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diff --git a/6332-0.txt b/6332-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33b36ab --- /dev/null +++ b/6332-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7450 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Playful Poems, by Various, Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Playful Poems + + +Author: Various + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: March 29, 2015 [eBook #6332] +[This file was first posted on November 27, 2002] + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYFUL POEMS*** + + +This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. + + Companion Poets + + + + + + PLAYFUL POEMS + + + EDITED + _AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION_ + + BY + + HENRY MORLEY. + EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND + LITERATURE AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGE + LONDON + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + LONDON + GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED + BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL + GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK + 1891 + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGES +INTRODUCTION 7–15 +CHAUCER’S MANCIPLE’S TALE OF PHŒBUS AND THE CROW 17–27 + +_Modernised by_ LEIGH HUNT. +CHAUCER’S RIME OF SIR THOPAS 29–37 + +_Modernised by_ Z. A. Z. +CHAUCER’S FRIAR’S TALE; OR, THE SUMNER AND THE DEVIL 39–48 + +_Modernised by_ LEIGH HUNT. +CHAUCER’S REVE’S TALE 49–62 + +_Modernised by_ R. H. HORNE. +CHAUCER’S POEM OF THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 63–73 + +_Modernised by_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. +GOWER’S TREASURE TROVE 75–80 + +_Modernised from the fifth book of the_ CONFESSIO +AMANTIS. +LYDGATE’S LONDON LICKPENNY 81–84 +LYDGATE’S BICORN AND CHICHEVACHE 85–89 +DUNBAR’S BEST TO BE BLYTH 91, 92 +DRAYTON’S DOWSABELL 93–96 +DRAYTON’S NYMPHIDIA 97–116 +POPE’S RAPE OF THE LOCK 117–137 +COWPER’S JOHN GILPIN 139–146 +BURNS’S TAM O’SHANTER 147–153 +HOOD’S DEMON SHIP 155–158 +HOOD’S TALE OF A TRUMPET 159–180 +NOTE.—THE GAME OF OMBRE 181–187 +GLOSSARY 188–192 + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +THE last volume of these “Companion Poets” contained some of Chaucer’s +Tales as they were modernised by Dryden. This volume contains more of +his Tales as they were modernised by later poets. In 1841 there was a +volume published entitled, “The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernized.” +Of this volume, when it was first projected, Wordsworth wrote to Moxon, +his publisher, on the 24th of February 1840: “Mr. Powell, my friend, has +some thought of preparing for publication some portion of Chaucer +modernised, as far and no farther than is done in my treatment of ‘The +Prioress’ Tale.’ That would, in fact, be his model. He will have +coadjutors, among whom, I believe, will be Mr. Leigh Hunt, a man as +capable of doing the work well as any living writer. I have placed at my +friend Mr. Powell’s disposal three other pieces which I did long ago, but +revised the other day. They are ‘The Manciple’s Tale,’ ‘The Cuckoo and +the Nightingale,’ and twenty-four stanzas of ‘Troilus and Cressida.’ +This I have done mainly out of my love and reverence for Chaucer, in +hopes that, whatever may be the merits of Mr. Powell’s attempt, the +attention of other writers may be drawn to the subject; and a work +hereafter produced, by different persons, which will place the treasures +of one of the greatest of poets within the reach of the multitude, which +now they are not. I mention all this to you because, though I have not +given Mr. Powell the least encouragement to do so, he may sound you as to +your disposition to undertake the publication. I have myself nothing +further to do with it than I have stated. Had the thing been suggested +to me by any number of competent persons twenty years ago, I would have +undertaken the editorship and done much more myself, and endeavoured to +improve the several contributions where they seemed to require it. But +that is now out of the question.” + +Wordsworth had made his versions of Chaucer in the year 1801. “The +Prioress’s Tale” had been published in 1820, so that only the three +pieces he had revised for his friend’s use were available, and of these +the Manciple’s Tale was withdrawn, the version by Leigh Hunt (which is +among the pieces here reprinted) being used. The volume was published in +1841, not by Moxon but by Whitaker. Wordsworth’s versions of “The Cuckoo +and the Nightingale” (here reprinted), and of a passage taken from +“Troilus and Cressida,” were included in it. Leigh Hunt contributed +versions of the Manciple’s Tale and the Friar’s Tale (both here +reprinted), and of the Squire’s Tale. Elizabeth A. Barrett, afterwards +Mrs. Browning, contributed a version of “Queen Annelida and False +Arcite.” Richard Hengist Horne entered heartily into the venture, +modernised the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the Reve’s Tale, and the +Franklin’s, and wrote an Introduction of more than a hundred pages, to +which Professor Leonhard Schmitz added thirty-two pages of a Life of +Chaucer. Robert Bell, to whom we were afterwards indebted for an +“Annotated Edition of the English Poets,” modernised the Complaint of +Mars and Venus. Thomas Powell, the editor, contributed his version of +the Legends of Ariadne, Philomene, and Phillis, and of “The Flower and +the Leaf,” and a friend, who signed only as Z. A. Z, dealt with “The Rime +of Sir Thopas.” + +After the volume had appeared, Wordsworth thus wrote of it to Professor +Henry Reed of Philadelphia: “There has recently been published in London +a volume of some of Chaucer’s tales and poems modernised; this little +specimen originated in what I attempted with ‘The Prioress’ Tale,’ and if +the book should find its way to America you will see in it two further +specimens from myself. I had no further connection with the publication +than by making a present of these to one of the contributors. Let me, +however, recommend to your notice the Prologue and the Franklin’s Tale. +They are both by Mr. Horne, a gentleman unknown to me, but are—the latter +in particular—very well done. Mr. Leigh Hunt has not failed in the +Manciple’s Tale, which I myself modernised many years ago; but though I +much admire the genius of Chaucer as displayed in this performance, I +could not place my version at the disposal of the editor, as I deemed the +subject somewhat too indelicate for pure taste to be offered to the world +at this time of day. Mr. Horne has much hurt this publication by not +abstaining from the Reve’s Tale. This, after making all allowance for +the rude manners of Chaucer’s age, is intolerable; and by indispensably +softening down the incidents, he has killed the spirit of that humour, +gross and farcical, that pervades the original. When the work was first +mentioned to me, I protested as strongly as possible against admitting +any coarseness and indelicacy, so that my conscience is clear of +countenancing aught of that kind. So great is my admiration of Chaucer’s +genius, and so profound my reverence for him. . . for spreading the light +of Literature through his native land, that, notwithstanding the defects +and faults in this publication, I am glad of it, as a means for making +many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of +everything about him but his name.” + +Wordsworth’s objection to the Manciple’s Tale from Ovid’s Metamorphoses +was an afterthought. He had begun by offering his version of it for +publication in this volume. His objection to Horne’s treatment of the +Reve’s Tale was reasonable enough. The original tale was the sixth novel +in the ninth day of the Decameron, and probably was taken by Chaucer from +a Fabliau by Jean de Boves, “De Gombert et des Deux Clercs.” The same +story has been imitated in the “Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,” and in the +“Berceau” of La Fontaine. Horne’s removal from the tale of everything +that would offend a modern reader was designed to enable thousands to +find pleasure in an old farcical piece that would otherwise be left +unread. + +Chaucer’s “Rime of Sir Thopas” was a playful jest on the long-winded +story-telling of the old romances, and had specially in mind Thomas +Chestre’s version of Launfal from Marie of France, and the same rhymer’s +romance of “Ly Beaus Disconus,” who was Gingelein, a son of Gawain, +called by his mother, for his beauty, only Beaufis (handsome son); but +when he offered himself in that name to be knighted by King Arthur, he +was knighted and named by him Li Beaus Disconus (the fair unknown). This +is the method of the tediousness, in which it showed itself akin to many +a rhyming tale. + + “And for love of his fair vis + His mother clepéd him Beaufis, + And none other name; + And himselvé was full nis, + He ne axéd nought y-wis + What he hight at his dame. + + “As it befel upon a day, + To wood he went on his play + Of deer to have his game; + He found a knight, where he lay + In armés that were stout and gay, + Y-slain and made full tame. + + “That child did off the knightés wede, + And anon he gan him schrede + In that rich armoúr. + When he haddé do that dede, + To Glasténburý he gede, + There lay the King Arthoúr. + + “He knelde in the hall + Before the knightés all, + And grette hem with honoúr, + And said: ‘Arthoúr, my lord, + Grant me to speak a word, + I pray thee, par amour. + + “‘I am a child uncouth, + And come out of the south, + And would be made a knight, + Lord, I pray thee nouthe, + With thy merry mouthe, + Grant me anon right.’ + + “Then said Arthoúr the king, + ‘Anon, without dwelling, + Tell me thy name aplight! + For sethen I was ybore, + Ne found I me before + None so fair of sight.’ + + “That child said, ‘By Saint Jame, + I not what is my name; + I am the moré nis; + But while I was at hame + My mother, in her game, + Clepéd me Beaufis.’ + + “Then said Arthoúr the king, + ‘This is a wonder thing + By God and Saint Denis! + When he that would be knight + Ne wot not what he hight, + And is so fair of vis. + + “‘Now will I give him a name + Before you all in same, + For he is so fair and free, + By God and by Saint Jame, + So clepéd him ne’er his dame, + What woman so it be. + + “‘Now clepéth him all of us, + Li Beaus Disconus, + For the love of me! + Then may ye wite a rowe, + ‘The Faire Unknowe,’ + Certes, so hatté he.” + +John Gower’s “Confessio Amantis” was a story book, like the Canterbury +Tales, with a contrivance of its own for stringing the tales together, +and Gower was at work on it nearly about the time when his friend Chaucer +was busy with his Pilgrims. The story here extracted was an old +favourite. It appeared in Greek about the year 800, in the romance of +Barlaam and Josaphat. It was told by Vincent of Beauvais in the year +1290 in his “Speculum Historiale;” and it was used by Boccaccio for the +first tale of the tenth day of his “Decameron.” + +Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate were the old poetical triumvirate, though +Lydgate, who was about thirty years old when Chaucer died, has slipped +much out of mind. His verses on the adventures of the Kentish rustic who +came to London to get justice in the law courts, and his words set to the +action of an old piece of rustic mumming, “Bicorn and Chichevache,” here +represent his vein of playfulness. He was a monk who taught literature +at Bury St. Edmunds, and was justly looked upon as the chief poet of the +generation who lived after Chaucer’s death. + +Next follows in this volume a scrap of wise counsel to take life +cheerfully, from the Scottish poet, William Dunbar. He lived at the +Scottish Court of James the Fourth when Henry the Seventh reigned in +England, and who was our greatest poet of the north country before Burns. + +Next we come to the poets “who so did please Eliza and our James,” and +represent their playfulness by Drayton’s “Dowsabell,” and that most +exquisite of fairy pieces, his “Nymphidia,” where Oberon figures as the +mad Orlando writ small, and Drayton earned his claim to be the Fairies’ +Laureate, though Herrick, in the same vein, followed close upon him. +Michael Drayton, nearly of an age with Shakespeare, was, like +Shakespeare, a Warwickshire man. Empty tradition says that Shakespeare +died of a too festive supper shared with his friend Drayton, who came to +visit him. + +Then follows in this volume the playful treatment of a quarrel between +friends, in Pope’s “Rape of the Lock.” Lord Petre, aged twenty, +audaciously cut from the head of Miss Arabella Fermor, daughter of Mr. +Fermor of Tusmore, a lock of her hair while she was playing cards in the +Queen’s rooms at Hampton Court. Pope’s friend, Mr. Caryll, suggested to +him that a mock heroic treatment of the resulting quarrel might restore +peace, and Pope wrote a poem in two cantos, which was published in a +Miscellany in 1712, Pope’s age then being twenty-four. But as epic poems +required supernatural machinery, Pope added afterwards to his mock epic +the machinery of sylphs and gnomes, suggested to him by the reading of a +French story, “Le Comte de Gabalis,” by the Abbé Villars. Here there +were sylphs of the air and gnomes of the earth, little spirits who would +be in right proportion to the substance of his poem, which was +refashioned into five cantos, and republished as we have it now in +February 1714. + +“John Gilpin” was written by William Cowper in the year 1782, when Lady +Austin was lodging in the Vicarage at Olney, and spent every evening with +Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, cheering Cowper greatly by her liveliness. One +evening she told the story of John Gilpin’s ride in a way that tickled +the poet’s fancy, set him laughing when he woke up in the night, and +obliged him to turn it next day into ballad rhyme. Mrs. Unwin’s son sent +it to the _Public Advertiser_, for the poet’s corner. It was printed in +that newspaper, and thought no more of until about three years later. +Then it was suggested to a popular actor named Henderson, who gave +entertainments of his own, that this piece would tell well among his +recitations. He introduced it into his entertainments, and soon all the +town was running after John Gilpin as madly as the six gentlemen and the +post-boy. + +John Gilpin’s flight is followed in this volume by the flight of Tam o’ +Shanter. Burns wrote “Tam o’ Shanter” at Elliesland, and himself +considered it the best of all his poems. He told the story to Captain +Grose, as it was current among the people in his part of the country, its +scene laid almost on the spot where he was born. Captain Grose, the +antiquary, who was collecting materials for his “Antiquities of +Scotland,” published in 1789–91, got Burns to versify it and give it to +him. The poem made its first appearance, therefore, in Captain Grose’s +book. Mrs. Burns told of it that it was the work of a day. Burns was +most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where his wife and +some of the children joined him in the afternoon. Mrs. Burns saw that +her husband was busily engaged “crooning to himsell,” and she loitered +behind with the little ones among the broom. Presently she was attracted +by the poet’s strange and wild gesticulations; he seemed agonised with an +ungovernable joy. He was reciting very loud. Every circumstance +suggested to heighten the impression of fear in the lines following, + + “By this time he was ’cross the ford + Where in the snaw the chapman smoored,” etc., + +was taken from local tradition. Shanter was the real name of a farm near +Kirkoswald, then occupied by a Douglas Grahame, who was much of Tam’s +character, and was well content to be called by his country neighbours +Tam o’ Shanter for the rest of his life, after Burns had made the name of +the farm immortal. + +Our selection ends with two pieces by Thomas Hood, whose “Tale of a +Trumpet” is luxuriant with play of wit that has its earnest side. Hood +died in 1845. + +A Note upon the Game of Ombre is added, which is founded upon the +description of the game in a little book—“The Court Gamester”—which +instructed card-players in the reigns of the first Georges. In the “Rape +of the Lock” there is a game of ombre played through to the last trick. +That note will enable any reader to follow Belinda’s play. It will also +enable any one who may care to do so to restore to a place among our home +amusements a game which carried all before it in Queen Anne’s day, and +which is really, when cleared of its gambling details, as good a domestic +game for three players as cribbage or piquet is for two. My “Court +Gamester,” which was in its fifth edition in 1728, after devoting its +best energies to ombre, contented its readers in fewer pages with the +addition only of piquet and chess. + +Obsolete words and words of Scottish dialect, with a few more as to the +meaning of which some readers might be uncertain, will be found explained +in the Glossary that ends this volume. + + + + +CHAUCER’S +Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow + + + MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT. + + + +NOTE. + + +_The reader is to understand_, _that all the persons previously described +in the_ “_Prologue to the Canterbury Tales_” _are now riding on their way +to that city_, _and each of them telling his tale respectively_, _which +is preceded by some little bit of incident or conversation on the road_. +_The agreement_, _suggested by the Host of the Tabard_, _was_, _first_, +_that each pilgrim should tell a couple of tales while going to +Canterbury_, _and another couple during the return to London_; +_secondly_, _that the narrator of the best one of all should sup at the +expense of the whole party_; _and thirdly_, _that the Host himself should +be gratuitous guide on the journey_, _and arbiter of all differences by +the way_, _with power to inflict the payment of travelling expenses upon +any one who should gainsay his judgment_. _During the intervals of the +stories he is accordingly the most prominent person_.—LEIGH HUNT. + + + +_PROLOGUE TO THE MANCIPLE’S TALE_. + + + WOTTEST {17} thou, reader, of a little town, + Which thereabouts they call Bob-up-and-down, + Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? + Well, there our host began to jest and play, + And said, “Hush, hush now: Dun is in the mire. + What, sirs? will nobody, for prayer or hire, + Wake our good gossip, sleeping here behind? + Here were a bundle for a thief to find. + See, how he noddeth! by St. Peter, see! + He’ll tumble off his saddle presently. + Is that a cook of London, red flames take him! + He knoweth the agreement—wake him, wake him: + We’ll have his tale, to keep him from his nap, + Although the drink turn out not worth the tap. + Awake, thou cook,” quoth he; “God say thee nay; + What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day? + Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk? + Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk, + And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?” + + This cook that was full pale, and nothing red, + Stared up, and said unto the host, “God bless + My soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness, + I know not why, that I would rather sleep + Than drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap.” + + “Well,” quoth the Manciple, “if it might ease + Thine head, Sir Cook, and also none displease + Of all here riding in this company, + And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by, + Till thou art better, and so tell _my_ tale; + For in good faith thy visage is full pale; + Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am, + Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram, + Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter: + Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I’ll not flatter. + See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight; + He’ll swallow us all up before he’ll bite; + Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father’s kin; + The fiend himself now set his foot therein, + And stop it up, for ’twill infect us all; + Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall. + Ah—see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing; + Take heed—he’s bent on tilting at the ring: + He’s the shape, isn’t he? to tilt and ride! + Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide.” + + Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black, + And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack! + So mumbling something, from his horse fell he, + And where he fell, there lay he patiently, + Till pity on his shame his fellows took. + Here was a pretty horseman of a cook! + Alas! that he had held not by his ladle! + And ere again they got him on his saddle, + There was a mighty shoving to and fro + To lift him up, and muckle care and woe, + So heavy was this carcase of a ghost. + Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:— + “Since drink upon this man hath domination, + By nails! and as I reckon my salvation, + I trow he would have told a sorry tale; + For whether it be wine, or it be ale, + That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose, + And sneezeth much, and he hath got the _pose_, {19} + And also hath given us business enow + To keep him on his horse, out of the slough; + He’ll fall again, if he be driven to speak, + And then, where are we, for a second week? + Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse! + Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse. + Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice + Thus openly to chafe him for his vice. + Perchance some day he’ll do as much for thee, + And bring thy baker’s bills in jeopardy, + Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher’s matters, + And whether they square nicely with thy platters.” + + “Mine,” quoth the Manciple, “were then the mire! + Much rather would I pay his horse’s hire, + And that will be no trifle, mud and all, + Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall. + I did but jest. Score not, ye’ll be not scored. + And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd, + A draught of wine, better was never tasted, + And with this cook’s ladle will I be basted, + If he don’t drink of it, right lustily. + Upon my life he’ll not say nay. Now see.” + + And true it was, the cook drank fast enough; + Down went the drink out of the gourd, _fluff_, _fluff_: + Alas! the man had had enough before: + And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore, + His nose said something,—grace for what he had; + And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad. + + Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight, + And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight, + And said, “Well, I perceive it’s necessary, + Where’er we go, good wine with us to carry. + What needeth in this world more strifes befall? + Good wine’s the doctor to appease them all. + O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name, + That thus canst turn our earnest into game. + Worship and thanks be to thy deity. + So on this head ye get no more from me. + Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.” + + “Well, sire,” quoth he, “now hark to what I say.” + + + + +The Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow. + + + WHEN Phœbus dwelt with men, in days of yore, + He was the very lustiest bachelor + Of all the world; and shot in the best bow. + ’Twas he, as the old books of stories show, + That shot the serpent Python, as he lay + Sleeping against the sun, upon a day: + And many another noble worthy deed + He did with that same bow, as men may read. + + He played all kinds of music: and so clear + His singing was, and such a heaven to hear, + Men might not speak during his madrigal. + Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall + About the city with his melody, + Certainly sang not half so well as he. + And add to this, he was the seemliest man + That is, or has been, since the world began. + What needs describe his beauty? since there’s none + With which to make the least comparison. + In brief, he was the flower of _gentilesse_, {21} + Of honour, and of perfect worthiness: + And yet, take note, for all this mastery, + This Phœbus was of cheer so frank and free, + That for his sport, and to commend the glory + He gat him o’er the snake (so runs the story), + He used to carry in his hand a bow. + + Now this same god had in his house a crow, + Which in a cage he fostered many a day, + And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay. + White was the crow; as is a snow-white swan, + And could repeat a tale told by a man, + And sing. No nightingale, down in a dell, + Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well. + + Now had this Phœbus in his house a wife + Which that he loved beyond his very life: + And night and day did all his diligence + To please her well, and do her reverence; + Save only, to speak truly, _inter nos_, + Jealous he was, and would have kept her close: + He wished not to be treated monstrously: + Neither does any man, no more than he; + Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought;— + A good wife, that is clean of work and thought, + No man would dream of hindering such a way. + And just as bootless is it, night or day, + Hindering a shrew; for it will never be. + I hold it for a very foppery, + Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives, + Old writers always say so, in their Lives. + + But to my story, as it first began. + This worthy Phœbus doeth all he can + To please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her, + That she, for her part, would herself bestir + Discreetly, so as not to lose his grace; + But, Lord he knows, there’s no man shall embrace + A thing so close, as to restrain what Nature + Hath naturally set in any creature. + + Take any bird, and put it in a cage, + And do thy best and utmost to engage + The bird to love it; give it meat and drink, + And every dainty housewives can bethink, + And keep the cage as cleanly as you may, + And let it be with gilt never so gay, + Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold, + Rather be in a forest wild and cold, + And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness; + Yea, ever will he tax his whole address + To get out of the cage when that he may:— + His liberty the bird desireth aye. + + So, take a cat, and foster her with milk + And tender meat, and make her bed of silk, + Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall, + The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all, + And every dainty that is in the house; + Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse. + Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination, + And appetite renounceth education. + + A she-wolf likewise hath a villain’s kind: + The worst and roughest wolf that she can find, + Or least of reputation, will she wed, + When the time comes to make her marriage-bed. + + But misinterpret not my speech, I pray; + All this of men, not women, do I say; + For men it is, that come and spoil the lives + Of such, as but for them, would make good wives. + They leave their own wives, be they never so fair, + Never so true, never so debonair, + And take the lowest they may find, for change. + Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range, + It never will continue, long together, + Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather. + + This Phœbus, while on nothing ill thought he, + Jilted he was, for all his jollity; + For under him, his wife, at her heart’s-root, + Another had, a man of small repute, + Not worth a blink of Phœbus; more’s the pity; + Too oft it falleth so, in court and city. + This wife, when Phœbus was from home one day, + Sent for her lemman then, without delay. + Her lemman!