake her Eyes could keep,  
Unable to support the fumes of Sleep:  
But fled returning by the way she went,  
And swerved along her Bow with swift ascent.   

The God uneasy till he slept again  
Resolved at once to rid himself of Pain;  
And tho' against his Custom, called aloud,  
Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy Crowd:  
Morpheus of all his numerous Train expressed  
The Shape of Man, and imitated best;  
The Walk, the Words, the Gesture could supply,  
The Habit mimic, and the Mien belly;  
Plays well, but all his Action is confined;  
Extending not beyond our human kind.  
Another Birds, and Beasts, and Dragon's apes,  
And dreadful Images, and Monster shapes:  
This Daemon, Icelos, in heavens high Hall  
The Gods have named; but Men Phobetor call:  
A third is Phantasus, whose Actions roll  
On meaner Thoughts, and Things devoid of Soul;  
Earth, Fruits and Flowers, he represents in Dreams,  
And solid Rocks unmoved, and running Streams:  
These three to Kings, and Chiefs their Scenes display,  
The rest before th' ignoble Commons play:  
Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatched,  
Which done, the lazy Monarch overwatched  
Down from his propping Elbow drops his Head,  
Dissolved in Sleep, and shrinks within his Bed.   

Darkling the Daemon glides for Flight prepared,  
So soft that scarce his fanning Wings are heard.  
To Trachin, swift as Thought, the flitting Shade  
Through Air his momentary Journey made:  
Then lays aside the steerage of his Wings,  
Forsakes his proper Form, assumes the Kings?  
And pale as Death despoiled of his Array  
Into the Queen's Apartment takes his way,  
And stands before the Bed at dawn of Day:  
Unmoved his Eyes, and wet his Beard appears;  
And shedding vain, but seeming real Tears;  
The briny Water dropping from his Hairs;  
Then staring on her with a ghastly Look  
And hollow Voice, he thus the Queen bespoke.   

knowst thou not me? Not yet unhappy Wife?  
Or are my Features perished with my Life?  
Look once again, and for thy Husband lost,  
Lo all that's left of him, thy Husband's Ghost!  
Thy Vows for my return were all in vain;  
The stormy South overtake us in the Main;  
And never shalt thou see thy living Lord again.  
Bear witness Heaven I called on Thee in Death,  
And while I called, a Billow stopped my Breath:  
Think not that flying Fame reports my Fate;  
I present, I appear, and my own Wreck relate.  
Rise wretched Widow, rise, nor undeplored  
Permit my Ghost to pass the Stygian Ford:  
But rise, prepared in Black, to mourn thy perished Lord.   

Thus said the Player-God; and adding Art  
Of Voice and Gesture, so performed his part,  
She thought (so like her Love the Shade appears)  
That Ceyx spoke the Words, and Ceyx shed the Tears:  
She groaned, her inward Soul with Grief oppressed,  
She sighed, she wept; and sleeping beat her Breast:  
Then stretched her Arms t'embrace his Body bare,  
Her clasping Arms enclose but empty Air:  
At this not yet awake she cried, O stay,  
One is our Fate, and common is our way!  
So dreadful was the Dream, so loud she spoke,  
That starting sudden up, the Slumber broke:  
Then cast her Eyes around in hope to view  
Her vanished Lord, and find the Vision true:  
For now the Maids, who waited her Commands,  
Ran in with lighted Tapers in their Hands.  
Tired with the Search, not finding what she seeks,  
With cruel Blows she pounds her blubbered Cheeks:  
Then from her beaten Breast the Linen tore,  
And cut the golden Cawl that bond her Hair.  
Her Nurse demands the Cause with louder Cries,  
She prosecutes her Griefs, and thus replies.   

No more Alcyone; she suffered Death  
With her loved Lord, when Ceyx lost his Breath:  
No Flattery, no false Comfort, give me none,  
My Shipwrecked Ceyx is for ever gone:  
I saw, I saw him manifest in view,  
His Voice, his Figure, and his Gestures knew:  
His Lustre lost, and every living Grace,  
Yet I retained the Features of his Face;  
Tho' with pale Cheeks, wet Beard, and dropping Hair,  
None but my Ceyx could appear so fair:  
I would have strained him with a strict Embrace,  
But through my Arms he slipped, and vanished from the Place:  
There, even just there he stood; and as she spoke  
Where last the Spectre was, she cast her Look:  
Fain would she hope, and gazed upon the Ground  
If any printed Footsteps might be found.   

Then sighed and said; This I too well foreknew,  
And, my prophetic Fear presaged too true:  
'Twas what I begged when with a bleeding Heart  
I took my leave, and suffered Thee to part;  
Or I to go along, or Thou to stay,  
Never, ah never to divide our way!  
Happier for me, that all our Hours assigned  
Together we had lived; even not in Death disjoined!  
So had my Ceyx still been living here,  
Or with my Ceyx I had perished there:  
Now I die absent, in the vast profound;  
And Me without myself the Seas have drowned:  
The Storms were not so cruel; should I strive  
To lengthen Life, and such a Grief survive;  
But neither will I strive, nor wretched Thee  
In Death forsake, but keep thee Company.  
If not one common Sepulchre contains  
Our Bodies, or one Urn, our last Remains,  
Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,  
Their Names remembered in one common Line.   

No farther Voice her mighty Grief affords,  
For Sighs come rushing in betwixt her Words,  
And stopped her Tongue, but what her Tongue denied  
Soft Tears, and Groans, and dumb Complaints supplied.   

'Twas Morning; to the Port she takes her way,  
And stands upon the Margin of the Sea:  
That Place, that very Spot of Ground she sought,  
Or thither by her Destiny was brought;  
Where last he stood: And while she sadly said  
'Twas here he left me, lingering here delayed,  
His parting Kiss; and there his Anchors weighed.   

Thus speaking, while her Thoughts past Actions trace,  
And call to mind admonished by the Place,  
Sharp at her utmost Ken she cast her Eyes,  
And somewhat floating from afar descries:  
It seemed a Corpse adrift, to distant Sight,  
But at a distance who could judge aright?  
It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew  
That what before she but surmised, was true:  
A Corpse it was, but whose it was, unknown,  
Yet moved, however, she made the Case her own:  
Took the bad Omen of a shipwrecked Man,  
As for a Stranger wept, and thus began.   

Poor Wretch, on stormy Seas to lose thy Life,  
Unhappy thou, but more thy widowed Wife!  
At this she paused; for now the flowing Tide  
Had brought the Body nearer to the side:  
The more she looks, the more her Fears increase,  
At nearer Sight; and she's herself the less:  
Now driven ashore, and at her Feet it lies,  
She knows too much, in knowing whom she sees:  
Her Husband's Corpse; at this she loudly shrieks,  
'tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her Cheeks,  
Her Hair, her Vest, and stooping to the Sands  
About his Neck she cast her trembling Hands.   

And is it thus, O dearer than my Life,  
Thus, thus returnest Thou to thy longing Wife!  
She said, and to the neighbouring Mole she strode,  
(Raised there to break th' Incursions of the Flood;)   

Headlong from hence to plunge herself she springs,  
But shoots along supported on her Wings,  
A Bird new-made about the Banks she plies,  
Not far from Shore; and short Excursions tries;  
Nor seeks in Air her humble Flight to raise,  
Content to skim the Surface of the Seas:  
Her Bill, tho' slender, sends a creaking Noise,  
And imitates a lamentable Voice:  
Now lighting where the bloodless Body lies,  
She with a Funeral Note renews her Cries.  
At all her stretch her little Wings she spread,  
And with her feathered Arms embraced the Dead:  
Then flick'ring to his palid Lips, she strove  
To print a Kiss, the last essay of Love:  
Whether the vital Touch revived the Dead,  
Or that the moving Waters raised his Head  
To meet the Kiss, the Vulgar doubt alone;  
For sure a present Miracle was shown.  
The Gods their Shapes to Winter-Birds translate,  
But both obnoxious to their former Fate.  
Their conjugal Affection still is tied,  
And still the mournful Race is multiplied:  
They bill, they tread; Alcyone compressed  
seven Days sits brooding on her floating Nest:  
A wintry Queen: Her Sire at length is kind,  
Calms every Storm, and hushes every Wind;  
Prepares his Empire for his Daughter's Ease,  
And for his hatching Nephews smooths the Seas.    

THE Flower and the Leaf: OR, THE LADY IN THE ARBOUR. A VISION.  
THE Flower and the Leaf; OR, THE LADY IN THE ARBOUR.  

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 th' 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 Side, but still in vain,  
Tho' 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:  
Sea's 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 Chaunticleer the second Watch had sung,  
Scorning the Scorner Sleep from Bed I sprung.  
And dressing, by the Moon, in lose 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,  
hoping from Spray to Spray, were heard to sing;  
Both Eyes and Ears received a like Delight,  
Enchanting Music, and a charming Sight.  
On Philomela I fixed my whole Desire;  
And list'ned for the Queen of all the Choir;  
Feign 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.  
Wand'ring 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 arround 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 arround the Shades defended it from Day.  
For Sycamours with Eglantine were spread,  
A Hedge about the Sides, a Covering over Head.  
And so the fragrant Brier was wove between,  
The Sycamour 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 risen 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 tho' 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 Show,  
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 intranc'd, and had. no room for Thought.  
But all o'er-pou'red with Ecstasy of Bliss,  
Was in a pleasing Dream of Paradise;  
At length I waked; and looking round the Bower  
Searched every Tree, and pried 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 sat, 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 th' 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 th'approaching sound  
Of vocal Music, on th'enchanted Ground:  
An Host of Saints it seemed, so full the Choir;  
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 over  
With Diamonds, Pearls, and all the shining store  
Of Eastern Pomp: Their long descending Train  
With Rubies edged, and Saphires, swept the Plain:  
High on their Heads, with Jewels richly set  
Each Lady wore a radiant Coronet.  
Beneath the Circles, all the Choir 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 Choir,  
So, nobler than the rest, was her Attire.  
A Crown of ruddy Gold enclosed 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 wheresoever 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, th' 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:  
Overjoyed 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 Trumpets 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 road 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 Silkworm never drew.  
The chief about their Necks, the Scutcheons wore,  
With Orient Pearls and Jewels powdered over:  
Broad were their Collars too, and every one  
Was set about with many a costly Stone.  
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 arround their Temples rolled:  
Rich Crowns were on their royal Scutcheons placed  
With Saphires, 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 road 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 of their Arms were nailed with Gold.  
Their Surcoats of white Ermin-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 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 over,  
Or Oak, or other Leaves of lasting kind,  
Tenacious of the Stem and firm against the Wind.  
Some in their Hands besides the Lance and Shield,  
The Boughs of Woodbine or of Hauthorn held,  
Or Branches for their mystic Emblems took,  
Of Palm, of Laurel, or of Cerrial Oak.   

Thus marching to the Trumpets lofty sound  
Drawn in two Lines adverse they wheeled around,  
And in the middle Meadow took their Ground.  
Among themselves the Turney they divide,  
In equal Squadrons, ranged on either side.  
Then turned their Horse's 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 Courses 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 Fight 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 levy 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 heavens 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 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 Symarrs were seen  
Of Florence Satin, flow'red 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 Lady's Colours were  
Composed of White and Red to shade their shining Hair.  
Before the merry Troop the Minstrels played,  
All in their Master's 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, Pipe, and Hautbois noisy band,  
And the soft Lute trembling beneath the touching Hand.  
A Tuft of Daisies on a flowery Lay  
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;  
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 Syrius 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, riveled 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 Wether, 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 born, and beating Rain.  
Like Courtesy was used by all in White,  
Each Dame a Dame received, and every Knight a Knight.  
The Lawrel-Champions with their Swords invade,  
The neighbouring Forests where the Justs were made,  
And Serewood 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 Sunburnt Cheeks, and their chapped Skins they  
Then sought green Salads which they bade 'em eat, (laid:  
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.  
Mean time 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 Philomela, officious all the Day  
To sing the Service of th' 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 Starlight and the friendly Moon:  
And when they were to part, the Laureate 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 Mystique 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 humane Bodies once, and clothed with earthly Mould:  
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 levy 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 Lawrel-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, th' unconquered Nine  
Who crowned with Lawrel-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 lawrelled Chiefs were Men of mighty Fame;  
Nine Worthies were they called of different Rites,  
Three Jews, three Pagans, and three Christian Knights.  
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 Charlemagne:  
For Bows the Strength of brawny Arms imply,  
Emblems of Valour, and of Victory.  
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 fight Fields the Laurel have obtained,  
And well repaid those Honours which they gained.  
The Lawrel-Wreaths were first by Caesar worn,  
And still they Caesar'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 lose 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 Honours 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 mystique 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 risen 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.    

Mr. DRYDEN's ODE In HONOUR of St. CECILIA's Day. 1697.  
Alexander's Feast; OR, THE POWER of MUSIC. AN ODE, In HONOUR of St. CECILIA's Day.  


I.  

'TWas at the Royal Feast, for Persia won,  
By Philip's Warlike Son:  
Aloft in awful State  
The Godlike Hero sat  
On his Imperial Throne:  
His valiant Peers were placed around;  
Their Brows with Roses and with Myrtles bound.  
(So should Desert in Arms be Crowned:)  
The Lovely Thais by his side,  
Sat like a blooming Eastern Bride  
In Flower of Youth and Beauty's Pride.  
Happy, happy, happy Pair!  
None but the Brave  
None but the Brave  
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.   

CHORUS.  
Happy, happy, happy Pair!  
None but the Brave,  
None but the Brave  
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.    

II.  

Timotheus placed on high  
Amid the tuneful Choir,  
With flying Fingers touched the Lyre:  
The trembling Notes ascend the Sky,  
And Heavenly Joys inspire.  
The Song began from Jove;  
Who left his blissful Seats above,  
(Such is the Power of mighty Love.)  
A Dragon's fiery Form belied the God:  
Sublime on Radiant Spires He road,  
When He to fair Olympia pressed:  
And while He sought her snowy Breast:  
Then, round her slender Waist he curled,  
And stamped an Image of himself, a sovereign of the World.  
The listening Crowd admire the lofty Sound,  
A present Deity, they shout around:  
A present Deity the vaulted Roofs rebound.  
With ravished Ears  
The Monarch hears,  
Assumes the God,  
Affects to nod,  
And seems to shake the Spheres.   

CHORUS.  
With ravished Ears  
The Monarch hears,  
Assumes the God,  
Affects to nod,  
And seems to shake the Spheres.    

III.  

The Praise of Bacchus then, the sweet Musician sung;  
Of Bacchus ever Fair, and ever Young:  
The jolly God in Triumph comes;  
Sound the Trumpets; beat the Drums;  
Flushed with a purple Grace  
He shows his honest Face,  
Now gives the Hautboys breath; He comes, He comes.  
Bacchus ever Fair and Young,  
Drinking Joys did first ordain:  
Bacchus Blessings are a Treasure;  
Drinking is the Soldiers Pleasure;  
Rich the Treasure;  
Sweet the Pleasure;  
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.   

CHORUS.  
Bacchus' Blessings are a Treasure;  
Drinking is the Soldier's Pleasure;  
Rich the Treasure,  
Sweet the Pleasure;  
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.    

iv  

Soothed with the Sound the King grew vain;  
Fought all his Battles over again;  
And thrice He routed all his Foes; and thrice he slew the slain.  
The Master saw the Madness rise;  
His glowing Cheeks, his ardent Eyes;  
And while He Heaven and Earth defied,  
Changed his Hand, and checked his Pride.  
He chose a Mournful Muse  
Soft Pity to infuse:  
He sung Darius Great and Good,  
By too severe a Fate,  
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,  
Fallen from his high Estate  
And weltering in his Blood:  
Deserted at his utmost Need,  
By those his former Bounty fed:  
On the bare Earth exposed He lies,  
With not a Friend to close his Eyes.  
With downcast Looks the joyless Victor sat,  
Revolving in his altered Soul  
The various Turns of Chance below;  
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;  
And Tears began to flow.   

CHORUS.  
Revolving in his altered Soul  
The various Turns of Chance below;  
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;  
And Tears began to flow.    

V  

The Mighty Master smiled to see  
That Love was in the next Degree:  
'Twas but a Kindred-Sound to move;  
For Pity melts the Mind to Love.  
Softly sweet, in Lydian Measures,  
Soon he soothed his Soul to Pleasures.  
War, he sung, is Toil and Trouble;  
Honour but an empty Bubble.  
Never ending, still beginning,  
Fight still, and still destroying,  
If the World be worth thy Winning,  
Think, O think, it worth Enjoying.  
Lovely Thais sits besides thee,  
Take the Good the Gods provide thee.   

The Many rend the Skies, with loud Applause;  
So Love was Crowned, but Music won the Cause.  
The Prince, unable to conceal his Pain,  
Gazed on the Fair  
Who caused his Care,  
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,  
Sighed and looked, and sighed again:  
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppressed,  
The vanquished Victor sunk upon her Breast.   

CHORUS.  
The Prince, unable to conceal his Pain,  
Gazed on the Fair  
Who caused his Care,  
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,  
Sighed and looked, and sighed again:  
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppressed,  
The vanquished Victor sunk upon her Breast.    

VI  

Now strike the Golden Lyre again:  
A louder yet, and yet a louder Strain.  
Break his Bands of Sleep asunder,  
And rouse him, like a rattling Peal of Thunder.  
Hark, hark, the horrid Sound  
Has raised up his Head,  
As awaked from the Dead,  
And amazed, he stairs around.  
Revenge, Revenge, Timotheus cries,  
See the Furies arise!  
See the Snakes that they rear,  
How they hiss in their Hair,  
And the Sparkles that flash from their Eyes!  
Behold a ghastly Band,  
Each a Torch in his Hand!  
Those are Grecian Ghosts, that in Battle were slain,  
And unburied remain  
Inglorious on the Plain.  
Give the Vengeance due  
To the Valiant Crew.  
Behold how they toss their Torches on high,  
How they point to the Persian Abodes,  
And glittering Temples of their Hostile Gods!  
The Princes applaud, with a furious Joy;  
And the King seized a Flambeau, with Zeal to destroy;  
Thais led the Way,  
To light him to his Prey,  
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.   

CHORUS.  
And the King seized a Flambeau, with Zeal to destroy;  
Thais led the Way,  
To light him to his Prey,  
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.    

VII.  

Thus, long ago  
' E'er heaving Bellows learned to blow,  
While Organs yet were mute;  
Timotheus, to his breathing Flute,  
And sounding Lyre,  
Could swell the Soul to rage, or kindle soft Desire.  
At last Divine Cecilia came,  
Inventress of the Vocal Frame;  
The sweet Enthusiast, from her Sacred Store,  
Enlarged the former narrow Bounds,  
And added Length to solemn Sounds,  
With Nature's Mother-Wit, and Arts unknown before,  
Let old Timotheus yield the Prize,  
Or both divide the Crown;  
He raised a Mortal to the Skies;  
She drew an Angel down.   

Grand CHORUS.  
At last, Divine Cecilia came,  
Inventress of the Vocal Frame;  
The sweet Enthusiast, from her Sacred Store,  
Enlarged the former narrow Bounds,  
And added Length to solemn Sounds,  
With Nature's Mother-Wit, and Arts unknown before.  
Let old Timotheus yield the Prize,  
Or both divide the Crown;  
He raised a Mortal to the Skies;  
She drew an Angel down.      

THE Twelfth BOOK OF OVID HIS METAMORPHOSES, Wholly Translated.  
THE Twelfth Book OF THE METAMORPHOSES, Wholly Translated.  
Connection to the End of the Eleventh Book.  
AEsacus, the Son of Priam, loving a Country-Life, forsakes the Court: Living obscurely, he falls in Love with a Nymph; who flying from him, was killed by a Serpent; for Grief of this, he would have drowned himself; but by the pity of the Gods, is turned into a Cormorant. Priam, not hearing of AEsacus, believes him to be dead, and raises a Tomb to preserve his Memory. By this Transition, which is one of the finest in all Ovid, the Poet naturally falls into the Story of the Trojan War, which is summed up, in the present Book, but so very briefly, in many Places, that Ovid seems more short than Virgil, contrary to his usual Style. Yet the House of Fame, which is here described, is one of the most beautiful Pieces in the whole Metamorphoses. The Fight of Achilles and Cygnus, and the Fray betwixt the Lapythae and Centaurs, yield to no other part of this Poet: And particularly the Loves and Death of Cyllarus and Hylonome, the Male and Female Centaur, are wonderfully moving.  

PRiam, to whom the Story was unknown,  
As dead, deplored his Metamorphosed Son:  
A Cenotaph his Name and Title kept,  
And Hector round the Tomb, with all his Brothers wept.   

This pious Office Paris did not share,  
Absent alone; and Author of the War,  
Which, for the Spartan Queen, the Grecians drew  
T'avenge the Rape; and Asia to subdue.   

A thousand Ships were man'd, to sail the Sea:  
Nor had their just Resentments found delay,  
Had not the Winds and Waves, opposed their way.  
At Aulis, with United Powers they meet,  
But there, Cross-winds or Calms, detained the Fleet.   

Now, while they raise an Altar on the Shore,  
And Jove with solemn Sacrifice adore;  
A boding Sign the Priests and People see:  
A Snake of size immense, ascends a Tree.  
And in the levy Summet, spied a Nest,  
Which, o'er her Callow young, a Sparrow pressed.  
Eight were the Birds unfledged; their Mother flew;  
And hovered round her Care; but still in view:  
Till the fierce Reptile first devoured the Brood;  
Then seized the fluttering Dam, and drunk her Blood.  
This dire Ostent, the fearful People view;  
Calchas alone, by Phoebus taught, foreknew  
What Heaven decreed; and with a smiling Glance,  
Thus gratulates to Greece her happy Chance.  
O Argives we shall Conquer: Troy is ours,  
But long Delays shall first afflict our Powers:  
Nine Years of Labour, the nine Birds portend;  
The Tenth shall in the Town's Destruction end.   

The Serpent, who his Maw obscence had filled,  
The Branches in his curled Embraces held:  
But, as in Spires he stood, he turned to Stone:  
The stony Snake retained the Figure still his own.   

Yet, not for this, the Wind-bound Navy weighed,  
Slack were their Sails; and Neptune disobeyed.  
Some thought him loathe the Town should be destroyed,  
Whose Building had his Hands divine employed:  
Not so the Seer; who knew, and known foreshowed,  
The Virgin Phoebe, with a Virgin's Blood  
Must first be reconciled; the common Cause  
Prevailed; and Pity yielding to the Laws,  
Fair Iphigenia the devoted Maid  
Was, by the weeping Priests, in Linnen-Robes arrayed;  
All mourn her Fate; but no Relief appeared:  
The Royal Victim bound, the Knife already reared:  
When that offended Power, who caused their Woe,  
Relenting ceased her Wrath; and stopped the coming Blow.  
A Mist before the Ministers she cast;  
And, in the Virgin's room, a Hind she placed.  
Th' Oblation slain, and Phoebe reconciled,  
The Storm was hushed, and dimpled Ocean smiled:  
A favourable Gale arose from Shore,  
Which to the Port desired, the Grecian Galleys bore.   

Full in the midst of this Created Space,  
Betwixt Heaven, Earth and Skies; there stands a Place,  
Confining on all three; with triple Bound;  
Whence all Things, though remote, are viewed around;  
And thither bring their Undulating Sound.  
The Palace of loud Fame; her Seat of Power;  
Placed on the Summet of a lofty Tower;  
A thousand winding Entries long and wide,  
Receive of fresh Reports a flowing Tide.  
A thousand Crannies in the Walls are made;  
Nor Gate nor Bars exclude the busy Trade.  
'Tis built of Brass the better to diffuse  
The spreading Sounds, and multiply the News:  
Where Echoes, in repeated Echoes play:  
A Mart for ever full; and open Night and Day.  
Nor Silence is within, nor Voice express,  
But a deaf Noise of Sounds that never cease.  
Confused, and Chiding, like the hollow Roar  
Of Tides, receding from th' insulted Shore.  
Or like the broken Thunder, heard from far,  
When Jove to distance drives the rolling War.  
The Courts are filled with a tumultuous Din  
Of Crowds, or issuing forth, or entering in:  
A thorough fare of News: Where some devise  
Things never heard; some mingle Truth with Lies:  
The troubled Air with empty Sounds they beat:  
Intent to hear; and eager to repeat.  
Error sits brooding there; with added Train  
Of vain Credulity; and Joys as vain:  
Suspicion, with Sedition joined, are near;  
And Rumours raised, and Murmurs mixed, and Panic Fear.  
Fame sits aloft; and sees the subject Ground;  
And Seas about, and Skies above; enquiring all around.   

The Goddess gives th' Alarm; and soon is known  
The Grecian Fleet, descending on the Town.  
Fixed on Defence the Trojans are not slow  
To guard their Shore, from an expected Foe.  
They meet in Fight: By Hector's fatal Hand  
Protesilaus falls; and bites the Strand:  
Which with expense of Blood the Grecians won;  
And proved the Strength unknown of Priam's Son.  
And to their Cost the Trojan Leaders felt  
The Greciav Heroes; and what Deaths they dealt.   

From these first Onsets, the Sigaean Shore  
Was strewed with Carcases; and stained with Gore:  
Neptuman Cygnus, Troops of Greeks had slain;  
Achilles in his Carr had scow'red the Plain:  
And cleared the Trojan Ranks: Where e'er he fought,  
Cygnus, or Hector, through the Fields he sought:  
Cygnus he found; on him his Force essayed:  
For Hector was to the tenth Year delayed,  
His white man'd Steeds, that bowed beneath the Yoke  
He cheered to Courage, with a gentle Stroke;  
Then urged his fiery Chariot on the Foe;  
And rising, shook his Lance; in act to throw.  
But first, he cried, O Youth be proud to bear  
Thy Death, ennobled, by Pelides Spear.  
The Lance pursued the Voice without delay;  
Nor did th' whizzing Weapon miss the way:  
But pierced his Cuirass, with such Fury sent;  
And signed his Bosom with a Purple dint.  
At this the Seed of Neptune; Goddess-born,  
For Ornament, not Use, these Arms are worn;  
This Helm, and heavy Buckler I can spare;  
As only Decorations of the War:  
So Mars is armed for Glory, not for Need.  
'Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed,  
Than from a Daughter of the Sea to spring:  
Thy Sire is Mortal; mine is Ocean's King.  
Secure of Death, I should contemn thy Dart,  
Tho' naked; and impassable depart:  
He said, and threw: The trembling Weapon passed  
Through nine Bull-hides, each under other placed;  
On his broad Shield; and stuck within the last.  
Achilles' wrenched it out; and sent again  
The hostile Gift: The hostile Gift was vain.  
He tried a third; a tough well-chosen Spear,  
Th'inviolable Body stood sincere;  
Though Cygnus then did no Defence provide,  
But scornful offered his unshielded Side.   

Not otherwise th' impatient Hero fared,  
Than as a Bull, encompassed with a Guard  
Amid the Circus roars: Provoked from far  
By sight of Scarlet, and a sanguine War:  
They quit their Ground; his bended Horns elude;  
In vain pursuing, and in vain pursued.   

Before to farther Fight he would advance,  
He stood considering, and surveyed his Lance.  
Doubts if he wielded not a Wooden Spear  
Without a Point: He looked, the Point was there.  
This is my Hand, and this my Lance he said;  
By which so many thousand Foes are dead.  
O whether is their usual Virtue fled!  
I had it once; and the Lyrnessian Wall,  
And Tenedos confessed it in their fall.  
Thy Streams, Caicus, rolled a Crimson-Flood;  
And Thebes ran Red with her own Natives Blood.  
Twice Telephus employed this piercing Steel,  
To wound him first, and afterward to heal.  
The Vigour of this Arm, was never vain;  
And that my wont Prowess I retain,  
Witness these heaps of Slaughter on the Plain.  
He said; and doubtful of his former Deeds;  
To some new trial of his Force proceeds.  
He chose Menaetes from among the rest;  
At him he launched his Spear; and pierced his Breast:  
On the hard Earth, the Lycian knocked his Head;  
And lay supine; and forth the Spirit fled.   

Then thus the Hero; neither can I blame;  
The Hand, or Javelin; both are still the same.  
The same I will employ against this Foe;  
And wish but with the same Success to throw.  
So spoke the Chief; and while he spoke he threw;  
The Weapon with unerring Fury flew!  
At his left Shoulder aimed: Nor entrance found;  
But back, as from a Rock, with swift rebound  
Harmless returned: A bloody Mark appeared,  
Which with false Joy, the flattered Hero cheered.  
Wound there was none; the Blood that was in view,  
The Lance before from slain Menaetes drew.   

Headlong he leaps from off his losty Car,  
And in close Fight on foot renews the War.  
Raging with high Disdain, repeats his Blows;  
Nor Shield nor Armour can their Force oppose;  
Huge Cantlets of his Buckler strew the Ground,  
And no Defence in his bored Arms is found.  
But on his Flesh, no Wound or Blood is seen;  
The Sword itself, is blunted on the Skin.   

This vain Attempt the Chief no longer bears;  
But round his hollow Temples and his Ears  
His Buckler beats: The Son of Neptune, stun'd  
With these repeated Buffets, quits his Ground;  
A sickly Sweat succeeds; and Shades of Night:  
Inverted Nature swims before his Sight:  
Th' insulting Victor presses on the more,  
And treads the Steps the vanquished trod before.  
Nor Rest, nor Respite gives: A Stone there lay,  
Behind his trembling Foe; and stopped his way.  
Achilles took th' Advantage which he found,  
O'er-turned, and pushed him backward on the Ground.  
His Buckler held him under, while he pressed  
With both his Knees above, his panting Breast.  
Unlaced his Helm: About his Chin the Twist  
He tied; and soon the strangled Soul dismissed.   

With eager haste he went to strip the Dead:  
The vanished Body from his Arms was fled.  
His Sea-God Sire t' immortalize his Fame,  
Had turned it to the Bird, that bears his Name.   

A Truce succeeds the Labours of this Day,  
And Arms suspended with a long delay.  
While Trojan Walls are kept with Watch and Ward;  
The Greeks before their Trenches, mount the Guard;  
The Feast approached; when to the blue-eyed Maid  
His Vows for Cygnus slain the Victor paid,  
And a white Heifer, on her Altar laid.  
The reeking Entrails on the Fire they threw;  
And to the Gods the grateful Odour flew:  
Heaven had its part in Sacrifice: The rest  
Was broiled and roasted for the future Feast.  
The chief invited Guests, were set around:  
And Hunger first assuaged, the Bowls were crowned,  
Which in deep Draughts, their Cares and Labours drowned.  
The mellow Harp did not their Ears employ:  
And mute was all the Warlike Symphony:  
Discourse, the Food of Souls, was their Delight,  
And pleasing Chat, prolonged the Summers-night.  
The Subject, Deeds of Arms; and Valour shown  
Or on the Trojan side, or on their own.  
Of Dangers undertaken, Fame achieved;  
They talked by turns; the Talk by turns relieved.  
What Things but these, could fierce Achilles tell,  
Or what could fierce Achilles hear so well?  
The last great Act performed, of Cygnus slain,  
Did most the Martial Audience entertain:  
Wondering to find a Body, free by Fate  
From Steel; and which could even that Steel rebate:  
Amazed, their Admiration they renew;  
And scarce Pelides could believe it true.   

Then Nestor, thus: What once this Age has known,  
In fated Cygnus, and in him alone,  
Those Eyes have seen in Caeneus long before,  
Whose Body, not a thousand Swords could boar.  
Caeneus, in Courage, and in Strength excelled;  
And still his Othries, with his Fame is filled:  
But what did most his Martial Deeds adorn,  
(Though since he changed his Sex) a Woman born.   

A Novelty so strange, and full of Fate,  
His listening Audience asked him to relate.  
Achilles, thus commends their common Suit;  
O Father, first for Prudence in repute,  
Tell, with that Eloquence, so much thy own,  
What thou hast heard, or what of Caeneus known:  
What was he, whence his change of Sex begun,  
What Trophies, joined in Wars with thee, he won?  
Who conquered him, and in what fatal Strife  
The Youth without a Wound, could lose his Life?   

Neleides then; though tardy Age, and Time  
Have shrunk my Sinews, and decayed my Prime:  
Though much I have forgotten of my Store,  
Yet not exhausted, I remember more.  
Of all that Arms achieved, or Peace designed,  
That Action still is fresher in my Mind  
Than ought beside. If Reverend Age can give  
To Faith a Sanction, in my third I live.   

'Twas in my second Cent'ry, I surveyed  
Young Caenis, than a fair Thessalian Maid:  
Caenis the bright, was born to high Command;  
A Princess; and a Native of thy Land,  
Divine Achilles; every Tongue proclaimed  
Her Beauty; and her Eyes all Hearts inflamed.  
Peleus, thy Sire, perhaps had sought her Bed;  
Among the rest; but he had either led  
Thy Mother then; or was by Promise tied:  
But she to him, and all alike her Love denied.   

It was her Fortune once, to take her way  
Along the sandy Margin of the Sea:  
The Power of Ocean viewed her as she passed,  
And loved as soon as seen, by Force embraced.  
So Fame reports. Her Virgin-Treasure seized,  
And his new Joys, the Ravisher so pleased,  
That thus, transported, to the Nymph he cried;  
Ask what thou wilt, no Prayer shall be denied.  
This also Fame relates: The haughty Fair  
Who not the Rape, even of a God could bear,  
This Answer, proud, returned: To mighty Wrongs  
A mighty Recompense, of right, belongs.  
Give me no more to suffer such a Shame;  
But change the Woman, for a better Name.  
One Gift for all: She said; and while she spoke,  
A stern, majestic, manly Tone she took.  
A Man she was: And as the Godhead swore,  
To Caeneus turned, who Caenis was before.   

To this the Lover adds without request:  
No force of Steel should violate his Breast.  
Glad of the Gift, the new-made Warrior goes:  
And Arms among the Greeks; and longs for equal Foes.   

Now brave Pirithous, bold Ixion's Son,  
The Love of fair Hippodame had won.  
The Cloud-begotten Race half Men, half Beast,  
Invited, came to grace the Nuptial Feast:  
In a cool Cave's recess, the Treat was made,  
Whose entrance, Trees with spreading Boughs overshade.  
They sat: And summoned by the Bridegroom, came  
To mix with those the Lapythaean Name:  
Nor wanted I: The Roofs with Joy resound:  
And Hymen, Io Hymen, rung around.  
Raised Altars shone with holy Fires; the Bride,  
Lovely herself (and lovely by her side  
A bevy of bright Nymphs, with sober Grace,)  
Came glittering like a Star; and took her Place.  
Her heavenly Form beheld, all wished her Joy;  
And little wanted, but in vain, their Wishes all employ.   