—a plain word, I needs must own; + Forgive it me; for Plato hath laid down, + The word must suit according with the deed; + Word is work’s cousin-german, ye may read: + I’m a plain man, and what I say is this: + Wife high, wife low, if bad, both do amiss: + But because one man’s wench sitteth above, + She shall be called his Lady and his Love; + And because t’other’s sitteth low and poor, + She shall be called,—Well, well, I say no more; + Only God knoweth, man, mine own dear brother, + One wife is laid as low, just, as the other. + + Right so betwixt a lawless, mighty chief + And a rude outlaw, or an arrant thief, + Knight arrant or thief arrant, all is one; + Difference, as Alexander learnt, there’s none; + But for the chief is of the greater might, + By force of numbers, to slay all outright, + And burn, and waste, and make as flat as floor, + Lo, therefore is he clept a conqueror; + And for the other hath his numbers less, + And cannot work such mischief and distress, + Nor be by half so wicked as the chief, + Men clepen him an outlaw and a thief. + + However, I am no text-spinning man; + So to my tale I go, as I began. + + Now with her lemman is this Phœbus’ wife; + The crow he sayeth nothing, for his life; + Caged hangeth he, and sayeth not a word; + But when that home was come Phœbus the lord, + He singeth out, and saith,—“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” + “Hey!” crieth Phœbus, “here be something new; + Thy song was wont to cheer me. What is this?” + “By Jove!” quoth Corvus, “I sing not amiss. + Phœbus,” quoth he; “for all thy worthiness, + For all thy beauty and all thy gentilesse, + For all thy song and all thy minstrelsy, + And all thy watching, blearéd is thine eye; + Yea, and by one no worthier than a gnat, + Compared with him should boast to wear thine hat.” + + What would you more? the crow hath told him all; + This woful god hath turned him to the wall + To hide his tears: he thought ’twould burst his heart; + He bent his bow, and set therein a dart, + And in his ire he hath his wife yslain; + He hath; he felt such anger and such pain; + For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy, + Both harp and lute, gittern and psaltery, + And then he brake his arrows and his bow, + And after that, thus spake he to the crow:— + + “Traitor,” quoth he, “behold what thou hast done; + Made me the saddest wretch beneath the sun: + Alas! why was I born! O dearest wife, + Jewel of love and joy, my only life, + That wert to me so steadfast and so true, + There liest thou dead; why am not I so too? + Full innocent thou wert, that durst I swear; + O hasty hand, to bring me to despair! + O troubled wit, O anger without thought, + That unadviséd smitest, and for nought: + O heart of little faith, full of suspicion, + Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion? + O every man, hold hastiness in loathing; + Believe, without strong testimony, nothing; + Smite not too soon, before ye well know why; + And be adviséd well and soberly + Before ye trust yourselves to the commission + Of any ireful deed upon suspicion. + Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ire + Foully foredone, and brought into the mire. + Alas! I’ll kill myself for misery.” + + And to the crow, “O thou false thief!” said he, + “I’ll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale; + Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale, + Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go, + Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow; + Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again; + Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain; + Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black, + And ever shall their voices crone and crack + And be a warning against wind and rain, + In token that by thee my wife was slain.” + + So to the crow he started, like one mad, + And tore out every feather that he had, + And made him black, and reft him of his stores + Of song and speech, and flung him out of doors + Unto the devil; whence never come he back, + Say I. Amen. And hence all crows are black. + + Lordings, by this example I you pray + Take heed, and be discreet in what you say; + And above all, tell no man, for your life, + How that another man hath kissed his wife. + He’ll hate you mortally; be sure of that; + Dan Solomon, in teacher’s chair that sat, + Bade us keep all our tongues close as we can; + But, as I said, I’m no text-spinning man, + Only, I must say, thus taught me my dame; {26} + My son, think on the crow in God his name; + My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend; + A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend; + My son, a fiend’s a thing for to keep down; + My son, God in his great discretion + Walléd a tongue with teeth, and eke with lips, + That man may think, before his speech out slips. + A little speech spoken advisedly + Brings none in trouble, speaking generally. + My son, thy tongue thou always shouldst restrain, + Save only at such times thou dost thy pain + To speak of God in honour and in prayer; + The chiefest virtue, son, is to beware + How thou lett’st loose that endless thing, thy tongue; + This every soul is taught, when he is young: + My son, of muckle speaking ill-advised, + And where a little speaking had sufficed, + Com’th muckle harm. This was me told and taught,— + In muckle speaking, sinning wanteth nought. + Know’st thou for what a tongue that’s hasty serveth? + Right as a sword forecutteth and forecarveth + An arm in two, my dear son, even so + A tongue clean-cutteth friendship at a blow. + A jangler is to God abominable: + Read Solomon, so wise and honourable; + Read David in his Psalms, read Seneca; + My son, a nod is better than a say; + Be deaf, when folk speak matter perilous; + Small prate, sound pate,—guardeth the Fleming’s house. + My son, if thou no wicked word hast spoken, + Thou never needest fear a pate ybroken; + But he that hath missaid, I dare well say, + His fingers shall find blood thereon, some day. + Thing that is said, is said; it may not back + Be called, for all your “Las!” and your “Alack!” + And he is that man’s thrall to whom ’twas said; + Cometh the bond some day, and will be paid. + My son, beware, and be no author new + Of tidings, whether they be false or true: + Go wheresoe’er thou wilt, ’mongst high or low, + Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow. + + + + +CHAUCER’S +Rime of Sir Thopas + + + MODERNISED BY Z. A. Z. + + + +_PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS_. + + + 1. + + NOW when the Prioress had done, each man + So serious looked, ’twas wonderful to see! + Till our good host to banter us began, + And then at last he cast his eyes on me, + And jeering said, “What man art thou?” quoth he, + “That lookest down as thou wouldst find a hare, + For ever upon the ground I see thee stare. + + 2. + + “Approach me near, and look up merrily! + Now make way, sirs! and let this man have place. + He in the waist is shaped as well as I: + This were a poppet in an arm’s embrace, + For any woman, small and fair of face. + He seemeth elf-like by his countenance, + For with no wight holdeth he dalliance. + + 3. + + “Say somewhat now, since other folks have said; + Tell us a tale o’ mirth, and that anon.” + “Host,” quoth I then, “be not so far misled, + For other tales except this know I none; + A little rime I learned in years agone.” + “Ah! that is well,” quoth he; “now we shall hear + Some dainty thing, methinketh, by thy cheer.” + + + +The Rime of Sir Thopas. + + +FYTTE THE FIRST. {30} + + + 1. + + LISTEN, lordlings, in good intent, + And I will tell you _verament_ + Of mirth and chivalry, + About a knight on glory bent, + In battle and in tournament; + Sir Thopas named was he. + + 2. + + And he was born in a far countréy, + In Flanders, all beyond the sea, + At Popering in the place; + His father was a man full free, + And of that country lord was he, + Enjoyed by holy grace. + + 3. + + Sir Thopas was a doughty swain, + Fair was his face as _pain de Maine_, + His lips were red as rose; + His ruddy cheeks like scarlet grain; + And I tell you in good certaine, + He had a seemly nose. + + 4. + + His hair and beard like saffron shone, + And to his girdle fell adown; + His shoes of leather bright; + Of Bruges were his hose so brown, + His robe it was of ciclatoun— + He was a costly wight: + + 5. + + Well could he hunt the strong wild deer, + And ride a hawking for his cheer + With grey goshawk on hand; + His archery filled the woods with fear, + In wrestling eke he had no peer,— + No man ’gainst him could stand. + + 6. + + Full many a maiden bright in bower + Was sighing for him _par amour_ + Between her prayers and sleep, + But he was chaste, beyond their power, + And sweet as is the bramble flower + That beareth the red hip. + + 7. + + And so it fell upon a day, + Forsooth, as I now sing and say, + Sir Thopas went to ride; + He rode upon his courser grey, + And in his hand a lance so gay, + A long sword by his side. + + 8. + + He rode along a forest fair, + Many a wild beast dwelling there; + (Mercy in heaven defend!) + And there was also buck and hare; + And as he went, he very near + Met with a sorry end. + + 9. + + And herbs sprang up, or creeping ran; + The liquorice, and valerian, + Clove-gillyflowers, sun-dressed; + And nutmeg, good to put in ale, + Whether it be moist or stale,— + Or to lay sweet in chest, + + 10. + + The birds all sang, as tho’ ’twere May; + The spearhawk, {32} and the popinjay, + It was a joy to hear; + The throstle cock made eke his lay, + The wood-dove sung upon the spray, + With note full loud and clear. + + 11. + + Sir Thopas fell in love-longing + All when he heard the throstle sing, + And spurred his horse like mad, + So that all o’er the blood did spring, + And eke the white foam you might wring: + The steed in foam seemed clad. + + 12. + + Sir Thopas eke so weary was + Of riding on the fine soft grass, + While love burnt in his breast, + That down he laid him in that place + To give his courser some soláce, + Some forage and some rest. + + 13. + + Saint Mary! benedicite! + What meaneth all this love in me, + That haunts me in the wood? + This night, in dreaming, did I see + An elf queen shall my true love be, + And sleep beneath my hood. + + 14. + + An elf queen will I love, I wis, + For in this world no woman is + Worthy to be my bride; + All other damsels I forsake, + And to an elf queen will I take, + By grove and streamlet’s side. + + 15. + + Into his saddle be clomb anon, + And pricketh over stile and stone, + An elf queen to espy; + Till he so long had ridden and gone, + That he at last upon a morn + The fairy land came nigh. + + 16. + + Therein he sought both far and near, + And oft he spied in daylight clear + Through many a forest wild; + But in that wondrous land I ween, + No living wight by him was seen, + Nor woman, man, nor child. + + 17. + + At last there came a giant gaunt, + And he was named Sir Oliphaunt, + A perilous man of deed: + And he said, “Childe, by Termagaunt, + If thou ride not from this my haunt, + Soon will I slay thy steed + With this victorious mace; + For here’s the lovely Queen of Faery, + With harp and pipe and symphony, + A-dwelling in this place.” + + 18. + + Childe Thopas said right haughtily, + “To-morrow will I combat thee + In armour bright as flower; + And then I promise ‘_par ma fay_’ + That thou shalt feel this javelin gay, + And dread its wondrous power. + To-morrow we shall meet again, + And I will pierce thee, if I may, + Upon the golden prime of day;— + And here you shall be slain.” + + 19. + + Sir Thopas drew aback full fast; + The giant at him huge stones cast, + Which from a staff-sling fly; + But well escaped the Childe Thopás, + And it was all through God’s good grace, + And through his bearing high. + + 20. + + Still listen, gentles, to my tale, + Merrier than the nightingale;— + For now I must relate, + How that Sir Thopas rideth o’er + Hill and dale and bright sea-shore, + E’en to his own estate. + + 21. + + His merry men commandeth he + To make for him the game and glee; + For needs he must soon fight + With a giant fierce, with strong heads three, + For paramour and jollity, + And chivalry so bright. + + 22. + + “Come forth,” said he, “my minstrels fair, + And tell me tales right debonair, + While I am clad and armed; + Romances, full of real tales, + Of dames, and popes, and cardinals, + And maids by wizards charmed.” + + 23. + + They bore to him the sweetest wine + In silver cup; the muscadine, + With spices rare of Ind; + Fine gingerbread, in many a slice, + With cummin seed, and liquorice, + And sugar thrice refined. + + 24. + + Then next to his white skin he ware + A cloth of fleecy wool, as fair, + Woven into a shirt; + Next that he put a cassock on, + And over that an habergeon, {35} + To guard right well his heart. + + 25. + + And over that a hauberk went + Of Jews’ work, and most excellent; + Full strong was every plate; + And over that his coat armoúre, + As white as is the lily flower, + In which he would debate. + + 26. + + His shield was all of gold so red, + And thereon was a wild boar’s head, + A carbuncle beside; + And then he swore on ale and bread, + How that the giant should be dead, + Whatever should betide! + + 27. + + His boots were glazed right curiously, + His sword-sheath was of ivory, + His helm all brassy bright; + His saddle was of jet-black bone, + His bridle like the bright sun shone, + Or like the clear moons light, + + 28. + + His spear was of the cypress tree, + That bodeth battle right and free; + The point full sharp was ground; + His steed it was a dapple grey, + That goeth an amble on the way, + Full softly and full round. + + 29. + + Lo! lordlings mine, here ends one fytte + Of this my tale, a gallant strain; + And if ye will hear more of it, + I’ll soon begin again. + + +FYTTE THE SECOND. + + + 1. + + Now hold your speech for charity, + Both gallant knight and lady free, + And hearken to my song + Of battle and of chivalry, + Of ladies’ love and minstrelsy, + All ambling thus along. + + 2. + + Men speak much of old tales, I know; + Of Hornchild, Ipotis, alsó + Of Bevis and Sir Guy; + Of Sire Libeaux, and Pleindamour; + But Sire Thopas, he is the flower + Of real chivalry. + + 3. + + Now was his gallant steed bestrode, + And forth upon his way he rode, + As spark flies from a brand; + Upon his crest he bare a tower, + And therein stuck a lily flower: + Save him from giant hand. + + 4. + + He was a knight in battle bred, + And in no house would seek his bed, + But laid him in the wood; + His pillow was his helmet bright,— + His horse grazed by him all the night + On herbs both fine and good. + + 5. + + And he drank water from the well, + As did the knight Sir Percival, + So worthy under weed; + Till on a day— + + [_Here Chaucer is interrupted in his Rime_.] + + + +_EPILOGUE TO RIME_. + + + “No more of this, for Heaven’s high dignity!” + Quoth then our Host, “for, lo! thou makest me + So weary of thy very simpleness, + That all so wisely may the Lord me bless, + My very ears, with thy dull rubbish, ache. + Now such a rime at once let Satan take. + This may be well called ‘doggrel rime,’” quoth he. + “Why so?” quoth I; “why wilt thou not let me + Tell all my tale, like any other man, + Since that it is the best rime that I can?” + “Mass!” quoth our Host, “if that I hear aright, + Thy scraps of rhyming are not worth a mite; + Thou dost nought else but waste away our time:— + Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme.” + + + + +CHAUCER’S +Friar’s Tale; Or, The Sumner And The Devil. + + + MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT. + + THERE lived, sirs, in my country, formerly, + A wondrous great archdeacon,—who but he? + Who boldly did the work of his high station + In punishing improper conversation, + And all the slidings thereunto belonging; + Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wronging + Of holy Church, by blinking of her dues + In sacraments and contracts, wills and pews; + Usury furthermore, and simony; + But people of ill lives most loathéd he: + Lord! how he made them sing if they were caught. + And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taught + Never to venture on the like again; + To the last farthing would he rack and strain. + For stinted tithes, or stinted offering, + He made the people piteously to sing. + He left no leg for the good bishop’s crook; + Down went the black sheep in his own black book; + For when the name gat there, such dereliction + Came, you must know, sirs, in his jurisdiction. + + He had a Sumner ready to his hand; + A slyer bully filched not in the land; + For in all parts the villain had his spies + To let him know where profit might arise. + Well could he spare ill livers, three or four, + To help his net to four-and-twenty more. + ’Tis truth. Your Sumner may stare hard for me; + I shall not screen, not I, his villainy; + For heaven be thanked, _laudetur Dominus_, + They have no hold, these cursed thieves, on us; + Nor never shall have, let ’em thieve till doom. + + [“No,” cried the Sumner, starting from his gloom, + “Nor have we any hold, Sir Shaven-crown, + On your fine flock, the ladies of the town.” + “Peace, with a vengeance,” quoth our Host, “and let + The tale be told. Say on, thou marmoset, + Thou lady’s friar, and let the Sumner sniff.”] + + “Well,” quoth the Friar; “this Sumner, this false thief, + Had scouts in plenty ready to his hand, + Like any hawks, the sharpest in the land, + Watching their birds to pluck, each in his mew, + Who told him all the secrets that they knew, + And lured him game, and gat him wondrous profit; + Exceeding little knew his master of it. + Sirs, he would go, without a writ, and take + Poor wretches up, feigning it for Christ’s sake, + And threatening the poor people with his curse, + And all the while would let them fill his purse, + And to the alehouse bring him by degrees, + And then he’d drink with them, and slap his knees + For very mirth, and say ’twas some mistake. + Judas carried the bag, sirs, for Christ’s sake, + And was a thief; and such a thief was he; + His master got but sorry share, _pardie_. + To give due laud unto this Satan’s imp, + He was a thief, a Sumner, and a pimp. + + Wenches themselves were in his retinue; + So whether ’twas Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh, + Or Jack, or Ralph, that held the damsel dear, + Come would she then, and tell it in his ear: + Thus were the wench and he of one accord; + And he would feign a mandate from his lord, + And summon them before the court, those two, + And pluck the man, and let the mawkin go. + Then would he say, “Friend, for thine honest look, + I save thy name, this once, from the black book; + Thou hear’st no further of this case.”—But, Lord! + I might not in two years his bribes record. + There’s not a dog alive, so speed my soul, + Knoweth a hurt deer better from a whole + Than this false Sumner knew a tainted sheep, + Or where this wretch would skulk, or that would sleep, + Or to fleece both was more devoutly bent; + And reason good; his faith was in his rent. + + And so befell, that once upon a day, + This Sumner, prowling ever for his prey, + Rode forth to cheat a poor old widowed soul, + Feigning a cause for lack of protocol, + And as he went, he saw before him ride + A yeoman gay under the forest side. + A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen; + And he was clad in a short cloak of green, + And wore a hat that had a fringe of black. + + “Sir,” quoth this Sumner, shouting at his back, + “Hail, and well met.”—“Well met,” like shouteth he; + “Where ridest thou under the greenwood tree? + Goest thou far, thou jolly boy, to-day?” + This bully Sumner answered, and said, “Nay, + Only hard-by, to strain a rent.”—“Hoh! hoh! + Art thou a bailiff then?”—“Yea, even so.” + For he durst not, for very filth and shame, + Say that he was a Sumner, for the name. + “Well met, in God’s name,” quoth black fringe; “why, brother, + Thou art a bailiff then, and I’m another; + But I’m a stranger in these parts; so, prythee, + Lend me thine aid, and let me journey with thee. + I’ve gold and silver, plenty, where I dwell; + And if thou hap’st to come into our dell, + Lord! how we’ll do our best to give thee greeting!” + “Thanks,” quoth the Sumner; “merry be our meeting.” + So in each other’s hand their troths they lay, + And swear accord: and forth they ride and play. + + This Sumner then, which was as full of stir, + And prate, and prying, as a woodpecker, + And ever inquiring upon everything, + Said, “Brother, where is thine inhabiting, + In case I come to find thee out some day?” + + This yeoman dropped his speech in a soft way, + And said, “Far in the north. But ere we part, {42} + I trow thou shalt have learnt it so by heart, + Thou mayst not miss it, be it dark as pitch.” + + “Good,” quoth the Sumner. “Now, as thou art rich, + Show me, dear brother, riding thus with me, + Since we are bailiffs both, some subtlety, + How I may play my game best, and may win: + And spare not, pray, for conscience or for sin, + But, as my brother, tell me how do ye.” + + “Why, ’faith, to tell thee a plain tale,” quoth he, + “As to my wages, they be poor enough; + My lord’s a dangerous master, hard and chuff; + And since my labour bringeth but abortion, + I live, so please ye, brother, by extortion, + I take what I can get; that is my course; + By cunning, if I may; if not, by force; + So cometh, year by year, my salary.” + “Now certes,” quote the Sumner, “so fare I. + I lay my hands on everything, God wot, + Unless it be too heavy or too hot. + What I may get in counsel, privily, + I feel no sort of qualm thereon, not I. + Extortion or starvation;—that’s my creed. + Repent who list. The best of saints must feed. + That’s all the stomach that my conscience knoweth. + Curse on the ass that to confession goeth. + Well be we met, ’Od’s heart! and by my dame! + But tell me, brother dear, what is thy name?” + + Now ye must know, that right in this meanwhile, + This yeoman ’gan a little for to smile. + “Brother,” quoth he, “my name, if I must tell— + I am a fiend: my dwelling is in hell: + And here I ride about my fortuning, + To wot if folk will give me anything. + To that sole end ride I, and ridest thou; + And, without pulling rein, will I ride now + To the world’s end, ere I will lose a prey.” + + “God bless me,” quoth the Sumner, “what d’ye say? + I thought ye were a yeoman verily. + Ye have a man’s shape, sir, as well as I. + Have ye a shape then, pray, determinate + In hell, good sir, where ye have your estate?” + + “Nay, certainly,” quoth he, “there have we none; + But whoso liketh it, he taketh one; + And so we make folk think us what we please. + Sometimes we go like apes, sometimes like bees, + Like man, or angel, black dog, or black crow:— + Nor is it wondrous that it should be so. + A sorry juggler can bewilder thee; + And ’faith, I think I know more craft than he.” + + “But why,” inquired the Sumner, “must ye don + So many shapes, when ye might stick to one?” + “We suit the bait unto the fish,” quoth he. + “And why,” quoth t’other, “all this slavery?” + “For many a cause, Sir Sumner,” quoth the fiend; + “But time is brief—the day will have an end; + And here jog I, with nothing for my ride; + Catch we our fox, and let this theme abide: + For, brother mine, thy wit it is too small + To understand me, though I told thee all; + And yet, as toucheth that same slavery, + A devil must do God’s work, ’twixt you and me; + For without Him, albeit to our loathing, + Strong as we go, we devils can do nothing; + Though to our prayers, sometimes, He giveth leave + Only the body, not the soul, to grieve. + Witness good Job, whom nothing could make wrath; + And sometimes have we power to harass both; + And, then again, soul only is possest, + And body free; and all is for the best. + Full many a sinner would have no salvation, + Gat it he not by standing our temptation: + Though God He knows, ’twas far from our intent + To save the man:—his howl was what we meant. + Nay, sometimes we be servants to our foes: + Witness the saint that pulled my master’s nose; + And to the apostle servant eke was I.” + “Yet tell me,” quoth this Sumner, “faithfully, + Are the new shapes ye take for your intents + Fresh every time, and wrought of elements?” + “Nay,” quoth the fiend, “sometimes they be disguises; + And sometimes in a corpse a devil rises, + And speaks as sensibly, and fair, and well, + As did the Pythoness to Samuel: + And yet will some men say, it was not he! + Lord help, say I, this world’s divinity. + Of one thing make thee sure; that thou shalt know, + Before we part, the shapes we wear below. + Thou shalt—I jest thee not—the Lord forbid! + Thou shalt know more than ever Virgil did, + Or Dante’s self. So let us on, sweet brother, + And stick, like right warm souls, to one another: + I’ll never quit thee, till thou quittest me.” + + “Nay,” quoth the Sumner, “that can never be; + I am a man well known, respectable; + And though thou wert the very lord of hell, + Hold thee I should as mine own plighted brother: + Doubt not we’ll stick right fast, each to the other: + And, as we think alike, so will we thrive: + We twain will be the merriest devils alive. + Take thou what’s given; for that’s thy mode, God wot; + And I will take, whether ’tis given or not. + And if that either winneth more than t’other, + Let him be true, and share it with his brother.” + + “Done,” quoth the fiend, whose eyes in secret glowed; + And with that word they pricked along the road: + And soon it fell, that entering the town’s end, + To which this Sumner shaped him for to wend, + They saw a cart that loaded was with hay, + The which a carter drove forth on his way. + Deep was the mire, and sudden the cart stuck: + The carter, like a madman, smote and struck, + And cried, “Heit, Scot; heit, Brock! What! is’t the stones? + The devil clean fetch ye both, body and bones: + Must I do nought but bawl and swinge all day? + Devil take the whole—horse, harness, cart, and hay.” + + The Sumner whispered to the fiend, “I’ faith, + We have it here. Hear’st thou not what he saith? + Take it anon, for he hath given it thee, + Live stock and dead, hay, cart, and horses three!” + + “Nay,” quoth the fiend, “not so;—the deuce a bit. + He sayeth; but, alas! not meaneth it: + Ask him thyself, if thou believ’st not me; + Or else be still awhile, and thou shalt see.” + + Thwacketh the man his horses on the croup, + And they begin to draw now, and to stoop. + “_Heit_ there,” quoth he; “_heit_, _heit_; ah, _matthywo_. + Lord love their hearts! how prettily they go! + That was well twitched, methinks, mine own grey boy: + I pray God save thy body, and Saint Eloy. + Now is my cart out of the slough, _pardie_.” + + “There,” quoth the fiend unto the Sumner; “see, + I told thee how ’twould fall. Thou seest, dear brother, + The churl spoke one thing, but he thought another. + Let us prick on, for we take nothing here.” + + And when from out the town they had got clear, + The Sumner said, “Here dwelleth an old witch, + That had as lief be tumbled in a ditch + And break her neck, as part with an old penny. + Nathless her twelve pence is as good as any, + And I will have it, though she lose her wits; + Or else I’ll cite her with a score of writs: + And yet, God wot, I know of her no vice. + So learn of me, Sir Fiend: thou art too nice.” + + The Sumner clappeth at the widow’s gate. + “Come out,” he saith, “thou hag, thou quiver-pate: + I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee.” + “Who clappeth?” said this wife; “ah, what say ye? + God save ye, masters: what is your sweet will?” + “I have,” said he, “of summons here a bill: + Take care, on pain of cursing, that thou be + To-morrow morn, before the Archdeacon’s knee, + To answer to the court of certain things.” + + “Now, Lord,” quoth she, “sweet Jesu, King of kings, + So help me, as I cannot, sirs, nor may: + I have been sick, and that full many a day. + I may not walk such distance, nay, nor ride, + But I be dead, so pricketh it my side. + La! how I cough and quiver when I stir!— + May I not ask some worthy officer + To speak for me, to what the bill may say?” + + “Yea, certainly,” this Sumner said, “ye may, + On paying—let me see—twelve pence anon. + Small profit cometh to myself thereon: + My master hath the profit, and not I. + Come—twelve pence, mother—count it speedily, + And let me ride: I may no longer tarry.” + + “Twelve pence!” quoth she; “now may the sweet Saint Mary + So wisely help me out of care and sin, + As in this wide world, though I sold my skin, + I could not scrape up twelve pence, for my life. + Ye know too well I am a poor old wife: + Give alms, for the Lord’s sake, to me, poor wretch.” + + “Nay, if I quit thee then,” quoth he, “devil fetch + Myself, although thou starve for it, and rot.” + “Alas!” quoth she, “the pence I have ’em not.” + “Pay me,” quoth he, “or by the sweet Saint Anne, + I’ll bear away thy staff and thy new pan + For the old debt thou ow’st me for that fee, + Which out of pocket I discharged for thee, + When thou didst make thy husband an old stag.” + “Thou liest,” quoth she; “so leave me never a rag, + As I was never yet, widow nor wife, + Summonsed before your court in all my life, + Nor never of my body was untrue. + Unto the devil, rough and black of hue, + Give I thy body, and the pan to boot.” + + And when this devil heard her give the brute + Thus in his charge, he stooped into her ear, + And said, “Now, Mabily, my mother dear, + Is this your will in earnest that ye say?” + “The devil,” quoth she, “so fetch him cleanaway, + Soul, pan, and all, unless that he repent.” + “Repent!” the Sumner cried; “pay up your rent, + Old fool; and don’t stand preaching here to me. + I would I had thy whole inventory, + The smock from off thy back, and every cloth.” + + “Now, brother,” quoth the devil, “be not wroth; + Thy body and this pan be mine by right, + And thou shalt straight to hell with me to-night, + Where thou shalt know what sort of folk we be, + Better than Oxford university.” + + And with that word the fiend him swept below, + Body and soul. He went where Sumners go. + + + + +CHAUCER’S +Reve’s Tale. + + + MODERNISED BY R. H. HORNE. + + + +_THE REVE’S PROLOGUE_. + + + WHEN all had laughed at this right foolish case + Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas, {49} + Diverse folk diversely their comments made. + But, for the most part, they all laughed and played, + Nor at this tale did any man much grieve, + Unless indeed ’twas Oswald, our good Reve. + Because that he was of the carpenter craft, + In his heart still a little ire is left. + He gan to grudge it somewhat, as scarce right; + “So aid me!” quoth he; “I could such requite + By throwing dust in a proud millers eye, + If that I chose to speak of ribaldry. + But I am old; I cannot play for age; + Grass-time is done—my fodder is now forage; + This white top sadly writeth mine old years; + Mine heart is also mouldy’d as mine hairs: + And since I fare as doth the medlar tree, + That fruit which time grows ever the worse to be + Till it be rotten in rubbish and in straw. + + “We old men, as I fear, the same lot draw; + Till we be rotten can we not be ripe. + We ever hop while that the world will pipe; + For in our will there sticketh ever a nail, + To have a hoary head and a green tail, + As hath a leek; for though our strength be lame, + Our will desireth folly ever the same; + For when our climbing’s done, our words aspire; + Still in our ashes old is reeking fire. {50} + + “Four hot coals have we, which I will express: + Boasting, lying, anger, and covetousness. + These burning coals are common unto age, + Our old limbs well may stumble o’er the stage, + But will shall never fail us, that is sooth. + Still in my head was always a colt’s tooth, + As many a year as now is passed and done, + Since that my tap of life began to run. + For certainly when I was born, I trow, + Death drew the tap of life, and let it flow; + And ever since the tap so fast hath run, + That well-nigh empty now is all the tun. + The stream of life but drips from time to time; + The silly tongue may well ring out and chime + Of wretchedness, that passéd is of yore: + With aged folk, save dotage, there’s nought more.” + + When that our Host had heard this sermoning, + He gan to speak as lordly as a king; + And said, “Why, what amounteth all this wit? + What! shall we speak all day of Holy Writ? + The devil can make a steward fit to preach, + Or of a cobbler a sailor, or a leech. + Say forth thy tale; and tarry not the time. + Lo Deptford! and the hour is half-way prime: + Lo Greenwich! there where many a shrew loves sin— + It were high time thy story to begin.” + + “Now, fair sirs,” quoth this Oswald, the old Reve, + “I pray you all that you yourselves ne’er grieve, + Though my reply should somewhat fret his nose; + For lawful ’tis with force, force to oppose. + This drunken Miller hath informed us here + How that some folks beguiled a carpenter— + Perhaps in scorn that I of yore was one. + So, by your leave, him I’ll requite anon. + In his own churlish language will I speak, + And pray to Heaven besides his neck may break. + A small stalk in mine eye he sees, I deem, + But in his own he cannot see a beam.” + + + +_THE REVE’S TALE_. + + + At Trumpington, near Cambridge, if you look, + There goeth a bridge, and under that a brook, + Upon which brook there stood a flour-mill; + And this is a known fact that now I tell. + A Miller there had dwelt for many a day; + As any peacock he was proud and gay. + He could pipe well, and fish, mend nets, to boot, + Turn cups with a lathe, and wrestle well, and shoot. + A Norman dirk, as brown as is a spade, + Hung by his belt, and eke a trenchant blade. + A jolly dagger bare he in his pouch: + There was no man, for peril, durst him touch. + A Sheffield clasp-knife lay within his hose. + Round was his face, and broad and flat his nose. + High and retreating was his bald ape’s skull: + He swaggered when