For One, most Brutal, of the Brutal Brood,  
Or whether Wine or Beauty fired his Blood,  
Or both at once; beheld with lustful Eyes  
The Bride; at once resolved to make his Prize.  
Down went the Board; and fastening on her Hair,  
He seized with sudden Force the frighted Fair.  
'Twas Eurytus began: His bestial Kind  
His Crime pursued; and each as pleased his Mind,  
Or her, whom Chance presented, took: The Feast  
An Image of a taken Town expressed.   

The Cave resounds with Female Shrieks; we rise,  
Mad with Revenge, to make a swift Reprise:  
And Theseus first; what Frenzy has possessed  
O Eurytus, he cried, thy brutal Breast,  
To wrong Pirithous, and not him alone,  
But while I live, two Friends conjoined in one?   

To justify his Threat, he thrusts aside  
The Crowd of Centauris; and redeems the Bride:  
The Monster nought replied: For Words were vain;  
And Deeds could only Deeds unjust maintain:  
But answers with his Hand; and forward pressed,  
With Blows redoubled, on his Face and Breast.  
An ample Goblet stood, of antic Mould:  
And rough with Figures of the rising Gold;  
The Hero snatched it up: And tossed in Air,  
Full at the Front of the foul Ravisher.  
He falls; and falling vomits forth a Flood  
Of Wine, and Foam and Brains, and mingled Blood.  
Half roaring, and half neighing through the Hall,  
Arms, Arms, the double formed with Fury call;  
To wreak their Brother's death: A Medley-Flight  
Of Bowls and Jars, at first supply the Fight.  
Once Instruments of Feasts; but now of Fate;  
Wine animates their Rage, and arms their Hate.   

Bold Amycus, from the robbed Vestry brings  
The Chalices of Heaven; and holy Things  
Of precious Weight: A Sconce, that hung on high,  
With Tapers filled, to light the Sacristy,  
Torn from the Cord, with his unhallowed Hand  
He threw amid the Lapythaean Band,  
On Celadon the Ruin fell; and left  
His Face of Feature and of Form bereft:  
So, when some brawny Sacrificer knocks  
Before an Altar led, an offered Ox,  
His Eyeballs rooted out, are thrown to Ground;  
His Nose dismantled, in his Mouth is found,  
His Jaws, Cheeks, Front, one undistinguished Wound.   

This, Belates, th' Avenger, could not brook;  
But, by the Foot a Maple-board he took;  
And hurled at Amycus; his Chin it bent  
Against his Chest, and down the Centaur sent:  
Whom sputtring bloody Teeth, the second Blow  
Of his drawn Sword, dispatched to Shades below.   

Grineus was near; and cast a furious Look  
On the side Altar, censed with sacred Smoke,  
And bright with flaming Fires; the Gods, he cried,  
Have with their holy Trade, our Hands supplied:  
Why use we not their Gifts? Then from the Floor  
An Altar-Stone he heaved, with all the Load it bore:  
Altar and Altars fraught together flew,  
Where thickest thronged the Lapythaean Crew:  
And Broteas, and at once, Oryus slew.  
Oryus Mother, Mycale, was known  
Down from her Sphere, to draw the labouring Moon.   

Exadius cried, unpunished shall not go  
This Fact, if Arms are found against the Foe.  
He looked about, where on a Pine were spread  
The votive Horns of a Stag's branching Head:  
At Grineus these he throws; so just they fly,  
That the sharp Antlers stuck in either Eye:  
Breathless and Blind he fell; with Blood besmeared;  
His Eyeballs beaten out, hung dangling on his Beard,  
Fierce Rhaetus, from the Hearth a burning Brand,  
Selects, and whirling waves; till, from his Hand  
The Fire took Flame; then dashed it from the right,  
On fair Charaxus Temples; near the Sight:  
The whistling Pest came on; and pierced the Bone,  
And caught the yellow Hair, that shrieveled while it shone.  
Caught, like dry Stubble fitted; or like Seerwood;  
Yet from the Wound ensued no Purple Flood;  
But looked a bubbling Mass, of frying Blood.  
His blazing Locks, sent forth a crackling Sound;  
And hissed, like red hot Iron, within the Smithy drowned.  
The wounded Warrior shook his flaming Hair,  
Then (what a Team of Horse could hardly rear)  
He heaves the Threshold-Stone; but could not throw;  
The Weight itself, forbade the threatened Blow.  
Which dropping from his lifted Arms, came down,  
Full on Comets Head; and crushed his Crown.  
Nor Rhaetus then retained his Joy; but said;  
So by their Fellows may our Foes be sped;  
Then, with redoubled Strokes he plies his Head:  
The burning Lever, not deludes his Pains;  
But drives the battered Skull, within the Brains.   

Thus flushed, the Conqueror, with Force renewed,  
Evagrus, Dryas, Corythus, pursued:  
First, Corythus, with downy Cheeks, he slew;  
Whose fall, when fierce Evagrus had in view,  
He cried, what Palm is from a beardless Prey?  
Rhaetus prevents what more he had to say;  
And drove within his Mouth the fiery Death,  
Which entered hissing in, and choked his Breath.  
At Dryas next he flew: But weary Chance  
No longer would the same Success advance.  
For while he whirled in fiery Circles round  
The Brand, a sharpened Stake strong Dryas found;  
And in the Shoulder's Joint inflicts the Wound.  
The Weapon stuck; which roaring out with Pain,  
He drew; nor longer durst the Fight maintain,  
But turned his Back, for fear; and fled amain.  
With him fled Orneus, with like Dread possessed;  
Thaumas, and Medon wounded in the Breast;  
And Mermeros in the late Race renowned,  
Now limping run, and tardy with his Wound.  
Pholus and Melaneus from Fight withdrew,  
And Abas maimed, who Boars encountering slew:  
And Augur Astylos, whose Art in vain,  
From Fight dissuaded, the fourfooted Train;  
Now beat the Hoof with Nessus on the Plain;  
But to his Fellow cried, be safely slow,  
Thy Death deferred is due to great Alcides Bow.   

Mean time strong Dryas urged his Chance so well,  
That Lycidas, Areos, Imbreus fell;  
All, one by one, and fight Face to Face:  
Crenaeus fled, to fall with more Disgrace:  
For, fearful, while he looked behind, he bore  
Betwixt his Nose and Front, the Blow before.  
Amid the Noise and Tumult of the Fray,  
Snoring, and drunk with Wine, Aphidas lay.  
Even than the Bowl within his Hand he kept:  
And on a Bear's rough Hide securely slept.  
Him Phorbas with his flying Dart, transfixed;  
Take thy next Draught, with Stygian Waters mixed,  
And sleep thy fill th' insulting Victor cried;  
Surprised with Death unfelt, the Centaur died;  
The ruddy Vomit, as he breathed his Soul,  
repassed his Throat; and filled his empty Bowl.   

I saw Petraeus Arms, employed around  
A well-grown Oak, to root it from the Ground.  
This way, and that, he wrenched the fibrous Bands;  
The Trunk, was like a Sappling in his Hands  
And still obeyed the Bend: While thus he stood,  
Pirithous Dart driven on; and nailed him to the Wood  
Lycus, and Chromys fell by him oppressed:  
Helops and Dictys added to the rest  
A nobler Palm: Helops through either Ear  
Transfixed, received the penetrating Spear.  
This, Dictys saw; and seized with sudden Fright  
Leapt headlong from the Hill of steepy height;  
And crushed an Ash beneath, that could not bear his weight.  
The shattered Tree receives his fall; and strikes  
Within his full-blown Paunch, the sharpened Spikes.  
Strong Aphareus had heaved a mighty Stone,  
The Fragment of a Rock; and would have thrown;  
But Theseus with a Club of hardened Oak,  
The Cubit-bone of the bold Centaur broke;  
And left him maimed; nor seconded the Stroke.  
Then leapt on tall Bianor's Back: (Who bore  
No mortal Burden but his own, before.)  
Pressed with his Knees his Sides; the double Man  
His speed with Spurs increased, unwilling ran.  
One Hand the Hero fastened on his Locks;  
His other plied him with repeated Strokes.  
The Club rung round his Ears, and battered Brows;  
He falls; and lashing up his Heels, his Rider throws.   

The same Herculean Arms, Nedymnus' wound;  
And lay by him Lycotas on the Ground.  
And Hippasus, whose Beard his Breast invades;  
And Ripheus, haunter of the Woodland Shades:  
And Tereus used with Mountain-Bears to strive;  
And from their Dens to draw th' indignant Beasts alive.   

Demoleon could not bear this hateful Sight,  
Or the long Fortune of th' Athenian Knight:  
But pulled with all his Force, to disengage  
From Earth a Pine; the Product of an Age:  
The Root stuck fast: The broken Trunk he sent  
At Theseus: Theseus frustrates his Intent,  
And leaps aside; by Pallas warned, the Blow  
To shun: (for so he said; and we believed it so.)  
Yet not in vain, th' enormous Weight was cast;  
Which Crantor's Body sundered at the Waist.  
Thy Father's Squire, Achilles, and his Care;  
Whom Conquered in the Dolopeian War,  
Their King, his present Ruin to prevent  
A Pledge of Peace implored, to Peleus sent.   

Thy Sire, with grieving Eyes, beheld his Fate;  
And cried, not long, loved Crantor, shalt thou wait  
Thy vowed Revenge. At once he said, and threw  
His Ashen-Spear; which quivered as it flew;  
With all his Force and all his Soul applied;  
The sharp Point entered in the Centaur's Side:  
Both Hands, to wrench it out, the Monster joined;  
And wrenched it out; but left the Steel behind.  
Stuck in his Lungs it stood: Enraged he rears  
His Hoofs, and down to Ground thy Father bears.  
Thus trampled under Foot, his Shield defends  
His Head; his other Hand the Lance protends.  
Even while he lay extended on the Dust,  
He sped the Centaur, with one single Thrust.  
Two more, his Launce before transfixed from far;  
And two, his Sword had slain, in closer War.  
To these was added Dorylas: Who spread  
A Bull's two goring Horns around his Head.  
With these he pushed; in Blood already died;  
Him, fearless, I approached; and thus defied:  
Now Monster, now, by Proof it shall appear,  
Whether thy Horns, are sharper or my Spear.  
At this, I threw: For want of other Ward,  
He lifted up his Hand, his Front to guard.  
His Hand it passed: And fixed it to his Brow:  
Loud Shouts of ours, attend the lucky Blow.  
Him Peleus finished, with a second Wound:  
Which through the Navel pierced: He reeled around;  
And dragged his dangling Bowels on the Ground.  
Trod what he dragged; and what he trod he crushed:  
And to his Mother-Earth, with empty Belly rushed.   

Nor could thy Form, O Cyllarus, foreslow  
Thy Fate; (if Form to Monsters Men allow:)  
Just bloomed thy Beard: Thy Beard of golden Hue:  
Thy Locks in golden Waves, about thy Shoulders flew.  
Sprightly thy Look: Thy Shapes in every part  
So clean; as might instruct the Sculptor's Art:  
As far as Man extended: Where began  
The Beast, the Beast was equal to the Man.  
Add but a Horse's Head and Neck; and he,  
O Castor, was a Courser worthy thee.  
So was his Back proportioned for the Seat;  
So risen his brawny Chest; so swiftly moved his Feet.  
Coalblack his Colour; but like Jet it shone,  
His Legs and flowing Tail, were White alone.  
Beloved by many Maidens of his Kind;  
But fair, Hylonome, possessed his Mind:  
Hylonome, for Features, and for Face  
Excelling all the Nymphs of double Race:  
Nor less her Blandishments, than Beauty move;  
At once both loving, and confessing Love.  
For him she dressed: For him with Female Care  
She combed, and set in Curls, her auborn Hair.  
Of Roses, Violets, and Lilies mixed  
And Sprigs of flowing Rosemary betwixt  
She formed the Chaplet, that adorned her Front:  
In Waters of the Pagasaean Fount,  
And in the Streams that from the Fountain play,  
She washed her Face; and bathed her twice a Day.  
The Scarf of Furs, that hung below her Side,  
Was Ermine, or the Panther's spotted Pride;  
Spoils of no common Beast: With equal Flame  
They loved: Their Sylvan Pleasures were the same:  
All Day they hunted: And when Day expired,  
Together to some shady Cave retired:  
Invited to the Nuptials, both repair:  
And Side by Side, they both engage in War.   

Uncertain from what Hand, a flying Dart  
At Cyllarus was sent; which pierced his Heart.  
The Javelin drawn from out the mortal Wound,  
He faints with staggering Steps; and seeks the Ground:  
The Fair, within her Arms received his fall,  
And strove his wand'ring Spirits to recall:  
And while her Hand the streaming Blood opposed,  
Joined Face to Face, his Lips with hers she closed.  
Stifled with Kisses, a sweet Death he dies;  
She fills the Fields with undistinguished Cries:  
At least her Words, were in her Clamour drowned;  
For my stun'd Ears received no vocal Sound.  
In madness of her Grief, she seized the Dart  
New-drawn, and reeking from her Lover's Heart;  
To her bare Bosom the sharp Point applied;  
And wounded fell; and falling by his Side,  
Embraced him in her Arms; and thus embracing, died.   

Even still methinks, I see Phaeocomes;  
Strange was his Habit; and as odd his Dress.  
Six Lion's Hides, with Thongs together fast,  
His upper part defended to his Waist:  
And where, Man ended, the continued Vest,  
Spread on his Back, the Houss and Trappings of a Beast.  
A Stump too heavy for a Team to draw;  
(It seems a Fable, tho' the Fact I saw;)  
He threw at Pholon; the descending Blow  
Divides the Skull, and cleaves his Head in two.  
The Brains, from Nose and Mouth, and either Ear  
Came issuing out, as through a Colendar  
The curdled Milk; or from the Press the Whey  
Driven down by Weights above, is drained away.   

But him, while stooping down to spoil the Slain,  
Pierced through the Paunch, I tumbled on the Plain.  
Then Chthonyus, and Teleboas I slew:  
A Fork the former armed; a Dart his Fellow threw.  
The Javelin wounded me; (behold the Scar.)  
Then was my time to seek the Trojan War;  
Then I was Hector's Match in open Field;  
But he was then unborn; at least a Child:  
Now, I am nothing. I forbear to tell  
By Periphantas how Pyretus fell.  
The Centaur by the Knight: Nor will I stay  
On Amphyx, or what Deaths he dealt that Day:  
What Honour, with a pointless Lance he won,  
Stuck in the front of a fourfooted Man.  
What Fame young Macareus obtained in Fight:  
Or dwell on Nessus, now returned from Flight.  
How Prophet Mopsus, not alone devin'd,  
Whose Valour equalled his foreseeing Mind.   

Already Caeneus, with his conquering Hand,  
Had slaughtered five the boldest of their Band.  
Pyrachmus, Helymus, Antimachus,  
Bromus the Brave, and stronger Stiphelus,  
Their Names I numbered, and remember well,  
No Trace remaining, by what Wounds they fell.   

Latreus, the bulkiest of the double Race  
Whom the spoiled Arms of slain Halesus grace,  
In Years retaining still his Youthful Might,  
Though his black Hairs were interspersed with White,  
Betwixt th' imbattled Ranks, began to prance,  
Proud of his Helm, and Macedonian Lance;  
And road the Ring around; that either Host  
Might hear him, while he made this empty Boast.  
And from a Strumpet shall we suffer Shame,  
For Caenis still, not Caeneus is thy Name:  
And still the Native Softness of thy Kind  
Prevails; and leaves the Woman in thy Mind?  
Remember what thou wert; what Price was paid  
To change thy Sex: To make thee not a Maid;  
And but a Man in show: Go, Card and Spin;  
And leave the Business of the War to Men.   

While thus the Boaster exercised his Pride,  
The fatal Spear of Caeneus reached his Side:  
Just in the mixture of the Kind's it ran;  
Betwixt the nether Breast, and upper Man:  
The Monster mad with Rage, and stung with Smart,  
His Lance directed at the Hero's Heart:  
It struck: But bounded from his hardened Breast,  
Like Hail from Tiles, which the safe House invest.  
Nor seemed the Stroke with more effect to come,  
Than a small Pibble falling on a Drum.  
He next his Falchion tried, in closer Fight;  
But the keen Falchion, had no Power to by't.  
He thrust; the blunted Point returned again:  
Since downright Blows, he cried, and Thrusts are vain,  
I'll prove his Side: In strong Embraces held  
He proved his Side; his Side the Sword repelled:  
His hollow Belly echoed to the Stroke;  
Untouched his Body, as a solid Rock;  
Aimed at his Neck at last, the Blade in Shivers broke.   

Th' Impassive Knight stood Idle, to deride  
His Rage, and offered oft his naked Side:  
At length, Now Monster, in thy turn he cried  
Try thou the Strength of Caeneus: At the Word  
He thrust; and in his Shoulder plunged the Sword.  
Then writhed his Hand; and as he drove it down,  
Deep in his Breast, made many Wounds in one.   

The Centauris saw enraged, th' unhoped Success;  
And rushing on, in Crowds, together press;  
At him, and him alone, their Darts they threw:  
Repulsed they from his fated Body flew.  
Amazed they stood; till Monychus began,  
O Shame, a Nation conquered by a Man!  
A Woman-Man; yet more a Man is He,  
Than all our Race; and what He was, are We.  
Now, what avail our Nerves? The united Force,  
Of two the strongest Creatures, Man and Horse:  
Nor Goddess-born; nor of Ixion's Seed  
We seem; (a Lover built for Juno's Bed;)  
Mastered by this half Man. Whole Mountains throw  
With Woods at once, and bury him below.  
This only way remains. Nor need we doubt  
To choke the Soul within; though not to force it out.  
Heap Weights, instead of Wounds: He chanced to see  
Where Southern Storms had rooted up a Tree;  
This, raised from Earth, against the Foe he threw;  
Th' Example shown, his Fellow-Brutes pursue.  
With Forest-loads the Warrior they invade;  
Othrys and Pelion soon were void of Shade;  
And spreading Groves were naked Mountains made.  
Pressed with the Burden, Caeneus pants for Breath;  
And on his Shoulders bears the Wooden, Death.  
To heave th' intolerable Weight he tries;  
At length it risen above his Mouth and Eyes:  
Yet still he heaves: And struggling with Despair,  
Shakes all aside; and gains a gulp of Air:  
A short Relief, which but prolongs his Pain;  
He faints by Fits; and then respires again:  
At last, the Burden only nods above,  
As when an Earthquake stirs th' Idaean Grove.  
Doubtful his Death: He suffocated seemed,  
To most; but otherwise our Mopsus deemed.  
Who said he saw a yellow Bird arise  
From out the Pile, and cleave the liquid Skies:  
I saw it too: With golden Feathers bright;  
Nor e'er before, beheld so strange a Sight.  
Whom Mopsus viewing, as it soared around  
Our Troop, and heard the Pinions rattling Sound,  
All hail he cried, thy Country's Grace and Love;  
Once first of Men below; now first of Birds above.  
It's Author to the Story gave Belief:  
For us, our Courage was increased by Grief:  
Ashamed to see a single Man, pursued  
With Odds, to sink beneath a Multitude:  
We pushed the Foe; and forced to shameful Flight;  
Part fell; and part escaped by favour of the Night.   

This Tale by Nestor told, did much displease  
Tlepolemus, the Seed of Hercules:  
For, often he had heard his Father say,  
That he himself was present at the Fray;  
And more than shared the Glories of the Day.   

Old Chronicle, he said, among the rest,  
You might have named Alcides at the least:  
Is he not worth your Praise? The Pylian Prince  
Sighed e'er he spoke; then made this proud Defence.  
My former Woes in long Oblivion drowned,  
I would have lost; but you renew the Wound:  
Better to pass him over, than to relate  
The Cause I have your mighty Sire to hate.  
His Fame has filled the World, and reached the Sky;  
(Which, Oh, I wish with Truth, I could deny!)  
We praise not Hector; though his Name, we know  
Is great in Arms; 'tis hard to praise a Foe.   

He, your Great Father, levelled to the Ground  
Messenia's towers: Nor better Fortune found  
Elis, and Pylos; that a neighbouring State  
And this my own: Both guiltless of their Fate.   

To pass the rest, twelve wanting one, he slew;  
My Brethren, who their Birth from Neleus drew.  
All Youths of early Promise, had they lived;  
By him they perished: I alone survived.  
The rest were easy Conquest: But the Fate  
Of Periclymenos, is wondrous to relate.  
To him, our common Grandsire of the Main,  
Had given to change his Form; and changed, resume again.  
Varied at Pleasure, every Shape he tried;  
And in all Beasts Alcides still defied:  
Vanquished on Earth, at length he soared above;  
Changed to the Bird, that bears the Bolt of Jove.  
The new-dislembled Eagle, now endued  
With Beak and Pounces, Hercules pursued:  
And cuffed his manly Cheeks, and tore his Face;  
Then, safe retired, and toured in empty space.  
Alcides bore not long his flying Foe;  
But bending his inevitable Bow,  
Reached him in Air, suspended as he stood;  
And in his Pinion fixed the feathered Wood  
Light was the Wound; but in the Sinew hung,  
The Point; and his disabled Wing unstrung.  
He wheeled in Air, and stretched his Vans in vain;  
His Vans no longer could his Flight sustain:  
For while one gathered Wind, one unsupplyed  
Hung drooping down; nor poised his other Side.  
He fell: The Shaft that slightly was impressed,  
Now from his heavy Fall with weight increased,  
Drove through his Neck, aslant, he spurns the Ground;  
And the Soul issues through the Weazon's Wound.   

Now, brave Commander of the Rhodian Seas,  
What Praise is due from me, to Hercules?  
Silence is all the Vengeance I decree  
For my slain Brothers; but 'tis Peace with thee.   

Thus with a flowing Tongue old Nestor spoke:  
Then, to full Bowls each other they provoke:  
At length, with Weariness, and Wine oppressed;  
They rise from Table; and withdraw to Rest.   

The Sire of Cygnus, Monarch of the Main,  
Mean time, laments his Son, in Battle slain:  
And vows the Victor's Death; nor vows in vain.  
For nine long Years the smothered Pain he bore;  
(Achilles was not ripe for Fate, before:)  
Then when he saw the promised Hour was near,  
He thus bespoke the God, that guides the Year.  
Immortal Offspring of my Brother Jove;  
My brightest Nephew, and whom best I love,  
Whose Hands were joined with mine, to raise the Wall  
Of tottering Troy, now nodding to her fall,  
Dost thou not mourn our Power employed in vain;  
And the Defenders of our City slain?  
To pass the rest, could noble Hector lie  
Unpityed, dragged around his Native Troy?  
And yet the Murderer lives: Himself by far  
A greater Plague, than all the wasteful War:  
He lives; the proud Pelides lives to boast  
Our Town destroyed, our common Labour lost!  
O, could I meet him! But I wish too late:  
To prove my Trident is not in his Fate!  
But let him try (for that's allowed) thy Dart,  
And pierce his only penetrable Part.   

Apollo bows to the superior Throne;  
And to his Uncle's Anger, adds his own.  
Then in a Cloud involved, he takes his Flight,  
Where Greeks and Trojans mixed in mortal Fight;  
And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,  
And stained his Arrows with Plebeian Blood:  
Phoebus to him alone the God confessed,  
Then to the recreant Knight, he thus addressed.  
Dost thou not blush, to spend thy Shafts in vain  
On a degenerate, and ignoble Train?  
If Fame, or better Vengeance be thy Care,  
There aim: And with one Arrow, end the War.   

He said; and showed from far the blazing Shield  
And Sword, which but Achilles none could wield;  
And how he moved a God, and mowed the standing Field.  
The Deity himself directs aright  
Th' envenomed Shaft; and wings the fatal Flight.   

Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian Name;  
And He, the base adulterer, boasts the Fame.  
A Spectacle to glad the Trojan Train;  
And please old Priam, after Hector slain.  
If by a Female Hand he had foreseen  
He was to die, his Wish had rather been  
The Lance and double Axe of the fair Warrious Queen.   

And now the Terror of the Trojan Field  
The Grecian Honour, Ornament, and Shield,  
High on a Pile, th' Unconquered Chief is placed,  
The God that armed him first, consumed at last.  
Of all the Mighty Man, the small Remains  
A little Urn, and scarcely filled, contains.  
Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives;  
And equal to himself, himself survives.   

His Buckler owns its former Lord; and brings  
New cause of Strife, betwixt contending Kings;  
Who Worthiest after him, his Sword to wield,  
Or wear his Armour, or sustain his Shield.  
Even Diomedes sat Mute, with downcast Eyes;  
Conscious of wanted Worth to win the Prize:  
Nor Menelas presumed these Arms to claim,  
Nor He the King of Men, a greater Name.  
Two Rivals only rose: Laertes Son,  
And the vast Bulk of Ajax Telamonius:  
The King, who cherished each, with equal Love,  
And, from himself all Envy would remove,  
Left both to be determined by the Laws;  
And to the Grecian Chiefs, transferred the Cause.    

THE SPEECHES OF AJAX AND ULYSSES. FROM Ovid's Metamorphoses BOOK XIII.  
THE SPEECHES OF AJAX AND ULYSSES.  

THE Chiefs were set; the Soldiers crowned the Field:  
To these the Master of the sevenfold Shield,  
Upstart fierce: And kindled with Disdain  
Eager to speak, unable to contain  
His boiling Rage, he rolled his Eyes around  
The Shore, and Grecian Galleys hall'd aground.  
Then stretching out his Hands, O jove, he cried,  
Must then our Cause before the Fleet be tried?  
And dares Ulysses for the Prize contend,  
In sight of what he durst not once defend?  
But basely fled that memorable Day,  
When I from Hector's Hands redeemed the flaming Prey.  
So much 'tis safer at the noisy Bar  
With Words to flourish than engage in War.  
By different Methods we maintain our Right,  
Nor am I made to Talk, nor he to Fight.  
In bloody Fields I labour to be great;  
His Arms are a smooth Tongue; and soft Deceit:  
Nor need I speak my Deeds, for those you see,  
The Sun and Day are Witnesses for me.  
Let him who fights unseen relate his own,  
And vouch the silent Stars, and conscious Moon;  
Great is the Prize demanded, I confess,  
But such an abject Rival makes it less;  
That Gift, those Honours, he but hoped to gain  
Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:  
Losing he wins, because his Name will be  
Ennobled by Defeat, who durst contend with me.  
Were my known Valour questioned, yet my Blood  
Without that Plea would make my Title good:  
My Sire was Telamonius whose Arms, employed  
With Hercules, these Trojan Walls destroyed;  
And who before with Jason, sent from Greece  
In the first Ship brought home the Golden Fleece:  
Great Telamonius from AEacus derives  
His Birth (th' Inquisitor of guilty lives  
In Shades below where Sisyphus whose Son  
This Thief is thought rolls up the restless heavy Stone.)  
Just AEacus the King of Gods, above  
Begot: Thus Ajax is the third from Jove.  
Nor should I seek advantage from my Line,  
Unless (Achilles) it were mixed with thine:  
As next of Kin Achilles' Arms I claim,  
This Fellow would engraft a Foreign Name,  
Upon our Stock, and the Sysiphian Seed  
By Fraud and Theft asserts his Father's Breed:  
Then must I lose these Arms, because I came  
To fight uncalled, a voluntary Name,  
Nor shunned the Cause, but offered you my Aid,  
While he long lurking was to War betrayed:  
Forced to the Field he came, but in the Rear;  
And feigned Distraction to conceal his Fear:  
Till one more cunning caught him in the Snare;  
(Ill for himself) and dragged him into War.  
Now let a Hero's Arms a Coward vest,  
And he who shunned all Honours, gain the best:  
And let me stand excluded from my Right  
Robbed of my Kinsman's Arms, who first appeared in Fight.  
Better for us at home had he remained  
Had it been true, the Madness which he feigned,  
Or so believed; the less had been our Shame,  
The less his counselled Crime which brands the Grecian Name;  
Nor Philoctetes had been left enclosed  
In a bare Isle to Wants and Pains exposed,  
Where to the Rocks, with solitary Groans  
His Sufferings and our Baseness he bemoans;  
And wishes (so may Heaven his Wish fulfil)  
The due Reward to him who caused his iii.  
Now he with us to Troy's Destruction sworn  
Our Brother of the War, by whom are born  
Alcides' Arrows, penned in narrow Bounds  
With Cold and Hunger pinched, and pained with Wounds,  
To find him Food and Clothing must employ  
Against the Birds the Shafts due to the Fate of Troy.  
Yet still he lives, and lives from Treason free,  
Because he left Ulysses' Company:  
Poor Palamede might wish, so void of Aid,  
Rather to have been left, than so to Death betrayed:  
The Coward bore the Man immortal Spite,  
Who shamed him out of Madness into Fight:  
Nor daring otherwise to vent his Hate  
Accused him first of Treason to the State,  
And then for proof produced the golden Store;  
Himself had hidden in his Tent before:  
Thus of two Champions he deprived our Host,  
By Exile one, and one by Treason lost.  
Thus fights Ulysses, thus his Fame extends,  
A formidable Man, but to his Friends:  
Great, for what Greatness is in Words and Sound,  
Even faithful Nestor less in both is found:  
But that he might without a Rival reign,  
He left this faithful Nestor on the Plain;  
Forsook his Friend even at his utmost Need,  
Who tired, and tardy with his wounded Steed  
Cried out for Aid, and called him by his Name;  
But Cowardice has neither Ears nor Shame:  
Thus fled the good old Man, bereft of Aid,  
And for as much as lay in him, betrayed:  
That this is not a Fable forged by me,  
Like one of his, an Vlyssean Lie,  
I vouch even Diomedes, who tho' his Friend  
Cannot that Act excuse, much less defend:  
He called him back aloud, and taxed his Fear;  
And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear.   

The Gods with equal Eyes on Mortals look,  
He justly was forsaken, who forsook:  
Wanted that Succour he refused to lend,  
Found every Fellow such another Friend:  
No wonder, if he roared that all might hear;  
His Elocution was increased by fear:  
I heard, I ran, I found him out of Breath,  
Pale, trembling, and half dead, with fear of Death.  
Though he had judged himself by his own Laws,  
And stood condemned, I helped the common Cause:  
With my broad Buckler hid him from the Foe;  
(Even the Shield trembled as he lay below;)  
And from impending Fate the Coward freed:  
Good Heaven forgive me for so bad a Deed!  
If still he will persist, and urge the Strife,  
First let him give me back his forfeit Life:  
Let him return to that opprobrious Field;  
Again creep under my protecting Shield:  
Let him lie wounded, let the Foe be near,  
And let his quivering Heart confess his Fear;  
There put him in the very Jaws of Fate;  
And let him plead his Cause in that Estate:  
And yet when snatched from Death, when from below  
My lifted Shield I loosed, and let him go:  
Good heavens how light he risen, with what a bond  
He sprung from Earth, forgetful of his Wound;  
How fresh, how eager then his Feet to ply,  
Who had not Strength to stand, had Speed to fly!   

Hector came on, and brought the Gods along;  
Fear seized alike the Feeble and the Strong:  
Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a Dread  
Th' approach, and even the sound of Hector bred:  
Him, fleshed with Slaughter, and with Conquest crowned,  
I met, and overturned him to the Ground;  
When after, matchless as he deemed, in Might,  
He challenged all our Host to single Fight;  
All Eyes were fixed on me: The Lots were thrown;  
But for your Champion I was wished alone:  
Your Vows were heard, we Fought, and neither yield;  
Yet I returned unvanquished from the Field.  
With Jove to friend th' insulting Trojan came,  
And menaced us with Force, our Fleet with Flame:  
Was it the Strength of this Tongue-valiant Lord,  
In that black Hour, that saved you from the Sword?  
Or was my Breast exposed alone, to brave  
A thousand Swords, a thousand Ships to save?  
The hopes of your return! And can you yield,  
For a saved Fleet, less than a single Shield?  
Think it no Boast, O Grecians, if I deem  
These Arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them;  
Or, I with them an equal Honour share;  
They honoured to be worn, and I to wear.  
Will he compare my Courage with his 'Slight?  
As well he may compare the Day with Night.  
Night is indeed the Province of his Reign:  
Yet all his dark Exploits no more contain  
Than a Spy taken, and a Sleeper slain.  
A Priest made Prisoner, Pallas made a Prey,  
But none of all these Actions done by Day:  
Nor ought of these was done, and Diomedes away.  
If on such petty Merits you confer  
So vast a Prize, let each his Portion share;  
Make a just Dividend; and if not all,  
The greater part to Diomedes will fall.  
But why, for Ithacus such Arms as those,  
Who naked and by Night invades his Foes?  
The glittering Helm by Moonlight will proclaim  
The latent Robber, and prevent his Game:  
Nor could he hold his tottering Head upright  
Beneath that Motion, or sustain the Weight;  
Nor that right Arm could toss the beamy Lance;  
Much less the left that ampler Shield advance;  
ponderous with precious Weight, and rough with Cost  
Of the round World in rising Gold embossed.  
That Orb would ill become his Hand to wield,  
And look as for the Gold he stole the Shield;  
Which, should your error on the Wretch bestow,  
It would not frighten, but allure the Foe:  
Why asks he, what avails him not in Fight,  
And would but cumber and retard his Flight,  
In which his only Excellence is placed,  
You give him Death, that intercept his haste?  
Add, that his own is yet a Maiden-Shield,  
Nor the least Dint has suffered in the Field,  
Guiltless of Fight: Mine battered, hewed, and bored,  
Worn out of Service, must forsake his Lord.  
What farther need of Words our Right to scene;  
My Arguments are Deeds, let Action speak the Man?  
Since from a Champion's Arms the Strife arose,  
So cast the glorious Prize amid the Foes:  
Then send us to redeem both Arms and Shield,  
And let him wear who wins 'em in the Field.   

He said: A Murmur from the Multitude,  
Or somewhat like a stifled Shout ensued!  
Till from his Seat arose Laertes Son,  
Looked down awhile, and paused e'er he begun;  
Then to th' expecting Audience raised his Look,  
And not without prepared Attention spoke:  
Soft was his Tone, and sober was his Face;  
Action his Words, and Words his Action grace.   