the market-place was full. + There durst no wight a hand lift to resent it, + But soon, this Miller swore, he should repent it. + + A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal, + A sly one, too, and used long since to steal. + Disdainful Simkin was he called by name. + A wife he had; of noble kin she came: + The rector of the town her father was. + With her he gave full many a pan of brass, + That Simkin with his blood should thus ally. + She had been brought up in a nunnery; + For Simkin ne’er would take a wife, he said, + Unless she were well tutored and a maid, + To carry on his line of yeomanry: + And she was proud and pert as is a pie. + It was a pleasant thing to see these two: + On holidays before her he would go, + With his large tippet bound about his head; + While she came after in a gown of red, + And Simkin wore his long hose of the same. + There durst no wight address her but as dame: + None was so bold that passed along the way + Who with her durst once toy or jesting play, + Unless he wished the sudden loss of life + Before Disdainful Simkin’s sword or knife. + (For jealous folk most fierce and perilous grow; + And this they always wish their wives to know.) + But since that to broad jokes she’d no dislike + She was as pure as water in a dyke, + And with abuse all filled and froward air. + She thought that ladies should her temper bear, + Both for her kindred and the lessons high + That had been taught her in the nunnery. + + These two a fair and buxom daughter had, + Of twenty years; no more since they were wed, + Saving a child, that was but six months old; + A little boy in cradle rocked and rolled. + This daughter was a stout and well-grown lass, + With broad flat nose, and eyes as grey as glass. + Broad were her hips; her bosom round and high; + But right fair was she here—I will not lie. + + The rector of the town, as she was fair, + A purpose had to make her his sole heir, + Both of his cattle and his tenement; + But only if she married as he meant. + It was his purpose to bestow her high, + Into some worthy blood of ancestry: + For holy Church’s good must be expended + On holy Church’s blood that is descended; + Therefore he would his holy Church honour, + Although that holy Church he should devour. + + Great toll and fee had Simkin, out of doubt, + With wheat and malt, of all the land about, + And in especial was the Soler Hall— + A college great at Cambridge thus they call— + Which at this mill both wheat and malt had ground. + And on a day it suddenly was found, + Sick lay the Manciple of a malady; + And men for certain thought that he must die. + Whereon this Miller both of corn and meal + An hundred times more than before did steal; + For, ere this chance, he stole but courteously, + But now he was a thief outrageously. + The Warden scolded with an angry air; + But this the Miller rated not a tare: + He sang high bass, and swore it was not so! + + There were two scholars young, and poor, I trow, + That dwelt within the Hall of which I say. + Headstrong they were and lusty for to play; + And merely for their mirth and revelry, + Out to the Warden eagerly they cry, + That be should let them, for a merry round, + Go to the mill and see their own corn ground, + And each would fair and boldly lay his neck + The Miller should not steal them half a peck + Of corn by sleight, nor by main force bereave. + + And at the last the Warden gave them leave: + One was called John, and Allen named the other; + From the same town they came, which was called Strauther, + Far in the North—I cannot tell you where. + + This Allen maketh ready all his gear, + And on a horse the sack he cast anon: + Forth go these merry clerks, Allen and John, + With good sword and with buckler by their side. + John knew the way, and needed not a guide; + And at the mill the sack adown he layeth. + + Allen spake first:—“Simon, all hail! in faith, + How fares thy daughter, and thy worthy wife?” + “Allen,” quoth Simkin, “welcome, by my life; + And also John:—how now! what do ye here?” + “Simon,” quoth John, “compulsion has no peer. + They who’ve nae lackeys must themselves bestir, + Or else they are but fools, as clerks aver. + Our Manciple, I think, will soon be dead, + Sae slowly work the grinders in his head; + And therefore am I come with Allen thus, + To grind our corn, and carry it hame with us: + I pray you speed us, that we may be gone.” + + Quoth Simkin, “By my faith it shall be done; + What will ye do while that it is in hand?” + “Gude’s life! right by the hopper will I stand,” + (Quoth John), “and see how that the corn goes in. + I never yet saw, by my father’s kin, + How that the hopper waggles to and fro.” + + Allen continued,—“John, and wilt thou so? + Then will I be beneath it, by my crown, + And see how that the meal comes running down + Into the trough—and that shall be my sport. + For, John, like you, I’m of the curious sort; + And quite as bad a miller—so let’s see!” + + This Miller smiled at their ’cute nicety, + And thought,—all this is done but for a wile; + They fancy that no man can them beguile: + But, by my thrift, I’ll dust their searching eye, + For all the sleights in their philosophy. + The more quaint knacks and guarded plans they make, + The more corn will I steal when once I take: + Instead of flour, I’ll leave them nought but bran: + The greatest clerks are not the wisest men. + As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare: + Of all their art I do not count a tare. + + Out at the door he goeth full privily, + When that he saw his time, and noiselessly: + He looketh up and down, till he hath found + The clerks’ bay horse, where he was standing bound + Under an ivy wall, behind the mill: + And to the horse he goeth him fair and well, + And strippeth off the bridle in a trice. + + And when the horse was loose he ’gan to race + Unto the wild mares wandering in the fen, + With _wehee_! _whinny_! right through thick and thin! + This Miller then returned; no word he said, + But doth his work, and with these clerks he played, + Till that their corn was well and fairly ground. + And when the meal is sacked and safely bound + John goeth out, and found his horse was gone, + And cried aloud with many a stamp and groan, + “Our horse is lost! Allen, ’od’s banes! I say, + Up on thy feet!—come off, man—up, away! + Alas! our Warden’s palfrey, it is gone!” + + Allen at once forgot both meal and corn— + Out of his mind went all his husbandry— + “What! whilk way is he gone?” he ’gan to cry. + + The Miller’s wife came laughing inwardly, + “Alas!” said she, “your horse i’ the fens doth fly + After wild mares as fast as he can go! + Ill-luck betide the man that bound him so, + And his that better should have knit the rein.” + + “Alas!” quoth John, “good Allen, haste amain; + Lay down thy sword, as I will mine also; + Heaven knoweth I am as nimble as a roe; + He shall not ’scape us baith, or my saul’s dead! + Why didst not put the horse within the shed? + By the mass, Allen, thou’rt a fool, I say!” + + Those silly clerks have scampered fast away + Unto the fen; Allen and nimble John: + And when the Miller saw that they were gone, + He half a bushel of their flour doth take, + And bade his wife go knead it in a cake. + He said, “I trow these clerks feared what they’ve found; + Yet can a miller turn a scholar round + For all his art. Yea, let them go their way! + See where they run! yea, let the children play: + They get him not so lightly, by my crown.” + + The simple clerks go running up and down, + With “Soft, soft!—stand, stand!—hither!—back! take care! + Now whistle thou, and I shall keep him here!” + But, to be brief, until the very night + They could not, though they tried with all their might, + The palfrey catch; he always ran so fast: + Till in a ditch they caught him at the last. + + Weary and wet as beasts amid the rain, + Allen and John come slowly back again. + “Alas,” quoth John, “that ever I was born! + Now are we turned into contempt and scorn. + Our corn is stolen; fools they will us call; + The Warden, and our college fellows all, + And ’specially the Miller—’las the day!” + + Thus plaineth John while going by the way + Toward the mill, the bay nag in his hand. + The Miller sitting by the fire they found, + For it was night: no further could they move; + But they besought him, for Heaven’s holy love, + Lodgment and food to give them for their penny. + + And Simkin answered, “If that there be any, + Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part. + My house is small, but ye have learnéd art; + Ye can, by arguments, well make a place + A mile broad, out of twenty foot of space! + Let’s see now if this place, as ’tis, suffice; + Or make more room with speech, as is your guise.” + “Now, Simon, by Saint Cuthbert,” said this John, + “Thou’rt ever merry, and that’s answered soon. + I’ve heard that man must needs choose o’ twa things; + Such as he finds, or else such as he brings. + But specially I pray thee, mine host dear, + Let us have meat and drink, and make us cheer, + And we shall pay you to the full, be sure: + With empty hand men may na’ hawks allure. + Lo! here’s our siller ready to be spent!” + + The Miller to the town his daughter sent + For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose; + And bound their horse; he should no more get loose; + And in his own room made for them a bed, + With blankets, sheets, and coverlet well spread: + Not twelve feet from his own bed did it stand. + His daughter, by herself, as it was planned, + In a small passage closet, slept close by: + It might no better be, for reasons why,— + There was no wider chamber in the place. + They sup, and jest, and show a merry face, + And drink of ale, the strongest and the best. + It was just midnight when they went to rest. + + Well hath this Simkin varnished his hot head; + Full pale he was with drinking, and nought red. + He hiccougheth, and speaketh through the nose, + As with the worst of colds, or quinsy’s throes. + To bed he goeth, and with him trips his wife; + Light as a jay, and jolly seemed her life, + So was her jolly whistle well ywet. + The cradle at her bed’s foot close she set + To rock, or nurse the infant in the night. + And when the jug of ale was emptied quite, + To bed, likewise, the daughter went anon: + To bed goes Allen; with him also John. + All’s said: they need no drugs from poppies pale, + This Miller hath so wisely bibbed of ale; + But as an horse he snorteth in his sleep, + And blurteth secrets which awake he’d keep. + His wife a burden bare him, and full strong: + Men might their routing hear a good furlóng. + The daughter routeth else, _par compagnie_. + + Allen, the clerk, that heard this melody, + Now poketh John, and said, “Why sleepest thou? + Heardest thou ever sic a song ere now? + Lo, what a serenade’s among them all! + A wild-fire red upon their bodies fall! + Wha ever listened to sae strange a thing? + The flower of evil shall their ending bring. + This whole night there to me betides no rest. + But, courage yet, all shall be for the best; + For, John,” said he, “as I may ever thrive, + To pipe a merrier serenade I’ll strive + In the dark passage somewhere near to us; + For, John, there is a law which sayeth thus,— + That if a man in one point be aggrieved, + Right in another he shall be relieved: + Our corn is stolen—sad yet sooth to say— + And we have had an evil bout to-day; + But since the Miller no amends will make, + Against our loss we should some payment take. + His sonsie daughter will I seek to win, + And get our meal back—de’il reward his sin! + By hallow-mass it shall no otherwise be!” + + But John replied, “Allen, well counsel thee: + The Miller is a perilous man,” he said, + “And if he wake and start up from his bed, + He may do both of us a villainy.” + “Nay,” Allen said, “I count him not a flie!” + And up he rose, and crept along the floor + Into the passage humming with their snore: + As narrow was it as a drum or tub. + And like a beetle doth he grope and grub, + Feeling his way with darkness in his hands, + Till at the passage-end he stooping stands. + + John lieth still, and not far off, I trow, + And to himself he maketh ruth and woe. + “Alas,” quoth he, “this is a wicked jape! + Now may I say that I am but an ape. + Allen may somewhat quit him for his wrong: + Already can I hear his plaint and song; + So shall his ’venture happily be sped, + While like a rubbish-sack I lie in bed; + And when this jape is told another day, + I shall be called a fool, or a cokenáy! + I will adventure somewhat, too, in faith: + ‘Weak heart, worse fortune,’ as the proverb saith.” + + And up he rose at once, and softly went + Unto the cradle, as ’twas his intent, + And to his bed’s foot bare it, with the brat. + The wife her routing ceased soon after that, + And woke, and left her bed; for she was pained + With nightmare dreams of skies that madly rained. + Eastern astrologers and clerks, I wis, + In time of Apis tell of storms like this. + Awhile she stayed, and waxeth calm in mind; + Returning then, no cradle doth she find, + And gropeth here and there—but she found none. + “Alas,” quoth she, “I had almost misgone! + I well-nigh stumbled on the clerks a-bed: + _Eh benedicite_! but I am safely sped.” + And on she went, till she the cradle found, + While through the dark still groping with her hand. + + Meantime was heard the beating of a wing, + And then the third cock of the morn ’gan sing. + Allen stole back, and thought, “Ere that it dawn + I will creep in by John that lieth forlorn.” + He found the cradle in his hand, anon. + “Gude Lord!” thought Allen, “all wrong have I gone! + My head is dizzy with the ale last night, + And eke my piping, that I go not right. + Wrong am I, by the cradle well I know: + Here lieth Simkin, and his wife alsó.” + And, scrambling forthright on, he made his way + Unto the bed where Simkin snoring lay! + He thought to nestle by his fellow John, + And by the Miller in he crept, anon, + And caught him by the neck, and ’gan to shake, + And said, “Thou John! thou swine’s head dull, awake! + Wake, by the mass! and hear a noble game, + For, by St. Andrew! to thy ruth and shame, + I have been trolling roundelays this night, + And won the Miller’s daughter’s heart outright, + Who hath me told where hidden is our meal: + All this—and more—and how they always steal; + While thou hast as a coward lain aghast!” + + “Thou slanderous ribald!” quoth the Miller, “hast? + A traitor false, false lying clerk!” quoth he, + “Thou shalt be slain by heaven’s dignity, + Who rudely dar’st disparage with foul lie + My daughter that is come of lineage high!” + And by the throat he Allen grasped amain; + And caught him, yet more furiously, again, + And on his nose he smote him with his fist! + Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast, + And on the floor they tumble, heel and crown, + And shake the house—it seemed all coming down. + And up they rise, and down again they roll; + Till that the Miller, stumbling o’er a coal, + Went plunging headlong like a bull at bait, + And met his wife, and both fell flat as slate. + “Help, holy cross of Bromeholm!” loud she cried, + “And all ye martyrs, fight upon my side! + _In manus tuas_—help!—on thee I call! + Simon, awake! the fiend on me doth fall: + He crusheth me—help!—I am well-nigh dead: + He lieth along my heart, and heels, and head. + Help, Simkin! for the false clerks rage and fight!” + + Now sprang up John as fast as ever he might, + And graspeth by the dark walls to and fro + To find a staff: the wife starts up alsó. + She knew the place far better than this John, + And by the wall she caught a staff anon. + She saw a little shimmering of a light, + For at an hole in shone the moon all bright, + And by that gleam she saw the struggling two, + But knew not, as for certain, who was who, + Save that she saw a white thing in her eye. + And when that she this white thing ’gan espy, + She thought that Allen did a nightcap wear, + And with the staff she drew near, and more near, + And, thinking ’twas the clerk, she smote at full + Disdainful Simkin on his bald ape’s skull. + Down goes the Miller, crying, “Harow, I die!” + These clerks they beat him well, and let him lie. + They make them ready, and take their horse anon, + And eke their meal, and on their way are gone; + And from behind the mill-door took their cake, + Of half a bushel of flour—a right good bake. + + + +CHAUCER’S POEM OF +The Cuckoo And The Nightingale. + + + MODERNISED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + 1. + + THE God of Love—_ah_, _benedicite_! + How mighty and how great a Lord is he! + For he of low hearts can make high, of high + He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; + And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. + + 2. + + Within a little time, as hath been found, + He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound; + Them who are whole in body and in mind + He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind + All that he will have bound, or have unbound. + + 3. + + To tell his might my wit may not suffice; + Foolish men he can make them out of wise;— + For he may do all that he will devise; + Loose livers he can make abate their vice, + And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. + + 4. + + In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; + Against him dare not any wight say nay; + To humble or afflict whome’er he will, + To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; + But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. + + 5. + + For every true heart, gentle heart and free, + That with him is, or thinketh so to be, + Now against May shall have some stirring—whether + To joy, or be it to some mourning; never + At other time, methinks, in like degree. + + 6. + + For now when they may hear the small birds’ song, + And see the budding leaves the branches throng. + This unto their remembrance doth bring + All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing, + And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. + + 7. + + And of that longing heaviness doth come, + Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; + Sick are they all for lack of their desire; + And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, + So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. + + 8. + + In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now + Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; + Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, + Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,— + How hard, alas! to bear, I only know. + + 9. + + Such shaking doth the fever in me keep, + Through all this May that I have little sleep; + And also ’tis not likely unto me, + That any living heart should sleepy be + In which love’s dart its fiery point doth steep. + + 10. + + But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, + I of a token thought which lovers heed; + How among them it was a common tale, + That it was good to hear the nightingale, + Ere the vile cuckoo’s note be utteréd. + + 11. + + And then I thought anon as it was day, + I gladly would go somewhere to essay + If I perchance a nightingale might hear, + For yet had I heard none, of all that year, + And it was then the third night of the May. + + 12. + + And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, + No longer would I in my bed abide, + But straightway to a wood, that was hard by, + Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, + And held the pathway down by a brook-side; + + 13. + + Till to a lawn I came all white and green, + I in so fair a one had never been. + The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; + Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, + All green and white; and nothing else was seen. + + 14. + + There sate I down among the fresh fair flowers, + And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, + Where they had rested them all night; and they, + Who were so joyful at the light of day, + Began to honour May with all their powers. + + 15. + + Well did they know that service all by rote, + And there was many and many a lovely note; + Some singing loud, as if they had complained; + Some with their notes another manner feigned; + And some did sing all out with the full throat. + + 16. + + They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, + Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; + And ever two and two together were, + The same as they had chosen for the year, + Upon Saint Valentine’s returning day. + + 17. + + Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, + Was making such a noise as it ran on + Accordant to the sweet birds’ harmony; + Methought that it was the best melody + Which ever to man’s ear a passage won. + + 18. + + And for delight, but how I never wot, + I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, + Not all asleep, and yet not waking wholly; + And as I lay, the Cuckoo bird unholy + Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. + + 19. + + And that was right upon a tree fast by, + And who was then ill-satisfied but I? + “Now, God,” quoth I, “that died upon the rood, + From thee and thy base throat, keep all that’s good, + Full little joy have I now of thy cry.” + + 20. + + And, as I with the Cuckoo thus ’gan chide, + In the next bush that was me fast beside, + I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, + That her clear voice made a loud rioting, + Echoing thorough all the green wood wide. + + 21. + + “Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart’s cheer, + Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; + For we have heard the sorry Cuckoo here, + And she hath been before thee with her song; + Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.” + + 22. + + But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; + As long as in that swooning fit I lay, + Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, + And had good knowing both of their intent, + And of their speech, and all that they would say. + + 23. + + The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake: + “Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake + And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; + For every wight eschews thy song to hear, + Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.” + + 24. + + “What!” quoth she then, “what is’t that ails thee now? + It seems to me I sing as well as thou; + For mine’s a song that is both true and plain,— + Although I cannot quaver so in vain + As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. + + 25. + + “All men may understanding have of me, + But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; + For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:— + Thou say’st OSEE, OSEE; then how may I + Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?” + + 26. + + “Ah, fool!” quoth she, “wist thou not what it is? + Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis, + Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain + That shamefully they one and all were slain, + Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. + + 27. + + “And also would I that they all were dead + Who do not think in love their life to lead; + For who is loth the God of Love to obey + Is only fit to die, I dare well say, + And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!” + + 28. + + “Ay,” quoth the Cuckoo, “that is a quaint law, + That all must love or die; but I withdraw, + And take my leave of all such company, + For mine intent it neither is to die, + Nor ever while I live Love’s yoke to draw. + + 29. + + “For lovers of all folk that be alive, + The most disquiet have and least do thrive; + Most feeling have of sorrow’s woe and care, + And the least welfare cometh to their share; + What need is there against the truth to strive?” + + 30. + + “What!” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind, + That in thy churlishness a cause canst find + To speak of Love’s true Servants in this mood; + For in this world no service is so good + To every wight that gentle is of kind. + + 31. + + “For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; + All gentleness and honour thence come forth; + Thence worship comes, content and true heart’s pleasure, + And full-assuréd trust, joy without measure, + And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth: + + 32. + + “And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, + And seemliness, and faithful company, + And dread of shame that will not do amiss; + For he that faithfully Love’s servant is, + Rather than be disgraced, would choose to die. + + 33. + + “And that the very truth it is which I + Now say—in such belief I’ll live and die; + And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.” + “Then,” quoth she, “let me never hope for bliss, + If with that counsel I do e’er comply. + + 34. + + “Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, + Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; + For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; + And Love in old folk a great dotage is; + Whom most it useth, him ’twill most impair. + + 35. + + “For thereof come all contraries to gladness; + Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, + Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, + Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, + Pride, anger, mischief, poverty and madness. + + 36. + + “Loving is aye an office of despair, + And one thing is therein which is not fair; + For whoso gets of love a little bliss, + Unless it alway stay with him, I wis + He may full soon go with an old man’s hair. + + 37. + + “And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, + For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, + If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, + Thou’lt be as others that forsaken are; + Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.” + + 38. + + “Fie,” quoth she, “on thy name, Bird ill beseen! + The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, + For thou art worse than mad a thousandfold; + For many a one hath virtues manifold + Who had been nought, if Love had never been. + + 39. + + “For evermore his servants Love amendeth, + And he from every blemish them defendeth; + And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, + In loyalty and worshipful desire, + And when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.” + + 40. + + “Thou Nightingale!” the Cuckoo said, “be still; + For Love no reason hath but his own will;— + For to th’ untrue he oft gives ease and joy; + True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, + He lets them perish through that grievous ill. + + 41. + + “With such a master would I never be, + For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, + And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; + Within this court full seldom truth avails, + So diverse in his wilfulness is he.” + + 42. + + Then of the Nightingale did I take note, + How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, + And said, “Alas! that ever I was born, + Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,”— + And with that word, she into tears burst out. + + 43. + + “Alas, alas! my very heart will break,” + Quoth she, “to hear this churlish bird thus speak + Of Love, and of his holy services; + Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, + That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.” + + 44. + + And so methought I started up anon, + And to the brook I ran, and got a stone, + Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, + And he for dread did fly away full fast; + And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. + + 45. + + And as he flew, the Cuckoo ever and aye + Kept crying, “Farewell!