If Heaven, my Lords, had heard our common Prayer,  
These Arms had caused no Quarrel for an Heir;  
Still great Achilles had his own possessed,  
And we with great Achilles had been blessed;  
But since hard Fate, and heavens severe Decree  
Have ravished him away from you and me,  
(At this he sighed, and wiped his Eyes, and drew  
Or seemed to draw some Drops of kindly Dew)  
Who better can succeed Achilles lost,  
Than He who gave Achilles to your Host?  
This only I request, that neither He  
May gain, by being what he seems to be,  
A stupid Thing, nor I may lose the Prize,  
By having Sense, which Heaven to him denies:  
Since, great or small, the Talon I enjoyed  
Was ever in the common Cause employed:  
Nor let my Wit, and wont Eloquence  
Which often has been used in your Defence  
And in my own, this only time be brought  
To bear against myself, and deemed a Fault.  
Make not a Crime, where Nature made it none;  
For every Man may freely use his own.  
The Deeds of long descended Ancestors  
Are but by grace of Imputation ours,  
Theirs in effect; but since he draws his Line  
From Jove, and seems to plead a Right Divine,  
From Jove, like him, I claim my Pedigree;  
And am descended in the same degree:  
My Sire Laertes was Arcesius Heir,  
Arcesius was the Son of Jupiter:  
No Parricide, no banished Man is known,  
In all my Line: Let him excuse his own.  
Hermes ennobles too, my Mother's Side,  
By both my Parents to the Gods allied;  
But not because that on the Female Part  
My Blood is better, dare I claim Desert,  
Or that my Sire from Parricide is free;  
But judge by Merit betwixt Him and Me:  
The Prize be to the best; provided yet,  
That Ajax for awhile his Kin forget;  
And his great Sire, and greater Uncles, Name,  
To fortify by them his feeble Claim:  
Be Kindred and Relation laid aside,  
And Honours Cause by Laws of Honour tried:  
For if he plead Proximity of Blood;  
That empty Title is with Ease withstood.  
Peleus, the Hero's Sire, more nigh than he  
And Pyrrhus, his undoubted Progeny;  
Inherit first these Trophies of the Field;  
To Scyros, or to Pthya, send the Shield:  
And Teucer has an Uncle's Right; yet he  
Waves his Pretensions, nor contends with me.   

Then since the Cause on pure Desert is placed,  
Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last?  
I not presume on ev'vy Act to dwell,  
But take these few, in order as they fell.   

Thetis, who knew the Fates, applied her Care  
To keep Achilles in disguise from War;  
And till the threatening Influence were passed,  
A Woman's Habit on the Hero cast:  
All Eyes were cozened by the borrowed Vest,  
And Ajax (never wiser than the rest)  
Found no Pelides there At length I came  
With proffered Wares to this pretended Dame,  
She not discovered by her Mien or Voice,  
Betrayed her Manhood by her manly Choice;  
And while on Female Toys her Fellows look,  
Grasped in her Warlike Hand, a Javelin shook,  
Whom by this Act revealed I thus bespoke:  
O Goddess born! resist not heavens Decree,  
The fall of Ilium, is reserved for Thee;  
Then seized him, and produced in open Light,  
Sent blushing to the Field the fatal Knight.  
Mine then are all his Actions of the Wat,  
Great Telephus was conquered by my Spear  
And after cured: To me the Thebans own,  
Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow;  
Syros and Scylla! Not on all to dwell,  
By me Lyrnessus, and strong Chrysa fell:  
And since I sent the Man who Hector slew:  
To me the noble Hector's Death is due:  
Those Arms I put into his living Hand,  
Those Arms, Pelides dead, I now demand.   

When Greece was injured in the Spartan Prince,  
And met at Aulis to revenge th' Offence,  
'Twas a dead Calm, or adverse Blasts that reigned,  
And in the Port the Wind-bound Fleet detained:  
Bad Signs were seen, and Oracles severe  
Were daily thundered in our General's Ear;  
That by his Daughter's Blood we must appease  
Diana's kindled Wrath, and free the Seas.  
Affection, Interest, Fame, his Heart assailed;  
But soon the Father o'er the King prevailed:  
Bold, on himself he took the pious Crime,  
As angry with the Gods, as they with him.  
No Subject could sustain their sovereign's Look,  
Till this hard Enterprise I undertook:  
I only durst th' Imperial Power control,  
And undermined the Parent in his Soul:  
Forced him t' exert the King for common Good,  
And pay our Ransom with his Daughters Blood.  
Never was Cause more difficult to plead,  
Than where the Judge against himself decreed:  
Yet this I won by dint of Argument;  
The Wrongs his injured Brother underwent;  
And his own Office shamed him to consent.   

'Twas harder yet to move the Mother's Mind,  
And to this heavy Task was I designed:  
Reasons against her Love I knew were vain;  
I circumvented whom I could not gain:  
Had Ajax been employed, our slackened Sails  
Had still at Aulis waited happy Gales.   

Arrived at Troy, your choice was fixed on me  
A fearless Envoy, fit for a bold Embassy:  
Secure, I entered through the hostile Court,  
glittering with Steel, and crowded with Resort:  
There, in the midst of Arms, I plead our Cause,  
Urge the foul Rape, and violated Laws;  
Accuse the Foes, as Authors of the Strife,  
Reproach the Ravisher, demand the Wife.  
Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few  
I moved; but Paris and his lawless Crew  
Scarce held their Hands, and lifted Swords: But stood  
In Act to quench their impious Thirst of Blood:  
This Menelaus knows; exposed to share  
With me the rough Praeludium of the War.   

Endless it were to tell what I have done,  
In Arms, or Council, since the Siege begun:  
The first Encounter's past, the Foe repelled,  
They skulked within the Town, we kept the Field.  
War seemed asleep for nine long Years, at length  
Both Sides resolved to push, we tried our Strength.  
Now what did Ajax while our Arms took Breath,  
Versed only in the gross mechanic Trade of Death?  
If you require my Deeds, with ambushed Arms  
I trapped the Foe, or tired with false Alarms;  
Secured the Ships, drew Lines along the Plain,  
The Fainting cheered, chastised the Rebel-train,  
Provided Forage, our spent Arms renewed,  
Employed at home, or sent abroad, the common Cause pursued.   

The King, deluded in a Dream by Jove,  
Despaired to take the Town, and ordered to remove.  
What Subject durst arraign the Power supreme,  
Producing Jove to justify his Dream?  
Ajax might wish the Soldiers to retain  
From shameful Flight, but Wishes were in vain:  
As wanting of effect had been his Words,  
Such as of course his thundering Tongue affords.  
But did this Boaster threaten, did he pray,  
Or by his own Example urge their stay?  
None, none of these, but ran himself away.  
I saw him run, and was ashamed to see;  
Who plied his Feet so fast to get aboard as He?  
Then speeding through the Place, I made a stand,  
And loudly cried, O base, degenerate Band,  
To leave a Town already in your Hand!  
After so long expense of Blood, for Fame,  
To bring home nothing but perpetual Shame!  
These Words, or what I have forgotten since,  
(For Grief inspired me then with Eloquence)  
Reduced their Minds, they leave the crowded Port,  
And to their late forsaken Camp resort:  
Dismayed the Council met: This Man was there,  
But mute, and not recovered of his Fear.  
Thersites taxed the King, and loudly railed,  
But his wide opening Mouth with Blows I sealed.  
Then rising I excite their Souls to Fame,  
And kindle sleeping Virtue into Flame.  
From thence, whatever he performed in Fight  
Is justly mine, who drew him back from Flight.   

Which of the Grecian Chiefs consorts with Thee,  
But Diomedes, desires my Company,  
And still communicates his Praise with me?  
As guided by a God, secure he goes,  
Armed with my Fellowship amid the Foes;  
And sure no little Merit I may boast,  
Whom such a Man selects from such an Host;  
Unforced by Lots I went without affright,  
To dare with him the Dangers of the Night:  
On the same Errand sent, we met the Spy,  
Of Hector, double-tongued, and used to lie;  
Him I dispatched, but not till undermined,  
I drew him first to tell what treacherous Troy designed:  
My Task performed, with Praise I had retired,  
But not content with this, to greater Praise aspired.  
Invaded Rhoesus, and his Thracian Crew,  
And him, and his, in their own Strength I slew:  
Returned a Victor all my Vows complete,  
With the King's Chariot, in his Royal Seat:  
Refuse me now his Arms, whose fiery Steeds  
Were promised to the Spy for his Nocturnal Deeds:  
And let dull Ajax bear away my Right,  
When all his Days out-ballance this one Night.   

Nor fought I Darkling still: The Sun beheld  
With slaughtered Lycians when I strewed the Field:  
You saw, and counted as I passed along,  
Alastor, Cromyus, Ceranos the Strong,  
Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius,  
Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus;  
Choon, Chersidamas; and five beside  
Men of obscure Descent, but Courage tried:  
All these this Hand laid breathless on the Ground;  
Nor want I Proofs of many a manly Wound:  
All honest, all before: Believe not me,  
Words may deceive, but credit what you see.   

At this he barred his Breast, and showed his Scars,  
As of a furrowed Field, well ploughed with Wars;  
Nor is this Part unexercised, said he;  
That Gyant-bulk of his from Wounds is free:  
Safe in his Shield he fears no Foe to try,  
And better manages his Blood than I:  
But this avails me not; our Boaster strove  
Not with our Foes alone, but partial Jove,  
To save the Fleet: This I confefs is true,  
(Nor will I take from any Man his due:)  
But thus assuming all, he robs from you.  
Some part of Honour to your share will fall,  
He did the best indeed, but did not all.  
Patroclus in Achilles' Arms, and thought  
The Chief he seemed, with equal Ardour fought;  
Preserved the Fleet, repelled the raging Fire,  
And forced the fearful Trojans to retire.   

But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought  
A Match for Hector, who the Combat sought:  
Sure he forgets the King, the Chiefs, and Me:  
All were as eager for the Fight as He:  
He but the ninth, and not by public Voice,  
Or ours preferred, was only Fortune's choice:  
They fought; nor can our Hero boast the Event,  
For Hector from the Field, unwounded went.   

Why am I forced to name that fatal Day,  
That snatched the Prop and Pride of Greece away?  
I saw Pelides sink: With pious Grief,  
And ran in vain, alas, to his Relief;  
For the brave Soul was fled: Full of my Friend  
I rushed amid the War his Relics to defend:  
Nor ceased my Toil till I redeemed the Prey,  
And loaded with Achilles, marched away:  
Those Arms, which on these Shoulders than I bore,  
'Tis just you to these Shoulders should restore.  
You see I want not Nerves, who could sustain  
The ponderous Ruins of so great a Man:  
Or if in others equal Force you find,  
None is endued with a more grateful Mind.   

Did Thetis then, ambitious in her Care,  
These Arms thus laboured for her Son prepare;  
That Ajax after him the heavenly Gift should wear.  
For that dull Soul to stare with stupid Eyes,  
On the learned unintelligible Prize!  
What are to him the Sculptures of the Shield,  
heavens Planets, Earth, and Ocean's watery Field?  
The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear,  
Undipped in Seas; Orion's angry Star,  
Two differing Cities, graved on either Hand;  
Would he wear Arms he cannot understand?   

Beside, what wise Objections he prepares  
Against my late accession to the Wars?  
Does not the Fool perceive his Argument  
Is with more force against Achilles bend?  
For if Dissembling be so great a Crime,  
The Fault is common, and the same in him:  
And if he taxes both of long delay,  
My Gild is less who sooner came away.  
His pious Mother anxious for his Life,  
Detained her Son, and me, my pious Wife.  
To them the Blossoms of our Youth were due,  
Our riper Manhood we reserved for you.  
But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care,  
When with so great a Man my Gild I share:  
My Wit to War the matchless Hero brought,  
But by this Fool I never had been caught.   

Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw  
Such foul Aspersions, when he spares not you:  
If Palamede unjustly fell by me,  
Your Honour suffered in th' unjust Decree:  
I but accused, you doomed: And yet he died,  
Convinced of Treason, and was fairly tried:  
You heard not he was false; your Eyes beheld  
The Traitor manifest; the Bribe revealed.   

That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left  
Wounded, forlorn, of human Aid bereft,  
Is not my Crime, or not my Crime alone,  
Defend your Justice, for the Fact's your own:  
'Tis true, 〈◊〉 ' Advice was mine; that staying there  
He might his weary Limbs with rest repair,  
From a long Voyage free, and from a longer War.  
He took the Counsel, and he lives at least;  
Th' event declares I counselled for the best:  
Though Faith is all, in Ministers of State;  
For who can promise to be fortunate?  
Now since his Arrows are the Fate of Troy,  
Do not my Wit, or weak Address employ;  
Send Ajax there, with his persuasive Sense  
To mollify the Man, and draw him thence:  
But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand  
A leafless Mountain; and the Grecian Band  
Shall fight for Troy; if when my Counsel fail,  
The Wit of heavy Ajax can prevail.   

Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy Spleen,  
Against thy Fellows, and the King of Men;  
Curse my devoted Head, above the rest,  
And wish in Arms to meet me Breast to Breast:  
Yet I the dangerous Task will undertake  
And either die myself, or bring thee back.   

Nor doubt the same Success, as when before  
The Phrygian Prophet to these Tents I bore,  
Surprised by Night, and forced him to declare  
In what was placed the fortune of the War,  
heavens dark Decrees, and Answers to display,  
And how to take the Town, and where the Secret lay:  
Yet this I compassed, and from Troy conveyed  
The fatal Image of their Guardian-Maid;  
That Work was mine; for Pallas, though our Friend,  
Yet while she was in Troy did Troy defend.  
Now what has Ajax done, or what designed,  
A noisy Nothing, and an empty Wind?  
If he be what he promises in Show,  
Why was I sent, and why feared he to go?  
Our boasting Champion thought the Task not light  
To pass the Guards, commit himself to Night;  
Not only through a hostile Town to pass,  
But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred Place;  
With wandering Steps to search the Citadel,  
And from the Priests their Patroness to steal:  
Then through surrounding Foes to force my way,  
And bear in Triumph home the heavenly Prey;  
Which had I not: Ajax in vain had held,  
Before that monstrous Bulk, his sev'nfold Shield.  
That Night to conquer Troy I might be said,  
When Troy was liable to Conquest made.   

Why pointest thou to my Partner of the War?  
Tydides' had indeed a worthy share  
In all my Toil, and Praise; but when thy Might  
Our Ships protected, didst thou singly fight?  
All joined, and thou of many wert but one;  
I asked no Friend, nor had, but him alone:  
Who, had he not been well assured, that Art  
And Conduct were of War the better part,  
And more availed than Strength, my valiant Friend  
Had urged a better Right, than Ajax can pretend:  
As good at least Euripylus may claim,  
And the more moderate Ajax of the Name:  
The Cretan King, and his brave Charioteer,  
And Menelaus bold with Sword and Spear:  
All these had been my Rivals in the Shield,  
And yet all these to my Pretensions yield.  
Thy boisterous Hands are then of use, when I  
With this directing Head those Hands apply.  
Brawn without Brain is thine: My prudent Care  
Foresees, provides, administers the War:  
Thy Province is to Fight; but when shall be  
The time to Fight, the King consults with me:  
No dram of Judgement with thy Force is joined,  
Thy Body is of Profit, and my Mind.  
But how much more the Ship her Safety owes  
To him who steers, than him that only rows,  
By how much more the Captain merits Praise  
Than he who Fights, and Fight but obeys;  
By so much greater is my Worth than thine,  
Who canst but execute what I design.  
What gainest thou brutal Man, if I confess  
Thy Strength superior when thy Wit is less?  
Mind is the Man: I claim my whole Desert,  
From the Mind's Vigour, and th' immortal part.   

But you, O Grecian Chiefs, reward my Care,  
Be grateful to your Watchman of the War:  
For all my Labours in so long a space,  
Sure I may plead a Title to your Grace:  
Enter the Town; I then unbarred the Gates,  
When I removed their tutelary Fates.  
By all our common hopes, if hopes they be  
Which I have now reduced to Certainty;  
By falling Troy, by yonder tottering towers,  
And by their taken Gods, which now are ours;  
Or if there yet a farther Task remains,  
To be performed by Prudence or by Pains;  
If yet some desperate Action rests behind  
That asks high Conduct, and a dauntless Mind;  
If ought be wanting to the Trojan Doom  
Which none but I can manage and overcome,  
Award, those Arms I ask, by your Decree:  
Or give to this what you refuse to me.   

He ceased: And ceasing with Respect he bowed,  
And with his Hand at once the fatal Statue showed.  
Heaven, Air and Ocean rung, with loud Applause,  
And by the general Vote he gained his Cause.  
Thus Conduct won the Prize, when Courage failed,  
And Eloquence o'er brutal Force prevailed.   

The Death of Ajax.  
He who could often, and alone withstand  
The Foe, the Fire, and Jove's own partial Hand,  
Now cannot his unmastered Grief sustain,  
But yields to Rage, to Madness, and Disdain;  
Then snatching out his Falchion, Thou, said He,  
Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to Thee.  
O often tried, and ever trusty Sword,  
Now do thy last kind Office to thy Lord:  
'Tis Ajax, who requests thy Aid, to show  
None but himself, himself could overthrow:  
He said, and with so good a Will to die  
Did to his Breast the fatal Point apply,  
It found his Heart, a way till then unknown,  
Where never Weapon entered, but his own.  
No Hands could force it thence, so fixed it stood  
Till out it rushed, expelled by Streams of spouting Blood.  
The fruitful Blood produced a Flower, which grew  
On a green Stem; and of a Purple Hue:  
Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew:  
Inscribed in both, the Letters are the same,  
But those express the Grief, and these the Name.    

THE WIFE OF BATH HER TALE.  
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, the Silver Light  
Of Phoebe 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 stayed,  
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 revealed 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 Fry'rs that through the wealthy Regions run  
Thick as the Motes, that twinkle in the Sun;  
Resort to Farmer's 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 Herald  
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 Evensong and Morn.   

It so befell 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 road, 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 road, not unespyed,  
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,  
E'er 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.   

Now what should Arthur do? He loved the Knight,  
But Sovereign Monarches are the Source of Right:  
Moved by the Damsels Tears and common Cry,  
He doomed the brutal Ravisher to die.  
But fair Geneura risen in his Defence,  
And prayed so hard for Mercy from the Prince;  
That to his Queen the King th'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 Judgement of the House declare.   

Sir Knight, tho' 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 Mould,  
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 in Scorn,  
Good Sureties will we have for thy return;  
That at the time prefixed thou shalt obey,  
And at thy Pledges 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 heavens 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 th'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 uncontrolled 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 tho' they want the Wit  
To find close Faults, yet open Blots will hit:  
Tho' 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 Husband's Counsels to reveal  
But that's a Fable; for our Sex is frail,  
Inventing rather than not tell a Tale.  
Like leaky Sives no Secrets we can hold:  
Witness the famous Tale that Ovid told.   

Midas the King, as in his Book appears,  
By Phoebus was endowed with Ass' Ears,  
Which under his long Locks, he well concealed,  
(As Monarch's Vices must not be revealed)  
For fear the People have 'em 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 perilous Wit.  
To this sagacious Confessor he went,  
And told her what a Gift the Gods had sent:  
Bur 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 hid;  
By Interest and by Oath the Wife was tied;  
But if she told it not the Woman died.  
Loath 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,  
Gripped all the way, and longing for a vent:  
Arrived, by pure Necessity compelled,  
On her majestic marrowbones she kneeled:  
Then to the Waters-brink she laid her Head,  
And, as a Bittour bumps 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 Ass' 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,  
Wand'ring 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 th' Award had been  
Yield up his Body Captive to the Queen.  
In this despairing State he happed 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 Choir 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 Grandam Apes in Indian Forests are:  
Against a withered Oak she leaned her weight,  
Propped on her trusty Staff, not half upright,  
And dropped an awkard Courtesy to the Knight.  
Then said, What make you Sir so late abtoad  
Without a Guide, and this no beaten Road?  
Or want you ought that here you hope to find,  
Or travel for some Trouble in your Mind?  
The last I guests; and, if I read aright,  
Those of our Sex are bound to serve a Knight:  
Perhaps good Counsel may your Grief aflwage,  
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 enquiring whether he was bound,  
Bade him not fear, tho' long and rough the Way,  
At Court he should arrive e'er 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 Beldame 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,  
Than first the Culprit answered to his Name:  
And after Forms of Laws, was last required  
To name the Thing that Women most desired.   

Th' 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 hers, 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.   

Upstarts the Beldame, 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-Plantiff loaf the Cause,  
(As Judges on the Bench more gracious are,  
And more attended 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,  
Have 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,  
E'er 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 Reasons 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 Grandfire, or a Grandam 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  
Let's into Nature's Work th' imperfect Kind:  
But Fire, th' enliv'ner of the general Frame  
Is one, its Operation still the same.  
It's Principle is in itself: While ours  
Works as Confederate's War, with mingled Powers:  
Or Man, or Woman, which soever fails:  
And, oft, the Vigour of the Worse prevails.  
AEther with Sulphur blended, altars 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 Tullus rose,  
Whom for his Virtues, the first Romans chose:  
Fabritius from their Walls repelled the Foe,  
Whose noble Hands had exercised the Plough.  
From hence, my Lord, and Love, I thus conclude,  
That tho' 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,  
Brood's on his Gold, and gripping still at more  
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's Poor.  
The ragged Beggar, tho' he wants Relief,  
Has not to lose, and sings before the Thief.  
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 e'er 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;  
Yours 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 theirs be led;  
Heaven send the Maids young Husbands, fresh in Bed:  
May Widows Wed as often 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.    

OF THE PYTHAGOREAN PHILOSOPHY. FROM Ovid's Metamorphoses BOOK XV.  
OF THE PYTHAGOREAN PHILOSOPHY.  
The Fourteenth Book concludes with the Death and Deification of Romulus: The Fifteenth gins with the Election of Numa to the Crown of Rome. On this Occasion, Ovid following the Opinion of some Authors, makes Numa the Scholar of Pythagoras; and to have begun his Acquaintance with that Philosopher at Crotona, a Town in Italy; from thence he makes a Digression to the Moral and Natural Philosophy of Pythagoras: On both which our Author enlarges; and which are, the most learned and beautiful Parts of the whole Metamorphoses.  

A King is sought to guide the growing State,  
One able to support the Public Weight,  
And fill the Throne where Romulus had sat.  
Renown, which oft bespeaks the Public Voice,  
Had recommended Numa to their choice:  
A peaceful, pious Prince; who not content  
To know the Sabine Rites, his Study bend  
To cultivate his Mind: To learn the Laws  
Of Nature, and explore their hidden Cause.  
Urged by this Care, his Country he forsook,  
And to Crotona thence, his Journey took.  
Arrived, he first enquired the Founder's Name,  
Of this new Colony; and whence he came.  
Then thus a Senior of the Place replies,  
(Well read, and curious of Antiquities)  
'Tis said; Alcides hither took his way,  
From Spain, and drove along his conquered Prey;  
Then leaving in the Fields his grazing Gows,  
He sought himself some hospitable House:  
Good Croton entertained his Godlike Guest;  
While he repaired his weary Limbs with rest.  
The Hero, thence departing, blessed the Place;  
And here, he said, in Times revolving Race  
A rising Town shall take his Name from thee;  
Revolving Time fulfilled the Prophecy:  
For Myscelos, the justest Man on Earth,  
Alemon's Son, at Argos had his Birth:  
Him Hercules, armed with his Club of Oak  
O'ershadowed in a Dream, and thus bespoke;  
Go, leave thy Native Soil, and make Abode  
Where AEsaris rowls down his rapid Flood;  
He said; and Sleep forsaken him, and the God.  
Trembling he waked, and risen with anxious Heart;  
His Country Laws, forbade him to departed;  
What should he do? 'Twas Death to go away,  
And the God menaced if he dared to stay:  
All Day he doubted, and when Night came on,  
Sleep, and the same forewarming Dream begun:  
Once more the God stood threatening o'er his Head;  
With added Curses if he disobeyed.  
Twice warned, he studied Flight; but would convey  
At once his Person, and his Wealth away:  
Thus while he lingered, his Design was heard;  
A speedy Process formed, and Death declared.  
Witness there needed none of his Offence,  
Against himself the Wretch was Evidence:  
Condemned, and destitute of human Aid,  
To him, for whom he suffered, thus he prayed.   

O Power who hast deserved in Heaven a Throne  
Not given, but by thy Labours made thy own,  
Pity thy Suppliant, and protect his Cause,  
Whom thou hast made obnoxious to the Laws.   

A Custom was of old, and still remains;  
Which Life or Death by Suffrages ordains;  
White Stones and Black within an Urn are cast,  
The first absolve, but Fate is in the last.  
The Judges to the common Urn bequeath  
Their Votes, and drop the Sable Signs of Death;  
The Box receives all Black, but poured from thence  
The Stones came candid forth: The Hue of Innoncence.  
Thus Alemonides his Safety won,  
Preserved from Death by Alcumena's Son:  
Then to his Kinsman-God his Vows he pays,  
And cuts with prosperous Gales th' Ionian Seas:  
He leaves Tarentum favoured by the Wind,  
And Thurine Bays, and Temises behind;  
Soft Sybaris, and all the Capes that stand  
Along the Shore, he makes in sight of Land;  
Still doubling, and still coasting, till he found  
The Mouth of AEsaris, and promised Ground,  
Then saw where on the Margin of the Flood  
The Tomb, that held the Bones of Croton stood:  
Here, by the God's Command, he built and walled  
The Place predicted; and Crotona called;  
Thus Fame from time to time delivers down  
The sure Tradition of th' Italian Town.   

Here dwelled the Man divine whom Samos bore,  
But now Self-banished from his Native Shore,  
Because he hated Tyrants, nor could bear  
The Chains which none but servile Souls will wear:  
He, tho'from Heaven remote, to Heaven could move,  
With Strength of Mind, and tread th' Abyss above;  
And penetrate with his interior Light  
Those upper Depths, which Nature hid from Sight:  
And what he had observed, and learned from thence,  
Loved in familiar Language to dispense.   

The Crowd with silent Admiration stand  
And heard him, as they heard their God's Command;  
While he discoursed of heavens mysterious Laws,  
The World's Original, and Nature's Cause;  
And what was God, and why the fleecy Snows  
In silence fell, and rattling Winds arose;  
What shook the steadfast Earth, and whence begun  
The dance of Planets round the radiant Sun;  
If Thunder was the Voice of angry Jove,  
Or Clouds with Nitre pregnant burst above:  
Of these, and Things beyond the common reach  
He spoke, and charmed his Audience with his Speech.   

He first the taste of Flesh from Tables drove,  
And argued well, if Arguments could move.  
O Mortals! from your Fellow's Blood abstain,  
Nor taint your Bodies with a Food profane:  
While Corn and Pulse by Nature are bestowed,  
And planted Orchards bend their willing Load;  
While laboured Gardens wholesome Herbs produce,  
And teeming Vines afford their generous Juice:  
Nor tardier Fruits of cruder Kind are lost,  
But tamed with Fire, or mellowed by the Frost:  
While Kine to Pails distended Udders bring,  
And Bees their Honey redolent of Spring:  
While Earth not only can your Needs supply,  
But lavish of her Store, provides for Luxury;  
A guiltless Feast administers with Ease,  
And without Blood is prodigal to please.  
Wild Beasts their Maws with their slain Brethren fill;  
And yet not all, for some refuse to kill:  
Sheep, Goats, and Oxen, and the nobler Steed  
On Browz and Corn, and flowery Meadows feed.  
Bears, Tigers, Wolves, the Lion's angry Brood,  
Whom Heaven endued with Principles of Blood,  
He wisely sundered from the rest, to yell  
In Forests, and in lonely Caves to dwell,  
Where stronger Beasts oppress the weak by Might,  
And all in Prey, and Purple Feasts delight.   

O impious use! to Nature's Laws opposed,  
Where Bowels are in other Bowels closed:  
Where fattened by their Fellow's Fat they thrive;  
Maintained by Murder, and by Death they live.  
'Tis then for nought that Mother Earth provides  
The Stores of all she shows, and all she hides,  
If Men with fleshy Morsels must be fed,  
And chaw with bloody Teeth the breathing Bread:  
What else is this but to devour our Guests,  
And barbarously renew Cyclopean Feasts!  
We, by destroying Life, our Life sustain;  
And gorge th'ungodly Maw with Meats obscene.   

Not so the Golden Age, who fed on Fruit,  
Nor durst with bloody Meals their Mouths pollute.  
Then Birds in airy space might safely move,  
And timorous Hares on Heaths securely rove:  
Nor needed Fish the guileful Hooks to fear,  
For all was peaceful; and that Peace sincere.  
Whoever was the Wretch (and cursed be He)  
That envied first our Food's simplicity;  
Th'essay of bloody Feasts on Bruits began,  
And after forged the Sword to murder Man.  
Had he the sharpened Steel alone employed,  
On Beasts of Prey that other Beasts destroyed,  
Or Man invaded with their Fangs and Paws,  
This had been justified by Nature's Laws,  
And Self-defence: But who did Feasts begin  
Of Flesh, he stretched Necessity to Sin.  
To kill Mankillers, Man has lawful Power,  
But not th'extended Licence, to devour.   

Ill Habits gather by unseen degrees,  
As Brooks make Rivers, Rivers run to Seas.  
The Sow, with her broad Snout for rooting up  
Th'entrusted Seed, was judged to spoil the Crop,  
And intercept the sweeting Farmer's hope:  
The covet'ous Churl of unforgiving kind,  
Th'Offender to the bloody Priest resigned:  
Her Hunger was no Plea: For that she died.  
The Goat came next in order, to be tried:  
The Goat had cropped the tendrils of the Vine:  
In vengeance Laity, and Clergy join,  
Where one had lost his Profit, one his Wine.  
Here was at least, some shadow of Offence:  
The Sheep was sacrificed on no pretence,  
But meek, and unresisting Innocence.  
A patiented, useful Creature, born to bear,  
The warm and woolly Fleece, that clothed her Murderer,  
And daily to give down the Milk she bred,  
A Tribute for the Grass on which she fed.  
Living, both Food and Raiment she supplies,  
And is of least advantage when she dies.   

How did the toiling Ox his Death deserve,  
A downright simple Drudge, and born to serve?  
O Tyrant! with what Justice canst thou hope  
The promise of the Year, a plenteous Crop;  
When thou destroy'ft thy labouring Steer, who tilled,  
And ploughed with Pains, thy else ungrateful Field?  
From his yet reeking Neck to draw the Yoke,  
That Neck, with which the surly Clods he broke;  
And to the Hatchet yield thy Husbandman,  
Who finished Autumn and the Spring began!   

Nor this alone! but Heaven itself to bribe,  
We to the Gods our impious Acts ascribe:  
First recompense with Death their Creatures Toil,  
Then call the Blessed above to share the Spoil:  
The fairest Victim must the Powers appease,  
(So fatal 'tis sometimes too much to please!)  
A purple Fillet his broad Brows adorns,  
With flowery Garlands crowned, and gilded Horns:  
He hears the murderous Prayer the Priest prefers,  
But understands not, 'tis his Doom he hears:  
Beholds the Meal betwixt his Temples cast,  
(The Fruit and Product of his Labours past;)  
And in the Water views perhaps the Knife  
Uplifted, to deprive him of his Life;  
Then broken up alive his Entrails sees,  
Torn out for Priests t' inspect the God's Decrees.   

From whence, O mortal Men, this gust of Blood  
Have you derived, and interdicted Food?  
Be taught by me this dire Delight to shun,  
Warned by my Precepts, by my Practice won:  
And when you eat the well deserving Beast,  
Think, on the labourer of your Field, you feast!   

Now since the God inspires me to proceed,  
Be that, whate'er inspiring Power, obeyed.  
For I will sing of mighty Mysteries,  
Of Truths concealed before, from human Eyes,  
Dark Oracles unveil, and open all the Skies.  
Pleased as I am to walk along the Sphere  
Of shining Stars, and travel with the Year,  
To leave the heavy Earth, and scale the height  
Of Atlas, who supports the heavenly weight;  
To look from upper Light, and thence survey  
Mistaken Mortals wand'ring from the way,  
And wanting Wisdom, fearful for the state  
Of future Things, and trembling at their Fate!   

Those I would teach; and by right Reason bring  
To think of Death, as but an idle Thing.  
Why thus affrighted at an empty Name,  
A Dream of Darkness, and fictitious Flame?  
Vain Themes of Wit, which but in Poems pass,  
And Fables of a World, that never was!  
What feels the Body when the Soul expires,  
By time corrupted, or consumed by Fires?  
Nor dies the Spirit, but new Life repeats  
In other Forms, and only changes Seats.   

Even I, who these mysterious Truths declare,  
Was once Euphorbus in the Trojan War;  
My Name and Lineage I remember well,  
And how in Fight by Sparta's King I fell.  
In Argive Juno's Fane I late beheld,  
My Buckler hung on high, and owned my former Shield.   

Then, Death, so called, is but old Matter dressed  
In some new Figure, and a varied Vest:  
Thus all Things are but altered, nothing dies;  
And here and there th' unbodied Spirit flies,  
By Time, or Force, or Sickness dispossessed,  
And lodges, where it lights, in Man or Beast;  
Or hunts without, till ready Limbs it find,  
And actuates those according to their kind;  
From Tenement to Tenement is tossed;  
The Soul is still the same, the Figure only lost:  
And, as the softened Wax new Seals receives,  
This Face assumes, and that Impression leaves;  
Now called by one, now by another Name;  
The Form is only changed, the Wax is still the same:  
So Death, so called, can but the Form deface,  
Th' immortal Soul flies out in empty space;  
To seek her Fortune in some other Place.   

Then let not Piety be put to flight,  
To please the taste of Glutton-Appetite;  
But suffer inmate Souls secure to dwell,  
Lest from their Seats your Parents you expel;  
With rabid Hunger feed upon your kind,  
Or from a Beast dislodge a Brother's Mind.   

And since, like Tiphys parting from the Shore,  
In ample Seas I sail, and Depths untried before,  
This let me further add, that Nature knows  
No steadfast Station, but, or Ebbs, or Flows:  
Ever in motion; she destroys her old,  
And casts new Figures in another Mould.  
Even Times are in perpetual Flux; and run  
Like Rivers from their Fountain rolling on;  
For Time no more than Streams, is at a stay:  
The flying Hour is ever on her way;  
And as the Fountain still supplies her store,  
The Wave behind impels the Wave before;  
Thus in successive Course the Minutes run,  
And urge their Predecessor Minutes on,  
Still moving, ever new: For former Things  
Are set aside, like abdicated Kings:  
And every moment altars what is done,  
And innovates some Act till then unknown.   

Darkness we see emerges into Light,  
And shining Suns descend to Sable Night;  
Even Heaven itself receives another die,  
When wearied Animals in Slumbers lie,  
Of Midnight Ease: Another when the grey  
Of Morn preludes the Splendour of the Day.  
The disk of Phoebus when he climbs on high,  
Appears at first but as a bloodshot Eye;  
And when his Chariot downward drives to Bed,  
His Ball is with the same Suffusion red;  
But mounted high in his Meridian Race  
All bright he shines, and with a better Face:  
For there, pure Particles of AEther flow,  
Far from th' Infection of the World below.   

Nor equal Light th' unequal Moon adorns,  
Or in her waxing or her waning Horns.  
For every Day she wanes, her Face is less,  
But gathering into Globe, she fattens at increase.   

Perceivest thou not the process of the Year,  
How the four Seasons in four Forms appear,  
Resembling human Life in every Shape they wear?  
Spring first, like Infancy, shoots out her Head,  
With milky Juice requiring to be fed:  
Helpless, tho' fresh, and wanting to be led.  
The green Stem grows in Stature and in Size,  
But only feeds with hope the Farmer's Eyes;  
Then laughs the childish Year with Fluorets crowned,  
And lavishly perfumes the Fields around,  
But no substantial Nourishment receives,  
Infirm the Stalks, unsolid are the Leaves.   