—farewell, popinjay!” + As if in scornful mockery of me; + And on I hunted him from tree to tree, + Till he was far, all out of sight, away. + + 46. + + Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, + And said, “Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, + That thou wert near to rescue me; and now, + Unto the God of Love I make a vow, + That all this May I will thy songstress be.” + + 47. + + Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, + “By this mishap no longer be dismayed, + Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard’st me; + Yet if I live it shall amended be, + When next May comes, if I am not afraid. + + 48. + + “And one thing will I counsel thee alsó, + The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love’s saw; + All that she said is an outrageous lie.” + “Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto,” quoth I, + “For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.” + + 49. + + “Yea, hath it? Use,” quoth she, “this medicine, + This May-time, every day before thou dine, + Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, + Although for pain thou may’st be like to die, + Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. + + 50. + + “And mind always that thou be good and true, + And I will sing one song, of many new, + For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;” + And then did she begin this song full high, + “Beshrew all them that are in love untrue.” + + 51. + + And soon as she had sung it to the end, + “Now farewell,” quoth she, “for I hence must wend; + And, God of Love, that can right well and may, + Send unto thee as mickle joy this day + As ever he to lover yet did send.” + + 52. + + Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; + I pray to God with her always to be, + And joy of love to send her evermore; + And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, + For there is not so false a bird as she. + + 53. + + Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, + To all the birds that lodged within that dale, + And gathered each and all into one place; + And them besought to hear her doleful case, + And thus it was that she began her tale:— + + 54. + + “The Cuckoo—’tis not well that I should hide + How she and I did each the other chide, + And without ceasing, since it was daylight; + And now I pray you all to do me right + Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.” + + 55. + + Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave: + “This matter asketh counsel good as grave, + For birds we are—all here together brought; + And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; + And therefore we a parliament will have. + + 56. + + “And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, + And other Peers whose names are on record; + A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, + And judgment there be given; or that intent + Failing, we finally shall make accord. + + 57. + + “And all this shall be done, without a nay, + The morrow after Saint Valentine’s day, + Under a maple that is well beseen, + Before the chamber-window of the Queen, + At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.” + + 58. + + She thankéd them; and then her leave she took, + And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; + And there she sate and sung—upon that tree,— + “For term of life Love shall have hold of me!” + So loudly, that I with that song awoke. + + * * * * * + + Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, + For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, + Who did on thee the hardiness bestow + To appear before my Lady? but a sense + Thou surely hast of her benevolence, + Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; + For of all good, she is the best alive. + + Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, + To show to her some pleasant meanings writ + In winning words, since through her gentleness, + Thee she accepts as for her service fit; + Oh! it repents me I have neither wit + Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; + For of all good, she is the best alive. + + Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, + Though I be far from her I reverence, + To think upon my truth and steadfastness, + And to abridge my sorrow’s violence, + Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, + She of her liking, proof to me would give; + For of all good, she is the best alive. + + + +L’ENVOY. + + + PLEASURE’S Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! + Lucerne, by night, with heavenly influence + Illumined! root of beauty and goodness, + Write, and allay, by your beneficence, + My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give! + Since of all good, you are the best alive. + + EXPLICIT. + + + +Treasure Trove. + + + MODERNISED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF GOWER’S “CONFESSIO AMANTIS.” + + IN ancient Chronicle I read:— + About a King, as it must need, + There was of Knights and of Squiërs + Great rout, and eke of Officers. + Some for a long time him had served, + And thought that they had well deserved + Advancement, but had gone without; + And some also were of the Rout + That only came the other day + And were advanced without delay. + Those Older Men upon this thing, + So as they durst, against the King + Among themselves would murmur oft. + But there is nothing said so soft + That it shall not come out at last, + The King soon knew what Words had passed. + A King he was of high Prudénce, + He shaped therefore an Evidence + Of them that plained them in that case, + To know of whose Default it was. + And all within his own intent, + That not a man knew what it meant, + He caused two Coffers to be made + Alike in Shape, and Size, and Shade, + So like that no man, by their Show, + The one may from the other know. + They were into his Chamber brought, + But no man knew why they were wrought; + Yet from the King Command hath come + That they be set in private Room, + For he was in his Wisdom keen. + When he thereto his time had seen, + Slily, away from all the rest, + With his own hands he filled one Chest, + Full of fine Gold and Jewelry + The which out of his Treasury + Was taken; after that he thrust + Into the other Straw and Dust, + And filled it up with Stones also; + Full Coffers are they, both the two. + + And early then upon a day + He bade within doors where he lay + That there should be before his Bed + A Board set up and fairly spread. + The Coffers then he let men get, + And on the Board he had them set. + Full well he knew the Names of those + Whose Murmurings against him rose, + Both of his Chamber and his Hall, + And speedily sent for them all, + And said unto them in this wise: + + “There shall no man his Hap despise; + I know well that ye long have served, + And God knows what ye have deserved. + Whether it is along of me + That ye still unadvancéd be, + Or whether it belong of you, + The Sooth is to be provéd now, + Wherewith to stop your Evil Word. + Lo here two Coffers on the Board, + Of both the two choose which you will, + And know that ye may have your fill + Of Treasure heaped and packed in one, + That if ye happen thereupon + Ye shall be made Rich Men for ever. + Now choose and take which you is liever. + But be well ware, ere that ye take,— + For of the one I undertake + There is no manner good therein + Whereof ye might a Profit win. + Now go together of one assent + And take your own Advisément. + Whether I you this day advance + Stands only on your Choice and Chance. + No question here of Royal Grace, + It shall be showéd in this place + Upon you all, and well and fine, + If Fortune fails by Fault of mine.” + + They all kneel down, and with one voice + They thank the King for this free Choice; + And after this they up arise + And go aside and them advise, + And at the last they all accord; + Whereof their Finding to record + To what Issue their Voices fall, + A Knight shall answer for them all. + + He kneeleth down unto the King + And saith, that they upon this thing + Or for to win or for to lose + Are all decided how to choose. + Then took this Knight a Rod in hand + And goes to where the Coffers stand, + And with the Assent of every one + He layeth his Rod upon one, + And tells the King they only want + Him that for their Reward to grant, + And pray him that they might it have. + The King, who would his Honour save, + When he hath heard the common Voice, + Hath granted them their own free Choice, + And gave them thereupon the Key. + But as he would that men might see + What Good they got, as they suppose, + He bade anon the Coffer unclose,— + Which was filled full with Straw and Stone; + Thus are they served, the Luck’s their own. + + “Lo,” saith the King, “now may ye see + That there is no Default in me; + Therefore myself I will acquit, + Bear ye the Blame now, as is fit, + For that which Fortune you refused.” + Thus was this wise old King excused, + And they left off their evil Speech, + And Mercy of their King beseech. + + Touching like matter to the quick, + I find a Tale how Frederick, + At that time Emperor of Rome, + Heard, as he went, a Clamour come + From two poor Beggars on the way. + The one of them began to say, + “Ha, Lord, the man is rich indeed + To whom a King’s Wealth brings his Speed!” + The other said, “It is not so, + But he is rich and well-to-do + To whom God pleases Wealth to send.” + And thus their Words went without end, + Whereto this Lord hath given ear + And caused both Beggars to appear + Straight at his Palace, there to eat; + And bade provide them for their Meat + Two Pasties which men were to make, + And in the one a Capon bake, + And in the other, Wealth to win, + Of Florins all that may within + He bade them put a great Richésse, + And just alike, as one may guess, + Outward they were, to Sight of Men. + + This Beggar was commanded then, + He that had held him to the King, + That he first choose upon this thing. + He saw them, but he felt them not, + So that upon his single Thought + He chose the Capon, and forsook + That other, which his Fellow took. + + But when he wist how that it fared, + He said aloud, that men it heard: + “Now have I certainly conceived + That he may lightly be deceived + Who puts his trust in Help of Man. + He’s rich whom God helps, for he can + Stand ever on the safer side + That else on Vain Hope had relied. + I see my Fellow well supplied, + And still a Poor Man I abide.” + Thus spake the Beggar his intent, + And poor he came, and poor he went; + Of all the Riches that he sought + His evil Fortune gave him nought. + + And right as it with those men stood, + Of evil Hap in worldly Good, + As thou hast heard me tell above, + Right so, full oft, it stands by Love; + Though thou desire it evermore + Thou shalt not have a whit the more, + But only what is meant for thee, + Of all the rest not worth a Pea. + And yet a long and endless Row + There be of Men who covet so + That whereas they a Woman see, + To ten or twelve though there may be, + The Love is now so little wise + That where the Beauty takes his Eyes + Anon the Man’s whole Heart is there + And whispers Tales into her Ear, + And says on her his Love is set, + And thus he sets him to covet. + A hundred though he saw a day, + So would he have more than he may; + In each of them he finds somewhat + That pleaseth him, or this or that. + Some one, for she is white of skin, + Some one, for she is noble of kin, + Some one, for she hath a ruddy cheek, + Some one, for that she seemeth meek, + Some one, for that her eyes are gray, + Some one, for she can laugh and play, + Some one, for she is long and small, + Some one, for she is lithe and tall, + Some one, for she is pale and bleach, + Some one, for she is soft of speech, + Some one, for that her nose turns down, + Some one, for that she hath a frown, + Some one, for she can dance and sing; + So that of what he likes something + He finds, and though no more he feel + But that she hath a little heel, + It is enough that he therefore + Her love; and thus an hundred score + While they be new he would he had, + Whom he forsakes, she shall be bad. + So the Blind Man no Colour sees, + All’s one to take as he may please; + And his Desire is darkly minded + Whom Covetise of Love hath blinded. + + + + +London Lickpenny. + + + BY JOHN LYDGATE. + + TO London once my steps I bent, + Where truth in nowise should be faint; + To Westminster-ward I forthwith went, + To a man of law to make complaint, + I said, “For Mary’s love, that holy saint, + Pity the poor that would proceed!” + But for lack of Money I could not speed. + + And as I thrust the press among, + By froward chance my hood was gone, + Yet for all that I stayed not long + Till to the King’s Bench I was come. + Before the judge I kneeled anon, + And prayed him for God’s sake to take heed. + But for lack of Money I might not speed. + + Beneath them sat clerks a great rout, + Which fast did write by one assent, + There stood up one and cried about, + “Richard, Robert, and John of Kent!” + I wist not well what this man meant, + He cried so thickly there indeed. + But he that lacked Money might not speed + + Unto the Common Pleas I yode {81} tho, + Where sat one with a silken hood; + I did him reverence, for I ought to do so, + And told my case as well as I could, + How my goods were defrauded me by falsehood. + I got not a mum of his mouth for my meed, + And for lack of Money I might not speed. + + Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence, + Before the clerks of the Chancerie, + Where many I found earning of pence, + But none at all once regarded me. + I gave them my plaint upon my knee; + They liked it well when they had it read, + But lacking Money I could not be sped. + + In Westminster Hall I found out one + Which went in a long gown of ray, {82a} + I crouched and kneeled before him anon, + For Mary’s love of help I him pray. + “I wot not what thou mean’st,” gan he say; + To get me thence he did me bede: + For lack of Money I could not speed. + + Within this Hall, neither rich nor yet poor + Would do for me aught although I should die. + Which seeing, I got me out of the door + Where Flemings began on me for to cry, + “Master, what will you copen {82b} or buy? + Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read? + Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.” + + Then to Westminster Gate I presently went, + When the sun was at highé prime; + Cooks to me they took good intent, + And proffered me bread with ale and wine, + Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; + A fair cloth they gan for to sprede, + But wanting Money I might not then speed. + + Then unto London I did me hie, + Of all the land it beareth the prize. + “Hot peascods!” one began to cry, + “Strawberry ripe!” and “Cherries in the rise!” {82c} + One bade me come near and buy some spice, + Pepper and saffron they gan me bede, + But for lack of Money I might not speed. + + Then to the Cheap I began me drawn, + Where much people I saw for to stand; + One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, + Another he taketh me by the hand, + “Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!” + I never was used to such things indeed, + And wanting Money I might not speed. + + Then went I forth by London Stone, + Throughout all Can’wick Street. {83} + Drapers much cloth me offered anon; + Then comes me one cried, “Hot sheep’s feet!” + One cried, “Mackerel!” “Rushes green!” another gan greet; + One bade me buy a hood to cover my head, + But for want of Money I might not be sped, + + Then I hied me into East Cheap; + One cries “Ribs of beef,” and many a pie; + Pewter pots they clattered on a heap, + There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsie. + “Yea, by cock!” “Nay, by cock!” some began cry; + Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed, + But for lack of Money I might not speed. + + Then into Cornhill anon I yode, + Where was much stolen gear among; + I saw where hung mine owné hood + That I had lost among the throng: + To buy my own hood I thought it wrong; + I knew it well as I did my Creed, + But for lack of Money I could not speed. + + The taverner took me by the sleeve, + “Sir,” saith he, “will you our wine assay?” + I answered, “That cannot much me grieve, + A penny can do no more than it may.” + I drank a pint, and for it I did pay. + Yet soon ahungered from thence I yede, + And wanting Money I could not speed. + + Then hied I me to Billingsgate, + And one cried, “Hoo! Go we hence!” + I prayed a barge man, for God’s sake, + That he would spare me my expence. + “Thou scrap’st not here,” quoth he, “under two pence; + I list not yet bestow any alms deed.” + Thus lacking Money I could not speed. + + Then I conveyed me into Kent; + For of the law would I meddle no more, + Because no man to me took intent, + I dight me to do as I did before. + Now Jesus, that in Bethlehem was bore, + Save London, and send true lawyers their meed! + For whoso wants Money with them shall not speed. + + + + +Bicorn and Chichevache. + + + BY JOHN LYDGATE. + +_First there shall stand an image in Poet-wise_, _saying these verses_:— + + O PRUDENT folkés, taketh heed, + And remembreth in your lives + How this story doth proceed + Of the husbands and their wives, + Of their áccord and their strives, + With life or death which to darrain {85a} + Is granted to these beastés twain. + +_Then shall be pourtrayed two beasts_, _one fat_; _another lean_. + + For this Bicorn of his natúre + Will none other manner food, + But patient husbands his pastúre, + And Chichevache eat’th the women good; + And both these beastés, by the Rood, + Be fat or lean, it may not fail, + Like lack or plenty of their vitail. + + Of Chichevache {85b} and of Bicorn, + Treateth wholly this matere, + Whose story hath taught us beforn + How these beastés both infere {85c} + Have their pastúre, as you shall hear, + Of men and women in senténce + Through suffrance or through impatiénce. + +_Then shall be pourtrayed a fat beast called Bicorn_, _of the country of +Bicornis_, _and say these three verses following_:— + + “Of Bicornis I am Bicorn, + Full fat and round here as I stand, + And in marriage bound and sworn + To Chichevache as her husbánd, + Which will not eat on sea nor land + But patient wivés debonair, + Which to their husbands be n’t contraire + + “Full scarce, God wot, is her vitail, + Humble wives she finds so few, + For always at the contre tail + Their tongúe clappeth and doth hew. + Such meeké wivés I beshrew, + That neither can at bed ne board + Their husbands not forbear one word. + + “But my food and my cherishing, + To tell plainly and not to vary, + Is of such folks which, their living, + Dare to their wives be not contrary, + Ne from their lustés dare not vary, + Nor with them hold no champarty, {86a} + All such my stomach will defy.” {86b} + +_Then shall be pourtrayed a company of men coming towards this beast +Bicornis_, _and say these four ballads_:— + + “Fellows, take heed and ye may see + How Bicorn casteth him to devour + All humble men, both you and me, + There is no gain may us succóur; + Wo be therefore in hall and bower + To all those husbands which, their lives, + Make mistrésses of their wives. + + “Who that so doth, this is the law, + That this Bicorn will him oppress + And devouren in his maw + That of his wife makes his mistréss; + This will us bring in great distress, + For we, for our humility, + Of Bicorn shall devouréd be. + + “We standen plainly in such case, + For they to us mistrésses be; + We may well sing and say, ‘Alas, + That we gave them the sovereigntie! + For we ben thrall and they be free. + Wherefore Bicorn, this cruel beast, + Will us devouren at the least. + + “But who that can be sovereign, + And his wife teach and chastise, + That she dare not a word gainsain + Nor disobey in no manner wise, + Of such a man I can devise + He stands under protectión + From Bicornis jurisdictión.” + +_Then shall there be a woman devoured in the mouth of Chichevache_, +_crying to all wives_, _and say this verse_:— + + “O noble wivés, be well ware, + Take example now by me; + Or else affirmé well I dare + Ye shall be dead, ye shall not flee; + Be crabbéd, void humilitie, + Or Chichevache ne will not fail + You for to swallow in his entrail.” + +_Then shall there be pourtrayed a long-horned beast_, _slender and lean_, +_with sharp teeth_, _and on her body nothing but skin and bone_. + + “Chichevache, this is my name, + Hungry, meagre, slender, and lean, + To show my body I have great shame, + For hunger I feel so great teen; {88c} + On me no fatness will be seen, + Because that pasture I find none, + Therefore I am but skin and bone. + + “For my feedíng in existénce + Is of women that be meek, + And like Grisield in patiénce + Or more their bounty for to eke; + But I full long may go and seek + Ere I can find a good repast, + A morrow to break with my fast. + + “I trow there be a dear year + Of patient women now-a-days. + Who grieveth them with word or cheer + Let him beware of such assays; + For it is more than thirty Mays + That I have sought from lond to lond, + But yet one Grisield ne’er I fond. + + “I found but one in all my live, + And she was dead ago full yore; + For more pastúre I will not strive + Nor seeké for my food no more. + Ne for vitail me to restore; + Women ben woxen {88a} so prudént + They will no more be patient.” + +_Then shall be pourtrayed_, _after Chichevache_, _an old man with a baton +on his back_, _menacing the beast for devouring of his wife_. + + “My wife, alas, devouréd is, + Most patiént and most pesíble! + She never said to me amiss, + Whom now hath slain this beast horrible! + And for it is an impossible + To find again e’er such a wife + I will live solé all my life.” + + For now of newé, for their prow, {88b} + The wivés of full high prudénce + Have of assent made their avow + T’ exile for ever patiénce, + And cried wolfs-head obedience, + To maké Chichevaché fail + Of them to findé more vitail. + + Now Chichevaché may fast long + And die for all her cruelty, + Women have made themselves so strong + For to outrage humility. + O silly husbands, wo ben ye! + Such as can have no patiénce + Against your wivés violence. + + If that ye suffer, ye be but dead, + Bicorn awaiteth you so sore; + Eke of your wives go stand in dread, + If ye gainsay them any more! + And thus ye stand, and have done yore, + Of life and death betwixt coveyne {89} + Linkéd in a double chain. + + + + +Best to be Blyth. + + + BY WILLIAM DUNBAR. + + FULL oft I muse, and hes in thocht + How this fals Warld is ay on flocht, + Quhair {91a} no thing ferme is nor degest; {91d} + And when I haif my mynd all socht, + For to be blyth me think it best. + + This warld ever dois flicht and wary, {91b} + Fortoun sa fast hir quheill dois cary, + Na tyme but {91e} turning can tak rest; + For quhois fats change suld none be sary, + For to be blyth me think it best. + + Wald men considdir in mynd richt weill, + Or Fortoun on him turn hir quheill, + That erdly honour may nocht lest, + His fall less panefull he suld feill; + For to be blyth me think it best. + + Quha with this warld dois warsill {91c} and stryfe, + And dois his dayis in dolour dryfe, + Thocht he in lordschip be possest, + He levis bot ane wrechit lyfe: + For to be blyth me think it best. + + Off warldis gud and grit richess, + Quhat fruct hes man but merriness? + Thocht he this warld had eist and west, + All wer povertie but glaidness: + For to be blyth me think it best. + + Quho suld for tynsall {92a} drowp or de, + For thyng that is bot vanitie; + Sen to the lyfe that evir dois lest, + Heir is bot twynkling of an ee: + For to be blyth me think it best. + + Had I for warldis unkyndnéss + In hairt tane ony heviness, + Or fro my plesans bene opprest; + I had bene deid lang syne dowtless: + For to be blyth me think it best. + + How evir this warld do change and vary, + Lat us in hairt nevir moir be sary, + But evir be reddy and addrest + To pass out of this frawfull fary: {92b} + For to be blyth me think it best. + + + + +Dowsabell. + + + BY MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + FAR in the country of Arden + There woned {93d} a knight, hight Cassamen, + As bold as Isenbras: + Fell was he and eager bent + In battle and in tournament + As was good Sir Topás. + + He had, as antique stories tell, + A daughter clepéd Dowsabell, + A maiden fair and free. + And for she was her fathers heir, + Full well she was yconned {93a} the leir {93b} + Of mickle courtesie. + + The silk well couth she twist and twine, + And make the finé marché pine, {93c} + And with the needle work; + And she couth help the priest to say + His matins on a holiday, + And sing a psalm in kirk. + + She ware a frock of frolic green + Might well become a maiden queen, + Which seemly was to see; + A hood to that so neat and fine, + In colour like the columbine, + Inwrought full featously. + + Her features all as fresh above + As is the grass that grows by Dove, + And lithe as lass of Kent. + Her skin as soft as Lemster {94a} wool, + And white as snow on Peakish hull, {94b} + Or swan that swims in Trent. + + This maiden, in a morn betime, + Went forth, when May was in the prime, + To get sweet setiwall, {94c} + The honeysuckle, the harlock, {94d} + The lily and the lady-smock, {94k} + To deck her summer-hall. {94e} + + Thus, as she wandered here and there, + And pickéd of the bloomy brere, + She chancéd to espy + A shepherd sitting on a bank, + Like chanticleer he crowéd crank, {94f} + And piped full merrily. + + He learned his sheep {94g} as he him list, + When he would whistle in his fist, + To feed about him round, + Whilst he full many a carol sang, + Until the fields and meadows rang, + And that the woods did sound. + + In favour this same shepherd swain + Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine + Which held proud kings in awe. + But meek as any lamb mought be, + And innocent of ill as he + Whom his lewd brother slaw. + + This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke, + Which was of the finest loke + That could be cut with shear; + His mittens were of bauzon’s {94h} skin, + His cockers {94i} were of cordiwin, {94j} + His hood of minivere. + + His awl and lingell {95a} in a thong; + His tarbox on his broadbelt hung, + His breech of Cointree blue. + Full crisp and curléd were his locks, + His brows as white as Albion rocks, + So like a lover true. + + And piping still he spent the day + So merry as the popinjay, + Which likéd Dowsabell, + That would she ought, or would she nought, + This lad would never from her thought, + She in love-longing fell. + + At length she tuckéd up her frock, + White as the lily was her smock; + She drew the shepherd nigh; + But then the shepherd piped a good, + That all the sheep forsook their food, + To hear his melodie. + + “Thy sheep,” quoth she, “cannot be lean + That have a jolly shepherd swain + The which can pipe so well.” + “Yea, but,” saith he, “their shepherd may, + If piping thus he pine away + In love of Dowsabell.” + + “Of love, fond boy, take then no keep,” {95b} + Quoth she; “Look well unto thy sheep, + Lest they should hap to stray.” + Quoth he, “So had I done full well, + Had I not seen fair Dowsabell + Come forth to gather may.” + + With that she ’gan to vail her head, + Her cheeks were like the roses red, + But not a word she said. + With that the shepherd ’gan to frown, + He threw his pretty pipes adown, + And on the ground him laid. + + Saith she, “I may not stay till night + And leave my summer-hall undight, + And all for love of thee.” + “My cote,” saith he, “nor yet my fold + Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold, + Except thou favour me.” + + Saith she, “Yet liever were I dead + Than I should [yield me to be wed], + And all for love of men.” + Saith he, “Yet are you too unkind + If in your heart you cannot find + To love us now and then. + + “And I to thee will be as kind + As Colin was to Rosalind + Of courtesy the flower.” + “Then will I be as true,” quoth she, + “As ever maiden yet might be + Unto her paramour.” + + With that she bent her snow-white knee + Down by the shepherd kneeléd she, + And him she sweetly kist. + With that the shepherd whooped for joy. + Quoth he, “There’s never shepherd’s boy + That ever was so blist.” + + + + +Nymphidia, the Court of Fairy. + + + BY MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + OLD Chaucer doth of Topas tell, + Mad Rabelais of Pantágruél, + A later third of Dowsabel + With such poor trifles playing; + Others the like have laboured at, + Some of this thing and some of that, + And many of they knew not what, + But what they may be saying. + + Another sort there be, that will + Be talking of the Fairies still, + For never can they have their fill, + As they were wedded to them; + No tales of them their thirst can slake, + So much delight therein they take, + And some strange thing they fain would make, + Knew they the way to do them. + + Then since no Muse hath been so bold, + Or of the later, or the old, + Those elvish secrets to unfold, + Which lie from others’ reading; + My active Muse to light shall bring + The court of that proud Fairy King, + And tell there of the revelling. + Jove prosper my proceeding! + + And thou, Nymphidia, gentle Fay, + Which, meeting me upon the way, + These secrets didst to me bewray, + Which now I am in telling; + My pretty, light, fantastic maid, + I here invoke thee to my aid, + That I may speak what thou hast said, + In numbers smoothly swelling. + + This palace standeth in the air, + By necromancy placéd there, + That it no tempest needs to fear, + Which way soe’er it blow it. + And somewhat southward tow’rds the noon, + Whence lies a way up to the moon, + And thence the Fairy can as soon + Pass to the earth below it. + + The walls of spiders’ legs are made + Well mortiséd and finely laid; + It was the master of his trade + It curiously that builded; + The windows of the eyes of cats, + And for the roof, instead of slats, + Is covered with the skins of bats, + With moonshine that are gilded. + + Hence Oberon him sport to make, + Their rest when weary mortals take, + And none but only fairies wake, + Descendeth for his pleasure; + And Mab, his merry Queen, by night + Bestrides young folks that lie upright, + (In elder times the mare that hight), + Which plagues them out of measure. + + Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes, + Of little frisking elves and apes + To earth do make their wanton scapes, + As hope of pastime hastes them; + Which maids think on the hearth they see + When fires well-nigh consuméd be, + There dancing hays {98} by two and three, + Just as their fancy casts them. + + These make our girls their sluttery rue, + By pinching them both black and blue, + And put a penny in their shoe + The house for cleanly sweeping; + And in their courses make that round + In meadows and in marshes found, + Of them so called the Fairy Ground, + Of which they have the keeping. + + These when a child haps to be got + Which after proves an idiot + When folk perceive it thriveth not, + The fault therein to smother, + Some silly, doting, brainless calf + That understands things by the half, + Say that the Fairy left this oaf + And took away the other. + + But listen, and I shall you tell + A chance in Faery that befell, + Which certainly may please some well, + In love and arms delighting, + Of Oberon that jealous grew + Of one of his own Fairy crew, + Too well, he feared, his Queen that knew, + His love but ill requiting. + + Pigwiggin was this Fairy Knight, + One wondrous gracious in the sight + Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night + He amorously observéd; + Which made King Oberon suspect + His service took too good effect, + His sauciness had often checkt, + And could have wished him stervéd. + + Pigwiggin gladly would commend + Some token to Queen Mab to send, + If sea or land him aught could lend + Were worthy of her wearing; + At length this lover doth devise + A bracelet made of emmets’ eyes, + A thing he thought that she would prize, + No whit her state impairing. + + And to the Queen a letter writes, + Which he most curiously indites, + Conjuring her by all the rites + Of love, she would be pleaséd + To meet him, her true servant, where + They might, without suspect or fear, + Themselves to one another clear + And have their poor hearts easéd. + + At midnight, the appointed hour; + “And for the Queen a fitting bower,” + Quoth he, “is that fair cowslip flower + On Hient Hill {100} that bloweth; + In all your train there’s not a fay + That ever went to gather may + But she hath made it, in her way, + The tallest there that groweth.” + + When by Tom Thumb, a Fairy Page, + He sent it, and doth him engage + By promise of a mighty wage + It secretly to carry; + Which done, the Queen her maids doth call, + And bids them to be ready all: + She would go see her summer hall, + She could no longer tarry. + + Her chariot ready straight is made, + Each thing therein is fitting laid, + That she by nothing might be stayed, + For nought must be her letting; + Four nimble gnats the horses were, + Their harnesses of gossamere, + Fly Cranion the charioteer + Upon the coach-box getting. + + Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell, + Which for the colours did excel, + The fair Queen Mab becoming well, + So lively was the limning; + The seat the soft wool of the bee, + The cover, gallantly to see, + The wing of a pied butterfly; + I trow ’twas simple trimming. + + The wheels composed of cricket’s bones, + And daintily made for the nonce, + For fear of rattling on the stones + With thistle-down they shod it; + For all her maidens much did fear + If Oberon had chanced to hear + That Mab his Queen should have been there, + He would not have abode it. + + She mounts her chariot with a trice, + Nor would she stay, for no advice, + Until her maids that were so nice + To wait on her were fitted; + But ran herself away alone, + Which when they heard, there was not one + But hasted after to be gone, + As he had been diswitted. + + Hop and Mop and Drop so clear, + Pip and Trip and Skip that were + To Mab, their sovereign, ever dear, + Her