Proceeding onward whence the Year began  
The Summer grows adult, and ripens into Man.  
This Season, as in Men, is most replete,  
With kindly Moisture, and prolific Heat.   

Autumn succeeds, a sober tepid Age,  
Not froze with Fear, nor boiling into Rage;  
More than mature, and tending to decay,  
When our brown Locks repine to mix with odious Grey.   

Last Winter creeps along with tardy pace,  
Sour is his Front, and furrowed is his Face;  
His Scalp if not dishonoured quite of Hair,  
The ragged Fleece is thin, and thin is worse than bare.   

Even our own Bodies daily change receive,  
Some part of what was theirs before, they leave;  
Nor are to Day what Yesterday they were;  
Nor the whole same to Morrow will appear.   

Time was, when we were sowed, and just began  
From some few fruitful Drops, the promise of a Man;  
Then Nature's Hand (fermented as it was)  
Moulded to Shape the soft, coagulated Mass;  
And when the little Man was fully formed,  
The breathless Embryo with a Spirit warmed;  
But when the Mother's Throws begin to come,  
The Creature, penned within the narrow Room,  
Breaks his blind Prison, pushing to repair  
His stifled Breath, and draw the living Air;  
Cast on the Margin of the World he lies,  
A helpless Babe, but by Instinct he cries.  
He next essays to walk, but downward pressed  
On four Feet imitates his Brother Beast:  
By slow degrees he gathers from the Ground  
His Legs, and to the rolling Chair is bound;  
Then walks alone; a Horseman now become  
He rides a Stick, and travels round the Room:  
In time he vaunts among his youthful Peers,  
Strong-boned, and strung with Nerves, in pride of Years,  
He runs with Mettle his first merry Stage,  
Maintains the next abated of his Rage,  
But manages his Strength, and spares his Age.  
Heavy the third, and stiff, he sinks apace,  
And tho' 'tis downhill all, but creeps along the Race.  
Now sapless on the verge of Death he stands,  
Contemplating his former Feet, and Hands;  
And Milo-like, his slackened Sinews sees,  
And withered Arms, once fit to cope with Hercules,  
Unable now to shake, much less to tear the Trees.   

So Helen wept when her too faithful Glass  
Reflected to her Eyes the ruins of her Face:  
Wondering what Charms her Ravishers could spy,  
To force her twice, or even but once enjoy!   

Thy Teeth, devouring Time, thine, envious Age,  
On Things below still exercise your Rage:  
With venomed Grinders you corrupt your Meat,  
And then at lingering Meals, the Morsels eat.   

Nor those, which Elements we call, abide,  
Nor to this Figure, nor to that are tied:  
For this eternal World is said of Old  
But four prolific Principles to hold,  
Four different Bodies; two to Heaven ascend,  
And other two down to the Centre tend:  
Fire first with Wings expanded mounts on high,  
Pure, void of weight, and dwells in upper Sky;  
Then Air, because unclogged in empty space  
Flies after Fire, and claims the second Place:  
But weighty Water as her Nature guides,  
Lies on the lap of Earth; and Mother Earth subsides.   

All Things are mixed of these, which all contain,  
And into these are all resolved again:  
Earth rarefies to Dew, expanded more,  
The subtle Dew in Air gins to soar;  
Spreads as she flies, and weary of her Name  
Extenuates still, and changes into Flame;  
Thus having by degrees Perfection won,  
Restless they soon untwist the Web they spun,  
And Fire gins to lose her radiant Hue,  
Mixed with gross Air, and Air descends to Dew:  
And Dew condensing, does her Form forego,  
And sinks, a heavy lump of Earth below.   

Thus are their Figures never at a stand,  
But changed by Nature's innovating Hand;  
All Things are altered, nothing is destroyed,  
The shifted Scene, for some new Show employed.   

Then to be born, is to begin to be  
Some other Thing we were not formerly:  
And what we call to Die, is not t'appear,  
Or be the Thing that formerly we were.  
Those very Elements which we partake,  
Alive, when Dead some other Bodies make:  
Translated grow, have Sense, or can Discourse,  
But Death on deathless Substance has no force.   

That Forms are changed I grant; that nothing can  
Continue in the Figure it began:  
The Golden Age, to Silver was debased:  
To Copper that; our Metal came at last.   

The Face of Places, and their Forms decay;  
And that is solid Earth, that once was Sea:  
Seas in their turn retreating from the Shore,  
Make solid Land, what Ocean was before;  
And far from Strands are Shells of Fishes found,  
And rusty Anchors fixed on Mountain-Ground:  
And what were Fields before, now washed and worn  
By falling Floods from high, to Valleys turn,  
And crumbling still descend to level Lands;  
And Lakes, and trembling Bogs are barren Sands:  
And the parched Desert floats in Streams unknown;  
Wondering to drink of Waters not her own.   

Here Nature living Fountains opes; and there  
Seals up the Wombs where living Fountains were;  
Or Earthquakes stop their ancient Course, and bring  
Diverted Streams to feed a distant Spring.  
So Lycus, swallowed up, is seen no more,  
But far from thence knocks out anorher Door.  
Thus Erasinus dives; and blind in Earth  
Runs on, and gropes his way to second Birth,  
Starts up in Argos Meads, and shakes his Locks,  
Around the Fields, and fattens all the Flocks.  
So Mysus by another way is led,  
And, grown a River now disdains his Head:  
Forgets his humble Birth, his Name forsakes,  
And the proud Title of Caicus takes.  
Large Amenane, impure with yellow Sands,  
Runs rapid often, and as often stands,  
And here he threats the drunken Fields to drown;  
And there his Dugs deny to give their Liquor down.   

Anigroes once did wholesome Draughts afford,  
But now his deadly Waters are abhorred:  
Since, hurt by Hercules, as Fame resounds,  
The Centauris, in his current washed their Wounds.  
The Streams of Hypanis are sweet no more,  
But brackish lose the taste they had before.  
Antissa, Pharos, Tyre, in Seas were penned,  
Once Isles, but now increase the Continent;  
While the Leucadian Coast, main Land before,  
By rushing Seas is severed from the Shore.  
So Zancle to th' Italian Earth was tied,  
And Men once walked where Ships at Anchor ride.  
Till Neptune overlooked the narrow way,  
And in disdain poured in the conquering Sea.   

Two Cities that adorned th' Achaean Ground,  
Buris and Helice, no more are found,  
But whelmed beneath a Lake are sunk and drowned;  
And Boatsmen through the Crystal Water show  
To wondering Passengers the Walls below.   

Near Traezen stands a Hill, exposed in Air  
To Winter-Winds, of leafy Shadows bare:  
This once was level Ground: But (strange to tell)  
Th'included Vapours, that in Caverns dwell,  
Labouring with Colic Pangs, and close confined,  
In vain sought issue for the rumbling Wind:  
Yet still they heaved for vent, and heaving still  
Enlarged the Concave, and shot up the Hill;  
As Breath extends a Bladder, or the Skins  
Of Goats are blown t'enclose the hoarded Wines:  
The Mountain yet retains a Mountain's Face,  
And gathered Rubbish heals the hollow space.   

Of many Wonders, which I heard or knew,  
Retrenching most, I will relate but few:  
What, are not Springs with Qualities opposed,  
Endued at Seasons, and at Seasons lost?  
Thrice in a Day thine, Ammon, change their Form,  
Cold at high Noon, at Morn and Evening warm:  
Thine, Athaman, will kindle Wood, if thrown  
On the piled Earth, and in the waning Moon.  
The Thracians have a Stream, if any try  
The taste, his hardened Bowels petrify;  
Whate'er it touches it converts to Stones,  
And makes a Marble Pavement where it runs.   

Crathis, and Sybaris her Sister Flood,  
That slide through our Portuguese Neighbour Wood,  
With Gold and Amber die the shining Hair,  
And thither Youth resort; (for who would not be Fair?)   

But stranger Virtues yet in Streams we find,  
Some change not only Bodies, but the Mind:  
Who has not heard of Salmacis obscene,  
Whose Waters into Women soften Men?  
Or AEthyopian Lakes which turn the Brain  
To Madness, or in heavy Sleep constrain?  
Clytorian Streams the love of Wine expel,  
(Such is the Virtue of th'abstemious Well;)  
Whether the colder Nymph that rules the Flood  
Extinguishes, and balks the drunken God;  
Or that Melampus (so have some assured)  
When the mad Proetides with Charms he cured;  
And powerful Herbs, both Charms and Simples cast  
Into th'sober Spring, where still their Virtues last.   

Unlike Effects Lyncestis will produce,  
Who drinks his Waters, tho'with moderate use,  
Reels as with Wine, and sees with double Sight:  
His Heels too heavy, and his Head too light.  
Ladon, once Pheneos, an Arcadian Stream,  
(Ambiguous in th'Effects, as in the Name)  
By Day is wholesome Bev'rage; but is thought  
By Night infected, and a deadly Draught.   

Thus running Rivers, and the standing Lake  
Now of these Virtues, now of those partake:  
Time was (and all Things Time and Fate obey)  
When fast Ortygia floated on the Sea:  
Such were Cyanean Isles, when Typhis steered  
Betwixt their straits and their Collision feared;  
They swum where now they sit; and firmly joined  
Secure of rooting up, resist the Wind.  
Nor AEtna vomiting sulphuerous Fire  
Will ever belch; for Sulphur will expire,  
(The Veins exhausted of the liquid Store:)  
Time was she cast no Flames; in time will cast no more.   

For whether Earth's an Animal, and Air  
Imbibes; her Lungs with coolness to repair,  
And what she sucks remits; she still requires  
Inlets for Air, and Outlets for her Fires;  
When tortured with convulsive Fits she shakes,  
That motion chokes the vent till other vent she makes:  
Or when the Winds in hollow Caves are closed,  
And subtle Spirits find that way opposed,  
They toss up Flints in Air; the Flints that hid  
The Seeds of Fire, thus tossed in Air, collide,  
Kindling the Sulphur; till the Fuel spent  
The Cave is cooled, and the fierce Winds relent.  
Or whether Sulphur, catching Fire, feeds on  
Its unctuous Parts, till all the Matter gone  
The Flames no more ascend; for Earth supplies  
The Fat that feeds them; and when Earth denies  
That Food, by length of Time consumed, the Fire  
Famished for want of Fuel must expire.   

A Race of Men there are, as Fame has told,  
Who shivering suffer Hyperborean Cold,  
Till nine times bathing in Minerva's Lake,  
Soft Feathers, to defend their naked Sides, they take.  
'Tis said, the Scythian Wives (believe who will)  
Transform themselves to Birds by Magic Skill;  
Smeared over with an Oil of wondrous Might,  
That adds new Pinions to their airy Flight.   

But this by sure Experiment we know  
That living Creatures from Corruption grow:  
Hid in a hallow Pit a slaughtered Steer,  
Bees from his putrid Bowels will appear;  
Who like their Parents haunt the Fields, and bring  
Their Hony-Harvest home, and hope another Spring.  
The Warlike-Steed is multiplied we find,  
To Wasps and Hornets of the Warrior Kind.  
Cut from a Crab his crooked Claws, and hid  
The rest in Earth, a Scorpion thence will glide  
And shoot his Sting, his Tail in Circles tossed  
Refers the Limbs his backward Father lost.  
And Worms, that stretch on Leaves their filmy Loom,  
Crawl from their Bags, and Butterflies become.  
Even Slime begets the Frog's loquacious Race:  
Short of their Feet at first, in little space  
With Arms and Legs endued, long leaps they take,  
Raised on their hinder part, and swim the Lake,  
And Waves repel: For Nature gives their Kind  
To that intent, a length of Legs behind.   

The Cubs of Bears, a living lump appear,  
When whelped, and no determined Figure wear.  
Their Mother licks 'em into Shape, and gives  
As much of Form, as she herself receives.   

The Grubs from their sexangular abode  
Crawl out unfinished, like the Maggot's Brood:  
Trunks without Limbs; till time at leisure brings  
The Thighs they wanted, and their tardy Wings.   

The Bird who draws the Carr of Juno, vain  
Of her crowned Head, and of her Starry Train;  
And he that bears th'Artillery of Jove,  
The strong-pounced Eagle, and the billing Dove;  
And all the feathered Kind, who could suppose  
(But that from sight the surest Sense he knows)  
They from th'included Yolk, not ambient White arose.   

There are who think the Marrow of a Man,  
Which in the Spine, while he was living ran;  
When dead, the Pith corrupted will become  
A Snake, and hiss within the hollow Tomb.   

All these receive their Birth from other Things;  
But from himself the Phoenix only springs:  
Self-born, begotten by the Parent Flame  
In which he burned, another and the same;  
Who not by Corn or Herbs his Life sustains,  
But the sweet Essence of Amomum drains:  
And watches the rich Gums Arabia bears,  
While yet in tender Dew they drop their Tears.  
He, (his five Cent'ries of Life fulfilled)  
His Nest on Oaken Boughs gins to build,  
Or trembling tops of Palm, and first he draws  
The Plan with his broad Bill, and crooked Claws,  
Nature's Artificers; on this the Pile  
Is formed, and rises round, then with the Spoil  
Of Casia, Cinnamon, and Stems of Nard,  
(For softness strewed beneath,) his Funeral Bed is reared:  
Funeral and Bridal both; and all around  
The Borders with corruptless Myrrh are crowned,  
On this incumbent; till aetherial Flame  
First catches, then consumes the costly Frame:  
Consumes him too, as on the Pile he lies;  
He lived on Odours, and in Odours dies.   

An Infant- Phoenix from the former springs  
His Father's Heir, and from his tender Wings  
Shakes off his Parent Dust, his Method he pursues,  
And the same Lease of Life on the same Terms renews.  
When grown to Manhood he gins his reign,  
And with stiff Pinions can his Flight sustain,  
He lightens of its Load, the Tree that bore  
His Father's Royal Sepulchre before,  
And his own Cradle: This (with pious Care  
Placed on his Back) he cuts the buxom Air,  
Seeks the Sun's City, and his sacred Church,  
And decently lays down his Burden in the Porch.   

A Wonder more amazing would we find?  
Th' Hyaena shows it, of a double kind,  
Varying the Sexes in alternate Years,  
In one begets, and in another bears.  
The thin Chameleon fed with Air, receives  
The colour of the Thing to which he cleaves.   

India when conquered, on the conquering God  
For planted Vines the sharp-eyed Lynx bestowed,  
Whose Urine, shed before it touches Earth,  
Congeals in Air, and gives to Gems their Birth.  
So Coral soft, and white in Ocean's Bed,  
Comes hardened up in Air, and glows with Red.   

All changing Species should my Song recite;  
Before I ceased, would change the Day to Night.  
Nations and Empires flourish, and decay,  
By turns command, and in their turns obey;  
Time softens hardy People, Time again  
Hardens to War a soft, unwarlike Train.  
Thus Troy for ten long Years her Foes withstood,  
And daily bleeding bore th' expense of Blood:  
Now for thick Streets it shows an empty space,  
Or only filled with Tombs of her own perished Race,  
Herself becomes the Sepulchre of what she was.   

Mycenae, Sparta, Thebes of mighty Fame,  
Are vanished out of Substance into Name.  
And Dardan Rome that just gins to rise,  
On Tiber's Banks, in time shall mate the Skies;  
Widening her Bounds, and working on her way;  
Even now she meditates Imperial Sway:  
Yet this is change, but she by changing thrives,  
Like Moons newborn, and in her Cradle strives  
To fill her Infant-Horns; an Hour shall come  
When the round World shall be contained in Rome.   

For thus old Saws foretell, and Helenus  
Anchises drooping Son enlivened thus;  
When Ilium now was in a sinking State;  
And he was doubtful of his future Fate:  
O Goddess born, with thy hard Fortune strive,  
Troy never can be lost, and thou alive.  
Thy Passage thou shalt free through Fire and Sword,  
And Troy in Foreign Lands shall be restored.  
In happier Fields a rising Town I see,  
Greater than what e'er was, or is, or e'er shall be:  
And Heaven yet owes the: World a Race derived from Thee.  
Sages, and Chiefs of other Lineage born  
The City shall extend, extended shall adorn:  
But from Julus he must draw his Breath,  
By whom thy Rome shall rule the conquered Earth:  
Whom Heaven will lend Mankind on Earth to reign,  
And late require the precious Pledge again.  
This Helenus to great AEneas told,  
Which I retain, e'er since in other Mould:  
My Soul was clothed; and now rejoice to view  
My Country Walls rebuilt, and Troy revived anew,  
Raised by the fall: Decreed by Loss to Gain;  
Enslaved but to be free, and conquered but to reign.   

'Tis time my hard mouthed Coursers to control,  
Apt to run Riot, and transgress the Goal:  
And therefore I conclude, whatever lies,  
In Earth, or flits in Air, or fills the Skies,  
All suffer change, and we, that are of Soul  
And Body mixed, are Members of the whole.  
Then, when our Sires, or Grandsires shall forsake  
The Forms of Men, and brutal Figures take,  
Thus housed, securely let their Spirits rest,  
Nor violate thy Father in the Beast.  
Thy Friend, thy Brother, any of thy Kin,  
If none of these, yet there's a Man within:  
O spare to make a Thyestaean Meal,  
T'enclose his Body, and his Soul expel.   

Ill Customs by degrees to Habits rise,  
Ill Habits soon become exalted Vice:  
What more advance can Mortals make in Sin  
So near Perfection, who with Blood begin?  
Deaf to the Calf that lies beneath the Knife,  
Looks up, and from her Butcher begs her Life:  
Deaf to the harmless Kid, that e'er he dies  
All Methods to procure thy Mercy tries,  
And imitates in vain thy Child's Cries.  
Where will he stop, who feeds with Household Bread,  
Then eats the Poultry which before he fed?  
Let plough thy Steers; that when they lose their Breath  
To Nature, not to thee they may impute their Death.  
Let Goats for Food their loaded Udders lend,  
And Sheep from Winter-cold thy Sides defend;  
But neither Sprindges, Nets, nor Snares employ,  
And be no more Ingenious to destroy.  
Free as in Air, let Birds on Earth remain,  
Nor let insidious Glue their Wings constrain;  
Nor opening Hounds the trembling Stag affright,  
Nor purple Feathers intercept his Flight:  
Nor Hooks concealed in Baits for Fish prepare,  
Nor Lines to heave 'em twinkling up in Air.   

Take not away the Life you cannot give:  
For all Things have an equal right to live.  
Kill noxious Creatures, where 'tis Sin to save;  
This only just Prerogative we have:  
But nourish Life with vegetable Food,  
And shun the sacrilegious taste of Blood.   

These Precepts by the Samian Sage were taught,  
Which Godlike Numa to the Sabines brought,  
And thence transferred to Rome, by Gift his own:  
A willing People, and an offered Throne.  
O happy Monarch, sent by Heaven to bless  
A Savage Nation with soft Arts of Peace,  
To teach Religion, Rapine to restrain,  
Give Laws to Lust, and Sacrifice ordain:  
Himself a Saint, a Goddess was his Bride,  
And all the Muses o'er his Acts preside.    

THE CHARACTER OF A Good Parson; Imitated from CHAUCER, And Enlarged.  

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:  
Mildred was his Accent, and his Action free.  
With Eloquence innate his Tongue was armed;  
Tho' 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 cumb'rous Cloak away.   

Lightnings and Thunder (heavens Artillery)  
As Harbingers before th' 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 off ring none:  
Since every Man is free to lose his own.  
The Country-churles', according to their Kind,  
(Who grudge their Deuce, 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:  
Entrusted 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 secure 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 road himself to Paul's, the public Fair,  
To chaffer for Preferment with his Gold,  
Where Bishoprics, and sine Cures are fold.  
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 base 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 Crucify'd, not born.  
They who contend for Place and high Degree,  
Are not his Sons, but those of Zebadee.   

Not, but he knew the Signs of Earthly Power  
Might well become St. Peter's Successor:  
The Holy Father holds a double Reign,  
The Prince may keep his Pomp; the Fisher must be plain,   

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, tho' great in Arms, the Priest withstood:  
Near tho' 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 afide,  
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 showed 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 show you, what the rest in Orders were:  
This Brillant, is so Spotless, and so Bright,  
He needs no Foil: But shines by his own proper Light.    

THE MONUMENT OF A Fair Maiden Lady, Who died at Bath, and is there Interred.  

BElow this Marble Monument, is laid  
All that Heaven wants of this Celestial Maid.  
Preserve, O sacred Tomb, thy Trust consigned:  
The Mould was made on purpose for the Mind:  
And she would lose, if at the latter Day  
One Atom could be mixed, of other Clay.  
Such were the Features of her heavenly Face,  
Her Limbs were formed with such harmonious Grace,  
So faultless was the Frame, as if the Whole  
Had been an Emanation of the Soul;  
Which her own inward Symmetry revealed;  
And like a Picture shone, in Glass Annealed.  
Or like the Sun eclipsed, with shaded Light:  
Too piercing, else, to be sustained by Sight.  
Each Thought was visible that rolled within:  
As through a Crystal Case, the figured Hours are seen.  
And Heaven did this transparent Veil provide,  
Because she had no guilty Thought to hid.  
All white, a Virgin-Saint, she sought the Skies:  
For Marriage, tho' it sullies not, it dies.  
High tho' her Wit, yet Humble was her Mind;  
As if she could not, or she would not find  
How much her Worth transcended all her Kind.  
Yet she had learned so much of Heaven below,  
That when arrived, she scarce had more to know:  
But only to refresh the former Hint;  
And read her Maker in a fairer Print.  
So Pious, as she had no time to spare  
For human Thoughts, but was confined to Prayer.  
Yet in such Charities she passed the Day,  
'Twas wondrous how she found an Hour to Pray.  
A Soul so calm, it knew not Ebbs or Flows,  
Which Passion could but curl; not discompose.  
A Female Softness, with a manly Mind:  
A Daughter duteous, and a Sister kind:  
In Sickness patiented; and in Death resigned.    

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA, FROM BOCCACE.  
CYMON AND IPHIGENIA, FROM BOCCACE.  

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  
If Love be Folly, the severe Divine (Wit.  
Has felt that Folly, tho' he censures mine;  
Pollutes the Pleasures of a chaste Embrace,  
Acts what I writ, and propagates in Grace  
With riotous Excess, a Priestly Race:  
Suppose him free, and that I forge th' Offence,  
He showed 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 writ,  
Tho' 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.   

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 over, 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 Rhyme,  
The Motion measured, harmonized the Chime;  
To liberal Acts enlarged the narrow-souled:  
Softened the Fierce, and made the Coward Bold:  
The World when waist, 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 Love's resort;  
Where either Sex is formed of softer Earth,  
And takes the bend of Pleasure from their Birth;  
There lived a Cyprian Lord, above the rest,  
Wise, Wealthy, with a numerous Issue blest.   

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 Show;  
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 Mien, 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 flound'ring 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 wild's 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 Greenwood-shade he took his way;  
For Cymon shunned the Church, and used not much to Pray.  
His Quarterstaff, 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 Diana, 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 risen;  
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 discolsed 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, than sep'rates 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 dwelled, 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 bid;  
And wished his own could pierce within the Lid:  
He would have waked her, but restrained his Thought,  
And Love newborn 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 departed;  
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 th' 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 dressed,  
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 Manchild 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 filled;  
In every Exercise of all admired,  
He seemed, nor only seemed, but was inspired:  
Inspired by Love, whose Business is to please;  
He Road, 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 Beast.  
Thus was the Man amended by Desire,  
And tho'he loved perhaps with too much Fire,  
His Father all his Faults with Reason scanned,  
And liked an error of the better Hand;  
Excused th'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-ingaged 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,  
Tho'both repenting, were by Promise bound,  
Nor could retract; and thus, as Fate decreed,  
Tho'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.  
Ambush'd 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 cheered: 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 th' 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,  
Tho' 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 ploughs 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 Thunder's 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,  
Stun'd 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 heavens 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 th' Offender, and forgave th' Offence,  
Sex to the last: Mean time with Sails declined  
The wandering Vessel drove before the Wind:  
Tossed, and retossed, aloft, and then allow;  
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 'em, 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 bend,  
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 Shoar 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 Shoar!  
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 Shoar;  
Known each, they know: But each with change of Cheer;  
The vanquished side exults; the Victor's fear;  
Not them but theirs, made Prisoners e'er they Fight,  
Despairing Conquest, and deprived of Flight.   

The Country rings around with loud Alarms,  
And raw in Fields the rude Militia swarms;  
Mouths without Hands; maintained at vast Expense,  
In Peace a Charge, in War a weak Defence:  
Stout once a Month they march a blust'ring 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 Lady's 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 th' 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.  
Lysymachus 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 th' Affair: Some little Hope remained,  
That should his Rival chance to lose, he gained.   

Mean time 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.   

Lysymachus 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, tho' 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 Praetor bend,  
To find the Means that might secure th' event;  
Not long he laboured, for his lucky Thought  
In Captive Cymon found the Friend he sought;  
Th' 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 menage 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 t'improve the Talon 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 entrusted 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 knowst the way.   

Said Cymon overjoyed, do Thou propose  
The Means to Fight, and only show the Foes;  
For from the first, when Love had fired my Mind,  
Resolved I left the Care of Life behind.   

To this the bold Lysymachus 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, intent 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 man'd, 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 wont 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,  
Th'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, (invite.  
These lead the lively Dance, and those the brimming Bowls   

Now at th'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 Male 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 Secure 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 bend:  
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 inur'd 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 grinned their Teeth, and cast a helpless view:  
In vain with Darts a distant War they try,  
Short, and more short the missive Weapons fly.  
Mean while 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 gins.  
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.    

THE KNIGHT'S TALE, As it was Written BY GEFFREY CHAUCER.  
THE KNIGHT'S TALE, BY GEFFREY CHAUCER.  

Whilom, as old Stories tell us,  
There was a Duke that height Theseus;  
Of Athens he was Lord and Governor,  
And in his time such a Conqueror,  
That greater was none under the Son;  
Full many a rich country had he won  
What with his Wisdom, and his Chivalry  
He conquered all the reign of Feminy:  
That whilom was icleped Cithea:  
And wedded the Queen Ipolita:  
And brought her home with him into his country  
With mikell glory and solemnity,  
And eke her young sister Emely.   

And thus with victory and melody  
Let I this worthy duke to Athens ride,  
And all his host in arms him beside.   

And certes, if it ne'er to long to here,  
I would have told fully the manner  
How wonnen has the reign of Feminy  
By Theseus, and by his chivalry:   

And of the great Battle for the nonce  
Between Athenes and Amasones:   

And how besieged was Ipolita,  
The young hardy queen of Cithea.   

And of the feast, that was at her wedding,  
And of the tempest at her home coming:   

But all that thing I moat as now forbere;  
I have, God wots, a large field to ere;  
And weked been the oxen in the plough:  
The remnant of my tale is long enough.  
I will nat let eke non of this rout,  
Let every fellow tell his tale about,  
And let see now who shall the supper win,  
And there I left, I will again begin.   

This duke, of whom I make mencioune,  
Whon he was come almost to the town  
In all his well and his most pride,  
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,  
Where that there kneeled in the high weigh  
A company of ladies, fifty and fifty;  
Each after other clad in clothes black,  
But such a cry and such a woe they make,  
That in this world nys creature living  
That ever heard such a waimenting:  
And of this cry they nold never stenten,  
Till they the reins of his bridle henten.   

What folk be ye that at mine home coming  
Perturben so my feast with crying  
Quod Theseus? Have ye so great envy  
Of mine honour, that thus complain and cry?  
Or who hath you misbode, or offended?  
Now telleth me, if it may be amended,  
And why that ye be clothed thus in black?   

The oldest lady of them all spoke,  
When she had swooned with a deedly cheer,  
That it was ruth for to see and here:  
She said, lord to whom fortune hath give  
Victory, and as a conqueror to live;  
Nought grieveth us your glory and honour,  
But we beseek you of mercy and socour.  
And have mercy on our woe and distress,  
Some drop of pite through thy gentleness  
Upon us wretched wymen let thou fall.  
For certes, lord, there nys none of us all  
That sheen hath be a duchess or a queen,  
Now be we caytifs, as it is well isene:  
Thanked be fortune, and her false wheel,  
That none estate assureth for to be well.   

Now certes, lord, to abide your presence,  
Here in this temple of the goddess Clemence,  
We have be waiting all this fourtenight:  
Help us, lord, sith it lieth in thy might.   

IWretch, that weep and wail thus  
Whilom wife to king Campaneus,  
That starfe at Thebes, cursed be the day,  
And all we that been in this array,  
And maken all this lamentation  
We losten all our husbands at that town,  
While that the siege there about lay;  
And yet the old Creon, (well away)  
That Lord is now of Thebes cite,  
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,  
He for despite and for his tyranny  
To done the deed body's villainy  
Of all our lords, which that been slawe,  
Hath all the bodies on an heap ydrawe;  
And will nat suffer him by none assent  
Neither to be buried, ne to be brent  
But maketh hounds to eat him in despite.  
And with that word without more respite  
They fallen grossly, and crien pitously,  
Have on us wretched wymen some mercy,  
And let our sorrow sink in thine heart:   

This gentle duke down from his horse start,  
With heart piteous, when he herd him speak,  
Him thought that his heart would break,  
When he saw him so piteous and so mate  
That whilom were of so great estate:  
And in his arms, he him all up hent,  
And him comforted in full good intent:  
And swore his oath, as he was true knight  
He would don so ferforthly his might  
Upon the tyrant Creon him to wreak,  
That all the people of Grece should speak  
How Creon was of Theseus yserued;  
As he that hath his death full well deserved.   

And right anon withouten more abode  
His banner he displayed, and forth road  
To Thebes ward, and all his host beside,  
No near Athens nolde he go ne ride,  
Ne take his ease fully half a day,  
But onward on his way that night he lay:  
And sent anon Ipolita the queen,  
And Emely her young sister sheen,  
Unto the town of Athenes to dwell:  
And forth he rideth, there nys no more to tell.   

THe red statu of Mars with spear and targe  
So shineth in his white banner large,  
That all the fields glyttern up and down;  
And by his banner borne is his penon,  
Of gold full rich, in which there was ybete  
The mynotaure, that he won in Crete.  
Thus rideth this duke, this conqueror,  
And in his host of chivalry the flour,  
Till that he came to Thebes, and alight  
Fair in a field there as he thought to fight:  
But shortly for to speken of this thing,  
With Creon, which was of Thebes king,  
He fought and slew him manly as a knight  
In plain battle, and put his folk to flight:  
And at a saute he won the cite after,  
And rend adown wall, sparre, and rafter,  
And to the ladies he restored again  
The bodies of her husbands that were slain,  
To done obsequies, as though was the gise.   

But it were all to long for to device  
The great clamour, and the weymenting  
That the ladies made at the brenning  
Of the bodies, and the great honour  
That Theseus, the noble conqueror,  
Doth to the ladies when they from him went;  
But shortly to tell is mine intent.   

When that this worthy duke this Theseus  
Hath Creon slain, and wan Thebes thus,  
Still in the field he took all night his rest,  
And did with all the country as him lest;  
To ransack in the taas of body's deed,  
(Him for to stripe of harness and of weed)  
The pillours did her business and cure  
After the battle and the discomfiture:  
And so befell, that in the taas they found  
Though girt with many a grevous wound,  
Two young knights lying by and by  
Both in arms same, wrought full richly:  
Of which two, Arcite height that one,  
And that other height Palamon,  
Not fully quick, ne fully deed they were,  
But by her cote armours, and by her gear  
The Heraudes knew him best in special,  
As though that weren of the blood rial  
Of Thebes, and of sisters two yborn:  
Out of the Taas the pillours hath hem torn,  
And han him carried soft into the tent  
Of Theseus, and he full soon him sent  
To Athenes, to dwellen there in prison  
Perpetuell he nolde him not ransom:  
And when this worthy duke had thus idon,  
He took his host, and home he goeth anon  
With Laurel crowned as a conqueror;  
And there he liveth in joy and honour,  
Term of his life, what needeth words more?  
And in a tower, anguish and in woe  
Dwelleth Palamon, and his fellow Arcite  
For evermore, there may no gold him quite.   

THus passeth year by year, and day by day,  
Till it fell ones in a morrow of May  
That Emely, that fairer was to seen  
Than is the lily upon the stalk green,  
And fresher than May with flowers new,  
For with the Rose colour strofe her hue;  
I not which was the sayrer of them two:   

Ere it was day, as was her won to do,  
She was arisen, and all ready dight;  
For May wool have no slogardy a night:  
The season pricketh every gentle heart,  
And maketh it out of there sleep start,  
And saith arise, and do May observance.   

This maketh Emely to have remembrance  
To done honour to May, and for to rise,  
Iclothed was she fresh for to device;  
Her yellow hair was broided in a tress  
Bahindeher bacl, a yard long I guess.  
And in the garden at sun uprist  
She walketh up and down as her list;  
She gathereth flowers, party white and reed,  
To make a subtle garland for her heed;  
And as an angel, heavenly she song:  
The great tower that was so thick and strong,  
Which of the castle was the chief dungeon  
Wherein the knights were in prison,  
Of which I told you, and tell shall,  
Was even joynant to the garden wall:  
There as this Emely had her playeing   

Bright was the son, and clear the morning,  
And Palamon, this woeful prisoner,  
As was his wont, by leave of his jailor  
Was risen, and rome in a chambre on high  
In which he all the noble cite sigh,  
And eke the garden full of branches green,  
There as this fresh Emely the sheen  
Was in her walk, and rome up and down;   

This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon,  
Gothe in his chambre roaming to and fro,  
And to himself complaining of his woe  
That he was borne full oft said alas:   

And so befell my adventure or case,  
That through a window thick of many a bar  
Of yren great, and square as any spar  
He cast his eyes upon Emilia,  
And therewith he blended, and cried, ha',  
As though he stongen were to the heart.   

And with that cry Arcite anon up start,  
And said, cosyn mine, what aileth the  
That art so pale and deedly for to see?  
Why criest thou? who hath do the offence?  
For God's love, take all in patience  
Our prison, for it may none other be,  
Fortune hath given us this adversity,  
Some wicked aspect or disposition  
Of Saturn, by foam constellation  
Hath given us this, although we had it sworn,  
So stood the heaven, when that we were born;  
We moat endure; this is short and plain.   

This Palamon answered, and said again,  
Cousin forsooth, of this opinion  
Thou hast a vain imagination;  
This prison caused me not to cry,  
But I was hurt right now through mine eye  
Into mine heart, that wool my bane be,  
The fayreness of a lady that I se  
Yond in the garden, roaming to and fro  
Is cause of all my crying and woe:   

I not where she be woman or goddess,  
But Venus it is, soothly as I guess.  
And therewithal on knees down lie fill,  
And said: Venus, if it be thy will  
You in this garden thus to transfigure  
Before me sorrowful wretched creature,  
Out of this prison help that we may scape,  
And if our destiny be so ishape  
By eterne word, to dyen in prison,  
Of our lineage have some compassion  
That is so low ybourhgt by tyranny.   