special maids of honour; + Fib and Tib and Pink and Pin, + Tick and Quick and Jill and Jin, + Tit and Nit and Wap and Win, + The train that wait upon her. + + Upon a grasshopper they got + And, what with amble, what with trot, + For hedge and ditch they sparéd not, + But after her they hie them; + A cobweb over them they throw, + To shield the wind if it should blow, + Themselves they wisely could bestow + Lest any should espy them. + + But let us leave Queen Mab awhile, + Through many a gate, o’er many a stile, + That now had gotten by this wile, + Her dear Pigwiggin kissing; + And tell how Oberon doth fare, + Who grew as mad as any hare + When he had sought each place with care, + And found his Queen was missing. + + By grisly Pluto he doth swear, + He rent his clothes and tore his hair, + And as he runneth here and there + An acorn cup he greeteth, + Which soon he taketh by the stalk, + About his head he lets it walk, + Nor doth he any creature balk, + But lays on all he meeteth. + + The Tuscan Poet doth advance, + The frantic Paladin of France, + And those more ancient do enhance + Alcides in his fury, + And others Aiax Telamon, + But to this time there hath been none + So Bedlam as our Oberon, + Of which I dare assure ye. + + And first encountering with a Wasp, + He in his arms the fly doth clasp + As though his breath he forth would grasp, + Him for Pigwiggin taking: + “Where is my wife, thou rogue?” quoth be; + “Pigwiggin, she is come to thee; + Restore her, or thou diest by me!” + Whereat the poor Wasp quaking + + Cries, “Oberon, great Fairy King, + Content thee, I am no such thing: + I am a Wasp, behold my sting!” + At which the Fairy started; + When soon away the Wasp doth go, + Poor wretch, was never frighted so; + He thought his wings were much too slow, + O’erjoyed they so were parted. + + He next upon a Glow-worm light, + You must suppose it now was night, + Which, for her hinder part was bright, + He took to be a devil, + And furiously doth her assail + For carrying fire in her tail; + He thrashed her rough coat with his flail; + The mad King feared no evil. + + “Oh!” quoth the Glow-worm, “hold thy hand, + Thou puissant King of Fairy-land! + Thy mighty strokes who may withstand? + Hold, or of life despair I!” + Together then herself doth roll, + And tumbling down into a hole + She seemed as black as any coal; + Which vext away the Fairy. + + From thence he ran into a hive: + Amongst the bees he letteth drive, + And down their combs begins to rive, + All likely to have spoiléd, + Which with their wax his face besmeared, + And with their honey daubed his beard: + It would have made a man afeared + To see how he was moiléd. + + A new adventure him betides; + He met an Ant, which he bestrides, + And post thereon away he rides, + Which with his haste doth stumble; + And came full over on her snout, + Her heels so threw the dirt about, + For she by no means could get out, + But over him doth tumble. + + And being in this piteous case, + And all be-slurréd head and face, + On runs he in this wild-goose chase, + As here and there he rambles; + Half blind, against a mole-hill hit, + And for a mountain taking it, + For all he was out of his wit + Yet to the top he scrambles. + + And being gotten to the top, + Yet there himself he could not stop, + But down on th’ other side doth chop, + And to the foot came rumbling; + So that the grubs, therein that bred, + Hearing such turmoil over head, + Thought surely they had all been dead; + So fearful was the jumbling. + + And falling down into a lake, + Which him up to the neck doth take, + His fury somewhat it doth slake; + He calleth for a ferry; + Where you may some recovery note; + What was his club he made his boat, + And in his oaken cup doth float, + As safe as in a wherry. + + Men talk of the adventures strange + Of Don Quixoit, and of their change + Through which he arméd oft did range, + Of Sancho Pancha’s travel; + But should a man tell every thing + Done by this frantic Fairy King, + And them in lofty numbers sing, + It well his wits might gravel. + + Scarce set on shore, but therewithal + He meeteth Puck, which most men call + Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall, + With words from frenzy spoken: + “Oh, oh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace! + Who drest thee in this piteous case? + He thus that spoiled my sovereign’s face, + I would his neck were broken!” + + This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, + Still walking like a ragged colt, + And oft out of a bush doth bolt, + Of purpose to deceive us; + And leading us makes us to stray, + Long winter’s nights, out of the way; + And when we stick in mire and clay, + Hob doth with laughter leave us. + + “Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone: + As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon, + Let everything but this alone, + With vengeance and pursue her; + Bring her to me alive or dead, + Or that vile thief, Pigwiggin’s head, + That villain hath [my Queen misled]; + He to this folly drew her.” + + Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin, + But I will thorough thick and thin, + Until at length I bring her in; + My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.” + Thorough brake, thorough briar, + Thorough muck, thorough mire, + Thorough water, thorough fire; + And thus goes Puck about it. + + This thing Nymphidia overheard, + That on this mad king had a guard, + Not doubting of a great reward, + For first this business broaching; + And through the air away doth go, + Swift as an arrow from the bow, + To let her sovereign Mab to know + What peril was approaching. + + The Queen, bound with Love’s powerful charm, + Sate with Pigwiggin arm in arm; + Her merry maids, that thought no harm, + About the room were skipping; + A humble-bee, their minstrel, played + Upon his hautboy, every maid + Fit for this revel was arrayed, + The hornpipe neatly tripping. + + In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry, + “My sovereign, for your safety fly, + For there is danger but too nigh; + I posted to forewarn you: + The King hath sent Hobgoblin out, + To seek you all the fields about, + And of your safety you may doubt, + If he but once discern you.” + + When, like an uproar in a town, + Before them everything went down; + Some tore a ruff, and some a gown, + ’Gainst one another justling; + They flew about like chaff i’ th’ wind; + For haste some left their masks behind; + Some could not stay their gloves to find; + There never was such bustling. + + Forth ran they, by a secret way, + Into a brake that near them lay; + Yet much they doubted there to stay, + Lest Hob should hap to find them; + He had a sharp and piercing sight, + All one to him the day and night; + And therefore were resolved, by flight, + To leave this place behind them. + + At length one chanced to find a nut, + In th’ end of which a hole was cut, + Which lay upon a hazel root, + There scattered by a squirrel + Which out the kernel gotten had; + When quoth this Fay, “Dear Queen, be glad; + Let Oberon be ne’er so mad, + I’ll set you safe from peril. + + “Come all into this nut,” quoth she, + “Come closely in; be ruled by me; + Each one may here a chooser be, + For room ye need not wrastle: + Nor need ye be together heaped;” + So one by one therein they crept, + And lying down they soundly slept, + And safe as in a castle. + + Nymphidia, that this while doth watch, + Perceived if Puck the Queen should catch + That he should be her over-match, + Of which she well bethought her; + Found it must be some powerful charm, + The Queen against him that must arm, + Or surely he would do her harm, + For throughly he had sought her. + + And listening if she aught could hear, + That her might hinder, or might fear; + But finding still the coast was clear; + Nor creature had descried her; + Each circumstance and having scanned, + She came thereby to understand, + Puck would be with them out of hand; + When to her charms she hied her. + + And first her fern-seed doth bestow, + The kernel of the mistletoe; + And here and there as Puck should go, + With terror to affright him, + She night-shade strews to work him ill, + Therewith her vervain and her dill, + That hindreth witches of their will, + Of purpose to despite him. + + Then sprinkles she the juice of rue, + That groweth underneath the yew; + With nine drops of the midnight dew, + From lunary distilling: + The molewarp’s {108a} brain mixed therewithal; + And with the same the pismire’s gall: + For she in nothing short would fall, + The Fairy was so willing. + + Then thrice under a briar doth creep, + Which at both ends was rooted deep, + And over it three times she leap; + Her magic much availing: + Then on Prosérpina doth call, + And so upon her spell doth fall, + Which here to you repeat I shall, + Not in one tittle failing. + + “By the croaking of a frog; + By the howling of the dog; + By the crying of the hog + Against the storm arising; + By the evening curfew bell, + By the doleful dying knell, + O let this my direful spell, + Hob, hinder thy surprising! + + “By the mandrake’s {108b} dreadful groans; + By the lubrican’s {108c} sad moans; + By the noise of dead men’s bones + In charnel-houses rattling; + By the hissing of the snake, + The rustling of the fire-drake, {108d} + I charge thee thou this place forsake, + Nor of Queen Mab be prattling! + + “By the whirlwind’s hollow sound, + By the thunder’s dreadful stound, + Yells of spirits underground, + I charge thee not to fear us; + By the screech-owl’s dismal note, + By the black night-raven’s throat, + I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coat + With thorns, if thou come near us!” + + Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside, + And in a chink herself doth hide, + To see thereof what would betide, + For she doth only mind him: + When presently she Puck espies, + And well she marked his gloating eyes, + How under every leaf he pries, + In seeking still to find them. + + But once the circle got within, + The charms to work do straight begin, + And he was caught as in a gin; + For as he thus was busy, + A pain he in his head-piece feels, + Against a stubbéd tree he reels, + And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels, + Alas! his brain was dizzy! + + At length upon his feet he gets, + Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets; + And as again he forward sets, + And through the bushes scrambles, + A stump doth trip him in his pace; + Down comes poor Hob upon his face, + And lamentably tore his case, + Amongst the briars and brambles. + + “A plague upon Queen Mab!” quoth he, + “And all her maids where’er they be + I think the devil guided me, + To seek her so provokéd!” + Where stumbling at a piece of wood, + He fell into a ditch of mud, + Where to the very chin he stood, + In danger to be chokéd. + + Now worse than e’er he was before, + Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar, + That waked Queen Mab, who doubted sore + Some treason had been wrought her: + Until Nymphidia told the Queen + What she had done, what she had seen, + Who then had well-near cracked her spleen + With very extreme laughter. + + But leave we Hob to clamber out, + Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout, + And come again to have a bout + With Oberon yet madding: + And with Pigwiggin now distraught, + Who much was troubled in his thought, + That he so long the Queen had sought, + And through the fields was gadding. + + And as he runs he still doth cry, + “King Oberon, I thee defy, + And dare thee here in arms to try, + For my dear lady’s honour: + For that she is a Queen right good, + In whose defence I’ll shed my blood, + And that thou in this jealous mood + Hast laid this slander on her.” + + And quickly arms him for the field, + A little cockle-shell his shield, + Which he could very bravely wield; + Yet could it not be piercéd: + His spear a bent both stiff and strong, + And well-near of two inches long: + The pile was of a horse-fly’s tongue, + Whose sharpness nought reverséd. + + And puts him on a coat of mail, + Which was made of a fish’s scale, + That when his foe should him assail, + No point should be prevailing: + His rapier was a hornet’s sting, + It was a very dangerous thing, + For if he chanced to hurt the King, + It would be long in healing. + + His helmet was a beetle’s head, + Most horrible and full of dread, + That able was to strike one dead, + Yet did it well become him; + And for a plume a horse’s hair, + Which, being tosséd with the air, + Had force to strike his foe with fear, + And turn his weapon from him. + + Himself he on an earwig set, + Yet scarce he on his back could get, + So oft and high he did curvet, + Ere he himself could settle: + He made him turn, and stop, and bound, + To gallop, and to trot the round, + He scarce could stand on any ground, + He was so full of mettle. + + When soon he met with Tomalin, + One that a valiant knight had been, + And to King Oberon of kin; + Quoth he, “Thou manly Fairy, + Tell Oberon I come prepared, + Then bid him stand upon his guard; + This hand his baseness shall reward, + Let him be ne’er so wary. + + “Say to him thus, that I defy + His slanders and his infamy, + And as a mortal enemy + Do publicly proclaim him: + Withal that if I had mine own, + He should not wear the Fairy crown, + But with a vengeance should come down, + Nor we a king should name him.” + + This Tomalin could not abide, + To hear his sovereign vilified; + But to the Fairy Court him hied, + (Full furiously he posted,) + With everything Pigwiggin said: + How title to the crown he laid, + And in what arms he was arrayed, + As how himself he boasted. + + Twixt head and foot, from point to point, + He told the arming of each joint, + In every piece how neat and quoint, + For Tomalin could do it: + How fair he sat, how sure he rid, + As of the courser he bestrid, + How managed, and how well he did: + The King which listened to it, + + Quoth he, “Go, Tomalin, with speed, + Provide me arms, provide my steed, + And everything that I shall need; + By thee I will be guided: + To straight account call thou thy wit; + See there be wanting not a whit, + In everything see thou me fit, + Just as my foe’s provided.” + + Soon flew this news through Fairy-land, + Which gave Queen Mab to understand + The combat that was then in hand + Betwixt those men so mighty: + Which greatly she began to rue, + Perceiving that all Fairy knew + The first occasion from her grew + Of these affairs so weighty. + + Wherefore attended with her maids, + Through fogs, and mists, and damps she wades, + To Proserpine the Queen of Shades, + To treat, that it would please her + The cause into her hands to take, + For ancient love and friendship’s sake, + And soon thereof an end to make, + Which of much care would ease her. + + A while there let we Mab alone, + And come we to King Oberon, + Who, armed to meet his foe, is gone, + For proud Pigwiggin crying: + Who sought the Fairy King as fast, + And had so well his journeys cast, + That he arrivéd at the last, + His puissant foe espying. + + Stout Tomalin came with the King, + Tom Thumb doth on Pigwiggin bring, + That perfect were in everything + To single fights belonging: + And therefore they themselves engage, + To see them exercise their rage, + With fair and comely equipage, + Not one the other wronging. + + So like in arms these champions were, + As they had been a very pair, + So that a man would almost swear, + That either had been either; + Their furious steeds began to neigh, + That they were heard a mighty way; + Their staves upon their rests they lay; + Yet ere they flew together + + Their seconds minister an oath, + Which was indifferent to them both, + That on their knightly faith and troth + No magic them suppliéd; + And sought them that they had no charms, + Wherewith to work each other harms, + But came with simple open arms + To have their causes triéd. + + Together furiously they ran, + That to the ground came horse and man; + The blood out of their helmets span, + So sharp were their encounters; + And though they to the earth were thrown, + Yet quickly they regained their own, + Such nimbleness was never shown, + They were two gallant mounters. + + When in a second course again + They forward came with might and main, + Yet which had better of the twain, + The seconds could not judge yet; + Their shields were into pieces cleft, + Their helmets from their heads were reft, + And to defend them nothing left, + These champions would not budge yet. + + Away from them their staves they threw, + Their cruel swords they quickly drew, + And freshly they the fight renew, + They every stroke redoubled: + Which made Prosérpina take heed, + And make to them the greater speed, + For fear lest they too much should bleed, + Which wondrously her troubled. + + When to th’ infernal Styx she goes, + She takes the fogs from thence that rose, + And {114} in a bag doth them enclose: + When well she had them blended, + She hies her then to Lethe spring, + A bottle and thereof doth bring, + Wherewith she meant to work the thing + Which only she intended. + + Now Proserpine with Mab is gone, + Unto the place where Oberon + And proud Pigwiggin, one to one, + Both to be slain were likely: + And there themselves they closely hide, + Because they would not be espied; + For Proserpine meant to decide + The matter very quickly. + + And suddenly unties the poke, + Which out of it sent such a smoke, + As ready was them all to choke, + So grievous was the pother; + So that the knights each other lost, + And stood as still as any post; + Tom Thumb nor Tomalin could boast + Themselves of any other. + + But when the mist ’gan somewhat cease, + Prosérpina commandeth peace; + And that a while they should release + Each other of their peril: + “Which here,” quoth she, “I do proclaim + To all in dreadful Pluto’s name, + That as ye will eschew his blame, + You let me bear the quarrel: + + “But here yourselves you must engage, + Somewhat to cool your spleenish rage; + Your grievous thirst and to assuage + That first you drink this liquor, + Which shall your understanding clear, + As plainly shall to you appear; + Those things from me that you shall hear, + Conceiving much the quicker.” + + This Lethe water, you must know, + The memory destroyeth so, + That of our weal, or of our woe, + Is all remembrance blotted; + Of it nor can you ever think, + For they no sooner took this drink, + But nought into their brains could sink + Of what had them besotted. + + King Oberon forgotten had, + That he for jealousy ran mad, + But of his Queen was wondrous glad, + And asked how they came thither: + Pigwiggin likewise doth forget + That he Queen Mab had ever met; + Or that they were so hard beset, + When they were found together. + + Nor neither of them both had thought, + That e’er they each had other sought, + Much less that they a combat fought, + But such a dream were lothing. + Tom Thumb had got a little sup, + And Tomalin scarce kissed the cup, + Yet had their brains so sure locked up, + That they remembered nothing. + + Queen Mab and her light maids, the while, + Amongst themselves do closely smile, + To see the King caught with this wile, + With one another jesting: + And to the Fairy Court they went, + With mickle joy and merriment, + Which thing was done with good intent, + And thus I left them feasting. + + + + +POPE’S +Rape of the Lock. + + + AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM. + + _Nolueram_, _Belinda_, _tuos violare capillos_; + _Sed juvat_, _hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis_. + + —MART., _Epigr._ xii. 84. + + + +CANTO I. + + + WHAT dire offence from amorous causes springs, + What mighty contests rise from trivial things, + I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: + This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view: + Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, + If she inspire, and he approve my lays. + + Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel + A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle? + O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, + Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? + In tasks so bold, can little men engage, + And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? + + Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, + And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day: + Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, + And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: + Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground, + And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. + Belinda still her downy pillow pressed, + Her guardian Sylph prolonged the balmy rest; + ’Twas he had summoned to her silent bed + The morning-dream that hovered o’er her head; + A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau, + (That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow) + Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, + And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say: + + “Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care + Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! + If e’er one vision touched thy infant thought, + Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; + Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, + The silver token, and the circled green, + Or virgins visited by angel-powers, + With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers; + Hear and believe! thy own importance know, + Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. + Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed, + To maids alone and children are revealed: + What though no credit doubting wits may give? + The fair and innocent shall still believe. + Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, + The light militia of the lower sky: + These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, + Hang o’er the box, and hover round the ring. + Think what an equipage thou hast in air, + And view with scorn two pages and a chair. + As now your own, our beings were of old, + And once enclosed in woman’s beauteous mould; + Thence, by a soft transition, we repair + From earthly vehicles to these of air. + Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled, + That all her vanities at once are dead; + Succeeding vanities she still regards, + And though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards. + Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, + And love of ombre, after death survive. + For when the fair in all their pride expire, + To their first elements their souls retire: + The sprites of fiery termagants in flame + Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name. + Soft yielding minds to water glide away, + And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. + The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome, + In search of mischief still on earth to roam, + The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, + And sport and flutter in the fields of air. + + “Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste + Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced: + For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease + Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. + What guards the purity of melting maids, + In courtly balls and midnight masquerades, + Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark, + The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, + When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, + When music softens, and when dancing fires? + ’Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, + Though honour is the word with men below. + + “Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, + For life predestined to the gnomes’ embrace. + These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, + When offers are disdained, and love denied: + Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, + While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, + And garters, stars, and coronets appear, + And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear. + ’Tis these that early taint the female soul, + Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, + Teach infant cheeks a hidden blush to know, + And little hearts to flutter at a beau. + + “Oft, when the world imagine women stray, + The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, + Through all the giddy circle they pursue, + And old impertinence expel by new. + What tender maid but must a victim fall + To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball? + When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand, + If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? + With varying vanities, from every part, + They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; + Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, + Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. + This erring mortal’s levity may call; + Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all. + + “Of these am I, who thy protection claim, + A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. + Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, + In the clear mirror of thy ruling star + I saw, alas! some dread event impend, + Ere to the main this morning sun descend, + But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: + Warned by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware! + This to disclose is all thy guardian can: + Beware of all, but most beware of man!” + + He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, + Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. + ’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, + Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; + Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner read, + But all the vision vanished from thy head. + + And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, + Each silver vase in mystic order laid. + First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, + With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. + A heavenly image in the glass appears, + To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; + The inferior priestess, at her altar’s side, + Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. + Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here + The various offerings of the world appear; + From each she nicely culls with curious toil, + And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. + This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks, + And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. + The tortoise here and elephant unite, + Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. + Here files of pins extend their shining rows, + Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux. + Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; + The fair each moment rises in her charms, + Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, + And calls forth all the wonders of her face; + Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, + And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. + The busy sylphs surround their darling care, + These set the head, and those divide the hair, + Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; + And Betty’s praised for labours not her own. + + + +CANTO II. + + + NOT with more glories, in the ethereal plain, + The sun first rises o’er the purpled main, + Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams + Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. + Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone, + But every eye was fixed on her alone. + On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. + Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those: + Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; + Oft she rejects, but never once offends. + Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, + And, like the sun, they shine on all alike, + Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, + Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: + If to her share some female errors fall, + Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all. + + This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, + Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind + In equal curls, and well conspired to deck + With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. + Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, + And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. + With hairy springes we the birds betray, + Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, + Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare, + And beauty draws us with a single hair. + + Th’ adventurous Baron the bright locks admired; + He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. + Resolved to win, he meditates the way, + By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; + For when success a lover’s toil attends, + Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. + + For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implored + Propitious heaven, and every power adored, + But chiefly Love—to Love an altar built, + Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. + There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves; + And all the trophies of his former loves; + With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, + And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire, + Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes + Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: + The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer, + The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air. + + But now secure the painted vessel glides, + The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides: + While melting music steals upon the sky, + And softened sounds along the waters die; + Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, + Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. + All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts oppressed, + Th’ impending woe sat heavy on his breast. + He summons straight his denizens of air; + The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: + Soft o’er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe, + That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. + Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, + Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; + Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, + Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light, + Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, + Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, + Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, + Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, + While every beam new transient colours flings, + Colours that change whene’er they wave their wings. + Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, + Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; + His purple pinions opening to the sun, + He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: + + “Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! + Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear! + Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned + By laws eternal to th’ aërial kind. + Some in the fields of purest æther play, + And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. + Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, + Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. + Some less refined, beneath the moon’s pale light + Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, + Or suck the mists in grosser air below, + Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, + Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, + Or o’er the glebe distil the kindly rain. + Others on earth o’er human race preside, + Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: + Of these the chief the care of nations own, + And guard with arms divine the British throne. + + “Our humbler province is to tend the fair, + Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; + To save the powder from too rude a gale, + Nor let the imprisoned essences exhale; + To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers; + To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers + A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, + Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; + Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, + To change a flounce or add a furbelow. + + “This day black omens threat the brightest fair + That e’er deserved a watchful spirit’s care; + Some dire disaster, or by force or slight; + But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night. + Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law, + Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; + Or stain her honour or her new brocade; + Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; + Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; + Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall, + Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: + The fluttering fan be Zephyretta’s care; + The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; + And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; + Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock; + Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. + + “To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, + We trust th’ important charge, the petticoat: + Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, + Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale; + Form a strong line about the silver bound, + And guard the wide circumference around. + + “Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, + His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, + Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins, + Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; + Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, + Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s eye: + Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, + While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; + Or alum styptics with contracting power + Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower; + Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel + The giddy motion of the whirling mill, + In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, + And tremble at the sea that froths below!” + + He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; + Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; + Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; + Some hang upon the pendants of her ear: + With beating hearts the dire event they wait, + Anxious and trembling, for the birth of Fate. + + + +CANTO III. + + + CLOSE by those meads, for ever crowned with flowers, + Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, + There stands a structure of majestic frame, + Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. + Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoom + Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; + Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, + Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea. + + Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, + To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; + In various talk the instructive hours they passed, + Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; + One speaks the glory of the British Queen, + And one describes a charming Indian screen; + A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; + At every word a reputation dies. + Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, + With singing, laughing, ogling, _and all that_. + + Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, + The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; + The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, + And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; + The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, + And the long labours of the toilet cease. + Belinda now whom thirst of fame invites, + Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, + At Ombre singly to decide their doom; + And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. + Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, + Each band the number of the sacred nine. + Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guard + Descend, and sit on each important card: + First Ariel, perched upon a Matador, + Then each, according to the rank they bore; + For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, + Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. + + Behold, four Kings in majesty revered, + With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; + And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flower, + The expressive emblem of their softer power; + Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, + Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; + And particoloured troops, a shining train, + Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. + + The skilful Nymph reviews her force with care: + “Let Spades be trumps!” she said, and trumps they were. + + Now move to war her sable Matadores, + In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. + Spadillio first, unconquerable lord, + Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. + As many more Manillio forced to yield, + And marched a victor from the verdant field. + Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard + Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. + With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, + The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, + Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, + The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. + The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, + Proves the just victim of his royal rage. + Even mighty Pam, {126} that Kings and Queens o’erthrew + And mowed down armies in the fights of Lu, + Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, + Falls undistinguished by the victor Spade! + + Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; + Now to the Baron fate inclines the field. + His warlike Amazon her host invades, + Th’ imperial consort of the crown of Spades. + The Club’s black tyrant first her victim died, + Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride; + What boots the regal circle on his head, + His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; + That long behind he trails his pompous robe, + And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? + + The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace; + The embroidered King who shows but half his face, + And his refulgent Queen, with powers combined + Of broken troops an easy conquest find. + Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, + With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. + Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, + Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons, + With like confusion different nations fly, + Of various habit, and of various dye, + The pierced battalions disunited fall, + In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all. + + The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, + And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts. + At this, the blood the virgin’s cheek forsook, + A livid paleness spreads o’er all her look; + She sees, and trembles at th’ approaching ill, + Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. + And now (as oft in some distempered State) + On one nice trick depends the general fate. + An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen + Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive Queen: + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. + The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; + The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. + + Oh thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate, + Too soon dejected, and too soon elate! + Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, + And cursed for ever this victorious day. + + For lo, the board with cups and spoons is crowned, + The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; + On shining altars of Japan they raise + The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: + From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, + While China’s earth receives the smoking tide: + At once they gratify their scent and taste, + And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. + Straight hover round the Fair her airy band; + Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, + Some o’er her lap their careful plumes displayed, + Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. + Coffee (which makes the politician wise, + And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) + Sent up in vapours to the Baron’s brain + New stratagems the radiant Lock to gain. + Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere ’tis too late, + Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s fate! + Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, + She dearly pays for Nisus’ injured hair! + + But when to mischief mortals bend their will, + How soon they find fit instruments of ill! + Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace + A two-edged weapon from her shining case: + So ladies in romance assist their knight, + Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. + He takes the gift with reverence, and extends + The little engine on his fingers’ ends; + This just behind Belinda’s neck he spread, + As o’er the fragrant steams she bends her head. + Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, + A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; + And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; + Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. + Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought + The close recesses of the virgin’s thought; + As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, + He watched the ideas rising in her mind, + Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, + An earthly lover lurking at her heart. + Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, + Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. + + The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, + To inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. + Even then, before the fatal engine closed, + A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; + Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain + (But airy substance soon unites again), + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever + From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! + + Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, + And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. + Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, + When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last; + Or when rich china vessels fallen from high, + In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! + + “Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,” + The victor cried, “the glorious prize is mine!” + While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, + Or in a coach-and-six the British fair, + As long as Atalantis shall be read, {129} + Or the small pillow grace a lady’s bed, + While visits shall be paid on solemn days, + When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, + While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, + So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! + What time would spare, from steel receives its date, + And monuments, like men, submit to fate! + Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, + And strike to dust th’ imperial towers of Troy; + Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, + And hew triumphal arches to the ground. + What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel + The conquering force of unresisting steel? + + + +CANTO IV. + + + BUT anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, + And secret passions laboured in her breast. + Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, + Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, + Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, + Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, + Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, + Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinned awry, + E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, + As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. + + For that sad moment when the sylphs withdrew. + And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, + Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, + As ever sullied the fair face of light, + Down to the central earth, his proper scene, + Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. + + Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, + And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. + No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, + The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. + Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, + And screened in shades from day’s detested glare, + She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, + Pain at her side, and Megrim {130} at her head. + + Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, + But differing far in figure and in face. + Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, + Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; + With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons, + Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. + + There Affectation, with a sickly mien, + Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, + Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, + Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, + On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, + Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show. + The fair ones feel such maladies as these, + When each new night-dress gives a new disease. + A constant vapour o’er the palace flies; + Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; + Dreadful as hermit’s dreams in haunted shades, + Or bright as visions of expiring maids. + Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, + Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: + Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, + And crystal domes and angels in machines. + + Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen, + Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. + Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, + One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: + A pipkin there, like Homer’s tripod walks; + Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; + Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, + And maids turned bottles call aloud for corks. + + Safe past the Gnome, through this fantastic band, + A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. + Then thus addressed the power: “Hail, wayward Queen! + Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: + Parent of vapours and of female wit, + Who give the hysteric, or poetic fit, + On various tempers act by various ways, + Make some take physic, others scribble plays; + Who cause the proud their visits to delay, + And send the godly in a pet to pray. + A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, + And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. + But oh! if e’er thy gnome could spoil a grace, + Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, + Like citron-waters matrons’ cheeks inflame, + Or change complexions at a losing game; + If e’er with airy horns I planted heads, + Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, + Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, + Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, + Or e’er to costive lapdog gave disease, + Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: + Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, + That single act gives half the world the spleen.” + + The Goddess with a discontented air + Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. + A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, + Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; + There she collects the force of female lungs, + Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. + A vial next she fills with fainting fears, + Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. + The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, + Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. + + Sunk in Thalestris’ arms the nymph he found, + Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. + Full o’er their heads the swelling bag he rent, + And all the Furies issued at the vent. + Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, + And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. + “O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cried, + (While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” replied) + “Was it for this you took such constant care + The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? + For this your locks in paper durance bound, + For this with torturing irons wreathed around? + For this with fillets strained your tender head, + And bravely bore the double loads of lead? + Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, + While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! + Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine + Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. + Methinks already I your tears survey, + Already hear the horrid things they say, + Already see you a degraded toast, + And all your honour in a whisper lost! + How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? + ’Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! + And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, + Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, + And heightened by the diamond’s circling rays, + On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? + Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, + And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; + Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, + Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!” + + She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, + And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: + (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain, + And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) + With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, + He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, + And thus broke out—“My Lord, why what the devil? + Zounds! damn the lock! ’fore Gad, you must be civil! + Plague on’t! ’tis past a jest—nay prithee, pox! + Give her the hair”—he spoke, and rapped his box. + + “It grieves me much” (replied the Peer again) + “Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain. + But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, + (Which never more shall join its parted hair; + Which never more its honours shall renew, + Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) + That while my nostrils draw the vital air, + This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.” + He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread + The long-contended honours of her head. + + But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; + He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. + Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, + Her eyes half-languishing, half-drowned in tears; + On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, + Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said: + + “For ever cursed be this detested day, + Which snatched my best, my favourite curl away! + Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been, + If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! + Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, + By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. + Oh had I rather unadmired remained + In some lone isle, or distant Northern land, + Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, + Where none learn ombre, none e’er taste Bohea; + There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye, + Like roses that in deserts bloom and die! + What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? + Oh had I stayed, and said my prayers at home! + ’Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell, + Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; + The tottering china shook without a wind, + Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! + A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, + In mystic visions, now believed too late! + See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! + My hands shall rend what even thy rapine spares: + These in two sable ringlets taught to break, + Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; + The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, + And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own; + Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, + And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. + Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize + Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!” + + + +CANTO V. + + + SHE said: the pitying audience melt in tears. + But Fate and Jove had stopped the Baron’s ears. + In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, + For who can move when fair Belinda fails? + Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, + While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. + Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; + Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began: + + “Say why are beauties praised and honoured most, + The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast? + Why decked with all that land and sea afford, + Why angels called, and angel-like adored? + Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux, + Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows; + How vain are all these glories, all our pains, + Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: + That men may say, when we the front-box grace: + ‘Behold the first in virtue as in face!’ + Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, + Charmed the smallpox, or chased old age away, + Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce, + Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? + To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, + Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. + But since, alas! frail beauty must decay; + Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to grey; + Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, + And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; + What then remains but well our power to use, + And keep good-humour still whate’er we lose? + And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail, + When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. + Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; + Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.” + + So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; + Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her Prude. + “To arms, to arms!” the fierce virago cries, + And swift as lightning to the combat flies. + All side in parties, and begin the attack; + Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; + Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise, + And bass and treble voices strike the skies. + No common weapons in their hands are found, + Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. + + So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, + And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; + ’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; + And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: + Jove’s thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, + Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound, + Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, + And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! + + Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce’s height + Clapped his glad wings, and sate to view the fight; + Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey + The growing combat, or assist the fray. + + While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, + And scatters death around from both her eyes, + A beau and witling perished in the throng, + One died in metaphor, and one in song. + + “O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,” + Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. + A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, + “Those eyes are made so killing”—was his last. + Thus on Mæander’s flowery margin lies + The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. + + When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, + Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; + She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, + But, at her smile, the beau revived again. + + Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, + Weighs the men’s wits against the ladies’ hair; + The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; + At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. + + See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, + With more than usual lightning in her eyes: + Nor feared the chief the unequal fight to try, + Who sought no more than on his foe to die. + But this bold lord with manly strength endued, + She with one finger and a thumb subdued: + Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, + A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; + The gnomes direct, to every atom just, + The pungent grains of titillating dust. + Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows, + And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. + + “Now meet thy fate,” incensed Belinda cried, + And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. + (The same, his ancient personage to deck, + Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, + In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, + Formed a vast buckle for his widow’s gown; + Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew, + The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; + Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs, + Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears). + + “Boast not my fall,” he cried, “insulting foe! + Thou by some other shalt be laid as low, + Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind: + All that I dread is leaving you behind! + Rather than so, ah! let me still survive, + And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.” + + “Restore the lock!” she cries; and all around + “Restore the lock!” the vaulted roofs rebound. + Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain + Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. + But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, + And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! + The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, + In every place is sought, but sought in vain: + With such a prize no mortal must be blest, + So Heaven decrees: with Heaven who can contest? + + Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, + Since all things lost on earth are treasured there, + There heroes’ wits are kept in ponderous vases, + And beaux’ in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. + There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, + And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound, + The courtiers promises, and sick man’s prayers, + The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, + Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, + Dried butterflies and tomes of casuistry. + + But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, + Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes: + (So Rome’s great founder to the heavens withdrew, + To Proculus alone confessed in view) + A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, + And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. + Not Berenice’s locks first rose so bright, + The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. + The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, + And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. + + This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, + And hail with music its propitious ray. + This the blest lover shall for Venus take, + And send up vows from Rosamonda’s lake. + This Partridge {137} soon shall view in cloudless skies, + When next he looks through Galileo’s eyes; + And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom + The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. + + Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair, + Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! + Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, + Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. + For, after all the murders of your eye, + When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: + When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, + And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, + This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, + And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name. + + + + +THE DIVERTING HISTORY +OF +JOHN GILPIN: + + + SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. + + BY WILLIAM COWPER. + + JOHN GILPIN was a citizen + Of credit and renown, + A train-band captain eke was he + Of famous London town. + + John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, + “Though wedded we have been + These twice ten tedious years, yet we + No holiday have seen. + + “To-morrow is our wedding-day, + And we will then repair + Unto the Bell at Edmonton, + All in a chaise and pair. + + “My sister, and my sister’s child, + Myself, and children three, + Will fill the chaise; so you must ride + On horseback after we.” + + He soon replied, “I do admire + Of womankind but one, + And you are she, my dearest dear, + Therefore it shall be done. + + “I am a linen-draper bold, + As all the world doth know, + And my good friend the calender + Will lend his horse to go.” + + Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said: + And for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear.” + + John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O’erjoyed was he to find, + That though on pleasure she was bent, + She had a frugal mind. + + The morning came, the chaise was brought, + But yet was not allowed + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folk so glad, + The stones did rattle underneath, + As if Cheapside were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse’s side + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + + For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + ’Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind, + When Betty screaming came downstairs, + “The wine is left behind!” + + “Good lack!” quoth he—“yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword, + When I do exercise.” + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o’er the stones, + With caution and good heed. + + But finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + + So, “Fair and softly,” John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; + And every soul cried out, “Well done!” + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin—who but he? + His fame soon spread around; + “He carries weight!” “He rides a race!” + “’Tis for a thousand pound!” + + And still, as fast as he drew near, + ’Twas wonderful to view, + How in a trice the turnpike-men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still be seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; + For all might see the bottle-necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols he did play, + Until he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay; + + And there he threw the Wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + + At Edmonton his loving wife + From the balcóny spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + “Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here’s the house!” + They all at once did cry; + “The dinner waits, and we are tired;” + Said Gilpin—“So am I!” + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there! + For why?