And with that word Arcite 'gan espy  
Where as the lady rome to and fro,  
And with that sight her beauty hurt him so,  
That if that Palamon was wounded sore,  
Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more:  
And with a sigh he said pitously,   

The fresh beauty fleeth me suddenly,  
Of her that roameth in yonder place,  
And but I have her mercy and her grace,  
That I may seen her at the lesto way,  
I nam but deed, there nys no more to say:   

This Palamon, when he these words herd,  
Dispitously he looked, and answered:  
Whether sayest thou this in earnest or in play?   

Nay quod Arcite, in earnest by my faith,  
God help me so, me list full evil to play:  
This Palamon 'gan knit his brows fifty,  
It were (quoth he) to the no great honour  
To be false, ne for to be traitor  
Tom, that am thy cousin and thy brother;  
I sworn full deep, and each of us to other  
That never for to dyen in the pain  
Till that the death depart us twain:  
Neither of us in love to hindre other,  
Ne in none other case my leave brother,  
But that thou shouldst truly further me  
In every case, as I should further the  
This was thine oath, and mine also certain,  
I wot it well thou dar'st it not withsayn,  
Thus art thou of my counsel out of doubt,  
And now thou wouldst falsely been about  
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,  
And ever shall, till that mine heart starve:   

Now certes, false Arcite, thou shalt not so;  
I loved her first, and told the my woe,  
As to my counsel, and to my brother sworn  
To further me, as I have told before,  
For which thou art ibounden as a knight  
To helpen me, if it lie in thy might;  
Or else thou art false, I dare well sane.   

This Arcite full proudly spoke again,  
Thou shalt (quoth he) be rather false than I,  
And thou art false I tell the utterly.  
For paramount I joved her first, or thou,  
What wilt thou said, thou witted it not or now  
Whether she be woman or goddess,  
Thine is affection of holiness,  
And mine is love as to a creature,  
For which I told the mine adventure.  
As to my cousin, and my brother sworn,   

Suppose that thou louea'st her before,  
Wost thou not well the old clerks saw?  
That who shall give a lover any law.  
Love is a greater law by my pan  
Than may be given to any erthly man,  
And therefore posityfe law, and such decree  
Is broken all day for love in each degree.  
A man mote needs love, maugre his heed,  
He may nat fleen it though he should be deed,  
All be she maid, widow, or wife.   

And eke it is not likely all thy life  
To stonden in her grace, no more shall I,  
For well thou wost thyself verily,  
That thou and I be dampened to prison  
Perpetuell, us gaineth no ransom.   

We striven, as did the hounds for the bone  
That fought all day, and yet her part was none;  
There come a cur, whil that they were so wroth,  
And bore away the bone from him both:  
And therefore, at king's court, my brother,  
Each man for himself, there is none other.  
Love if thou list, for I love and ay shall  
And soothly lief brother this is all,  
Here in this prison moat we endure,  
And every of us taken his adventure.   

Great was the strife betwixt hem fifty,  
If that I had leisure for to say:  
But to th'effect; it happened on a day,  
To tell it you shortly as I may,  
A worthy duke that height Pirithous,   

That fellow was to duke Theseus  
Sith thilk day that they were children light  
Was come to Athenes, his fellow to visit,  
And for to play, as he was wont to do,  
For in this world he loved no man so;  
And he loved him as tenderly again,  
So well they loved, as old books sayne,  
That when that one was deed, soothly to tell  
His fellow went and sought him down in hell,  
But of that story list me not to write.   

Duke Pirithous loved well Arcite,  
And had him know at Thebes year by year,  
And finally at request and prayer  
Of Pirithous, withouten any ransom  
Duke Theseus let him out of prison  
Freely to gone whither him list over all  
In such a guise as I you tell shall.   

This was the forward, plainly to indite  
Betwixt duke Theseus and him Arcite,  
That if so were, that Arcite were yfound  
Ever in his life, by day, night or stormed  
In any country of this duke Theseus  
And he were caught, it was acorded thus,  
That with a sword he should lese his heed,  
There was none other remedy, ne reed,  
But taketh his leave, and homeward him sped,  
Let him beware, his neck lieth to wed.   

How great sorrow suffereth now Arcite?  
The death he feleth through his heart smite:  
He weepeth, waileth, and crieth pitously,  
To sleen himself he waiteth privily  
And said, alas the day that I was borne;  
Now is my prison worse than before,  
Now is me shapen eternally to dwell  
Nought in purgatory, but in hell.   

Alas! that ever I knew Pirithous,  
For else had I dwelled with Theseus  
Ifetered in his prison evermo,  
Then had I be in bliss, and nat in woe,  
Only the sight of her, whom that I serve,  
Though that I never her grace may deserve,  
Would have sufficed right enough for me.   

O dear cousin Palamon (quoth he)  
Thine is the victory of this adventure,  
Full blissful in prison mayst thou endure:  
In prison, Nay certes but in paradise,  
Well hath fortune to the turned the dise,  
That hast the sight of her, and I th'absence:  
For possible is, sithence thou hast her presence,  
And art a knight, a worthy man and able  
That by sum case, sin fortune is changeable,  
Thou mayst sometime to thy desire attain:   

But I that am exiled, and barren  
Of all grace, and in so great despair,  
That there nys water, either, lyre, ne eyre,  
Ne creature that of him maked is  
That may me heal; 〈◊〉 done comfort in this,  
Well ought I starve in wan hope and distress,  
Farewell my life, my lust, and my gladness.   

Alas, why play men so in common  
Of purveyance of God, or of fortune,  
That giveth him full oft in many agise  
Well bette than him self can device;  
Some man desireth to have richesses  
That cause is of her murdre or sickness,  
And some man would out of his prison slain  
That in his house, is of his meinie slain.  
Infinite harms been in this matter,  
We wot not what thing we prayen here:  
We faren as he that drunk is as a mouse:  
A drunken man woten well he hath an house,  
But he wots not which the right way thither,  
And to a drunken man the way is slider;  
And certes in this world so faren we:   

We seken fast after felicity,  
But we go wrong full oft truly:  
Thus we may say all, and namely I,  
That wenden, and had a great opinion,  
That if I might scape fro prison,  
Than had I been in joy and perfect hele,  
There now I am exiled from my we'll,  
Sith that I may nat seen you, Emely,  
I nam but deed, there nys no remedy.   

¶ Upon that other side, Palamon,  
When that he witted Arcite was gone,  
Such sorrow he maketh, that the great tour  
Resowned of his yelling and clamour;  
The pure fetters on his shins great  
Were of his bitter salt tears weet.   

Alas (quoth he) Arcite, cousin mine,  
Of all our strife, God wots, the fruit is thine.  
Thou walkest now in Thebes at large  
And of my woe, thou givest little charge:  
Thou mayst, sigh thou hast wisdom and manhood,  
Assemble all the folk of our kindred,  
And make war so sharp in this country  
That by some adventure, or by some treat  
Thou mayst have her to lady and to wife,  
For whom I must needs lese my life:  
For as by way of possibility,  
Scythe thou art at thy large of prison fire,  
And art a Lord, great is thine advantage,  
More than is mine, that starve her in a cage;  
For I may weep and wail, whiles that I live,  
With all the woe that prison may me give,  
And eke with pain that love giveth me also,  
That doubleth all my tourment and my woe:   

Therewith the fire of jealousy up start  
Within his breast, and hent him by the heart  
So woodly that he likely was to behold  
The box tree, or the assen deed and cold:  
Than said he, O cruel gods, that govern  
This world with your word eterne,  
And written in the table of Athamant,  
Your parliament, and eterne grant;  
What is mankind more unto you yholde  
Than is the sheep, that rouketh in the fold?  
For slain is man, right as another be'st,  
And dwelleth eke in prison, and in arrest,  
And hath sickness, and great adversity,  
And oft time guiltless pard.   

What governance is in this prescience,  
That guiltless turmenteth innocence,  
And increaseth thus all my penance,  
That man is bounden to his observance,  
For God's sake to let of his will,  
There as a be'st may all his lusts fulfil:  
And when a be'st is deed, he hath no pain,  
But after his death, man moat weep and plain:  
Though in this world he have care and woe,  
Without doubt it may stonden so.   

The answer of this lete, I to divines,  
But well, I wot, in this world great pine is,  
Alas I see a serpent or a thief,  
That many a true man hath do mischief,  
Gone at his large, and where him list may turn:  
But I moat been in prison through Saturn,  
And eke through Juno jalous and eke wood,  
That hath stroyed well nigh all the blood  
Of Thebes, with his waste walls wide;  
And Venus fleeth me on that other side  
For jealousy and fear of him, Arcite.   

Now will I stint of Palamon alight,  
And let him in his prison still dwell:  
And of Arcite forth wool I you tell.   

The summer passeth, and the nights long  
increaseth double wise the pains strong  
Both of the lover and of the prisoner,  
I not which hath the wofuller mister:  
For shortly to say, this Palamon  
perpetual is damned to prison  
In chains and feters to the deed;  
And Arcite is exiled on his heed  
For evermore as out of that country,  
Ne nevermore shall his lady se.   

You lovers ask I now this question,  
Who hath the worse, Arcite, or Palamon?  
That one may see his lady day by day,  
But in prison moat he dwell always,  
That other where him list may ride or go,  
But seen his lady shall he never more:   

Now deemeth as ye list, ye that can,  
For I wool tell forth my tale, as I began.  
¶ When that Arcite to Thebes comen was,  
Full oft a day he swelte, and said alas,  
For seen his lady shall he never more;  
And shortly to conclude all his woe,  
So mikell sorrow made never creature  
That is or shall be while the world may dure:  
His sleep, his meat, his drink is him byraft,  
That lean he waxeth, and dry as a shaft:  
His eyes hollow, and grifly to behold,  
His hue pale, and fallow as ashen cold:  
And solitary he was, and ever alone,  
And wailing all the night, making moan;  
And if he heard song or instrument,  
Then would he weep, he might not stint:  
So feeble were his spirits, and so low,  
And changed so, that no man coude him know:  
His speech, ne his voice, though men it heard,  
As in his gyre, for all the world it feared.  
Nought comely like to lover's malady   

Of heroes, but rather like many  
Engendered of humours melancholic,  
Before his fell fantastic:  
And shortly was turned all up so down  
Both habit and disposition:  
Of him, this woeful lover Arcite,  
What should I all day of his woe indite?   

When he endured had a year or two  
This cruel torment, and this pain and woe  
At Thebes in his country, as I said,  
Upon a night in sleep as he him laid,  
Him thought how that the winged Mercury  
Before him stood, and bade him be merry:  
His sleepy yard in hand he bore upright,  
An hat he wered upon his hairs bright,  
Irayed was this god, as he took keep  
As he was, when Argus took his sleep:  
And said him thus, To Athens shalt thou wend,  
There is the shapen of thy woe an end.   

And with that word Arcite awoke and start;  
Now truly how sore that me smart,  
Quod he: to Athens right now wool I far,  
Ne for no dread of death shall I spare  
To see my lady, that I love and serve,  
In her presence reck I not to starve.  
And with that word he caught a great mirror,  
And saw that changed was all his colour,  
And saw his visage all in another kind:  
And right anon it ran him in his mind,  
That sigh his face was so disfigured  
Of malady, the which he had endured,  
He might well, if that he bore him low  
Live in Athenes evermore unknown,  
And seen his lady well-nigh day by day.  
And right anon he changed his array,  
And clad him as a poor labourer,  
And all alone (save only a squire  
That knew his privity and all his case,  
Which was disguised poorly as he was)  
To Athenes is he gone the next way,  
And to the court he went upon a day,  
And at the gate he proffered his service,  
To drug and draw what men would device:  
And shortly of this matter for to say,  
He fell in office with a chamberlain,  
The which was dwelling with Emely;  
For he was wise, and soon couth espy  
Of every servant which that served here,  
Well couth he hewn wood, and water bear,  
For he was young and mighty for the nonce,  
And, thereto he was strong and big of bones  
To done that any wight 'gan him device:  
A year or two he was in this service,  
Page of the chamber of emily the bright,  
And Philostrate he said that he height:  
But half so well-beloved man as he  
Ne was there none in court of his degree  
He was so gentle of condition,  
That through all the court was his renon:  
They said that it were a charity  
That Theseus would enhauncen his degree,  
And put him in a worshipful service,  
There as he might his virtue exercise:  
And thus within a while his name is sprung  
Both of his deeds, and of his good tongue;  
That Theseus hath taken him so ne'er,  
That of his chamber he made him squiere;  
And gave him gold to maintain his degree;  
And eke men brought him out of his contre  
From year to year full privily his rent;  
But honestly and slyly he it spent,  
That no man wondered how he it had,  
And three year in this wise his life he lad;  
And bore him so in peace and eke in were,  
There was no man that Theseus hath der.  
And in this bliss let I now Arcite,  
And speak I wool of Palamon alight;  
In darkness horrible and strong prison  
This seven year hath sitten this Palamon,  
Forpined, what for woe and distress;  
Who feleth double sore and heaviness  
But Palamon? that love distraineth so  
That wode out of his wit he goeth for woe,  
And eke thereto he is a prisonere  
Perpetuel, and not only for a year.   

Who could rhyme in English properly  
His martyrdom? forsooth it am natl:  
Therefore I pass as lightly as I may.  
It befell that in the seventh year in May,  
The third night, as old books sayne,  
(That all this story tell more plain)  
Were it by adventure or by destiny,  
(As when a thing is shapen, it shall be)  
That soon after midnight, Palamon  
By helping of a friend broke his prison,  
And fleeth the cite as fault as he may go,  
For he hath given the jailer drink so  
Of a clarrie, made of certain wine  
With Narcotise and Opie, of Thebes fine,  
That all the night though men would him shake;  
The jailer slept, he nugh not awake;  
And thus he fleeth as fast as he may.   

The night was short, and fast by the day,  
That needs cost he moat himself hid,  
And to a grove fast there beside,  
With dreadful foot than stalketh Palamon;  
For shortly this was his opinion,  
That in the grove he would him hid all day,  
And in the night than would he take his way  
To Thebes ward his friends for to pry  
On Theseus to help him to warry:  
And shortly, either he would lese his life,  
Or win Emelye unto his wife:  
This is the effect, and his intent plain.   

Now will I tourise to Artite again,  
That little witted how me was his care,  
Till that fortune had brought him in her snare:  
The merry lark, messenger of the day  
salueth in her song on the morrow grey,  
And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright,  
That all the orisont laugheth of the sight;  
And with his streams drieth in the greves  
The silver drops hanging in the leaves.  
And Arcite, that in the court real  
With Theseus, his squire principal,  
Is risen, and looketh on the merry day,  
And for to done his observances to May,  
Remembering on the point of his Desire,  
He on his courser startling as the fire,  
Is ridden into the fields him to play  
Out of the court, were it a mile or tweie,  
And to the grove of which I you told,  
By adventure, his way he 'gan hold;  
To maken him a garland of the greves,  
Were it of Wodbind or Hauthorn leaves,  
And loud he sung against the Son sheen:   

May, with all thy flowers and thy green,  
Welcome be thou, fair fresh May,  
I hope that I some green get may:  
And from his courser, with a lusty heart  
Into the grove full hastily he start,  
And in a path he rome up and down.  
There, as by adventure this Palamon  
Was in a bush, that no man might him see,  
For sore afraid of death was he:  
Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite,  
God wot he would have trowed full light,  
Both sooth is said, go sighen many years  
That field hath jyen, and wood hath eres,  
It is full fair a man to bear him evin,  
For all day men meet at unset stevin:  
Full little wot Arcite of his fellow,  
That was so nigh to harken, of his saw:  
For in the bush sitteth he now full still.   

When that Arcite had rome all his fill,  
And songen all the roundel lustily,  
Into a study he fell suddenly;  
Is done these lovers in their quaint gires,  
Now in the crop, and now down in the brires,  
Now up, now down, as boket in a well;  
Right as the friday, fothly for to tell,  
Now it raineth, now it shineth fast:  
Right so 'gan gerie Venus overcast  
The hearts of her folk right as her day,  
As gerifull, right so changeth she array;  
Seld is the Friday all the week alike.  
When that Arcite had song, he 'gan to sike  
And set him down withouten any more,  
Alas (quoth he) the day that I was boar!  
How long, Juno, with thy cruelty  
Wilt thou warren Thebes the city?  
Alas ibrought is to confusion  
The blood real of Cadmus and Amphion:   

Of Cadmus, which was the first man  
That Thebes built, or first the town began,  
And of the city first was crowned king,  
Of his lineage am I, and of his spring  
By very line as of the stock real,  
And now I am so caitiff and so thrall;  
That he that is my moral enemy  
I serve him as his squire poorly,  
And yet doth me Juno well more shame.  
For I dare nat be know mine own name,  
But there, as I was wont to height Arcite,  
Now height I Philostrat nat worth a mite:  
Alas; thou fell Mars! alas, thou fell Juno,  
Thus hath your ire our lineage all for do,  
Save only me, and wretched Palamon,  
That Theseus martyreth in prison;  
And over all this, to slean me utterly,  
Love hath his fiery dart so brennyngly  
I sticked through my true careful heart,  
That shapen was my death erst my shirt;  
Ye slean me with your iyen emily,  
Ye been the cause wherefore I die,  
Of all the remnant of mine other care  
Ne set I nat the mountaunce of a Tare;  
So that I could do aught to your pleasance:  
And with that word he fell down in a trance  
A long time, and afterward he up start.   

This Palamon thought that through his hart  
He felt a cold sword suddenly glide,  
For ire he quoke, no longer could he abide,  
And when that he had heard Arcite's tale,  
As he were wode, with face dead and pale  
He start him up out of the bushes thick,  
And said, Arcite, false traitor wick,  
Now art thou hent; that lovest my lady so  
For whom that I have this pain and woe,  
And art my blood, and to my counsel sworn,  
As I have full oft told thee here before:  
And hast be iaped here duke Theseus,  
And falsely hast changed thy name thus,  
I will be dead, or else thou shalt die.  
Thou shalt not love my lady emily,  
But I wool love her only and no more,  
For I am Palamon thy mortal foe.  
Though that I have no weapon in this place,  
But out of prison am astart by grace,  
I dread not that either thou shalt die  
Or thou ne shalt nat love Emelye:  
These which thou wilt, or thou shalt not astart.   

This Arcite, with full despitous heart  
When he him known, and had his tale herd,  
As fers as a Lion, pulled out his sword,  
And said, By God, that sitteth above  
Ne were that thou art sick, and would for love,  
And eke that thou no weapon haste in this place,  
Thou shouldest never out this grove pace,  
That thou ne shouldest dien of mine hand:  
For I defy the surety and the bond  
Which that thou sayest that I have made to thee,  
What very fool, think well that love is free?  
And I will love her maugre all thy might:  
But for asmuch as thou art a knight,  
And wilnest to daren here by battle,  
Have here mi truth, to morrow I will not fail  
Without witting of any other wight,  
That here I will be founden as a knight,  
And bringen harness right enough for thee,  
And cheese the best, and leave the worst for me,  
And meat and drink this night will I bring,  
Enough for thee, and clothes for thy bedding;  
And if so be that thou my lady win,  
And slay me in this wood there I am in,  
Thou mayest well have thy lady as for me.   

This Palamon answered, I grant it thee.  
And thus they been departed till a morrow,  
When each of him had laid his faith to borrow.   

O Cupid, out of all charity,  
O reign, that wouldst have no fellow with thee,  
Full sooth is said, that love ne lordship  
wol nat his thanks have any feliship:  
We find that of Arcite and Palamon.   

Arcite is ridden anon into the town,  
And on the morrow or it were day light,  
Full privily two harness had he dight,  
Both sufficient and meet to darreigne  
The battle in the field betwixt him tweine;  
And on his horse, alone as he was borne,  
He carrieth all his harness him before,  
And in the grove, at time and place iset,  
That Arcite and this Palamon been met,  
To changen 'gan the colour in her face,  
Right as the hunter in the royume of Trace  
That standeth at a gap, with a spear  
When hunted is the lion or the bear;  
And heareth him rushing in the leaves,  
And breaketh the bows in the greves,  
And thinketh, here cometh my mortal enemy.  
Without fail he must be deed, or I:  
For either I moat slay him at the gap,  
Or he motessea me, if me mishap.  
So ferden they, in changing of her hue,  
As far as every of other known;  
There was no good day, ne no saluing,  
But straight without word or rehersing  
every of hem helped for to arm other  
As friendly as he were his own brother;  
And after that, with sharp spears strong  
They foinen each at other wonder long:  
Thou mightest wenen, that this Palamon  
In his fight were a wood Lion,  
And as a cruel Tiger was Arcite,  
As wild Boars 'gan they fight and smite,  
That frothen white as some for ire wood;  
Up to the ankle fought they in her blood.  
And in this wise I let him fight dwell,  
As forth I wool of Thesens you tell:   

The destiny, and the minister general,  
That executeth in the world over all  
The purveyance that God hath said before,  
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn  
The contrary of thing be ye and nay,  
Yet sometime it sholl fall on a day  
That fell never yet in a thousand year:  
For certainly our appetites here,  
Be it of war, peace, hate or love,  
All is ruled by the sight above;  
This mean I now by mighty Theseus  
That for to hunt is so desirous,  
And namely at the great Hart in May,  
That in his bed there daweth him day  
That he nys clad, and ready for to ride  
With hunt and horn, and hounds him beside,  
For in his hunting hath he such delit,  
That it is all his joy and appetite  
To been himself the great heart's bane;  
For after Mars he serveth now Diane:  
Clere was the day, as I have told or this,  
And Theseus with all joy and bliss,  
With his Ipolita, the fair queen,  
And Emely, iclothen all in green,  
An hunting been they ridden rially,  
And to the grove, that stood there fast by,  
In which there was an Hart, as men him told,  
Duke Theseus the straight way hath hold,  
And to the land he rideth him full right,  
For thither was the hart wont to have his flight,  
And over a broke, and so forth on his weigh  
This duke wol have a course at him or twey  
With hounds, such as him list command:  
And when the duke was comen into the land,  
Under the soon he looked, and that anon  
He was ware of Arcite and Palamon,  
That fought breme as it were bulls two,  
The bright swords wenten to and fro  
So hodiously, that with the lest struck  
It seemed that it would have fellen an oak:  
But what they weren nothing he ne wot,  
This Duke with his sporrs his courser smote,  
And at a start he was betwixt him two,  
And pulled out his sword, and cried, ho:  
No more, on pain of losing your head,  
By mighty Mars, he shall anon be dead  
That smiteth any stroke that I may seen,  
But telleth me what mister men ye been  
That been so hardy for to fighten here  
Without judge or other officere,  
As though it were in lists rially?  
This Palamon answered hastily,  
And said, Sir, what needeth words more?  
We have the death deserved both two,  
Two woeful wretches been we and caitiffs';  
That been encumbered of our own lives;  
And as thou art a rightful lord and judge  
Ne give us neither mercy ne refuge,  
But slay me first for saint charity;  
But slay my fellow as well as me:  
Or slay him first, for though thou know it light,  
This is thy mortal foe, this is Arcite,  
That fro thy land is banished on his head,  
For which he hath deserved to be dead;  
For this is he that came unto thy yate  
And said that he height Philostrate,  
Thus hath he iaped full many a year  
And thou hast made him thy chief squiere:  
And this is he that loveth Emelye.   

For sigh the day is come that I shall die,  
I make plainly my confession,  
I am thilk woeful Palamon  
That hath thy prison broke wickedly,  
I am thy mortal foe, and he am I  
That loveth so hot Emelye the bright,  
That I wool die here present in her sight;  
Therefore I ask death and my iewise,  
But slay my fellow in the same wise;  
For both we have deserved to be slain.   

This worthy duke answered anon again  
And said, this is a short conclusion,  
Your own mouth, by your confession  
Hath damned you, and I wool it record,  
It needeth not to pine you with a cord:  
Ye shall be dead by mighty Mars the red.   

The queen anon for very woman head  
'Gan for to weep and so did Emelye,  
And all the ladies in the company;  
Great pity was it, as thought him all,  
That ever such a chance was befall,  
For gentlemen they were of great estate,  
And nothing but for love was this debate  
And saw her bloody wounds wide and sore,  
And all criden both less and more:  
Have mercy, lord, upon us women all,  
And on her bare knees down they fall;  
And would have kissed his feet there he stood:  
Till at the last, astaked was his mode,  
For pity runeth soon in gentle heart,  
And though he first for ire quoke and start,  
He hath concluded shortly in a clause:  
The Trespasses of hem both, and eke the cause  
And although his ire her gilt accused,  
Yet in his reason he him both excused:  
As thus: he thought well that every man  
wol help himself in love all that he can,  
And eke deliver himself out of prison;  
And eke his heart had compassion  
Of women, for they weep every in one,  
And in his gentle heart he thought anon  
And soft unto himself he said, fie  
Upon a lord that wool have no mercy,  
But be a Lion both in word and deed  
To him that been in repentance and dread,  
As well as to a proud despitous man  
That will maintain that he first began:  
That lord hath little of discretion  
That in such case can not diffinition,  
But weigheth pride and humbleness after one;  
And shortly when his ire was thus ago,  
He 'gan to looken up with iyen light,  
And spoke these words all one height:   

The God of love, ah benedicite!  
How mighty, and how great a lord is he!  
Again his might there gaineth no obstacles,  
He may be cleped a God for his miracles:  
For he can maken at his own gise  
Of everich heart, as him list device.   

Lo here this Arcite, and this Palamon,  
That quietly were out of my prison gone,  
And might have lived in Thebes rially,  
And known I am her mortal enemy,  
And that her death is in my power also,  
And yet hath love maugre her iyen two,  
Brought him hither both for to die.  
Now looketh, is not this a great folly?  
Who may be a fool, but if he love,  
Behold for God's sake, that sitteth above,  
See how they bleed; be they nat well arrayed?  
Thus hath her lord, the god of love, him paid  
Her wager, and her fees for her service,  
And yet they wenen to be full wise  
That serve love, for aught that may befall.  
But yet is this the best game of all,  
That she, for whom they have this jollity,  
Cen hem therefore as much thank as me:  
She wot no more of all this hot fare  
By God, than wot a Cokowe or an Hare;  
But all mote been assayed hot and cold.  
A man moat been a fool, other young or old,  
I wot it by myself full yore ago;  
For in my time a servant was I one,  
And therefore sigh I know of love's pain  
I wot how sore it can a man distrain;  
As he that oft hath be caught in her laas.  
I you forgive all holy this trespaas  
At the request of the queen, that kneeleth here,  
And eke of emily, my sister dear.  
And ye shall both anon unto me swear  
That ye shall never more my country dear;  
Ne make war upon me night ne day,  
But been my friends in all that ye may.  
I you forgive this trespass every deal,  
And they hem swore his ask fair and well;  
And him of lordship and of mercy prayed,  
And he him granted grace, and thus he said:   

To speak of worthy lineage and richesse,  
Though that she were a queen or a princess,  
Ilke of you both is worthy doubtless  
To wed when time is; but nevertheless  
I speak, as for my sister Emelye,  
For whom ye have this strife and jealousy,  
Ye wot yourself, she may not wed two  
At ones, though ye fighten ever more;  
But one of you, all be him loath or lief,  
He moat go pipe in an Iue lief;  
This is to say, she may not have both  
Ne been ye never so jealous, ne so wroth:  
And therefore I you put in this degree,  
That each of you shall have his destiny  
As him is shape, and harken in what wise,  
Lo here your end, of that I shall device.   

My will is this, for plat conclusion,  
Without any replication:  
If that you liketh, taketh it for the best,  
That everich of you shall go where him lest,  
Freely, without ransom or danger:  
And this day fifty weeks, far ne ne'er:  
Euerich of you shall bring an C. knights  
Armed for the lestes upon all rights,  
Already to darrein here by battle:  
And this behote I you withouten fail,  
Upon my truth, as I am true knight;  
That whether of you both hath that might;  
That is to say, that whether he or thou  
May with his hundred, as I spoke of now,  
Slay his contrary, or out of jistes drive,  
Him shall I give Emelye to wive;  
To whom that fortune giveth so fair a grace.  
The lestes shall I make in this place;  
And God so wisely on my soul rue,  
As I shall even judge be, and true:  
Ye shall none other end with me make,  
That one of you shall be dead or take;  
And ye thinken this is well isaied,  
Saith your advice, and hold you well paid.  
This is your end, and your conclusion:   

Who looketh lightly now but Palamon?  
Who springeth up for joy but Arcite?  
Who could tell, or who could indite  
The joy that is made in this place,  
When Theseus had done so fair a grace?  
But down on knees went every manner wight,  
And thanked him, with all her heart and might,  
And namely these Thebans many asithe.   

And thus with good hope and heart blithe  
They taken her leave, and homeward 'gan they ride  
To Thebes ward, with old walls wide.   

I trawe men would dame it negligence  
If I foryetten to tell the dispense  
Of Theseus, that goeth busily  
To maken up the lestes rially,  
That such a noble Theatre as it was,  
I dare well say in this world there nas.  
The circute a mile was about,  
Walled with stone, and diched all about;  
Round was the shape in manner of a compass,  
Full of degrees, the height of sixty pace;  
That when a man was set on one degree  
He letted not his fellow for to see.  
Eastward there stood a gate of marble wit;  
Westward right such another in the opposite:  
And shortly to conclude, such a place  
Was none in yearth, as in so little space:  
For in the land there nas no crafts man  
That Geometry or Arithmetic can,  
Ne purtreiture, ne carver of Images,  
That Theseus ne gave him meet and wages;  
That Theatre to make and device:   

And for to do his Rite and Sacrifice  
He Eastward hath upon the yate above,  
In worship of Venus, the Goddess of love,  
Do make an altar, and an oratory;  
And on the Westside, in memory  
Of Mars he maked such an other  
That cost of gold largely a father:  
And Northward, in a turret in the wall  
Of Alabaster white, and red Coral,  
An oratory rich for to see,  
In worship of Diane, the Gods of chastity  
Hath Theseus do wrought in noble wise:   

But yet had I foryetten to device  
The noble carvings, and the purtreitures,  
The shape, the countenance, and the figures  
That were in the oratory's three.  
First, in the temple of Venus thou mayst see  
Wrought on the wall, full pitously to behold,  
The broken flepes and the sighs cold,  
The fault tears, and the weymenting,  
The fire strokes, and the desiring  
That love's servants in this life endurens;  
The oaths that her covenants assurens,  
Pleasance and hope, desire, foolhardiness,  
Beauty and youth, bandrie and richesse,  
Charms and sorcery, leese and flattery,  
Dispense, business, and jealousy,  
That weared of yellow golds a garland,  
And a Cokow sitting on her hand;  
Feasts, instruments, carols and dances,  
Justes and array, and all the circumstances  
Of love, which I reken, and reken shall,  
By order were painted on the wall,  
And more than I can make mention:  
For soothly all the mount of Cithaeron,  
Where Venus hath her principal dwelling,  
Was showed on the wall in purtreing  
With all the joy, and the lustiness:  
Nought was foryetten the portresse idleness,  
Ne Narcissus the fair, of yore ago,  
Ne yet the folly of king Solomon,  
Ne yet the great strength of Hercules,  
Th' enchantment of Medea and Circe's,  
Ne of Turnus, with his hardy fers courage,  
The rich Croesus, caitiff in servage.  
Thus may you sen, that wisdom ne richesse,  
Beauty ne sleight, strength ne hardiness,  
Ne may with Venus hold champartie;  
For as her list, the world may she gie.  
Lo, all these folk so caught were in her laas,  
Till they for woeful oft said alas:  
Sufficeth here one example dr two;  
And though I could reken a thousand more.   

The statue of Venus, glorious to see,  
Was maked fleeting in the large see,  
And fro the navel down all covered was  
With waves green, and bright as any glass:  
A citriole in her right hand had she,  
And on her head full seemly for to see  
A rose garland fresh, and well smelling,  
Above her head doves flittering,  
Before her stood her son Cupid,  
Upon his shoulders wings had he two,  
And blind he was, as it is oft seen;  
A bow he had, and arrows bright and keen.  
Why should I not as well tell all  
The purgatory that was there about over all.  
Within the temple of mighty Mars the read,  
All painted was the wall in length and in breed,  
Like to the Estris of the grisly place,  
That height the great Temple of Mars in Trace:  
In thilk cold frosty region,  
There Mars hath his sovereign mansion.   

First, on the wall was painted a forest,  
In which there wonneth nother man ne best,  
With knotty and knarie trees old,  
Of stubbes sharp, and hideous to behold,  
In which there was a rumble and a shwow,  
As though a storm should break every bow,  
And downward under a hill, under a bent,  
There stood the temple of Mars armipotent,  
Wrought all of burned steel, of which th'entre  
Was long and straight, and ghastly for to see,  
And thereout came such a rage and such a vice,  
That it made all the gates for to rise.  
The northern light in at the doors shone;  
For window on the wall was there none,  
Through which men might any light discern:  
The doors were all of athamant eterne,  
Yelenched overthwart and headlong,  
With Iron tough, for to maken it strong;  
Every pillar, the temple to sustain,  
Was tonne great, of yren bright and sheen.   

There saw I first the dark imagining  
Of felony, and eke the oompassing:  
The cruel ire, red as any gleed,  
The pickpurse, and eke the pale dread;  
The smiler, with the knife under the cloak;  
The shepen brenning with the black smoke;  
The treason of the murdering in the bed,  
The open war, with wounds all be bled;  
Conteke with bloody knives, and, sharp menace:  
All full of chirking was that sorry place.   

The slear of himself yet saw I there:  
His hart blood hath bathed all his here;  
The nail ydriven in the should on height,  
With cold death, with mouth gaping upright.   

A midst of the temple sat Mischance  
With discomfort, and sorry countenance:  
Yet saw I Wodnesse laghing in his 〈◊〉  
Armed complaint on theft, and fires courage;  
The carrion in the 〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉;  
A thousand slain, and 〈◊〉 istorue;  
The tyrant with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 force 〈◊〉;  
The town 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 was nothing 〈◊〉:   

Yet saw I brent the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉;  
The hunter istrangled with the 〈◊〉,  
The Sow fretting the child in 〈◊〉  
The coke is scalded for all his long ladle:  
Nought was foryetten the infortune of 〈◊〉  
The Carter overriden by his own cart, 〈◊〉  
Under the wheel full low he lay a down.   

There were also of Martes division,  
The Barbour, the Butcher and the Smith  
That forgeth sharp swords on the stith;  
And all above depainted in a tower,  
Saw I conquest sitting in great honour,  
With the sharp sword over his head  
Hanging by a subtle twined thread:  
Depainted was there the slaughter of Julius,  
Of great Nero, and of Antonius:  
All be that thilk time they were unborn;  
Yet was her death depainted there before;  
By manacing of Mars right by figure:  
So was it showed in that portreiture  
As is depainted in the certes above,  
Who shall be dead or else slain for love;  
Sufficeth one ensample in stories old;  
I may not reken them all though 〈◊〉 would.  
The statue of Mars upon a cart stood,  
Armed, and looked grim as he were wooed;  
And over his head there shinen two figures  
Of stars that been cleped in Scriptures,  
That one (Puella) height, that other (Rubeus.)  
This God of arms was arrayed thus:  
A wolf there stood before him at his feet,  
With iyens red, and of a man he eat.  
With subtle pencil was painted this story,  
In redouting of Marce and of his glory.   

Now to the temple of Diane the chaste  
As shortly as I can, I wool me hast,  
To tell you all the description  
Depainted been the walls up and down,  
Of hunting and of shamefast chastity.  
There saw I how woeful Calistope  
When that Diane grieved was with her,  
Was turned fro a woman to a bear;  
And afterward was she made the load star:  
Thus was it painted: I can say no far:  
Her soon is eke a star, as men may see.   

There saw I Diane turned unto a tree;  
I mean not the goddess Diane;  
But Venus' daughter, which that height Dane.   

There saw I Atheon an heart maked,  
For vengeance that he saw Diane all naked:  
I saw how that his hounds have 〈◊〉 caught,  
And freten him, for they knew him nought;  
Yet ypainted wasaslitell furthermore,  
How Athalant hunted the wild bore;  
And Meltager, and many other more,  
For which Diane wrought him care and woe:  
There saw I many another wonder story  
Which me 〈◊〉 to draw in memory.  
This goddess full well upon an heart shete,  
With small hounds all about her feet,  
And underneth her feet she had a Moon,  
Woxing it was, and should wane soon.  
In gaudy green her statue clothed was,  
With bow in hand and arrows in case.  
Her eine she cast full low adown,  
There Pluto hath his dark region:  
A woman travelling was her before;  
But for her child so long was unbore,  
Full pitously, Lucina 'gan she call;  
And said, help, for thou mayst best of all.  
Well could he paint lively that it wrought;  
With many a florein he the hues bought.   

Now been these lists made, and Theseus  
That at his great cost hath arrayed thus,  
The temples and the theatre every del,  
When it was done, it liked him wonder well.  
But stint I wol of Theseus alight,  
And speak of Palamon and Arcite.   

The day approacheth of her returning  
That everich should an C. knights bring  
The battle to darraine, as I you told,  
And to Athenes her covenants to hold,  
Hath every of him brought an C. knights  
Well armed for the war at all rights;  
And sikerly there trowed many a man  
That never sithence the world began:  
As for to speak of knighthood of her hon  
As far as God hath made see or fond;  
Nas of so few so noble a company  
For every wight that loved chivalry,  
And would his thanks have a passing name  
Hath prayed that he might be of that game;  
And well was him that thereto chosen was:  
For if there fell to morrow such a case,  
Ye know well that every lusty knight,  
That loveth paramours, and hath his might,  
Were it in England or elsewhere,  
They would feign willen to be there  
To fight for a lady; ah benedicite,  
It were a lusty sight for to sei.   

And right so farden 〈◊〉 with Palamon,  
With him there went 〈◊〉 many on;  
Some wood ben armed in an habergeon;  
And in a breastplate, with a light gippion;  
And some would have a pair of plates large;  
And some would have a pruce, shield of a large;  
Some would be armed on his legs 〈◊〉;  
And have an axe, and some a 〈◊〉 of steel:  
There nas none new guise, that it nas 〈◊〉  
Armed were they, as I have you told,  
every after his opinion.   

¶ There mayst thou see coming with Palamon;  
Licurge himself, the great king of Trace.  
Black was his beard, and manly was his face:  
The fercles of his eyes in his heed  
They glouden betwixt yellow and reed;  
And like a lion, looked he about,  
With kemped hairs on his brows stout;  
His limbs great, his brawns strong.  
His shoulders broad, his arms round and long:  
And as the gise was in his country,  
Full high upon a chare of gold stood he,  
With four white bulls in the trays,  
instead of a cote armure, over his 〈◊〉,  
With nails yellow and bright as any gold,  
He hath a bear's skin, coal black for old:  
His long hair was kemped behind his back,  
As any ravens feather it shone for black.  
A wretch of gold arm great, of huge weight  
Upon his heed, set full of stones bright  
Of fine rubies and diamandes.  
About his chare there went white allaundes  
Twenty and more, as great as any steer  
To hunten at the lion, or at the wild bear;  
And followed him with mosel fast ybound;  
Colers of gold, and torrettes yfiled round:  
An hundred lords had he in his rout,  
Armed full well, with hertes stern and stout.   

With Arcite, in stories, as men found,  
The great Emetrius, the king of Ind,  
Upon a stead bay, trapped in steel,  
Covered with a cloth of gold, diapered well,  
Came riding like the god of Arms, Mars;  
His cote armure was of cloth of Trace,  
Cauched with pearl, white round and great;  
His saddle was of 〈◊〉 gold new ybet,  
A mantle upon his shoulders honging;  
Brette full of rubies, red as fire sparkling,  
His crisp hear, like rings, was yronne;  
And that was yellow, and glittering as the son;  
His nose was high, his eyes bright cytryn,  
His lips ruddy, his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉;  
A few frekles in his face 〈◊〉  
Betwixt yellow, and somedeal black yment;  
And as a lion, he his even 〈◊〉  
Of five and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 geste;  
His berde 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to spring;  
His voice was 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉;  
Upon his heed 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 green  
A garland 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 for to seen;  
Upon his hand he bore for his delight  
An Eagle tame, as any lily white:  
An hundred lords had he with him there,  
All armed save her heads in her gear,  
Full richly in all manner things:  
For trusteth well, that 〈◊〉, dukes and kings,  
Were gathered in this noble company,  
For love, and for increase of chivalry.   

About the king there ran on every part  
Full many a tame Lion and libarte.  
And in this 〈◊〉, these lords all and some  
Ben on the Sunday, to the 〈◊〉 come  
About prime, and in the 〈◊〉 a light,  
This Theseus, this duke, this worthy kniht,  
When he had brought 〈◊〉 into his cite,  
And inned him, everich after his degree,  
He festeth him, and doth so great labour  
To easen hem, and done him all hondure,  
That yet men wenen that no man's wit  
Of none estate coude amend it:  
The minstracie, the service at the feast;  
The great yeftes, to the most and leest;  
The rich array, throughout Theseus' palays,  
Ne who sat first ne last upon the deys;  
What lady's fairest been, or best dancing;  
Or which of him can best dance or sing;  
Ne who most felingly speaketh of love;  
Ne what hawks sitten on perched above,  
Ne what hounds liggen on the flour adoun.  
Of all this now make 〈◊〉 mention;  
But all the effect, that thinketh me the beast;  
Now cometh the point harkeneth if you lest.   

The sunday at night or day began to spring,  
When Palamon the lark heard sing;  
Although it were nat day by hours two;  
Yet song the lark, and Palamon right though  
With holy heart, and with an high courage,  
He risen up, too wenden on his pilgrimage  
Unto the blissful Cithere a benign:  
I mean Venus, honourable and digne;  
And in her hour he walketh forth a pace  
Unto the lists, there the temple was;  
And down he kneeleth, and with humble cheer,  
And heart sore he said, as ye shall here:   

¶ Fairest of fair: O lady mine Venus,  
Daughter of Jove, and spouse to Vulcanus,  
Thou glader of the mount of Cithaeron,  
For thilk love thou hadst to Adonis,  
Have pite of my bitter tears smart,  
And take my humble prayer at thine heart.   

Alas, I ne have no language to tell  
The effect, ne the tourment of mine hell:  
Mine heart may not mine harms bewray;  
I am so confused that I cannot say:  
But mercy lady bright, that woste well  
My thought, and seest what harms that I feel:  
Consider all this, and rue upon my sore  
As wise as I shall for evermore.  
Emforth my might, thy true servant be,  
And hold war always with chastity;  
That make I mine avow, so ye me help;  
I keep not of arms for to yelp:  
Ne I ne ask to morrow to have victory,  
Ne renome in this case, ne vain glory  
Of prize of arms, to blown up and down,  
But would have fully possession  
Of emily, and die in her service:  
Find thou the manner how, and in what wise  
I retche not, but it may better be  
To have victory of hem, or they of me;  
So that I have my lady in mine arms;  
For though so be that Mars is god of Arms,  
Your virtue is so great in heaven above,  
That if you list, I shall well have my love;  
Thy temple shall I worship ever 〈◊〉  
And on thine altar, where I ride or go  
I wool done sacrifice, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
And if'ye wool not so, my lady swear,  
Than pray 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
 
Than 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 have lost my life,  
Though 〈◊〉 win her to wife.  
This is 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and end of my prey ere;  
give me my lady, thou 〈◊〉 lady dear.  
What the orison was done of Palamon,  
His sacrifice 〈◊〉 did and that anon.  
Full pitously with all circumstances.  
All tell I nat as now his obseruances.   

But at the last the statue of Venus shaken,  
And made a sign, whereby that he took,  
That his prayer 〈◊〉 was that day;  
For though the sign shown a delay,  
Yet witted he well, that granted was his bone,  
And with glad heart he went him home full soon.   

 
Began to Venus' 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Up risen the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
And unto the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Her maidens, the which 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Full readily with 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 they had  
The incense, the clothes and the 〈◊〉 all  
That to the sacrifice 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
The horns full of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 gise,  
There lacked naught to 〈◊〉 her sacrifice,  
Smoking the temple, full of clothes fair:  
This emily with heart debonaire,  
Her body wish with 〈◊〉 of a well;  
But how she did; right I dare not tell;  
But it be any thing in general;  
And yet it were a game to here it all:  
To him that meaneth well it were no charge,  
But it is good a man be at his large  
Her bright hair was unkempt and untressed all,  
A crown of a green oak 〈◊〉;  
Upon her head set full fair and meet;  
Two fires on the altar 'gan she beat,  
And did her things, as men may 〈◊〉,  
In Stace of Thebes, and these books old.   

When kindled was the 〈◊〉, with piteous cheer,  
Unto Diane she spoke; as ye may here  
O chaste goddess of the woods green,  
To whom both heaven, and yearth, and see is seen,  
Queen of the reign of Pluto, dark and low,  
Goddess of maidens, that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 hath know;  
Full many a year, and woste what I desire,  
As keep me fro the vengeance of thine ire;  
That Actaeon about cruelly,  
Chaste Goddess, well woste thou that I  
Desire to been a maid all my life,  
Ne never wool, I be love ne wife.  
I am (thou woste well) of thy company  
A maid, and love hunting and venery,  
And for to walken in the woods wild,  
And not for to ben a wife, and been with child:  
Nought will I know company of man;  
Now help me lady, sigh you may and can:  
For though three forms that thou hast in thee,  
And Palamon, that hath such a love to me,  
And eke Arcite that loveth me so sore,  
This grace I pray thee, withouten more;  
And send love and peace betwixt him two;  
And from me turn away her hearts so,  
That all her hot love and her desire,  
And all her busy tourment, and all her fire  
Be quaint, or turned in another place:  
And if so be thou wolte not do me that grace;  
Or if so be my destiny be shapen so,  
That I shall needs have one of him two;  
As send me him that most desireth me.   

Behold, goddess of clean chastity,  
The bitter tears, that on my cheeks fall,  
Sin thou art a maid, and keeper of us all;  
My maidenhead thou keep, and well conserve,  
And while I live a maiden wool I thee serve.   

The fires burn upon the altar clear,  
While Emelye was thus in her prayer;  
But suddenly she saw a thing quaint:  
For right anon one of the fires quaint,  
And quicked again; and after that anon  
That other fire was quaint, and all agone;  
And as it quaint it made a whistling  
As done these weet brands in her brenning;  
And at the brands end out ran anon  
As it were bloody drops many a one:  
For which so sore aghast was emily  
That she was well nigh mad, and 'gan to cry:  
For she ne wist what it signified;  
But only for the fear thus she cried,  
And wept, that it was pite for to here.   

And therewithal Diane 'gan to appear  
With bow in hand, right as an hunteresse,  
And said, daughter, stint thine heaviness;  
Among the gods high it is affirmed,  
And by eterne word written and confirmed,  
Thou shalt been wedded to one of though  
That have for thee so much care and woe;  
But unto which of him I may not tell:  
Farewell; for I may no longer dwell:  
The fires which on mine altar burn  
Shall declaren er that thou gone hen,  
This adventure of love, as in this case:   

And with that word, the arrows in the case  
Of the goddess clatteren fast and ring;  
And forth she went, and made vaneshing:  
For which this Emely astonished was,  
And said, what mounteth this? alas,  
I put me under thy protection,  
Diane, and under thy disposition;  
And home she goeth the next way:  
This is the effect, there is no more to say.   

The next house of Mars following this,  
Arcite unto the temple walked is  
Of fires Mars to done his sacrifice  
With all the might of his paynim wise;  
With piteous heart and high devotion,  
Right thus to Mars he said his orison.   

O strong God, that in the reigns cold  
Of Trace, honoured art, and lord yhold;  
And hast in every reign and every land  
Of arms, all the bridle in thine hon,  
And him fortunest as the list devise;  
Accept of me my piteous sacrifice,  
If so be my thought may deserve;  
And that my might be worthy for to serve  
Thy godhead, that I may been one of thine;  
Than pray I thee that thou rue on my pine:  
For thilk pain, and thilk hot fire  
In which thou brentest why 〈◊〉 for desire;  
What thou usedest the fair beauty  
Of fair young fresh Venus' fire,  
And hadst her in thine arms at thy will,  
Although thou one's on a time misfill;  
What Vulcanus had caught thee in his laas,  
And found thee ligging by his wife, alas,  
For thilk sorrow, that was in thine heart,  
Have ruth as well on my pains smart.   

I am young and unconning as thou wost;  
And as I trow, with love offended most  
That ever was any life's creature;  
For she that doth me all this woe endure,  
Ne retcheth never where I sink or fleet;  
And well I wot, or she me mercy heat,  
I moat with strength win her in this place;  
And well I wot, without help or grace  
Of thee, ne may my strength not avail:  
Than help me lord to morrow in my battle,  
For thilk fire that whilom brent thee  
As well as the fire now brenneth me:  
And do, that I to morrow have the victory:  
Mine be the travel, and thine be the glory;  
Thy sovereign temple wol I most honouren  
Of any place, and always most labouren  
In thy pleasance, and in thy crafts strong,  
And in thy temple I wool my banner hung;  
And all the arms of my company,  
And evermore until the day I die:  
Eterne fire I wol before the find;  
And eke to this avow I wol me bind.  
My beard, my hair, that hongeth low adown,  
That never yet felt offensioun,  
Of razor ne of shear, I wol the give,  
And been thy true servant while I live.  
Now lord have ruth upon my sorrows sore:  
give me the victory; I ask the no more.   

The prayer stint of Arcite the strong;  
The rings on the temple door they rung:  
And eke the doors clatren full fast;  
Of which Arcite somewhat him aghast.   

The fires brennen upon the altar bright,  
That it 'gan all the temple light.  
A sweet smell anon the ground up yase:  
And Arcite anon his hon up hafe;  
And more incense into the fire he cast,  
With other rites more; and at the last  
The statu of Mars began his hauberke ring;  
And with that sound he herd a murmuring  
Full low and dim, that said thus, victory:  
For which he gave to Mars honour and glory.   

And thus with joy, and hope well to far,  
Arcite anon into his inn is fare;  
As feign as foul is of the bright son:  
And right anon such a strife is begun:  
For thilk granting in the heaven above  
Bytwixt Venus, the goddess of love,  
And Mars the stern god armipotent,  
That jupiter was busy it to stint;  
Till that the pale Saturnus the cold,  
That knew so many aventures old,  
Found in his experience and art,  
That he full soon hath pleased every part:  
And sooth is said, eld hath great advantage;  
In eld is both wisdom and usage.  
Men may the old out ren, but not out read.   

Saturn anon, to stinten strife and dread:  
All be it that it be again his kind;  
Of all this strife he can remedy find.   

My dear daughter Venus, quod Saturn;  
My course that hath so wide for to turn,  
Hath more power than wot any man,  
Mine is the drenching in the see so wan:  
Mine is the prison in the dark cote;  
Mine is the strangling and the honging by the throat,  
The murmur, and the churl's rebelling,  
The groaning and the privy enpoysoning:  
I do vengeance and plain correction  
While I dwell in the sign of the Lion.  
Mine is the ruin of the high halls,  
The falling of the towers and of the walls  
Upon the minor, or upon the carpenters.  
I slew Samson shaking the pillars;  
And mine ben the maladies cold,  
The dark treasons and the castle's old.  
My looking is the father of pestilence:  
Now weep no more; I shall do my diligence  
That Palamon; that is thin own knight,  
Shall have his lady as thou him behight:  
Though Mars shall help his knight nevertheless;  
Betwixt you it moat sometime be pees:  
All be ye not of one complexion  
That causeth all day such division.  
I am thine ail, ready at thy will:  
Weep no more; I wool thy lust fulfil.   

Now wool I stinten of these god's love,  
Of Mars and of Venus, goddess of love;  
And plainly I wool tell you as I can,  
The great effect, of which that I began.   

Great was the feast in Athenes that day,  
And eke that lusty season in May,  
Made every wight to been in such pleasance,  
That all that day 〈◊〉 they and dance;  
And spenten it in Venus high service:  
But because that they shoulden arise  
early, for to see the great sight,  
Unto her rest went they at night:  
And on the morrow, when day 'gan spring,  
Of horse and harness, noise and clatering,  
There was in the hostelries all about;  
And to the palaces road there many a rout  
Of lords upon steads and palfreys.   

There mayest thou see devising of harness,  
So uncouth, so rich, and wrought so well,  
Of goldsmythry, of brandry and of steel;  
The shields bright, testers and 〈◊〉,  
Gold hewn helms, 〈◊〉 and cot armers,  
Lords in paramentes, on her coursers,  
Knights of retinue, and eke squires,  
Nayling 〈◊〉 spears, and helms bokeling,  
Gigging of sheldes, with lainers lacing:  
There, as need is, they were nothing idle;  
The foaming steads on the golden bridle,  
Gnawing, and fast the armurers also  
With file and hammer 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉,  
Yemen on foot, and communes many one  
With short staffs, thick as they may gone,  
Pipes, Tromps, nakoners and clarions,  
That in the battle blown bloody sowns;  
The palais full of people up and down;  
Here three, there ten, holding her question,  
Deuining of these Theban knights two;  
Some said thus, some said it should be so.  
Some held with him with the black berde:  
Some with the bald, some with the thick herd:  
Some said, he looked grim and would fight;  
He hath a sparth of twenty pound of weight.   

Thus was the hall full of divining,  
Long after the son 'gan to spring.  
The great Theseus of his sleep 'gan wake  
With minstralcie and noise that they make,  
Held yet the chamber of his palais rich,  
Till that the Theban knights both yliche  
Honoured weren, and into the placeifette.  
Duke Theseus is at the window set,  
Arrayed right as he were a god in throne:  
The people pressed thiderward full soon,  
Him for to seen, and done him high reverence,  
And eke for to here his hest and his sentence.   

An herald on a scaffold made on oo,  
Till all the noise of the people was ydo:  
And when he saw the people of noise still;  
Thus shown he the mighty dukes will.   

The lord hath of his high discretion  
Considered that it were destruction  
To gentle blood to fighten in this gise  
Of mortal battle now in this emprise:  
Wherefore to shapen that they shall not die,  
He wol his first purpose modify.   

No man therefore up pain of loss of life,  
No manner shot, pole-axe, ne short knife  
Into the lists send, or thither bring;  
Ne short sword to stick with point biting;  
No man ne draw, ne bear it by his side,  
Ne no man shall to his fellow ride:  
But one course with a sharp grounden spear  
Foin if him list on foot himself to were:  
And he that is at mischief shall be take,  
And not slain, but brought to the stake:  
That shall ben ordained on either side;  
But thither he shall by force, and there abide:  
And if so fall that the chieftain be take  
On either side, or else sleen his make,  
No longer shall the tournament last:  
God speed you; goeth, and layeth on fast;  
With swords and long maces fighten your fill:  
Goth now your way, this is the lord's will.   

The voice of the people touched heaven:  
So loud cried they with merry steven,  
God save such a lord that is so good  
He willeth no destruction of blood:  
Up goeth trumps and the melody,  
And to the lists rideth so the company,  
By ordinance throughout the cite large,  
Honged with cloth of gold, and not with sarge.   

Full like a lord this noble duke 'gan ride,  
These two Thebans on every side;  
And after road the queen and Emely;  
And after that another company  
Of one and other after her degree:  
And thus they passen throughout the cite;  
And to the lists comen they be by time;  
It nas not of the day yet fully prime,  
When sat was Theseus full rich and hie,  
Ipolita the queen, and Emelye,  
And other ladies in degrees about:  
Unto the seats presseth all the rout;  
And westward, through the yates under Mart  
Arcite, and eke an hundred of his part  
With banner reed is entered right anon;  
And in the selue moment entered Palamon  
Is under Venus, eastward in that place  
With banner white, and hardy cheer and face.  
And in all the world, to seken up and down,  
So even without variation  
There nas such companies fifty:  
For there nas none so wise that coude say  
That any had of other advantage  
Of worthiness, ne of estate, ne age;  
So even were they chose to guess,  
And into the renges fair they him dress,  
When that her names red were every one  
That in her nombre gue were there none,  
Tho were the gates shit, and cried was loud  
Do now your dever young knights proud.   

The heraudes left her pricking up and down:  
Now ryngen trumps loud and clarioun:  
There is no more to say; este and west  
In goth the sharp spears sadly in the arrest;  
In goth the sharp spurs into the side:  
There see men who can just and who can ride:  
There shiveren shafts upon sheldes thick;  
He feleth through the heart spoune the prick.  
Up springeth the spears, twenty foot on height,  
Out goth the swords as the silver bright.  
The helms they to hue and to shredo,  
Out burst the blood with stern streams read,  
With mighty maces, the bones they to break;  
He through the thickest of the throng 'gan threke  
There stomblen steads strong, and down gone all,  
He rolled under the foot as doth a ball,  
He foyneth on his feet with a tronchoun:  
And he hurleth with his horse adown.  
He through the body is hurt, and sigh tale  
Maugre his heed, and brought unto the stake,  
As forward was, right there he must abide;  
An other is lad on that other side:  
And sometime doth hem Theseus to rest,  
Him to refresh, and drink if hem least.   

Full oft a day have these Thebans two,  
Together met, and done each other woe:  
Unhorsed hath each other of hem fifty:  
There was no tiger in the vale of Galaphey,  
When her whelp is stole, when it is light  
So cruel on the hunt, as is Arcite  
For jealous heart upon this Palamon;  
Ne in Belmarye there is no fell Lion  
That hunted is, or for his hunger wood,  
Ne of his prey desireth so the blood,  
As Palamon to slay his foe Arcite,  
The jealous strokes on her helms by't.  
Out runeth the blood on both her sides read:   

Sometime an end there is of every deed:  
For ere the sun unto the rest went,  
The strong King Emetrius 'gan hente.  
This Palamon as he fought with this Arcite,  
And made his sword deep in his flesh by't;  
And by force of twenty is he take,  
Vn yoleden, and drawn to the stake:  
And in the rescous of this Palamon  
The strong king Ligurge is borne adown;  
And king Emetrius, for all his strength  
Is borne out of his saddle a sword's length;  
So hurt him Palamon or he were take;  
But all for naught he was brought to the stake:  
His hardy heart might him help naught;  
He must abide, when that he was caught  
By force, and eke by composition:  
Who sorroweth now but woeful Palamon?  
That moat no more gone again to fight.  
And when that Theseus had seen that sight  
He cried, ho: no more; for it is done;  
Ne none shall longer to his fellow gone.  
I wool be true judge, and not party.  
Arcite of Thebes shall have Emely,  
That by his fortune hath her fair ywonne.   

Anon there is a noise of people begun,  
For joy of this, so loud and high withal,  
It seemed that the lists should fall.  
What can now fair Venus done above?  
What saith she now? what doth the queen of love,  
But weepeth so for wanting of her will,  
Till that her tears on the lists fell?  
She said, I am ashamed doubtless.   

Saturn said, daughter hold thy pees;  
Mars hath all his will, his knizt hath his bone;  
And by mine heed, thou shalt be eased soon.  
The Tromps with the loud minstrelsy,  
The heraudes that so loud yell and cry,  
Ben in her well, for love of dan Arcite;  
But harkeneth me, and stinteth noise a light,  
Which a miracle there bifell anon.   

The fires Arcite hath his helm of ydon;  
And on a courser for to show his face,  
He pricketh endlong the large place,  
Looking upward upon emily;  
And she again him cast a friendly eye:  
(For women, as to speak in common,  
They followen all the favour of fortune)  
And was all his cheer, as in his heart,  
Out of the ground a fire infernal start,  
From Pluto sent, at the request of Saturn;  
For which his horse for fear 'gan to turn,  
And leap aside, and foundered as he leap,  
And oer that Arcite may taken keep,  
He pight him of on the pommel of his heed,  
That in the place he lay as he were deed;  
His breast to bursten with his saddle bow;  
As black he lay as any coal or crow:  
So was the blood yronne in his face.  
Anon he was brought out of the place,  
With heart sore, to Theseus paleis,  
Tho was he coruen out of his harness,  
And in a bed ybourhgt full fair and believe:  
For he was yet in memory, and on live,  
And always crying after Emely.   

Duke Theseus with all his company  
Is comen home to Athenes his cite  
With all bliss and great solemnity:  
All be it that this adventure was fall,  
He would not discomfort him all.  
Men said, eke, that Arcite should not die;  
He should ben yhealed of his malady:  
And of another thing they were as feign,  
That of him all there was none slain:  
All were they sore hurt, and namely one,  
That with a sper was throuled his breast bone:  
Two other wounds, and two broken arms;  
Some had salves, and some had charms,  
Fermaces of herbs, and eke save  
They drunken; for they would her lives have;  
For which this noble duke, as he well can,  
Comforteth and honoureth every man,  
And made revel all the long night  
Unto the strange lords, as it was right;  
Ne there nas hold not discomforting;  
But at jousts or at turneing.  
For soothly there nas no discomfiture:  
For falling is hold but an aveqture;  
Ne to be lood by force unto a stake,  
Vnyolden, and with twenty knights take  
One person alone, withouten any more,  
And haried forth by arm, foot and too,  
And eke his stead driven forth with staffs,  
With fotemen, both yeomen and knaves.  
It was aretted him no vilame  
There may no man cleap it cowardie;  
For which anon duke Theseus did cry  
To stinten all rancour and envy,  
The great as well of one side as of other,  
And either side ilk, as others brother;  
And gave him rights after her degree,  
And fully held a fest days three,  
And conveyed the knights worthily  
Out of his town, a day's journey largely,  
And home went every man the right way;  
Theridamas nas no more, but far well, and have good day.  
Of this battle I wol no more indite,  
But speak of Palamon and Arcite.   

Swelleth the breast of Arcite, and the sore  
Increaseth at his heart more and more:  
The clotered blood, for any liche craft  
Corrumped, and is in his body laste,  
That neither veineblode, he ventousing,  
Ne drink of herbs, may be helping,  
By virtue expulsed or animal,  
For thilk virtue cleped natural;  
Ne may the venom vold, ne ekpell;  
The pipes of his lungs began to swell;  
And every lacerte in his breast adown,  
Is shent with venom and corruption.  
Him gaineth neither: for to get his life,  
Vomit upwarde, ne downward laxatife;  
All is to burst thilk region;  
Nature hath no domination:  
And certainly there, as nature wol not wirch;  
Farewell physic, go bear the corpse to 〈◊〉.  
This is all and some, that Arcite must die;  
For which he 〈◊〉 after emily,  
And Palamon, his cousin dear.  
Then said he thus, as ye shall after here.   

Nought may my woeful 〈◊〉 in my 〈◊〉  
Declare a point of all my sorrows 〈◊〉  
To you, my lady, that I love most;  
But I bequeatheth the service of my ghost  
To you aboven any creature,  
Sin that my life may no longer dure.   

Alas the woe, alas my pains strong,  
That I for you have suffered, and so long;  
Alas the death, alas mine Emely,  
Alas departing of our company;  
Alas mine hearts queen, alas my life's wife,  
Mine hearts lady, ender of my life;  
What is the world? what asken men to have?  
Now with his love, now in his cold grave,  
Alone, withouten any company.  
Farewell my sweet foe, mine Emely,  
And soft take me in your arms fifty:  
For the love of God, harkeneth what I say.  
I have here with my cousin Palamon,  
Had strife and rancour many a day agone,  
For love of you, and for my jealousy:  
And Jupiter so wisely my soul gie,  
To speaken of a servant properly,  
With circumstances, all truly;  
That is to say, troth, honour, and knighthede,  
Wisdom, humblesse, estate, and high kindred,  
Freedom's, and all that longeth to that art;  
So Jupiter have of my soul part,  
As in this world right now know I none  
So worth to be loved as Palamon,  
That serveth you, and wool done all his life;  
And if that you shall ever been a wife,  
Foryet not Palamon, the gentle man:  
And with that word his speech fail begun:  
For from his feet unto his breast was come  
The cold death that hath him nome:  
And yet more over: for in his arms two  
The vital strength is lost, and all ago,  
Save only the intellect, without more,  
That dwelleth in his heart sick and sore,  
'Gan failen, when the heart felt death,  
Dusked his iyen two, and failed breath:  
But on his Lady yet cast he his iye:  
His last word was, mercy Emelye.  
His spirit changed, and out went there,  
Whetherwarde I cannot tell, ne where:  
Therefore I stint, I am no divinistre;  
Of souls find I not in this registre;  
Ne me least not thilk opinion to tell,  
Of hem, though they written where they dwell.  
Arcite is cold, that Mars his sauce gie.  
Now wool I speak forth of emily,   

Shright Emelye, and houlen Palamon,  
And Theseus his sister up took anon  
Swooning, and bore her from his corpse away;  
What helpeth it to tarry forth the day;  
To tell how she wept both even and morrow:  
For in such case women have much sorrow,  
When that her husbands been from him go,  
That for the more party they sorowen so,  
Or else fallen in such malady,  
That at the last, certainly they die.   

Infinite been the sorrow and the teres  
Of old folk, and folk of tender years,  
In all the town, for death of this Theban;  
For him there weepeth both child and man:  
So great weeping was there not certain,  
When Hector was brought, all fresh islain,  
To Troie: Alas! the pite that was there,  
Cratching of cheeks, renting eke here!  
Why wouldst thou be dead, thus women cry,  
And hadst gold enough, and Emelye?   

No man may glad Theseus,  
Saving his old father Egeus,  
That known this world's transmutation,  
As he had seen it, both up and down,  
joy after woe, and woe after gladness,  
And shown him ensamples and likeness,  
Right as there died never man, quoth he,  
That he ne lived in yearth in some degree;  
Right so there lived never man, he said,  
In this world, that sometime he ne deied:  
This world is but a throughfare, full of woe,  
And we been pilgrims, passing to and fro:  
Death is an end of every world's sore.   

And over all this, yet said he much more,  
To this effect, full wisely to exhort  
The people, that they should him recomfort.  
Duke Theseus, with all his busy cure,  
Casteth now, where that the sepulture  
O good Arcite shall best imaked be,  
And eke most honourable of degree:  
And at the last he took conclusion,  
That there as Arcite and Palamon  
Had for love the battle hem between,  
That in the same selue grove, sweet and green,  
There, as he had his amorous desires,  
His complaint, and for love his hot fires,  
He would make a fire, in which the offis  
Funeral he might him all accomplis.  
He hath anon commanded to hack and hue  
The oaks old, and lay him all on a rew  
In culpons, well arrayed for to brenne:  
His officers with swift foot they run,  
And right anon at his commandment.  
And after Theseus hath he isent  
After a bear, and it all oversprad  
With cloth of gold, the richest that he had;  
And of the same suit he clothed Arcite,  
Upon his hands his gloves white,  
Eke on his head a crown of Laurel green,  
And in his hand a sword full bright and keen.  
He laid him bare the visage on the bear,  
Therewith he wept that pite was to here;  
And for the people should seen him all,  
When it was day, he brought him to the hall,  
That rorreth of the cry, and of the sorrows sound.   

Then 'gan this woeful Theban, Palamon,  
With glittering beard, and ruddy shining heres,  
In clothes black, dropped all with teres,  
And passing other of weeping Emelye,  
The rufullest of all the company.   

And in as much as the service should be  
The more noble, and rich in his degree,  
Duke Theseus let forth the steads bring,  
That trapped were in steel all glittering,  
And covered with the arms of Dan Arcite;  
Upon these steads, great and white,  
There saten folk, of which one bare his shield,  
Another his spear in his hand held,  
The third bare with him a bow Turks,  
Of brent gold was the case, and eke the harness;  
And ridden forth apace with sorry cheer,  
Toward the grove, as ye shall after here.   

The noblest of the Greeks that there were  
Upon her shoulders carried the bear,  
With slake pace, and iyen red and white,  
Throughout the cite, by the master street,  
That sprad was all with black, and that wonder high,  
Right of the same is the street iwrie.  
Upon the right hand went Egeus,  
And on the other side, Duke Theseus',  
With vessels in her hand of gold full fine,  
All full of honey, milk, blood, and wine:  
Eke Palamon, with full great company,  
And after that came woeful Emelye,  
With fire in hand, as was that time the gise,  
To done the office of funeral service.   

High labour, and full great apparailing  
Was at service, and at fire making,  
That with his green top the heaven reached,  
And twenty fathom of bred arms 'straught;  
This is to said, the bows were so broad,  
Of straw first there was laid many a load.   

But how the fire was malten up on height,  
And eke the names how the trees height,  
As oak, fir, beech, aspe, elder, elm, popelere,  
Willow, Holm, Plane, Box, Chesten, Laure,  
Maple, thorn, beech, ewe, hazel, Whipultre,  
How they were field, shall not be told for me,  
Ne how the gods run up and down,  
Disherited of her habitation,  
In which they wonned in rest and pees,  
Nymphs, Faunie and Amadriades;  
Ne how the beasts, ne the birds all  
Fledden for fear when the trees fall;  
Ne how the ground aghast was of the light,  
That was not wont to see the sun bright;  
Ne how the fire was couched first with stre,  
And than with dry sticks cloven a three,  
And than with green wood and spicery,  
And than with cloth of gold and perrie;  
And garlands hanging with many a flower,  
The myrrh, the incense, with sweet odour;  
Ne how Arcite lay among all this,  
Ne what richesse about his body is;  
Ne how that emily, as was the gise,  
Put in the fire of funeral service;  
Ne how she souned, when maked was the fire,  
Ne what she spoke, ne what was her desire;  
Ne what jewels men in the fire cast  
When that the fire was great, and brent fast;  
Ne how some cast her shield, and some her spear,  
And of her vestments, which that they were;  
And cups full of wine, milk and blood  
Into the fire that brent as it were wood;  
Ne how the Greeks with a huge rout  
Thrice ridden all the fire about.  
Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting,  
And thrice with her spears clattering,  
And thrice how the ladies 'gan cry;  
Ne how that lad was homeward Emelye,  
Ne how that Arcite is brent to ashen cold,  
Ne how the liche wake was hold  
All that night, ne how the Greeks play,  
The wake plays keep I nat to say,  
Who wrestled best naked, with oil anoint,  
Ne who bore him best in every point.  
I wool nat tell how they gone  
Whom to Athenes, when the play is done:  
But shortly to the point than wool I wend,  
And make of my long tale an end.   

By process and by length of years,  
All stinten is the murning and the teres  
Of Greeks, by one general assent,  
Than seemed me there was a Parliament  
At Athenes, upon a certain point and case;  
Among the which points ispoken was  
To have with certain countries alliance,  
And have of Thebans fully obeisance;  
For which this noble Theseus anon  
Let send after this gentle Palamon,  
Vnwiste of him what was the cause, and why:  
But in his black clothes sorrowfully,  
He came at his commandment on high,  
Tho sent Theseus after Emelye.  
When they were set, and hushed was the place,  
And Theseus abidden hath a space,  
Or any word came from his wise breast,  
His iyens set he there as was his jest;  
And with a sad visage he siked still;  
And after that, right thus he said his will.  
The first mover of the cause above,  
When he first made the fair chain of love;  
Great was th'effect, and high was his intent;  
Well witted he why, and what thereof he ment:  
For with that fair chain of love he bond  
The fire, the air, the water and the land,  
In certain bonds, that they may nat flee  
The same prince and that mover, quoth he,  
Hath established in this wretched world adoun  
Certain of days and duracioun  
To all that are engendered in this place,  
Over the which day they may nat place:  
All mow they yet tho' day's abredge,  
There needeth none authority to ledge:  
For it is proved by experience,  
But that me list declare my sentence:  
Then may men by this order discern,  
That thilk mover stable is and eterne.  
Well may men know but he be a fool  
That every part is derived from his hole:  
For nature hath nat taken his beginning  
Of one part or cantle of a thing;  
But of a thing that perfect is and stable,  
Descending so till it be corrumpable:  
And therefore of his wise purveyance,  
He hath so well beset his ordinance,  
That spaces of things and progressions  
Shullen endure by successions,  
And not eterne, without any lie;  
Thus mayst thou understand, and see at iye.  
Lo the oak, that hath so long a nourishing,  
From the time that it beginneth fyrst to spring,  
And hath so long a life, as ye may see,  
Yet at the last wasted is the tree:  
Considereth eke, how that the hard stone  
Under our feet, on which we tread and gone;  
Yet wasteth it, as it lieth in the weigh,  
The broad river sometime waxeth dry;  
The great touns see we wane and wend;  
Than ye see that all this thing hath end;  
And man and woman see shall we also,  
That endeth in one of the terms two:  
That is to said, in youth or else in age;  
He moat be dead a king as well as a page.  
Some in his bed, some in the deep see,  
Some in the large field, as ye may see;  
It helpeth not, all goeth that ilke weigh;  
Than may you see that all thing moat deie.  
What maketh this but Jupiter the king,  
That is prince, and cause of all thing,  
Converting all to his proper will;  
From which it is derived sooth to tell:  
And here again no creature on live,  
Of no degree availeth for to strive;  
Than is it wisdom, as thinketh me,  
To make virtue of necessity:  
And take it well that we may not eschew,  
And namely that to us all is dew;  
And who so grudgeth aught he doth folly,  
And rebel is to him, that all may gie;  
And certainly a man hath most honour  
To dien in his excellence and flour,  
When he is siker of his good name,  
Than hath he done his friends ne him no shame,  
And glader ought his friends be of his death,  
When with honour iyold is up the breath,  
Than when his name appalled is for age:  
For all foryetten in his vassellage;  
Than it is best as for a worthy fame,  
To dien when he is of best name.  
The contrary of all this is wilfulness:  
Why grutchen we? why have we heaviness  
That good Arcite, of chivalry the flour,  
Departed is with duty and with honour  
Out of this foul prison of this life?  
Why grutchen here his cousin and his wife  
Of his welfare, that loveth him so well?  
Can he hem thank? nay, god wots, never a deal,  
That both his soul, and eke him offend,  
And yet they mow not her lusts amend.   

What may conclude of this long story,  
But after sorrow, I read us be merry;  
And thank Jupiter of all his grace;  
And ere we departen from this place,  
I read we maken of sorrows two,  
One perfect joy, lasting ever more:  
And look now where most sorrow is herein,  
There wol I first amend and begin.   

Sister, qd. he, this is my full assent,  
With all the people of my parliament,  
That gentle Palamon, your own knight,  
That serveth you with will, heart, and might,  
And ever hath done, sigh ye first him knew;  
That ye shall of your grace upon him rue,  
And take him for husband and for lord.  
Lene me your hand: for this is our accord.   

Let see now of your womanly pite;  
He is a king's brother's son pard:  
And though he were a poor bachelor,  
Sin he hath served you so many a year,  
And had for you so great adversity,  
It must been considered, leaveth me:  
For gentle mercy ought to passen right.   

Than said he thus to Palamon the knight,  
I trow there need little sarmoning  
To make you assenten to this thing:  
Cometh ne'er, and taketh your lady by the hon.  
Betwixt hem was maked anon the bond,  
That height Matrimony or Marriage  
By all the counsel of the baronage:  
And thus with all bliss and melody  
Hath Palamon iwedded emily.   

And God, that all this world hath wrought,  
Send him his love that it hath so dear bought:  
For now is Palamon in all we'll,  
Living in bliss, in riches and in hele;  
And Emelye him loveth so tenderly,  
And he her serveth so gently,  
That never was there no word him bitween  
Of jealousy, or of any other tene.   

Thus endeth Palamon and emily,  
And God save all this fair company.    

THE TALE OF THE Nun's Priest.  As it was written by GEFFREY CHAUCER. 
The COCK and the FOX.  
The Moral whereof is, To embrace True Friends, and to beware of Flatterers.  

A Poor widow, somedeal istept in age,  
War whilom dwelling in a poor cottage,  
Beside a grove, standing in a dale.  
This widow, of which I tell you my tale,  
Sens the day that she was last a wife,  
In patience led a full simple life:  
For little was her cattles and her rent;  
By husbandry, of such as God her scent,  
She fond herself, and eke her daughters two;  
Three large sows had she, and no more;  
Three kine, and eke a sheep that height Mall;  
Well sooty was her bower, and eke her hall,  
In which she eat many a slender mole,  
Of poignant sauce ne knew she never a dole,  
Ne dainty morsel passed through her throat,  
Her diet was accordant to her cote:  
Replection ne made her never fike,  
A temperate diet was her Physic,  
And exercise, and hertes suffisance;  
The gout let her nothing for to dance,  
Ne apoplexy shent nat her heed,  
No wine ne drank she, white ne reed:  
Her board was most served with white and black,  
Milk and brounbreed; in which she found no lack;  
Seind bacon, and sometime an eye or twey,  
For she was as it were a manner day.   

A yard she had enclosed all about  
With sticks, and dry diched without,  
In which she had a cock height Chaunteclere,  
In all the land, of crowing nas his pere;  
His voice was merrier than the merry orgon  
On mass days, that in the churches gone;  
Well sikerer was his crowing in his loge,  
Than is a clock, or in an abbey an orloge;  
By nature he knew each ascension  
Of the equinoctial in the town;  
For when degrees xv. were ascended,  
Than crew he, that it might not be amended.   

His come was redder than the fine coral,  
And battled, as it had be a castle wall;  
His bill was black, as any jet it shone,  
Like azure were his legs and his tone;  
His nails whiter than the lily flower,  
And like the burned gold was his colour.   

This gentle cock had in governance  
Seven hens, to done his pleasance,  
Which were his susters and his paramours,  
And wonder like to him, as of colours;  
Of which the fairest hewed in the throat  
Was called fair Damsel Pertelote:  
He feathered her a hundred times a day,  
And she him pleaseth all that ever she may:  
Curteis she was discrete, and debonair,  
And compeneable, and bore herself so fair  
Sens the time that she was seven-night old,  
That truelich, she hath the heart in hold  
Of Chaunteclere, looking in every lithe,  
He loveth her so, that: well was him therewith;  
But such a joy it was to hear him sing,  
When the bright sun 'gan to spring,  
In sweet accord, my lief is far in land.   

For that time, as I have understand,  
Beestes and birds could speak and sing.   

And it so fell, that in the dawning,  
As Chaunteclere, among his wives all,  
Sat on his perch, that was in the hall,  
And next him sat his fair Pertelote,  
This Chaunteclere 'gan to groan in his throat,  
As a man in his dream is drenched sore;  
And when that Pertelote thus herd him roar,  
She was aghast, and said, heart dear,  
What aileth you to groan in this manere?  
Ye be a very sleper, sie for shame.   

And he answered thus: by God madam,  
I pray you that ye take it not in grief:  
By God I met, I was in such mischief  
Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright:  
Now God (qd he) my sweven retch aright;  
And keep my body out of foul prison,  
Me met, that I rome up and down  
Within our yard, where I saw a be'st  
Was like an hound, and would have made areest  
Upon my body, and would have had me deed.  
His colour was betwixt yellow and reed;  
And tipped was his tail, and both his eeres,  
With black, unlike the remnant of his heeres:  
His snout small, with glowing eyes fifty;  
Yet for his look, almost for fear I dey.  
This causeth me my groaning doubtless.   

Away (qd. she) sie for shame, hertlesse:  
Alas (qd. she) for by God above,  
Now have ye lost my heart and all my love.  
I cannot love a coward, by my faith:  
For certes, what so any woman saith,  
We all desire, if that it might be,  
To have husbands hardy, wise and free,  
And secret, and no niggard, ne no foal;  
Ne him that is aghast of every toll;  
Ne none avantour, by that God above:  
How durst ye say for shame unto your love,  
That any sweven might make you afeard?  
Have you no man's heart, and have a beard?  
Alas, and con ye be afeard of swevenis?  
Nothing but vanity, God wot in sweven is.   

Swens' been engendered of replections,  
And of fume, and of commplections;  
When humours been to abundant in a wight,  
Certes this dream which ye have met to night;  
I tell you troth, ye may trust me:  
Cometh of superfluite, and reed colour pard;  
Which cause folk to dread in her dreams,  
Of arrows, and of fire with reed lemes,  
Of reed beasts that wool hem by't,  
Of conteke and of wasps great and light;  
Right as the humour of melancholy  
Causeth many a man in sleep to cry,  
For sere of great bulls and bears black;  
Or else that black devils wol hem take.   

Of other humours could I tell also,  
That work a man in sleep much woe:  
But I wol pass as lightly as I can.   

Lo, Caton, which that was so wise a man,  
Said he not thus, do not force of dreams.   

Now sir (qd. she) when we fly fro the beams,  
For God's love, as taketh some laxatine,  
Up peril of my soul, and of my life,  
I counsel you the best, I wool not lie,  
That both of colour and of melancholy  
Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarry,  
Though in this town be none apothecary:  
I shall myself two herbs techen you,  
That shall be for your heal and for your prow:  
And in our yard, though herbs shall I find,  
The which have her property by kind,  
To purge you bineth, and eke above:  
Foryet not this; for gods own love:  
Ye be right choleric of complexion,  
Where the sun is in his ascension,  
Ne find you not replete of humours hot:  
For if ye do, I dare well lay a groat,  
That ye shall have a fever terciane,  
Or else an ague that may be your bane.  
A day or two ye shall have digestives  
Of worms, or ye take your laxatives,  
Of laurel, century, and of femetere,  
Or else of elder-beries; that grow there,  
Of Catapuce, or of gaitres bereiss,  
Of yve, growing in our yard, that merry is.  
Pluck 'em up as they grow, and eat him in:  
Be merry husband, for your father kin,  
dreadeth no dream, I can say no more.   

Madam (qd. he) gramercy of your lore.  
But nevertheless, as touching dan Caton,  
That of wisdom hath so great renown,  
Though he bade no dreams for to dread.  
By God, men may in old books read,  
Of many a man, more of authority  
Than ever Caton was, so moat I thee.  
That all the reverses saith of his sentence,  
And have well found by experience,  
That dreams been significations,  
As well of joy; as of tribulations,  
That folk endure, in this life present:  
There needeth to make of this none argument:  
The very proof showeth it in deed.  
One of the greatest authors that men read,  
Saith thus: that whilom two fellows went  
On pilgrimage, in full good intent,  
And haped so, they came into a town,  
Where as there was such congregacioun  
Of people, and eke of straight herbigage,  
That they ne found, as much as a cottage,  
In which they both might yloged be,  
Wherefore they moat of necessity  
As for that night, depart company,  
And each of hem goeth to his hostelry,  
And took his lodging as it would fall.   

That one of him was lodged in a stall,  
Fare in a yard, with oxen of the plough.  
That other man was lodged well enough,  
As was his adventure, or his fortune,  
That us governeth all, as in common.   

And so befell, long ere it were day  
This man met in his bed, there as he lay,  
How that his fellow 'gan upon him call,  
And said (alas) for in an ox's stall  
This night shall I be murdered, there I lie:  
Now help me dear brother ere I die,  
In all haste, come to me (he said.)   

This man out of his sleep for fear abraid:  
But when he was waked of his sleep,  
He turned him, and took of this no keep,  
Him thought his dream was but a vanity:  
Thus twice in his sleep dreamt he.   

And at third time yet his fellow,  
Come as him thouzt, and said I now am slawe:  
Behold my bloody wounds, deep and wide,  
Arise up early, in the morrow tide,  
And at the west gate of the town (qd. he)  
A cart full of dung there shalt thou see,  
In which my body is hid full privily,  
Do thou that cart arrest boldly.  
My gold caused my death, soothe to sane,  
And told him every point how he was slain  
With a full petous face, pale of hue:  
And trust well, his dream he found right true;  
For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,  
To his fellows Inn he took the way:  
And when that he came to the ox's stall,  
After his fellow he began to call.   

The hosteler answer him anon,  
And said sir, your fellow is gone,  
As soon as it was day, he went out of the town:   

This man 'gan fall in suspection,  
Remembering of his dreams that he met,  
And forth he goeth, no longer would he let,  
Unto the west gate of the town, and fond  
A dung cart, as it were to dung land,  
That was arrayed in the same wise  
As ye have herd the deed man device:  
And with hardy heart he 'gan to cry  
Vengeance and justice of this felony:  
My fellow murdered is this same night,  
And in this cart he lieth, gaping upright.  
I cry out on the ministers (qd. he)  
That should keep and rule this city:  
Harowe alas, here lieth my fellow slain.   

What should I more of this tale sane?  
The people out start, and cast the cart to ground,  
And in the middle of the dung they found  
The deed man that murdered was all new.   

O blissful God, that art so good and true,  
Lo, how thou bewrayest murdre always.  
Murdre wol out, that see we day by day:  
Murdre is so waltsome and abominable  
To God, that so just is and reasonable,  
That he ne wol it suffer healed to be:  
Though it abide a year, two or three,  
Murdre wol out, this is my conclusion.   

And right anon, the ministers of the town  
Have hent the carter, and sore him pined,  
And eke the hosteler so sore engyned,  
That they beknow her wickedness anon,  
And were honged by the neck bone.   

Here may ye see that dreams been to dread.  
And certes in the same lief I read,  
Right in the next chapter after this,  
I gabbe not, so have I joy and bliss.   

Two men would have passed over these  
For certain causes, into a far country,  
If the wind ne had be contrary,  
That made him in a city to tarry,  
That stood full merry upon an haven side:  
But on a day, against an even tide.  
The wind 'gan change, and blue as him lest,  
jolly and glad they went to rest,  
And cast him full early for to sail,  
But harken to one man fell a great marvel.   

To one of him in sleeping as he lay,  
He met a wonders dream again the day:  
Him thought a man stood by his bed's side,  
And him commanded that he should abide,  
And said him thus, If thou to morrow wend,  
Thou shalt be dreint, my tale is at an end.   

He work, and told his fellow what he met,  
And prayed him his voyage for to let,  
As for that day, he prayed him for to abide.   

His fellow that lay by his bed's side,  
'Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast:  
No dream (qd. he) may so my heart aghast,  
That I wool let for to do my things:  
I set not a straw for thy dreminge,  
For swevens been but vanities and iapes:  
Men meet all day of oules and of apes,  
And eke of many a maze therewithal,  
And dremen of a thing that never was, ne shall.  
But scythe I see that thou wolt here abide,  
And thus sloth wilfully thy tide,  
God wot it ruethme, and have good day,  
And thus he took his leave, and went his way.   

But ere he had half his course ysailed,  
I not why, ne what mischance it ailed,  
But casually the ships bottom to rend,  
And ship and men under the water went  
In sight of other ships beside,  
That with hem sailed at the same tide.   

And therefore, fair Pertelot so dear,  
By such ensamples old mayst thou lere  
That no man should be to reckless  
Of dreams, for I say thee doubtless,  
That many a dream full sore is for to dread.   

Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm, we read,  
That was Kenelphus' son, the noble king  
Of Mereturike, how Kenelm met a thing,  
A little ere he were murdered on a day:  
His murder in this vision he say:  
His norice him expounded it every deal  
His sweven, and bad him keep him well  
Fro treason, but he was but seven year old,  
And therefore little tale he thereof told  
Of any dream, so holy was his heart:  
By God, I had rather than my shirt,  
That ye have herd his legend, as have I.   

Dame Pertelot, I say to you truly,  
Macrobius, that writeth the avision  
In Africa, of the worthy Scipion,  
Affirmeth dreams, and saith that they been  
Warning of things that we after seen.   

And furthermore I pray you looketh well  
In the old Testament, of Daniel,  
If he held dreams for vanity.   

Reed eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see  
Wonders ben sometime, but I say nat all,  
Warning of things that after shall fall.   

Lo of Egypt the king, that height Pharaoh,  
His baker and his butteler also,  
whether they felt none effect indremes,  
Who so wool seek acts in sundry rheims,  
May read of dreams a wonder thing,   

Lo Croesus, which was of Lide king,  
Met he not that he sat upon a tree,  
Which signified he should honged be.   

Lo Andromeda, that was Hector's Wife,  
That day that Hector should lese his life,  
She dreamt in the same night before,  
How the life of Hector should belorne  
If that day he went unto battle:  
She warned him, but it might not avail:  
He went for to fight nevertheless,  
But he was slain anon of Achilles.  
But that tale is to long to tell,  
And eke it is nigh day, I may nat dwell.   

Shortly I say, as for conclusion,  
That I shall have of this avision  
Aduersite: and I say farthermore,  
That I ne tell of laxatives no store,  
For they been venomous, I were it well:  
I hem defy, I love him never a deal.   

But let us speak of mirth, and stint all this,  
Madam Pertelot, so have I bliss,  
Of one thing God hath me sent large grace:  
For when I see the beauty of your face,  
Ye been so scarlet reed about your eyes,  
It maketh all my dread for to dien.  
For also siker, as In principio  
Mulier est hominis confusio.   

Madame, the sentence of this latin is  
Woman is man's joy and his bliss:  
For when I feel on night your soft side,  
Albeit that I may not on you ride,  
For that our parche is made so narrow alas,  
I am so full of joy and of solas  
That I defy both sweven and dream:  
And with that word he flew down from the beme,  
For it was day, and eke the hens all:  
And with a chuck he 'gan him for to call,  
For he had found a corn lay in the yard:  
Royal he was, and no more afeard:  
He feddred Pertelot twenty time,  
And tradde her eke as oft ere it was prime.  
He looketh as it were a grim lion,  
And on his toes he rome up and down.  
Him deened not to set his feet to the ground:  
He chucked, when he had a corn yfound,  
And to him than ran his wives all.   

As royal as a prince in his hall,  
Leave I this Chaunteclere in this pasture:  
And after wool I tell of his adventure.   

When the month in which the world began,  
That height March that God first made man  
Was complete, and passed were also,  
Sith March began twenty days and two,  
Befill that Chaunteclere in all his pride,  
His seven wives walking him beside,  
Cast up his eyes to the bright sun,  
That in the sign of Taurus was yrunne  
Forty degrees and one; and somewhat more:  
He knew by kind, and by none other lore,  
That it was prime, and crew with a blissful steven:  
The sun he said is climbed up to the heaven  
Forty degrees and one, and somewhat more iwis,  
Madam Pertelot, my world's bliss,  
Harken how these blissful birds sing,  
And see the fresh flowers how they 'gan spring:  
Full is mine heart of revel, and solas.  
But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case:  
For ever the latter end of joy is woe,  
God wot, worldly joy is soon ago:  
And if a rethore could fair indite,  
He in a chronicle might safely write  
As for a sovereign notabilitie.   

Now every wise man harken to me,  
This story is all so true I undertake,  
As is the book of Lancelot du lake,  
That women holden in full great reverence:  
Now wool I turn again to my sentence.   

A col fox (full of sleight and iniquity)  
That in the grove had wonned years three,  
By high imagination aforne cast,  
The same night, through the hedge burst  
Into the yard there Chaunteclere the fair  
Was wont and eke his wives to repair:  
And in a bed of wortes still he lay,  
Till it was passed undrens of the day,  
Waiting his time, on Chaunteclere to fall:  
As gladly done these homicides all,  
That in a wait lie to murdre men.   

O false murderer, rucking in thy den:  
O new Scariot, and new Gavilion,  
O False dissimuler, O greek Sinon  
That broughtest Troy utterly to sorrow,  
O Chaunteclere, accursed be the morrow,  
That thou in thy yard flew from the beams:  
Thou were full well warned by thy dreams,  
That ilke day was perilous to thee.  
But what that God afore wot, must needs be,  
After the opinion of certain clerks,  
Witness of him, that any clerk is,  
That in school is great altercation  
In this matter, and great disputation  
And hath been of an hundred thousand men,  
But I ne can nat bolt it to the brens,  
As can the holy doctor saint Austin,  
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin,  
Whether that gods worthy fore witting,  
Straineth me needily to do a thing:  
(Nedely clepe I simple necessity)  
Or if the free choice be granted me  
To do the same thing, or do it nought,  
Though God forewote it, or it was wrought:  
Or of his witting straineth never a deal,  
But by necessity condicionele,  
I wol not have to done of such matter,  
My tale is of a cock, as ye shall here,  
That took his counsel of his wife with sorrow,  
To walk in the yard upon the morrow,  
That he had met the dream, as I you told.  
women's counsels been oft full cold:  
women's counsel brought us first to woe,  
And made Adam from Paradise to go,  
There as he was full merry, and well at ease.  
But for I not whom I might displease,  
If I counsel of women should blame,  
Pass over, I said it in my game.  
Redeth authors, where they treat of such matter,  
And what they say of women, ye mow here.  
These been the cock's words, and not mine;  
I can of women no harm divine.   

Fair in the sonde to bathe her merely,  
Lieth Pertelot and all her susters by,  
Against the sun, and Chaunteclere so free,  
Song merrier than the Marmaide in the se,  
For Phisiologus, saith utterly,  
How that they singen well and merely.   

And so befell, as he cast his eye  
Among the wortes on a butterfly,  
He was ware of the fox that lay full low,  
Nothing than list him for to crow,  
But cried cock, cock, and up he start,  
As one that was afraid in his heart.  
For naturally beasts desireth to fly  
From her contrary, if he may it see,  
Tho he never erst had seen it with his eye.  
This Chaunteclere, when he 'gan him espy,  
He would have fled, but the fox anon  
Said: gentle sir, alas, what wol ye done?  
Be ye afraid of me, that am your friend?   

Now certes I were worse than a fiend,  
If I to you would harm or villainy:  
I am not come your counsel to espy.  
But truly the cause of my coming  
Was only to here how ye sing:  
For soothly ye have as merry a steven,  
As any angel hath, that is in heaven,  
Therewith ye have of music more feeling,  
Than had Boece or any that can sing.  
My lord your father, God his soul bless,  
And eke your mother of her gentleness  
Have in my house been, to my great case:  
And certes sir, full feign would I you please.  
But for men speken of singing, I wool say,  
So moat I broken well mine eyes fifty,  
Save you, ne heard I never man so sing,  
As did your father in the morning.  
Certes it was of heart, all that he song,  
And for to make his voice more strong,  
He would so pain him, that with both his eyes  
He must wink, so loud he must crien,  
And stonden on his tiptoes therewithal,  
And stretch forth his neck, long and small.  
And eke he was of such discretion,  
That there was no man in no region,  
That him in song or wisdom might pass.  
I have well red dan Burnel the have  
Among his verses, how that there was a Cock,  
For that a priests son gave him a knock  
Upon his legs, while he was young and nice,  
He made him for to lese his benefice.  
But certain there is no comparison  
Betwixt the wisdom and discretion  
Of your father, and of his subtlety.  
Now singeth sir, for saint charity,  
Let see, can ye your father counterfeit?   

This Chaunteclere his wings 'gan to beat,  
As a man that could not his treason aspie,  
So was he ravished with his flattery.   

Alas ye lords, many a false flatterour  
Is in your court, and many a false lesingour,  
That please you well more by my faith,  
Than he that soothfastness unto you saith.  
Redeth Ecclesiast of flattery,  
Beware ye lords of her treachery.  
This Chaunteclere stood high upon his toes  
Stretchin his neck, and held his eye close,  
And 'gan to crow loud for the nonce:  
And dan Russel the Fox start up at ones,  
And by the gorget hent Chaunteclere,  
And on his back, toward the wood him bear.  
For yet was there no man that him sued.   

O destiny, that mayst not be eschewed.  
Alas that Chaunteclere flew fro the beams,  
Alas his wife wrought not of dreams:  
And on a Friday fell all this mischance.   

O Venus, that art goddess of pleasance,  
Sithence that thy servant was this Chaunteclere,  
And in thy service did all his power,  
More for delight than the world to multiply,  
Why wouldst thou suffer him on thy day to die?   

O Gaulfride, dear master, sovereign,  
That when that worthy king Richard was slain  
With shot, complaindst his death so sore,  
Why ne had I now thy science and thy lore,  
The Friday for to chide, as did ye:  
For on a Friday shortly slain was he.  
Than would I show you how that I could plain,  
For Chaunteclere's dread and for his pain.   

Certes such cry ne lamentation  
Nas never of Ladies made, when that Ilium  
Was won, and Pirrus with his bright sword  
When he hent King Priam by the berde,  
And slough him, (as sayeth Eneidos')  
As made all the hens in the close,  
When they had lost of Chaunteclere the sight:  
But soverainly dame Pertelot shright  
Well louder than did Hasdruballes wife,  
When that her husband hath lost his life,  
And that the Romans' had brent Cartage.  
She was so full of torment and of rage,  
That wilfully into the fire she start,  
And brent herself with a steadfast heart.   

O woeful hens, right so cried he,  
As when that Nero brent the city  
Of Rome, cried the Senators wives,  
For that her husbands should lese her lives,  
Withouten guilt Nero hath him slain.   

Now wol I turn to my tale again.  
The silly widow, and her daughters two  
Heard the hens cry and make woe,  
And at the door start they anon,  
And saw the fox toward the wood gone,  
And bare upon his back the Cock away:  
And cried out harow and well away:  
Aha the Fox, and after him they ran,  
And eke with staffs many another man:  
Run, Coll our dog, Talbot, and eke garlonde,  
And Malkin, with her distasse in her hand:  
Run Cow and Calf, and eke the very hogs,  
For they so sore afeard were of the dogs,  
And shouting of men and of women eke,  
They ran so, her heart thought to break.  
They yellen as fiends do in hell:  
The Ducks cried as men would them quell:  
The Geese for fear flew over the trees,  
Out of the Hives came the swarm of Bees,  
So hideous was the noise, a benedicite:  
Certes Jack Straw, ne his mien,  
Ne made never shouts half so shrill,  
When that they would any Fleming kill,  
As that day was made upon the Fox.  
Of brass they blewe the trumps and of box,  
Of horn and bone, in which they blew and pouped  
And therewith they shrieked and shouted:  
It seemed as though heaven should fall,  
Now good men, I pray you harken all.   

Lo how fortune tourneth suddenly  
The hope and the pride of her enemy.  
This Cock that lay upon the Fox bacl,  
In all his dread unto the Fox he spoke,  
And said, sir, if I were as ye,  
Yet should I say, as wise God help me,  
Tourneth again, ye proud churls all:  
A very pestilence upon you fall.  
Now am I come unto this woods side,  
Maugre your head, the Cock shall here abide,  
I wool him eate-in faith, and that anon.  
The Fox answered, in faith it shall be done:  
And as he spoke the word, all 〈◊〉  
This Cock broke from his mouth deliverly,  
And high upon a tree he flew anon:  
And when the Fox saw that he was gone,   

Alas (qd. he) O Chaunteclcre, alas,  
I have (qd. he) do to you trespass,  
In as much as I made you afeard,  
When I you hent, and brought out of your yard.  
But sir, I did it not in no wicked intent:  
Come down, and I shall tell you what I meant,  
I shall you say sooth, God help me so.   

Nay than (qd. he) I shrew us both two,  
And first I shrew myself, both blood and bones,  
If thou beguile me ofter than ones:  
Thou shalt no more with thy flattery  
Do me sing with a winking eye.  
For he that winketh when he should see,  
All wilfully, God let him never thee.  
Nay (qd. the fox) but God give him mischance,  
That is so indiscrete of governance  
That jangleth, when that he should have pees.   

Lo, such it is for to be reckless  
And negligent, and trust on flattery.  
But ye that hold this tale a lie  
As of a fox, of a Cock, and of a Hen,  
Taketh the morality good men  
For Saint Poule sayeth, all that written is,  
To our doctrine it is written iwis.  
Taketh the fruit, and let the chaff be still.   

Now good God, if that it be thy will,  
As sayeth my Lord, so make us all good men:  
And bring us to the high bliss. Amen.    

THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF.  As it was written by GEFFREY CHAUCER. 
The ARGUMENT.  
A Gentlewoman out of an Arbour in a Grove, seethe 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 Daisre, some to the Flower, and some to the Leaf. Afterward this Gentlewoman learneth by one of these Ladies the meaning hereof, which is this: They which honour the Flower, a thing fading with every Blast, are such as look after Beauty and worldly Pleasure: but they that honour the Leaf, which abideth with the Root, notwithstanding the Frosts and Winter Storms, are they which follow Virtue and during Qualities, without regard of worldly Respects.  

WHEN that Phoebus his chair of gold so high  
Had whirled up the sterrie sky aloft,  
And in the Boole was entered certainly,  
When showers sweet of rain descended oft,  
Causing the ground feel times and oft,  
Up for to give many an wholesome air,  
And every plain was clothed fair.   

With new green, and maketh small flours  
To springen here, and there in field and in meed,  
So very good and wholesome be the showers,  
That it reneveth that was old and deed,  
In winter time and out of every seed  
Springeth the herb, so that every wight  
Of this season waxeth glad and light.   

And I so glad of the season sweet,  
Was happened thus upon a certain night,  
As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeeet  
Was unto me, but why that I ne might  
Rest, I ne witted, for there nas earthly wight,  
As I suppose, had more hearts ease  
Then I, for I and sickness nor disease.   

Wherefore I marvel greatly of myself,  
That I so long withonten sleep lay,  
And up I risen three hours' afteritwelfe,  
About the springing of the day,  
And on I put my gear and mine array,  
And to a pleasant grove I 'gan pass,  
Long or the bright son up risen was.   

In which were Okes great, straight as a line,  
Under the which, the grass so fresh of hue,  
Was newly sprung, and an eight foot or nine  
Every tree well fro his fellow grew,  
With branches broad, lad with leaves new,  
That sprongen out again the son sheen,  
Some very red, and some a glad light green.   

Which, as me thought, was right a pleasant sight,  
And eke the birddes' song for't here,  
Would have rejoiced any earthly wight,  
And I that couth not yet in no manner,  
Hear the Nightingale of all the year,  
Full busily harkened with heart and with ear,  
If I her voice perceive could any where.   

And at the last a path of little bread  
I found, that greatly had not used be,  
For it forgrown was with grass and weed,  
That well vnneth a wight might it see:  
Thouzt I this path some whider goth pard,  
And so I followed, till it me brought  
To right a pleasant herber well y wrought,   

That benched was, and with curses new  
Freshly turned, whereof the green grass,  
So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hue,  
That most like unto green well wots I it was,  
The hag also that go in compass,  
And closed in all the green herbere,  
With sicamour was set and eglatere.   

Writhe in fere so well and cunningly,  
That every branch and lease grew by measure,  
Plain as a board, of an height by and by,  
I see never thing I you ensure,  
So well done, for he that took the cure  
It to make ytrow, did all his peine  
To make it pass, all though that men have sayn.   

And shapen was this herber roof and all  
As a pretty parlour, and also  
The hag, as thick as a castle wall,  
That who that list without to stoned or go,  
Though he would all day prien to and fro,  
He should not see if there were any wight  
Within or no, but one within well might   

Perceive all though that yeden there without  
In the field that was on every side  
Covered with corn and grass, that out of doubt,  
Though one would seek all the world wide,  
So rich a field could not be espied  
On no coast, as of the quantity,  
For of all good thing there was plenty.   

And I that all this pleasant sight sie,  
Thought suddenly I felt so sweet an air  
Of the eglentere, that certainly  
There is no heart I dame in such despair.  
Ne with shoughts froward and contraire,  
So overlaid, but it should soon have boat,  
If it had ones felt this favour soot.   

And as I stood and cast aside mine eye,  
I was ware of the fairest Meddle tre  
That ever yet in all my life I sie,  
As full of blosomes as it might be,  
Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile  
From bough to bough, and as him list he eet  
Here and there of buds and flowers sweet.   

And to the herber side was joining  
This fair tree, of which I have you told,  
And at the last the bird began to sing,  
When he had eaten what he eat wood,  
So passing sweetly, that by manifold  
It was more pleasant than I could device,  
And when his song was ended in this wise,   

The Nightingale with so merry a note  
Answered him, that all the wood rung  
So suddenly, that as it were a sote,  
I stood astonished, so was I with the song  
Thorough ravished, that till late and long,  
I ne witted in what place I was, ne where,  
And again me thought she sung even by mine ere.   

Wherefore I waited about busily  
On every side, if I her might see,  
And at the last I 'gan full well aspy  
Where she sat in a fresh green laurey tree,  
On the further side even right by me,  
That gave so passing a delicious smell,  
According to the eglentere full well.   

Whereof I had so inly great pleasure,  
That as me thought I surely ravished was  
Into Paradise, where my desire  
Was for to be, and no ferther pass  
As for that day, and on the sweet grass  
I sat me down for as for mine intent,  
The birds song was more convenient,   

And more pleasant to me by manifold,  
Than meat or drink, or any other thing,  
Thereto the herber was so fresh and cold,  
The wholesome savours eke so comforting,  
That as I deemed, sigh the beginning  
Of the world was never seen or than  
So pleasant a ground of none earthly man.   

And as I sat; the birds harkening thus,  
Me thought that I heard voices suddenly,  
The most sweetest and most delicious  
That ever any wight I trow truly  
Herd in their life, for the armony  
And sweet accord was in so good music,  
That the voice to Angels most was like.   

At the last, out of a grove even by,  
That was right goodly, and pleasant to sight,  
I sie where there came singing lustily  
A world of ladies, but to tell aright  
Their great beauty, it lieth not in my might  
Ne their array nevertheless I shall  
Tell you a part, though I speak not of all.   

The surcotes white of velvet well sitting,  
They were clad, and the seems each one,  
As it were a manner garnishing,  
Was set with Emerauds one and one,  
By and by, but many a rich stone  
Was set on the purfiles out of doubt  
Of colours, sleves, and trains round about.   

As great pearls round, and orient,  
Diamonds fine, and rubies red,  
And many another stone, of which I went  
The names now, and every on her head,  
A rich fret of gold, which without dread  
Was full of stately rich stones set,  
And every lady had a chapelet   

On her head of fresh and green,  
So we'll wrought, and so marvellously,  
That it was a noble sight to seen,  
Some of laurer, and some full pleasantly  
Had chaplets of woodbine, and sadly  
Some of Agnus castus were also  
Chapelets fresh, but there were many of though   

That danced, and eke song full soberly,  
But all they go in manner of compass,  
But one there go in mid the company  
Soole by herself, but all followed the pace  
That she kept, whose heavenly figured face  
So pleasant was, and her we'll shape person,  
That of beauty she passed him everichon.   

And more richly beseen by manifold  
She was also in every manner thing,  
On her head full pleasant to behold,  
A crown of gold rich for any king,  
A branch of Agnus castus eke bearing  
In her hand, and to my sight truly,  
She lady was of the company.   

And she began a roundel lustily,  
That Suse le foyle de vert moy, men call,  
Seen & money jolly cuer en dormy,  
And than the company answered all,  
With voice sweet entuned, and so small,  
That me thought it the sweetest melody  
That ever I heard in my life sooth.   

And thus they came dancing and singing  
Into the midst of the meed eachone,  
Before the herber where I was sitting,  
And God wots my thought I was well bigone,  
For than I might avise him one by one,  
Who fairest was, who could best dance or sing,  
Or who most womanly was in all thing.   

They had not danced but a little throw,  
When that I heard not fer of suddenly,  
So great a noise of thundering trumps blow,  
As though it should have departed the sky,  
And after that within a while I sie,  
From the same grove where the ladies come out,  
Of men of arms coming such a rout,   

As all ye men on earth had been assembled  
In that place, we'll horsed for the nonce,  
stirring so fast, that all the earth trembled:  
But for to speak of riches and stones,  
And men and horse I trow ye large wones,  
Of Pretir John, ne all his tresory,  
Might not vnneth have bouzt the tenth party.   

Of their array who so list hear more,  
I shall rehearse so as I can a light:  
Out of the grove that I spoke of before,  
I sie come first all in their cloaks white,  
A company that were for their delight;  
Chapelets fresh of oaks feriall,  
Newly sprung, and trumpets they were all.   

On every trump hanging a broad banere  
Of fine Tartarium were full richly beat,  
Every trumpet his lord's arms here  
About their necks with great pearls seat,  
Colers broad for cost they would not lete,  
As it would seem for their scochones eachone,  
Were set about with many a precious stone.   

Their horse harness was all white also,  
And after them next in one company,  
Came kings of arms and no more,  
In cloaks of white cloth of gold richly,  
Chapelets of green on their heads on hie,  
The crowns that they on their scochones here,  
Were set with pearl, ruby, and Saphere.   

And eke great Diamonds many one,  
But all their horse harness and other gear  
Was in a suit according everyone,  
As ye have heard the foresaid trumpets were,  
And by seeming they were nothing to lere,  
And there guiding, they did so manerely,  
And after hem came a great company   

Of heraudes and pursuivants eke,  
Arrayed in clothes of white velvet,  
And hardily they were nothing to seek,  
How they on hem should the harness set,  
And every man had on a chapelet  
Scochones and eke horse harness in deed,  
They had in suit of him that before him go.   

Next after hem came in armour bright  
All save their heads, seemly knights nine,  
And every clasp and nail as to my sight  
Of their harness were of red gold fine,  
With cloth of gold, and furred with ermine  
Were the trappours of their steads strong,  
Wide and large, that to the ground did hung.   

And every boose of bridle and paitrell  
That they had, was worth as I would ween,  
A thousand pound, and on their heads well  
Dressed were crowns of laurer green,  
The best made that ever I had seen,  
And every knight had after him riding  
Three hensh men on him awaiting.   

Of which every on a short tronchoun  
His lords helm bore so richly dight,  
That the worst was worth the raunsoun  
Of a king, the second a shield bright  
Bare at his neck, the thread bore upright  
A mighty sphere, full sharp ground and keen,  
And every child ware of leaves green   

A fresh chapelet upon his hairs bright,  
And cloaks white of fine velvet they were,  
Their steeds trapped and rayed right  
Without difference as their lords were,  
And after him on many a fresh corsere,  
There came of armed knights such a rout,  
That they besprad the large field about.   

And all they beware after their Degree  
Chapelets new, made of laurer green,  
Some of oak, and some of other trees.  
Some in their honds bare boughs sheen,  
Some of laurer, and some of oaks keen,  
Some of hawthorn, and some of woodbine,  
And many more, which I had not in mind.   

And so they came their horses freshly stirring  
With bloody sows of her trumps loud,  
There sie I many an uncouth disguising  
In the array of these knights proud,  
And at the last as evenly as they could,  
They took their places in midst of the meed,  
And every knight turned his horse heed   

To his fellow, and lightly laid a spear  
In the rest, and so jousts began  
On every part about here and there,  
Some broke his spear, some drew down horse and man,  
About the field astray the steeds ran  
And to behold their rule and governance,  
I you ensure it was a great pleasance   

And so the jousts last and hour and more,  
But though that crowned were in laurer green,  
Won the prize, their dints were so sore,  
That there was none against him might abstain,  
And the justing all was left of clean,  
And fro their horse the ninth alight anon,  
And so did all the remnant everichon.   

And forth they go together twain and twain,  
That to behold it was a worldly sight  
Toward the ladies on the green plain,  
That song and danced as I said now right:  
The ladies as soon as they goodly might,  
They broke of both the song and dance,  
And go to meet him with full glad semblance.   

And every lady took full womanly  
By the hand a knight, and forth they go  
Unto a fair laurer that stood fast by,  
With leaves laid the boughs of great breed,  
And to my doom there never was indeed  
Man, that had seen half so fair a tre,  
For underneath there might it well have be   

An hundred persons at their own pleasance  
Shadowed from the heat of Phoebus' bright,  
So that they should have felt no grevance  
Of rain ne hail that him hurt might,  
The favour eke rejoice would any wight,  
That had be sick or melancolius,  
It was so very good and virtuous.   

And with great reverence they inclining low  
To the tree so soot and fair of hue,  
And after that within a little throw  
They began to sing and dance of new,  
Some song of love, some plaining of untrue,  
Environing the tree that stood upright,  
And ever go a lady and a knight.   

And at the last I cast mine eye aside,  
And was ware of a lusty company  
That came roaming out of the field wide,  
Hond in hand a knight and a lady,  
The ladies all in surcotes that richly  
Purfiled were with many a rich stone,  
And every knight of green ware mantles on.   

Embrouded well so as the surcotes were,  
And every had a chaplet on her head,  
Which did right well upon the shining here,  
Made of goodly flowers white and red,  
The knights eke that they in hon led  
In suit of him aware chapelets everyone;  
And before hem went minstrels many one.   

As Harps, Pipes, Lutes, and Sautry  
All in green, and on their heads bare  
Of divers flowers made full craftily  
All in a suit goodly chapelets they beware,  
And so dancing into the meed they far,  
In mid the which they found a tust that was  
All oversprad with flowers in compass.   

Whereto they inclined everichon  
With great reverence, and that full humbly,  
And at the last there began anon  
A lady for to sing right womanly  
A Bargaret in praising the daisy,  
For as me thought among her notes sweet  
She said Si douset & la Margarete.   

Then they all answered her in fere,  
So passingly well, and so pleasantly,  
That it was a blissful noise to here,  
But I not it happened suddenly,  
As about noon the son so fervently  
Wax hot, that the pretty tender flowers  
Had lost the beauty of her fresh colours.   

Forshronke with heat, the ladies eke to brent,  
That they ne witted where they him might bestow,  
The knights swelled for lack of shade nigh shent,  
And after that within a little throw,  
The wind began so sturdily to blow,  
That down goeth all the flowers everich one.  
So that in all the meed there laft not one,   

Save such as succoured were among the letres,  
Fro every storm that might him assail,  
Growing under hedges and thick greves,  
And after that there came a storm of hail,  
And rain in fear, so that withouten fail,  
The ladies ne the knight's nade o thread  
Dry on them, so dropping was her weed.   

And when the storm was clean passed away,  
Tho in white that stood under the tre,  
They felt nothing of the great affray,  
That they in green without had in ybe,  
To them they y for routh and pite,  
Them to comfort after their great disease,  
So feign they were the helpless for to ease.   

Then I was aware how one of him in green  
Had on a crown rich and well sitting,  
Wherefore I deemed well the was a Queen,  
And though in green on her were awaiting,  
The ladies then in white that were coming  
Toward them, and the knights in fere  
Began to comfort him and make him cheer.   

The Queen in white, that was of great beauty,  
took by the hand the queen that was in green,  
And said, sister, I have great pity  
Of your annoy, and of the troublous tene,  
Wherein ye and your company have been  
So long alas, and if that it you please  
To go with me, I shall do you theease,   

In all the pleasure that I can or may:  
Whereof the t'other humbly as she might,  
Thanked her, for in right ill array  
She was with storm and heat I you behight,  
And every lady then anon right  
That were in white, one of them took in green  
By the hon, which when the Knights had seen,   

In likewise each of them took a knight  
Clad in green, and forthwith him they far,  
To a hag, where they anon right  
To make these jousts they would not spare  
Boughs to hue down, and eke trees square,  
Wherewith they made him stately fires great,  
To dry their clothes that were wring wet.   

And after that of herbs that there grew,  
They made for blisters of the son brenning,  
Very good and wholesome ointments new,  
Where that they go the sick fast anointing,  
And after that they go about gadering  
Pleasant salads which they made him eat,  
For to refresh their great unkindly heat.   

The lady of the lease than began to pray  
Her of the flower (for so to my seeming  
They should be as by their array)  
To soup with her, and eke for any thing,  
That she should with her all her people bring:  
And she again in right goodly manner,  
Thanketh her of her most friendly cheer,   

Saying plainly, that she would obey  
With all her hart all her commandment,  
And then anon without longer delay  
The lady of the Leaf hath one send  
For a palsray after her intent,  
Arrayed well and fair in harnaiss of gold,  
For nothing lacked, that to him long should.   

And after that to all her company  
She made to purvey horse and every thing  
That they needed, and then full lustily,  
Even by the herber where I was sitting  
They passed all so pleasantly singing,  
That it would have comforted any wight,  
But then I sie a passing wonder sight.   

For then the nightingale, that all the day  
Had in the laurer seat, and did her might  
The whole service to sing longing to May,  
All suddenly 'gan to take her flight,  
And to the lady of the leaf forth right  
She flew, and set her on her hon softly,  
Which was a thing I marveled of greatly.   

The goldfinch eke that fro the medill tre  
Was fled for heat into the bushes cold,  
Unto the Lady of the Flower 'gan i'll,  
And on her hon he set him as he would,  
And pleasantly his wings 'gan to fold,  
And for to sing they pained hem both as sore,  
As they had do of all the day before.   

And so these Ladies road forth a great pace,  
And all the rout of knights eke in fere,  
And I that had seen all this wonder case,  
Thought I would assay in some manere,  
To know fully the troth of this matter,  
And what they were that road so pleasantly,  
And when they were the herber passed by,   

I dressed me forth, and happened to meet anon  
Right a fair Lady I you ensure,  
And she come riding by herself alone,  
All in white, with semblance full demure  
I saluted her, and bad her good adventure  
Must her befall, as I could most humbly,  
And she answered, my daughter gramercy.   

Madam (qd. I) if that I durst inquire  
Of you I would feign of that company  
Wit what they be that past by this arbere,  
And she again answered right friendly:  
My fair daughter, all though that passed hereby  
In white clothing, be servants everyone  
Unto the Leaf, and I myself am one.   

See ye not her that crowned is (qd. she)  
All in white? Madam (qd. I) yes:  
That is Diane, gods of chastity,  
And for because that she a maiden is,  
In her hon the branch she beareth this,  
That Agnus castus men call properly,  
And all the ladies in her company   

Which ye see of that herb chaplets wear,  
Be such as han kept always her maidenhead:  
And all they that of laurer chaplets bear,  
Be such as hardy were and manly indeed,  
Victorious name which never may be deed,  
And all they were so worthy of their hon,  
In her time that none might him withstand.   

And though that wear chapelets on their heed  
Of fresh woodbine, be such as never were  
To love untrue in word, thought, ne deed,  
But aye steadfast, ne for pleasance, ne fere,  
Though that they should their hearts all to tere,  
Would never flit, but ever were steadfast,  
Till that their lives there asunder braced.   

Now fair Madam (qd. I) yet I would pray,  
Your ladyship if that it might be,  
That I might know by some manner way,  
Sith that it hath liked your beauty,  
The troth of these ladies for to tell me,  
What that these knights be in rich armour,  
And what tho be in green and wear the flour?   

And why that some did reverence to the tre,  
And some unto the plot of flowers fair:  
With rizt good will my fair daughter (qd. she)  
Sith your desire is good and debonair,  
Tho nine crowned be very exemplaire,  
Of all honour longing to chivalry,  
And those certain be called the nine worthy.   

Which ye may see riding all before,  
That in her time did many a noble deed,  
And for their worthiness full oft have boar  
The crown of laurer leaves on their heed,  
As ye may in your old books read,  
And how that he that was a conqueror,  
Had by laurer always his most honour.   

And though that bear bows in their hon  
Of the precious laurer so notable,  
Be such as were I wool ye understand,  
Noble knights of the round table,  
And eke the douseperis honourable,  
Which they bore in the sign of victory,  
It is witness of their deeds mightily.   

Eke there be knights old of the Garter,  
That in her time did right worthily,  
And the honour they did to the laurer,  
Is for by they have their laud wholly,  
Their Triumph eke and marshal glory,  
Which unto them is more perfect riches,  
Then any wight imagine can or guess.   

For one leaf given of that noble tre,  
To any wight that hath done worthily,  
And it be done so as it ought to be,  
Is more honour than any thing earthly,  
Witness of Rome that founder was truly  
Of all knighthood and deeds marvellous,  
Record I take of Titus Livius.   

And as for her that crowned is in green,  
It is Flora, of these flowers goddess,  
And all that here on her awaiting been,  
It are such that loved idleness,  
And not delight of no business,  
But for to hunt, and hawk, and play in medes,  
And many other such idle deeds.   

And for the great delight and pleasance  
They have to the flower, and so reverently  
They unto it do such obeisance,  
As ye may see now fair Madam (qd. I)  
If I durst ask what is the cause, and why,  
That knights have the sign of honour,  
Rather by the leaf than by the flower.   

soothly daughter (qd. she) this is the troth,  
For knights ever should be persevering,  
To seek honour without feintise or sloth,  
Fro we'll to better in all manner thing,  
In sign of which with leaves aye lasting,  
They be rewarded after their degree,  
Whose lusty green May, may not appaired be.   

But aye keeping their beauty fresh and green,  
For there nis storm that may hem deface,  
Hail nor snow, wind nor frosts keen,  
Wherefore they have this property and grace,  
And for the flower within a little space  
wol be lost, so simple of nature  
They be, that they no grevance may endure.   

And every storm will blow them soon away,  
Ne they last not but for a season,  
That if their cause the very troth to say,  
That they may not by no way of reason  
Be put to no such occupation,  
Madam (qd. I) with all mine whole service,  
I thank you now in my most humble wise.   

For now I am acertained throughly  
Of every thing I desired to know,  
I am right glad that I have said soothly  
Aught to your pleasure if ye will me trow.  
(Qd. she) again but to whom do you own  
Your service, and which wool ye honour,  
Tell me I pray, this year, the leaf or the flower.   

Madam (qd. I) though I least worthy,  
Unto the leaf I own mine observance:  
That is (qd. she) right well done certainly,  
And I pray God to honour you advance,  
And keep you fro the wicked remembrance  
Of male bouch and all his cruelty,  
And all that good and well conditioned be.   

For here may I no longer now abide,  
I must follow the great company  
That ye may see yonder before you ride,  
And forth as I couth most humbly,  
I took my leave of her as she 'gan high  
After him as fast as ever she might,  
And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night,   

And put all that I had seen in writing  
Under support of them that lust it to read.  
O little book, thou art so unconning,  
How dar'st thou put thyself in prees for dread,  
It is wonder that thou wexest not read,  
Sith that thou wost full light who shall behold  
Thy rude langage, full boistoufly unfold.    

THE WIFE OF BATHE'S TALE.  As it was written by GEFFREY CHAUCER. 
The ARGUMENT.  
A Bachelor of King Arthur's Court is enjoined by the Queen to tell what thing it is that women most desire. At length he is taught it by an old Woman, who for that cause is enforced to marry her.  

IN the old days of king Artour,  
(Of which the Bretons speaken great honour)  
All was this land fulfilled of fairy,  
The Else queen, with her jolly company  
danced full oft in many a green meed:  
This was the old opinion as I read.  
I speak of many an hundred year ago,  
But now can no man se none elves more,  
For now the great charity and prayers  
Of limitours and other holy 〈◊〉,  
That serchen every land and every stream,  
As thick as motes in the Sun beme,  
Blessing halls, chambers kitchens and bowers,  
cities, borowes, castles, and high towers,  
Thropes, bernes, shepens, and deiries,  
This maketh, that there been no fairies:  
For there as wont to walk was an Elf,  
There walketh now the limitour himself  
In undermeles, and in mornings,  
And sayeth his Matins and his holy things  
As he goeth in his limitacioun:  
Women may go safely up and down  
In every bush, and under every tre,  
There nis none other Incubus but he,  
And he ne will done him no dishonour.   

And so fell it, that this king Artour  
Had in his house a lusty bachelor,  
That on a day come riding fro the river:  
And happened, that alone as he was borne,  
He saw a maid walking him biforne,  
Of which maid anon, maugre her head,  
(By very force) he biraft her maidenhed:  
For which oppression was such clamout,  
And such pursuit unto king Artour,  
That dampened was this knight to be dead  
By course of law, and should have lost his head.   

Peraventure such was the slatute tho:  
But that the Queen, and other ladies more  
So long praiden the king of grace,  
Till he his life granted in that place,  
And gave him to the queen, all at her will  
To cheese where that she would him save or spill.  
The queen thanketh the king with all her might,  
And after this thus spoke she to the knight,  
When she say her time on a day:  
Thou standeth yet (qd. she) in such array,  
That of thy life yet haft thou no surety:  
I grant thee thy life, if that thou canst tell me  
What thing is it that women most desiren:  
Beware and keep thy neck bone from yren.  
And if thou canst not tell it me anon,  
Yet wol I give thee leave for to gone  
A twelve month and a day to seek and lere  
An answer sufficient in this matter.  
And surety wol I have ere that thou pass,  
Thy body for to yield in this place.   

Woe was the knight, and sorrowfully he siketh:  
But what? he may not done all as him liketh.  
And at last he cheese him for to wend,  
And come again right at the year's end  
With such answer as God would him purvey:  
And taketh his leave, and wendeth forth his way.  
He seeketh every house and every place,  
Where as he hopeth for to find grace,  
To learn what thing women love most:  
But he ne couth ariven in no cost,  
Where as he might find in this matere  
Two creatures according yfere.  
Some said women loved best richesses,  
Some said honour, some said iolynesse,  
Some said rich array, some said lust a bed,  
And oft time to been widow and wed.   

Some said, that our heart is most y esed  
When that we been flattered and y plesed.  
He goeth full nigh the sooth, I wol not lie,  
A man shall win us best with flattery,  
And with attendance, and with business  
Ben we ilymed both more and less.   

And some men fain, how that we loven best  
For to ben fire, and do right as us lest:  
And that no man reprove us of our vice,  
But say that we be wise and nothing nice.  
For truly there nis none of us all,  
If any wight wol claw us on the gall,  
That we nile kike, for that he saith us sooth:  
Astaye, and he shall find it, that so doth.  
For we be never so vicious within,  
We wool be holden wise and clean of sin.   

And some men said, that great delight have we  
For to ben hold stable and eke secre,  
And in o purpose steadfastly to dwell,  
And nat bewray thing that men us tell.  
But that tale is not worth a rake steel,  
Pard we women can nothing hele,  
Witness of Midas, wool ye here the tale?   

ovid, among other things small  
Said, Midas had under his long heeres  
Growing on his heed, two asses eeres:  
The which vice he hid, as he best might,  
Full subtle from every man's sight:  
That save his wife, there wist of it no more,  
He loved her most, and trusted her also,  
He prayed her that to no creature  
She nolde tell of his disfigure.   

She swore him nat for all the world to win,  
She nolde do that villainy, ne that sin,  
To maken her husband have so foul a name:  
She nold nat tell it for her own shame.  
But nevertheless, her thought that she died,  
That she so long should a counsel hid,  
Her thought it swol so sore about her heart,  
That needily some word she must a start:  
And sigh she durst tell it to no man,  
Down to a marris fast by she ran,  
Till she came there, her heart was on a fire:  
And as a bittour bumbeth in the mire,  
She laid her mouth unto to the water adoun.  
Bewray me not thou water with thy sound  
Qd. she, to thee I tell it and to no more,  
My husband hath long asses eres two.  
Now is mine heart all hole, now it is out,  
I might no longer keep it out of doubt.  
Here mow ye see, though we a time abide,  
Yet out it mote, we can no counsel hid.  
The remnant of the tale if ye will here,  
Redeth ovid, and there ye may it lere.   

This knight, of which my tale is specially,  
When that he saw he might not come thereby,  
This is to say, what women love most:  
Within his heart sorrowful was his ghost.  
But home he goth, he might not sojourn,  
The day was come, he must home return.  
And in his way it happened him to ride  
In all his care under a forest side,  
Where he saw upon a dance go  
Of ladies four and twenty, and yet more:  
Toward the dance he drowe him, and that yearn,  
In hope that some wisdom should he learn.  
But certainly ere that he came fully there,  
Vanished was the dance, he nist not where,  
No creature saw he that bare life,  
Save in the green, he saw sitting an old wife:  
A fouler wight there may no man device.  
Again the knight the old wife 'gan arise,  
And said, sir knight, here forth lieth no way,  
Tell me what ye seken by your faith,  
Peradventure it may the better be:  
This old folk con much thing (qd. she.)   

My lief mother (qd. this knight) certain,  
I nam but deed, but if that I can sane,  
What thing it is that women most desire:  
Could ye me wisse, I would quite well your hire.  
Plight me thy troth here in my hand (qd. she)  
The next thing that I require of the  
Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,  
And I wool tell it you, or it be night.   

Have here my trought (qd. the knizt) I grant.  
Than (qd. she) I may me well avaunt,  
Thy life is safe, for I wol stoned thereby,  
Upon my life the queen will say as I:  
Let see, which is the proudest of him all  
That weareth on a kerchief or a call,  
That dare nay say, of that I shall you teach,  
Let us go forth without longer speech.   

Tho rowned she a pistle in his ere,  
And bade him to be glad and have no fere.   

When they ben comen to the court, this knizt  
Said, he had hold his day, as he had height,  
And ready was his answer as he said:  
Full many a noble wife, and many a maid  
And many a widow, for that they be wise,  
(The queen herself sitting as a justice)  
Assembled been his answer for to here,  
And afterward this knight was bided apere.   

To every wight commanded was silence,  
And that the knight should tell in audience,  
What thing that worldly women loved best,  
This knight ne stood not still as doth a best,  
But to his question anon answered  
With manly voice, that all the court it herd.   

My liege lady, generally (qd. he)  
womans desiren to have soverainte  
As well over her husbonds as her love,  
And for to ben in mastery him above.  
This is your most desire, though ye me kill,  
Doth as you list, I am here at your will.   

In all the court nas there wife ne maid  
Ne widow, that contraried that he said,  
But said, he was worthy han his life.   

And with that word, up start the old wife,  
Which that the knight fond sitting on the green:  
Mercy (qd. she) my sovereign lady queen,  
Ere that your court departed, do me right:  
I taught this answer unto this knight,  
For which he plight me his troth there,  
The first thing I would of him reqire,  
He would it do, if it lay in his might:  
Before the court than pray I the, sir knight,  
(Qd. she) that thou me take unto thy wife,  
For well thou woost, that I have kept thy life:  
If I say false, say nay upon thy say.   

This knight answered, alas and wellaway:  
I wots right well that such was my behest,  
For Gods love cheese a new request:  
Take all my good, and let my body go.   

Nay (qd. she) than I shrew us both two.  
For though that I be soul, old, and poor,  
I nolde for all the metal ne the ore,  
That under earth is grave, or lithe above,  
But if I thy wife were and thy love.   

My love (qd. he) nay my damnation:  
Alas that any of my nation  
Should ever so foul disparaged be.  
But all for nought, the end is this, that he  
Constrained was, that needs must he her wed,  
And taketh this old wife, and goeth to bed.   

Now wolden some men say peraventure  
That for my negligence, I do no cure  
To tell you the joy and the array,  
That at the feast was that ilke day.   

To the which thing answer shortly I shall:  
I say there was no joy ne feast at all,  
There nas but heaviness and much sorrow:  
For privily he wedded her on a morrow,  
And all day after hid him as an owl.  
So woe was him his wife looked so foul.   

Great was the sorrow the knizt had in his thouzt  
When he was with his wife a bed ibrought,  
He walloweth, and turneth to and fro.   

His old wife lay smiling evermo,  
And said, O dear husband, O benedicite,  
Fareth every knight thus as ye?  
Is this the law of king Artours house?  
Is every knight of his love so dangerous?  
I am your own love, and eke your wife,  
I am she, which that saved hath your life,  
And certes yet did I never you unright.  
Why far ye thus with me the first night?  
Ye faren like a man that had lost his wit.  
Fie, what is my gilt? for gods love tell me it,  
And it shall be amended if I may.   

Amended (qd. this knight) alas nay nay:  
That wool not been amended never more,  
Thou art so loathly, and so old also,  
And thereto comen of so low a kind,  
That little wonder is thouz I wallow and wind,  
So would god (qd. he) min her would brezt.  
Is this (qd. she) the cause of your unrest?   

Ye certainly (qd. he) no wonder nis.  
Now sir (qd. she) I couth amend all this,  
If that me list, ere it were days three,  
So well ye might bear you unto me.   

But for ye speak of such gentleness,  
As is descended out of old richesses,  
That therefore shullen ye be gentlemen:  
Such errogaunce is not worth an hen.   

Lo who that is most virtuous always,  
Prevy and aperte, and most intendeth aye  
To do the gentle deeds that he can,  
Take him for the greatest gentleman.  
Christ would we claimed of him our gentleness,  
Not of our elders, for our old richesse.  
For though they give us all her heritage,  
For which we claymen to been of high parage,  
Yet may they not byqueth, for nothing,  
To none of us, her virtuous living,  
That made him gentlemen icalled be,  
And bade us followen hem in such degree.   

Well can the wise poet of Florence,  
That height Daunt, speak in this sentence:  
Lo in such manner rhyme is Daunte's tale.   

Full seld up riseth by his branches small  
Prowess of man: for God of his goodness  
Wol that we claim of him our gentleness:  
For of our elders may we nothing claim  
But temporal thing that men may hurt and maim.   

Eke every wight wots this as well as I,  
If gentleness were planted naturally  
Unto a certain lineage down the line,  
Preuy and aperte, than would they never fine  
To done of gentleness the fair office,  
They might don no villainy ne vice.   

Take fire and bear it into the derkest house  
betwixt this and the mount Caucasus,  
And let men shit the doors, and go then,  
Yet wol the fire as fair lie and burn  
As twenty thousand men might it behold:  
His office natural ay wol it hold  
Up peril of my life, till that it die.   

Here may ye see well how that gentry  
Is not annexed to possession,  
Sithen folk don not liar operation  
Always as doth the fire lo in his kind:  
For God it wots men may full often find  
A lord's son done shame and villainy.  
And he that wol have prize of his gentry,  
For he was born of a gentle house,  
And had his elders noble and virtuous,  
And nile himself don no gentle deeds,  
Ne follow his gentle auncetre that deed is,  
He nis not gentle, be he duke or earl.  
Fie villains, sinful deeds maketh a cherle.  
For gentleness nis but the renomie  
Of thine ancestors, for her high bounty,  
Which is a strong thing to thy person:  
The gentleness cometh fro God alone.  
Than cometh our very gentleness of grace,  
It was nothing biqueth us with our place.   

Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius,  
Was thilk Tullius Hostilius,  
That out of poverty risen to high noblesse:  
Redeth Seneck, and readeth eke Boece,  
There shall ye seen express, no dread is,  
That he is gentile, that doth gentile dediss.  
And therefore dear husband I thus conclude,  
All were it that mine ancestors were rude,  
Yet may that high god, and so hope I,  
Grant me grace to live virtuously:  
Than am I gentle, when I begin  
To live virtuously, and leaven sin.   

And there as ye of poverty me reprove,  
The high God on whom that we believe,  
In wilful poverty cheese to lead his life:  
And certes every man, maid, and wife  
May understand, Jesus heaven king  
Ne would not cheese a vicious living.   

Glad poverty is an honest thing certain,  
This wol Seneck and other clerks sane:  
Who so would hold him paid of his poverty,  
I hold him rich, all had he not shirt.  
He that coveiteth is a full poor wight,  
For he would han, that is not in his might.  
But he that nought hath ne conceiteth to have,  
Is rich, although ye hold him but a knave.  
Very poverty is sin properly.   

Jwenal saith of poverty merrily:  
The poor man, when he goeth by the way  
Biforne thiefs he may sing and play.  
poverty is hateful good: and as I guess,  
A full great bringer out of business:  
A great amender eke of sapience,  
To him that taketh it in patience.  
poverty is, although it seem elenge,  
Possession, that no wight wol challenge.  
poverty full often when a man is low,  
Maketh his god, and eke himself to know.  
Povert a spectacle is, as thinketh me,  
Through which one may his very friends se.  
And therefore sin that I you not greue,  
Of my poverty, no more me reprove.   

Now sir, eke of eld ye reproved me:  
And certes sir, though none authority  
Were in no book, ye gentiles of honour,  
Saine, that men should an old wight honour,  
And clepe him father for her gentleness.  
And autours shall I find as I guess.   

Now there as ye said, that I am foul and old,  
Than dread you not to ben a coke would.  
For filth, elthe, and foul, also moat I the,  
Ben great wardens upon chastity.  
But nevertheless, sin I know your delight,  
I shall fulfil your worldly appetite:   

These now (qd. she) one of these things fifty,  
To have me foul and old, till that Ida,  
And be to you a true humble wife,  
And never you displease in all my life:  
Or else wol you have me young and fair,  
And take your adventure of the repair  
That shall come to your house, because of me,  
Or in some other place, may well be?  
Now cheese your seluen whether that you liketh.   

This knight aviseth him, and sore siketh,  
But at the last he saith in manere:  
My lady, and my love, and wife so dear,  
I put me in your wise governance,  
chooseth yourself, which may be more pleasance  
And most honour to you and me also,  
I do no force whether of the two:  
For as you liketh it sufficeth me.   

Than have I got of you the mastery (qd. she)  
Sin I may cheese, and govern as my list:  
Ye certes wife (qd. he) I hold it for the beast.   

Kiss me (qd. she) we be no longer wroth:  
For by my truth I wol be to you both,  
This is to say, to be both fair and good.  
I pray to God that I moat starve wood,  
But I to you be also good and true,  
As ever was wife, sithen the world was new:  
And but I be to morrow as fair to seen,  
As any Lady, Empress or Queen,  
That is between Est and eke the West,  
Doth with my life right as you lest.  
Cast up the courteine, and look how it is.   

And when this knight saw all this,  
That she so fair was, and so young thereto,  
For joy he hent her in his arms two:  
His heart bathed in a bath of bliss,  
A thousand times a row he 'gan her kiss:  
And she obeyed him in every thing,  
That might done him pleasure or liking.  
And thus they lived unto her life's end  
In parsite joy, and Jesus Christ us send  
husbands meek, young, and fresh a bed,  
And grace to overlive him that we wed.   

And I pray to God to short her lives,  
That will not be governed by her wives.  
And old, and angry niggards of dispense,  
God send him soon a very pestilence.    


THE TABLE.  DEdication to His Grace the Duke of Ormond. 
 The Preface. 
 Poem to Her Grace the Duchess of Ormond, with the following Story of Palamon and Arcite, from Chaucer. 
 Palamon and Arcite: or, The Knight's Tale, from Chaucer. Book the First. 
Page 1  The Second Book. 
25  The Third Book. 
49  To my Honoured Kinsman John Driden of Chesterton, in the County of Huntingdon, Esq 
91  Meleager and Attalanta, out of the Eighth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 
103  Sigismonda and Guiscardo, from Boccace. 
121  Bauris and Philemon, out of the Eighth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 
153  Pygmalion and the Statue, out of the Tenth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 
165  Ciniras' and Myrrah, out of the Tenth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 
173  The First Book of Homer's Ilias. 
189  The Cock and the Fox: or, the Tale of the Nun's Priest, from Chaucer. 
223  Theodore and Honoria, from Boccace. 
257  Ceyxe and Alcyone, out of the Tenth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 
361  The Flower and the Leaf: or, the Lady in the Arbour. A Vision out of Chaucer. 
383  Alexander's Feast: or, the Power of Music. An Ode in Honour of St. Cecilia. 
409  The Twelfth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses wholly Translated. 
419  The Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses, from Ovid's Metamorphoses. Book the Thirteenth. 
453  The Wife of Bath, her Tale, from Chaucer. 
479  Of the Pythagorean Philosophy, from Ovid's Metamorphoses. Book the Fifteenth. 
503  The Character of a Good Parson Imitated, from Chaucer, and enlarged. 
531  The Monument of a Fair Maiden Lady, who died at the Bath, and is there Interred. 
537  Cymon and Iphegnia, from Boccace. 
541   
FINIS.