—his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware. + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly—which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin, out of breath, + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the calender’s + His horse at last stood still. + + The calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him: + + “What news? what news? your tidings tell! + Tell me you must and shall— + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all?” + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; + And thus unto the calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + “I came because your horse would come, + And, if I well forbode, + My hat and wig will soon be here— + They are upon the road.” + + The calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, + Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig; + A wig that flowed behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and in his turn + Thus showed his ready wit, + “My head is twice as big as yours, + They therefore needs must fit. + + “But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case.” + + Said John, “It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware.” + + So turning to his horse, he said, + “I am in haste to dine; + ’Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine.” + + Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For, while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort, as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin’s hat and wig: + He lost them sooner than at first; + For why?—they were too big. + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pulled out half-a-crown; + + And thus unto the youth she said + That drove them to the Bell, + “This shall be yours, when you bring back + My husband safe and well.” + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain: + Whom in a trice he tried to stop, + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, + The frighted steed he frighted more + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, + The postboy’s horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road, + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry: + + “Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!” + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space; + The toll-men thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, Long live the king! + And Gilpin, long live he! + And when he next doth ride abroad + May I be there to see! + + + + + + TAM O’SHANTER: + A TALE. + + + BY ROBERT BURNS. + + “_Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke_.” + + —GAWIN DOUGLAS. + + WHEN chapman billies {147a} leave the street, + And drouthy {147b} neibors neibors meet, + As market days are wearin’ late, + And folk begin to tak the gate; {147h} + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + And gettin’ fou and unco’ {147c} happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps, {147d} and stiles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, + (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses + For honest men and bonny lasses.) + + O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise + As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! + She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, {147e} + A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; {147f} + That frae November till October, + Ae market day thou wasna sober; + That ilka {147g} melder, {147i} wi’ the miller + Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller; + That every naig was ca’d a shoe on, + The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; + That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi’ Kirkton {148f} Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou wouldst be found deep drowned in Doon! + Or catched wi’ warlocks i’ the mirk, {148a} + By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. + + Ah, gentle dames! it gars {148b} me greet + To think how mony counsels sweet, + How mony lengthened, sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale:—Ae market night, + Tam had got planted unco right. + Fast by an ingle, {148c} bleezing finely, + Wi’ reaming swats, {148d} that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; + Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither— + They had been fou for weeks thegither! + The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter, + And aye the ale was growing better: + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious; + The Souter tauld his queerest stories, + The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: + The storm without might rair and rustle— + Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E’en drowned himsel among the nappy! {148e} + As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, + The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious! + + But pleasures are like poppies spread, + You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! + Or like the snowfall in the river, + A moment white—then melts for ever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow’s lovely form, + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time or tide; + The hour approaches, Tam maun ride; + That hour, o’ night’s black arch the keystane, + That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; + And sic a night he taks the road in + As never poor sinner was abroad in. + + The wind blew as ’twad blown its last; + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; + Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: + That night, a child might understand + The deil had business on his hand. + + Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit {149a} on through dub and mire, + Despising wind, and rain, and fire; + Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet; + Whiles glowering round wi’ prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares: + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + By this time he was ’cross the foord, + Whare in the snow the chapman smoored, {149b} + And past the birks and meikle stane + Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane: + And through the whins, and by the cairn + Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’. + Before him Doon pours a’ his floods; + The doubling storm roars through the woods; + The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll; + When glimmering through the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze; + Through ilka {150h} bore the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! + What dangers thou canst mak us scorn! + Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil: + Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!— + The swats sae reamed in Tammie’s noddle, + Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. {150a} + But Maggie stood right sair astonished, + Till, by the heel and hand admonished, + She ventured forward on the light; + And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! + Warlocks and witches in a dance; + Nae cotillon brent-new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle i’ their heels: + At winnock-bunker, {150b} i’ the east, + There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast, + A towzie tyke, {150c} black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge; + He screwed the pipes, and gart them skirl, {150d} + Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. {150e} + Coffins stood round, like open presses, + That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; + And by some devilish cantrip slight {150f} + Each in its cauld hand held a light,— + By which heroic Tam was able + To note upon the haly table, + A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, + Wi’ his last gasp his gab {150g} did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted: + Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted; + A garter, which a babe had strangled; + A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, + Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, + The grey hairs yet stack to the heft: + Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’, + Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. + + As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: + The piper loud and louder blew, + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies {151a} to the wark, + And linket {151h} at it in her sark. {151b} + + Now Tam! O Tam! had they been queans, + A’ plump and strappin’ in their teens, + Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, {151c} + Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! + Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush, o’ guid blue hair, + I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, + For ae blink o’ the bonny burdies! + + But withered beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie {151d} hags, wad spean {151j} a foal, + Lowpin’ and flingin’ on a cummock, {151e} + I wonder didna turn thy stomach. + + But Tam kenned what was what fu’ brawlie, + “There was ae winsome wench and walie,” {151i} + That night enlisted in the core, + (Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; + For mony a beast to dead she shot, + And perished mony a bonny boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bere, + And kept the country-side in fear.) + Her cutty sark, {151f} o’ Paisley harn, + That, while a lassie, she had worn, + In longitude though sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie. + + Ah! little kenn’d thy reverend grannie, + That sark she coft {151g} for her wee Nannie, + Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches), + Wad ever graced a dance o’ witches! + But here my Muse her wing maun cour, + Sic flights are far beyond her power; + To sing how Nannie lap and flang, + (A souple jade she was, and strang,) + And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, + And thought his very een enriched; + Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu’ fain, + And hotch’d {152a} and blew wi’ might and main: + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint {152b} his reason a’thegither, + And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” + And in an instant a’ was dark: + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, {152c} + When plundering herds assail their byke; {152d} + As open pussie’s mortal foes, + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi’ mony an eldritch {152e} screech and hollow. + + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’lt get thy fairin’! + In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’! + Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! + Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, + And win the keystane of the brig; + There at them thou thy tail may toss, + A running stream they darena cross; + But ere the keystane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; {152f} + But little wist she Maggie’s mettle— + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain grey tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: + Whane’er to drink you are inclined, + Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, + Think! ye may buy the joys owre dear— + Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare. + + + + +The Demon Ship. + + + BY THOMAS HOOD. + + ’TWAS off the Wash the sun went down—the sea looked black and grim, + For stormy clouds with murky fleece were mustering at the brim; + Titanic shades! enormous gloom!—as if the solid night + Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! + It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, + With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! + + Down went my helm—close reefed—the tack held freely in my hand— + With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the land; + Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee—my little boat flew fast, + But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. + + Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! + What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! + What darksome caverns yawned before! what jagged steeps behind! + Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind, + Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, + But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place; + As black as night—they turned to white, and cast against the cloud + A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor’s shroud:— + Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run! + Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heaped in one! + With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast, + As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last; + Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; + It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave! + Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face— + I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base! + I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine! + Another pulse—and down it rushed—an avalanche of brine! + Brief pause had I on God to cry, or think of wife and home; + The waters closed—and when I shrieked, I shrieked below the foam! + Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after-deed— + For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. + + . . . . . + + “Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?” + With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath; + My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound— + And was that ship a _real_ ship whose tackle seemed around? + A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft; + But were those beams the very beams that I have seen so oft? + A face that mocked the human face, before me watched alone; + But were those eyes the eyes of man that looked against my own? + + Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight + As met my gaze, when first I looked, on that accursed night! + I’ve seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes + Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams— + Hyenas—cats—blood-loving bats—and apes with hateful stare— + Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and she-bear— + Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite— + Detested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light! + Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs— + All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms— + Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,— + But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast! + + His cheek was black—his brow was black—his eyes and hair as dark; + His hand was black, and where it touched, it left a sable mark; + His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I looked beneath, + His breast was black—all, all was black, except his grinning teeth, + His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves! + Oh, horror! e’en the ship was black that ploughed the inky waves! + “Alas!” I cried, “for love of truth and blessed mercy’s sake, + Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake? + What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal? + It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul! + Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse: dear meadows that beguiled + My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child— + My mother dear—my native fields I never more shall see: + I’m sailing in the Devil’s Ship, upon the Devil’s Sea!” + + Loud laughed that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return + His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern— + A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce— + As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once: + A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoyed the merry fit, + With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. + They crowed their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole:— + “Our skins,” said he, “are black, ye see, because we carry coal; + You’ll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields— + For this here ship has picked you up—the _Mary Ann_ of Shields!” + + + + +A Tale of a Trumpet. + + + BY THOMAS HOOD. + + “Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing? + Speak a little louder, for I’m very hard of hearing.” + + —_Old Ballad_. + + OF all old women hard of hearing, + The deafest sure was Dame Eleanor Spearing! + On her head, it is true, + Two flaps there grew, + That served for a pair of gold rings to go through, + But for any purpose of ears in a parley, + They heard no more than ears of barley. + + No hint was needed from D. E. F., + You saw in her face that the woman was deaf: + From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, + Each queer feature asked a query; + A look that said in a silent way, + “Who? and What? and How? and Eh? + I’d give my ears to know what you say!” + + And well she might! for each auricular + Was deaf as a post—and that post in particular + That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now, + And never hears a word of a row! + Ears that might serve her now and then + As extempore racks for an idle pen; + Or to hang with hoops from jewellers’ shops; + With coral; ruby, or garnet drops; + Or, provided the owner so inclined, + Ears to stick a blister behind; + But as for hearing wisdom, or wit, + Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit, + Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt, + Sermon, lecture, or musical bit, + Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit, + They might as well, for any such wish, + Have been buttered, done brown, and laid in a dish! + + She was deaf as a post,—as said before— + And as deaf as twenty similes more, + Including the adder, that deafest of snakes, + Which never hears the coil it makes. + + She was deaf as a house—which modern tricks + Of language would call as deaf as bricks— + For her all human kind were dumb, + Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum, + That none could get a sound to come, + Unless the Devil, who had Two Sticks! + She was as deaf as a stone—say one of the stones + Demosthenes sucked to improve his tones; + And surely deafness no further could reach + Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech! + + She was deaf as a nut—for nuts, no doubt, + Are deaf to the grub that’s hollowing out— + As deaf, alas! as the dead and forgotten— + (Gray has noticed the waste of breath, + In addressing the “dull, cold ear of death”), + Or the felon’s ear that is stuffed with cotton— + Or Charles the First _in statue quo_; + Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud, + With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax, + That only stare whatever you “ax,” + For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax. + + She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond, + And wouldn’t listen to Mrs. Bond,— + As deaf as any Frenchman appears, + When he puts his shoulders into his ears: + And—whatever the citizen tells his son— + As deaf as Gog and Magog at one! + Or, still to be a simile-seeker, + As deaf as dogs’-ears to Enfield’s Speaker! + + She was deaf as any tradesman’s dummy, + Or as Pharaoh’s mother’s mother’s mummy; + Whose organs, for fear of modern sceptics, + Were plugged with gums and antiseptics. + + She was deaf as a nail—that you cannot hammer + A meaning into for all your clamour— + There never _was_ such a deaf old Gammer! + So formed to worry + Both Lindley and Murray, + By having no ear for Music or Grammar! + + Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings, + Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings, + Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle, + Deaf to even the definite article— + No verbal message was worth a pin, + Though you hired an earwig to carry it in! + + In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke, + Or all the Deafness in Yearsley’s work, + Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing, + Boring, blasting, and pioneering, + To give the dunny organ a clearing, + Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing. + + Of course the loss was a great privation, + For one of her sex—whatever her station— + And none the less that the dame had a turn + For making all families one concern, + And learning whatever there was to learn + In the prattling, tattling village of Tringham— + As, who wore silk? and who wore gingham? + And what the Atkins’s shop might bring ’em? + How the Smiths contrived to live? and whether + The fourteen Murphys all pigged together? + The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, + And what they boiled for their Sunday dinners? + What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf, + Crockery, china, wooden, or delf? + And if the parlour of Mrs. O’Grady + Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady? + Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle? + Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle? + What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown? + And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown? + If the cobbler could read, and believed in the Pope? + And how the Grubbs were off for soap? + If the Snobbs had furnished their room upstairs, + And how they managed for tables and chairs, + Beds, and other household affairs, + Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares? + And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows? + In fact she had much of the spirit that lies + Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys, + By courtesy called Statistical Fellows— + A prying, spying, inquisitive clan, + Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan, + Jotting the labouring class’s riches; + And after poking in pot and pan, + And routing garments in want of stitches, + Have ascertained that a working man + Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches! + + But this, alas! from her loss of hearing, + Was all a sealed book to Dame Eleanor Spearing; + And often her tears would rise to their founts— + Supposing a little scandal at play + ’Twixt Mrs. O’Fie and Mrs. Au Fait— + That she couldn’t audit the gossips’ accounts. + ’Tis true, to her cottage still they came, + And ate her muffins just the same, + And drank the tea of the widowed dame, + And never swallowed a thimble the less + Of something the reader is left to guess, + For all the deafness of Mrs. S. + Who _saw_ them talk, and chuckle, and cough, + But to _see_ and not share in the social flow, + She might as well have lived, you know, + In one of the houses in Owen’s Row, + Near the New River Head, with its water cut off! + And yet the almond oil she had tried, + And fifty infallible things beside, + Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin, + Dabbed, and dribbled, and squirted in: + But all remedies failed; and though some it was clear, + Like the brandy and salt + We now exalt, + Had made a noise in the public ear, + She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear! + + At last—one very fine day in June— + Suppose her sitting, + Busily knitting, + And humming she didn’t quite know what tune; + For nothing she heard but a sort of whizz, + Which, unless the sound of circulation, + Or of thoughts in the process of fabrication, + By a spinning-jennyish operation, + It’s hard to say what buzzing it is. + However, except that ghost of a sound, + She sat in a silence most profound— + The cat was purring about the mat, + But her mistress heard no more of that + Than if it had been a boatswain’s cat; + And as for the clock the moments nicking, + The dame only gave it credit for ticking. + The bark of her dog she did not catch; + Nor yet the click of the lifted latch; + Nor yet the creak of the opening door; + Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor— + But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown + And turned its skirt of a darker brown. + + And lo! a man! a Pedlar! ay, marry, + With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry, + Stocked with brooches, ribbons, and rings, + Spectacles, razors, and other odd things + For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings; + A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware, + Held a fair dealer enough at a fair, + But deemed a piratical sort of invader + By him we dub the “regular trader,” + Who—luring the passengers in as they pass + By lamps, gay panels, and mouldings of brass, + And windows with only one huge pane of glass, + And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman— + If he isn’t a Pedlar, at least he’s a Showman! + + However, in the stranger came, + And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, + Threw her as knowing a nod as though + He had known her fifty long years ago: + And presto! before she could utter “Jack”— + Much less “Robinson”—opened his pack— + And then from amongst his portable gear, + With even more than a Pedlar’s tact,— + (Slick himself might have envied the act)— + Before she had time to be deaf, in fact— + Popped a Trumpet into her ear. + “There, Ma’am! try it! + You needn’t buy it— + The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it + For affording the deaf, at a little expense, + The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense! + A Real Blessing—and no mistake, + Invented for poor Humanity’s sake: + For what can be a greater privation + Than playing Dumby to all creation, + And only looking at conversation— + Great philosophers talking like Platos, + And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, + And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes! + Not to name the mischievous quizzers, + Sharp as knives, but double as scissors, + Who get you to answer quite by guess + Yes for No, and No for Yes.” + (“That’s very true,” says Dame Eleanor S.) + + “Try it again! No harm in trying— + I’m sure you’ll find it worth your buying. + A little practice—that is all— + And you’ll hear a whisper, however small, + Through an Act of Parliament party-wall,— + Every syllable clear as day, + And even what people are going to say— + I wouldn’t tell a lie, I wouldn’t, + But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon’s couldn’t; + And as for Scott he promises fine, + But can he warrant his horns like mine, + Never to hear what a lady shouldn’t— + Only a guinea—and can’t take less.” + (“That’s very dear,” said Dame Eleanor S.) + + “Dear!—Oh dear, to call it dear! + Why, it isn’t a horn you buy, but an ear; + Only think, and you’ll find on reflection + You’re bargaining, ma’am, for the Voice of Affection; + For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, + And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth: + Not to mention the striking of clocks— + Cackle of hens—crowing of cocks— + Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox— + Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks— + Murmur of waterfall over the rocks— + Every sound that Echo mocks— + Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box— + And zounds! to call such a concert dear! + But I mustn’t ‘swear with my horn in your ear.’ + Why, in buying that Trumpet you buy all those + That Harper, or any Trumpeter, blows + At the Queen’s Levees or the Lord Mayor’s Shows, + At least as far as the music goes, + Including the wonderful lively sound, + Of the Guards’ key-bugles all the year round; + Come—suppose we call it a pound! + Come,” said the talkative Man of the Pack, + “Before I put my box on my back, + For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, + Come, suppose we call it a pound! + + “Only a pound: it’s only the price + Of hearing a concert once or twice, + It’s only the fee + You might give Mr. C. + And after all not hear his advice, + But common prudence would bid you stump it; + For, not to enlarge, + It’s the regular charge + At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. + Lord! what’s a pound to the blessing of hearing!” + (“A pound’s a pound,” said Dame Eleanor Spearing.) + + “Try it again! no harm in trying! + A pound’s a pound, there’s no denying; + But think what thousands and thousands of pounds + We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: + Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, + Parliamentary jabber and jaw, + Pious cant, and moral saw, + Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, + And empty sounds not worth a straw; + Why, it costs a guinea, as I’m a sinner, + To hear the sounds at a public dinner! + One pound one thrown into the puddle, + To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle! + Not to forget the sounds we buy + From those who sell their sounds so high, + That, unless the managers pitch it strong, + To get a signora to warble a song, + You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker’s prong! + + “It’s not the thing for me—I know it, + To crack my own trumpet up and blow it; + But it is the best, and time will show it. + There was Mrs. F. + So very deaf, + That she might have worn a percussion cap, + And been knocked on the head without hearing it snap, + Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day + She heard from her husband at Botany Bay! + Come—eighteen shillings—that’s very low, + You’ll save the money as shillings go, + And I never knew so bad a lot, + By hearing whether they ring or not! + + “Eighteen shillings! it’s worth the price, + Supposing you’re delicate-minded and nice, + To have the medical man of your choice, + Instead of the one with the strongest voice— + Who comes and asks you, how’s your liver, + And where you ache, and whether you shiver, + And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, + As if he was hailing a boat on the river! + And then, with a shout, like Pat in a riot, + Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet! + + “Or a tradesman comes—as tradesmen will— + Short and crusty about his bill; + Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, + And because you’re deaf and unable to pay, + Shouts whatever he has to say, + In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, + Down the street and round the corner! + Come—speak your mind—it’s ‘No’ or ‘Yes.’” + (“I’ve half a mind,” said Dame Eleanor S.) + + “Try it again—no harm in trying, + Of course you hear me, as easy as lying; + No pain at all, like a surgical trick, + To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, + Like Juno, or Rose, + Whose ear undergoes + Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, + For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle! + + “You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, + Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, + Or cut your tonsils right away, + As you’d shell out your almonds for Christmas Day; + And after all a matter of doubt, + Whether you ever would hear the shout + Of the little blackguards that bawl about, + ‘There you go with your tonsils out!’ + Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan + On purpose to try a surgical spell, + And paid a guinea, and might as well + Have called a monkey into his organ! + For the Aurist only took a mug, + And poured in his ear some acoustical drug, + That, instead of curing, deafened him rather, + As Hamlet’s uncle served Hamlet’s father! + That’s the way with your surgical gentry! + And happy your luck + If you don’t get stuck + Through your liver and lights at a royal entry, + Because you never answered the sentry! + + “Try it again, dear madam, try it! + Many would sell their beds to buy it. + I warrant you often wake up in the night, + Ready to shake to a jelly with fright, + And up you must get to strike a light, + And down you go, in you know what, + Whether the weather is chilly or hot,— + That’s the way a cold is got,— + To see if you heard a noise or not. + + “Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours + Is hardly safe to step out of doors! + Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt, + But as quiet as if he was shod with felt, + Till he rushes against you with all his force, + And then I needn’t describe of course, + While he kicks you about without remorse, + How awkward it is to be groomed by a horse! + Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear, + And you never dream that the brute is near, + Till he pokes his horn right into your ear, + Whether you like the thing or lump it,— + And all for want of buying a trumpet! + + “I’m not a female to fret and vex, + But if I belonged to the sensitive sex, + Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds, + I wouldn’t be deaf for a thousand pounds. + Lord! only think of chucking a copper + To Jack or Bob with a timber limb, + Who looks as if he was singing a hymn, + Instead of a song that’s very improper! + Or just suppose in a public place + You see a great fellow a-pulling a face, + With his staring eyes and his mouth like an O,— + And how is a poor deaf lady to know,— + The lower orders are up to such games— + If he’s calling ‘Green Peas,’ or calling her names?” + (“They’re tenpence a peck!” said the deafest of dames.) + + “’Tis strange what very strong advising, + By word of mouth, or advertising, + By chalking on wall, or placarding on vans, + With fifty other different plans, + The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing, + It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing! + Whether the soothing American Syrup, + A Safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,— + Infallible Pills for the human frame, + Or Rowland’s O-don’t-O (an ominous name)! + A Doudney’s suit which the shape so hits + That it beats all others into _fits_; + A Mechi’s razor for beards unshorn, + Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn! + + “Try it again, ma’am, only try!” + Was still the voluble Pedlar’s cry; + “It’s a great privation, there’s no dispute, + To live like the dumb unsociable brute, + And to hear no more of the _pro_ and _con_, + And how Society’s going on, + Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John, + And all for want of this _sine quâ non_; + Whereas, with a horn that never offends, + You may join the genteelest party that is, + And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz, + And be certain to hear of your absent friends;— + Not that elegant ladies, in fact, + In genteel society ever detract, + Or lend a brush when a friend is blacked,— + At least as a mere malicious act,— + But only talk scandal for fear some fool + Should think they were bred at _charity_ school. + Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation, + Which even the most Don Juanish rake + Would surely object to undertake + At the same high pitch as an altercation. + It’s not for me, of course, to judge + How much a deaf lady ought to begrudge; + But half-a-guinea seems no great matter— + Letting alone more rational patter— + Only to hear a parrot chatter: + Not to mention that feathered wit, + The starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit; + The pies and jays that utter words, + And other Dicky Gossips of birds, + That talk with as much good sense and decorum + As many _Beaks_ who belong to the Quorum. + + “Try it—buy it—say ten and six, + The lowest price a miser could fix: + I don’t pretend with horns of mine, + Like some in the advertising line, + To ‘_magnify sounds_’ on such marvellous scales, + That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale’s; + But popular rumours, right or wrong,— + Charity sermons, short or long,— + Lecture, speech, concerto, or song, + All noises and voices, feeble or strong, + From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong, + This tube will deliver distinct and clear; + Or, supposing by chance + You wish to dance, + Why it’s putting a _Horn-pipe_ into your ear! + Try it—buy it! + Buy it—try it! + The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it, + For guiding sounds to their proper tunnel: + Only try till the end of June, + And if you and the trumpet are out of tune + I’ll turn it gratis into a funnel!” + In short, the pedlar so beset her,— + Lord Bacon couldn’t have gammoned her better,— + With flatteries plump and indirect, + And plied his tongue with such effect,— + A tongue that could almost have buttered a crumpet: + The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet. + + . . . . . + . . . . . + + The pedlar was gone. With the horn’s assistance, + She heard his steps die away in the distance; + And then she heard the tick of the clock, + The purring of puss, and the snoring of Shock; + And she purposely dropped a pin that was little, + And heard it fall as plain as a skittle! + + ’Twas a wonderful horn, to be but just! + Nor meant to gather dust, must, and rust; + So in half a jiffy, or less than that, + In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat, + Like old Dame Trot, but without her cat, + The gossip was hunting all Tringham thorough, + As if she meant to canvass the borough, + Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity;— + And, sure, had the horn been one of those + The wild rhinoceros wears on his nose, + It couldn’t have ripped up more depravity! + + Depravity! mercy shield her ears! + ’Twas plain enough that her village peers + In the ways of vice were no raw beginners; + For whenever she raised the tube to her drum + Such sounds were transmitted as only come + From the very Brass Band of human sinners! + Ribald jest and blasphemous curse + (Bunyan never vented worse), + With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech + Which the Seven Dialecticians teach; + Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns, + And Particles picked from the kennels of towns, + With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, + Chiefly active in rows and mobs, + Picking Possessive Pronouns’ fobs, + And Interjections as bad as a blight, + Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight: + Fanciful phrases for crime and sin, + And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin, + Garlic, Tobacco, and offals go in— + A jargon so truly adapted, in fact, + To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act, + So fit for the brute with the human shape, + Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape, + From their ugly mouths it will certainly come + Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb! + + Alas! for the Voice of Virtue and Truth, + And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth! + The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang, + Shocked the Dame with a volley of slang, + Fit for Fagin’s juvenile gang; + While the charity chap, + With his muffin cap, + His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, + Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole, + Cursed his eyes, limbs, body and soul, + As if they did not belong to the Parish! + + ’Twas awful to hear, as she went along, + The wicked words of the popular song; + Or supposing she listened—as gossips will— + At a door ajar, or a window agape, + To catch the sounds they allowed to escape. + Those sounds belonged to Depravity still! + The dark allusion, or bolder brag + Of the dexterous “dodge,” and the lots of “swag,” + The plundered house—or the stolen nag— + The blazing rick, or the darker crime, + That quenched the spark before its time— + The wanton speech of the wife immoral, + The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel, + With savage menace, which threatened the life, + Till the heart seemed merely a strop for the knife; + The human liver, no better than that + Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman’s cat; + And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding, + To be punched into holes, like a “shocking bad hat” + That is only fit to be punched into wadding! + + In short, wherever she turned the horn, + To the highly bred, or the lowly born, + The working man, who looked over the hedge, + Or the mother nursing her infant pledge. + The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels, + Or the Governess pacing the village through, + With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two, + Looking, as such young ladies do, + Trussed by Decorum and stuffed with morals— + Whether she listened to Hob or Bob, + Nob or Snob, + The Squire on his cob, + Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job, + To the “Saint” who expounded at “Little Zion”— + Or the “Sinner” who kept the “Golden Lion”— + The man teetotally weaned from liquor— + The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar— + Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker— + She gathered such meanings, double or single, + That like the bell, + With muffins to sell, + Her ear was kept in a constant tingle! + + But this was nought to the tales of shame, + The constant runnings of evil fame, + Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, + That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, + Poured in her horn like slops in a sink: + While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, + With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green, + And not a little of feline spleen, + Lapped up in “Catty packages,” too, + To give a zest to the sipping and supping; + For still by some invisible tether, + Scandal and Tea are linked together, + As surely as Scarification and Cupping; + Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea— + Or sloe, or whatever it happened to be, + For some grocerly thieves + Turn over new leaves, + Without much mending their lives or their tea— + No, never since cup was filled or stirred + Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard, + As blackened their neighbours of either gender, + Especially that, which is called the Tender, + But instead of the softness we fancy therewith, + Was hardened in vice as the vice of a smith. + + Women! the wretches! had soiled and marred + Whatever to womanly nature belongs; + For the marriage tie they had no regard, + Nay, sped their mates to the sexton’s yard, + (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches + Kept cutting off her L by inches)— + And as for drinking, they drank so hard + That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs! + + The men—they fought and gambled at fairs; + And poached—and didn’t respect grey hairs— + Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses; + And broke in houses as well as horses; + Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton,— + And would their own mothers and wives for a button: + But not to repeat the deeds they did, + Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, + If all were true that fell from the tongue, + There was not a villager, old or young, + But deserved to be whipped, imprisoned, or hung, + Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries, + To publish at Colburn’s, or Longmans’, or Murray’s. + + Meanwhile the Trumpet, _con amore_, + Transmitted each vile diabolical story; + And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, + As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul’s, + Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, + Is famous for making the most of a hint. + Not a murmur of shame, + Or buzz of blame, + Not a flying report that flew at a name, + Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, + Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat, + Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive mote, + But vortex-like that tube of tin + Sucked the censorious particle in; + And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ + As ever listened to serpent’s hiss, + Nor took the viperous sound amiss, + On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon! + + The Dame, it is true, would mutter “shocking!” + And give her head a sorrowful rocking, + And make a clucking with palate and tongue, + Like the call of Partlet to gather her young, + A sound, when human, that always proclaims + At least a thousand pities and shames; + But still the darker the tale of sin, + Like certain folks, when calamities burst, + Who find a comfort in “hearing the worst,” + The farther she poked the Trumpet in. + Nay, worse, whatever she heard she spread + East and West, and North and South, + Like the ball which, according to Captain Z., + Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth. + What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, + Such mischief was made wherever they came, + That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame! + + For although it required such loud discharges, + Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, + To turn the smallest of table-beer, + A little whisper breathed into the ear + Will sour a temper “as sour as varges.” + In fact such very ill blood there grew, + From this private circulation of stories, + That the nearest neighbours the village through, + Looked at each other as yellow and blue, + As any electioneering crew + Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories. + Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, + That “whispering tongues can poison Truth,”— + Yes, like a dose of oxalic acid, + Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, + And rack dear Love with internal fuel, + Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel, + Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel,— + At least such torments began to wring ’em + From the very morn + When that mischievous Horn + Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham. + + The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, + And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, + While feuds arose and family quarrels, + That discomposed the mechanics of morals, + For screws were loose between brother and brother, + While sisters fastened their nails on each other; + Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, + And spar, and jar—and breezes as stiff + As ever upset a friendship—or skiff! + The plighted lovers who used to walk, + Refused to meet, and declined to talk: + And wished for two moons to reflect the sun, + That they mightn’t look together on one: + While wedded affection ran so low, + That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo— + And instead of the toddle adown the hill, + Hand in hand, + As the song has planned, + Scratched her, penniless, out of his will! + In short, to describe what came to pass + In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, + Instead of “Love in a Village”—alas! + The piece they performed was “The Devil to Pay!” + + However, as secrets are brought to light, + And mischief comes home like chickens at night; + And rivers are tracked throughout their course, + And forgeries traced to their proper source;— + And the sow that ought + By the ear is caught,— + And the sin to the sinful door is brought; + And the cat at last escapes from the bag— + And the saddle is placed on the proper nag— + And the fog blows off, and the key is found— + And the faulty scent is picked out by the hound— + And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground— + And the matter gets wind to waft it about; + And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out— + And a riddle is guessed—and the puzzle is known— + So the Truth was sniffed, and the Trumpet was blown! + + . . . . . + + ’Tis a day in November—a day of fog— + But the Tringham people are all agog! + Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers’ Sons,— + With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,— + As if in pursuit of a rabid dog; + But their voices—raised to the highest pitch— + Declare that the game is “a Witch!—a Witch!” + + Over the Green and along by the George— + Past the Stocks and the Church, and the Forge, + And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, + Till they come to the whitewashed cottage beyond, + And there at the door they muster and cluster, + And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster— + Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster! + A noise, indeed, so loud and long, + And mixed with expressions so very strong, + That supposing, according to popular fame, + “Wise Woman” and Witch to be the same, + No hag with a broom would unwisely stop, + But up and away through the chimney-top; + Whereas, the moment they burst the door, + Planted fast on her sanded floor, + With her trumpet up to her organ of hearing, + Lo and behold!—Dame Eleanor Spearing! + + Oh! then rises the fearful shout— + Bawled and screamed, and bandied about— + “Seize her!—Drag the old Jezebel out!” + While the Beadle—the foremost of all the band, + Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand— + And after a pause of doubt and fear, + Puts it up to his sharpest ear. + “Now silence—silence—one and all!” + For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul! + But before he rehearses + A couple of verses, + The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall! + For instead of the words so pious and humble, + He hears a supernatural grumble. + + Enough, enough! and more than enough;— + Twenty impatient hands and rough, + By arm and leg, and neck and scruff, + Apron, ’kerchief, gown of stuff— + Cap and pinner, sleeve and cuff— + Are clutching the Witch wherever they can, + With the spite of woman and fury of man; + And then—but first they kill her cat, + And murder her dog on the very mat— + And crush the infernal Trumpet flat;— + And then they hurry her through the door + She never, never will enter more! + + Away! away! down the dusty lane + They pull her and haul her, with might and main; + And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry, + Dandy or Sandy, Jerry or Larry, + Who happens to get “a leg to carry!” + And happy the foot that can give her a kick, + And happy the hand that can find a brick— + And happy the fingers that hold a stick— + Knife to cut, or pin to prick— + And happy the boy who can lend her a lick;— + Nay, happy the urchin—Charity-bred,— + Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head! + + Alas! to think how people’s creeds + Are contradicted by people’s deeds! + But though the wishes that Witches utter + Can play the most diabolical rigs— + Send styes in the eye—and measle the pigs— + Grease horses’ heels—and spoil the butter; + Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk— + And turn new milk to water and chalk,— + Blight apples—and give the chickens the pip— + And cramp the stomach—and cripple the hip— + And waste the body—and addle the eggs— + And give a baby bandy legs; + Though in common belief a Witch’s curse + Involves all these horrible things and worse— + As ignorant bumpkins all profess, + No bumpkin makes a poke the less + At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S.! + As if she were only a sack of barley! + Or gives her credit for greater might + Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night + On that other old woman, the parish Charley! + + Ay, now’s the time for a Witch to call + On her imps and sucklings one and all— + Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown, + (As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down) + Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack, + Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, + Vinegar Tom, and the rest of the pack— + Ay, now’s the nick for her friend Old Harry + To come “with his tail,” like the bold Glengarry, + And drive her foes from their savage job + As a mad black bullock would scatter a mob:— + But no such matter is down in the bond; + And spite of her cries that never cease, + But scare the ducks and astonish the geese, + The dame is dragged to the fatal pond! + + And now they come to the water’s brim— + And in they bundle her—sink or swim; + Though it’s twenty to one that the wretch must drown, + With twenty sticks to hold her down; + Including the help to the self-same end, + Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend. + A Pedlar!—Yes!—The same!—the same! + Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame! + And now is foremost amid the stir, + With a token only revealed to her; + A token that makes her shudder and shriek, + And point with her finger, and strive to speak— + But before she can utter the name of the Devil, + Her head is under the water level! + + MORAL. + + There are folks about town—to name no names— + Who much resemble the deafest of Dames! + And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, + Circulate many a scandalous word, + And whisper tales they could only have heard + Through some such Diabolical Trumpets! + + + + +_NOTE_. +THE GAME OF OMBRE + + +was invented by the Spaniards, and called by them _El Hombre_, or THE +MAN, _El Hombre_ being he (or she) who undertakes the game against the +other players. + +There were variations in the way of playing, and there were sometimes +four or even five players; but usually there were three players, as +described by Pope in the third canto of _The Rape of the Lock_, where +Belinda played as Ombre against the Baron and another, and the course of +the game is faithfully described. It is the purpose of this note to +enable any reader of _The Rape of the Lock_ to learn the game of Ombre, +play it, and be able to follow Pope’s description of a game. + +The game of Ombre is played with a pack of cards from which the eights, +nines, and tens of each of the four suits have been thrown out. The +Ombre pack consists, therefore, of forty cards. + +The values of cards when they are not trumps are not arranged in the same +order for each colour. + +For the two black suits, Spades and Clubs, the values, from highest to +lowest, follow the natural order—King, Queen, Knave, seven, six, five, +four, three, two. But the two black aces always rank as trumps, and are +not reckoned as parts of the black suit. The Ace of Spades is named +_Spadille_, the Ace of Clubs is _Basto_. + +For the two red suits, Hearts and Diamonds, only the King, Queen, and +Knave keep their values in natural order; the other cards have their +order of values reversed. The value from highest to lowest for each red +suit is, therefore, King, Queen, Knave, ace, two, three, four, five, six, +seven. + +The values of trump cards are thus arranged:— + +The first and best trump is the Ace of Spades, _Spadille_. + +The second best trump is the lowest card of the trump suit, the two of +trumps in a black suit, or the seven of trumps if the trump suit be red. +This second trump is called _Manille_. + +The third trump is the Ace of Clubs, _Basto_. + +When the trump suit is red, its Ace becomes the fourth trump. Thus if +Diamonds be trumps the Ace of Diamonds can take the King of Diamonds; the +Ace of Hearts can take the King of Hearts if Hearts be trumps, not +otherwise. There is no addition to the value of the Ace of Diamonds when +Hearts are trumps. The Ace of a red suit of trumps, having become in +this way the fourth trump in order of value, is called _Punto_. + +In order of their value, counted from the highest to the lowest, I now +place in parallel columns the trumps in black suits and the trumps in +red:— + + Black. Red. +Spadille, Ace of Spades. Spadille, Ace of Spades. +Manille, the Two of the Trump Manille, the Seven of the trump +suit. suit. +Basto, Ace of Clubs. Basto, Ace of Clubs. +King. Punto, Ace of the trump suit. +Queen. King. +Knave. Queen. +Seven. Knave. +Six. Two. +Five. Three. +Four. Four. +Three. Five. + Six. + +The three chief trumps, _Spadille_, _Manille_, and _Basto_, are called +_Matadores_, and have powers which, together with their name, are passed +to the trumps following them, so far as they are found in sequence in the +Ombre’s hand. Thus, although _Spadille_, _Manille_, and _Basto_ are +strictly speaking the only _Matadores_, if the Ombre can show also in his +hand, say, in the red suit, Punto, King, Queen, Knave, he takes for seven +_Matadores_; and if there should be joined to these the two and three, +his trumps would be all in sequence, every card would be a _Matadore_, +and he would be paid for nine, which is the whole number of cards in a +hand. + +Counters having been distributed, among which a fish is worth ten round +counters, each player lays down a fish before the deal. The cards having +been shuffled by the dealer, and cut by the player who sits on the left +hand of the dealer, are dealt three at a time, and first to the player +who sits on the dealer’s right hand, which is contrary to the usual +course. The cards are dealt three times round. Each of the three +players then has nine, and the remaining thirteen cards are laid down at +the right hand of the dealer. No card is turned up to determine trumps. + +Each player then looks at his hand. The eldest hand is that to the +dealer’s right. He speaks first. If his cards are bad, and he will not +venture to be Ombre, he says “Pass,” and lays a counter down at his left. +If all three players say “Pass,” each laying a counter down, the cards +are dealt again. When a player thinks his cards may win, and is willing +to be Ombre, unless he be the third to speak, and the two other hands +have passed, he says “Do you give me leave?” or “Do you play without +taking in?” If the other players say “Pass,” each depositing his counter +at his own left hand, the Ombre begins by discarding from his hand two, +three, or more cards that he thinks unserviceable. He lays them down at +his left hand. Then before he deals to himself from the pack of thirteen +left undistributed the same number of cards that he has thrown out, he +must name the trump suit. In doing this he chooses for himself, +according to his hand, spades, clubs, hearts, diamonds, whichever suit he +thinks will best help him to win. If he has a two of a black suit, or a +seven of a red, he can secure to himself _Manille_ by making that suit +trumps, or there may be reason why another suit should be preferred. + +If the player who proposes to be Ombre has a safe game in his hand—five +_Matadores_, for example—he names the trump and elects to play +_Sans-prendre_, that is to say, without discarding. Whoever plays +_Sans-prendre_, if he win, receives three counters from each of the other +players, and pays three counters to each if he should lose the game. + +When the Ombre plays _Sans-Prendre_, his opponents have more cards from +which to draw, and the first who discards is even free to change all his +nine cards; but he usually limits his discard to six or seven, and avoids +encroachment on the share of the next player. The two who play against +the Ombre are only half in the position of partners at whist, because one +of them, when his hand is strong enough, can be the only winner. + +The hands having been thus settled, the game begins, from the hand on the +right of the dealer. After a trick has been taken, the lead, as at other +games, is with the winner of the trick, the order of play being still +from left to right. + +As at whist, a suit led must be followed, and a player who cannot follow +suit is not obliged to play a trump unless he please. + +If the first player who follows the Ombre’s lead with a better card, and +has in his hand so good a game that he desires, by winning the trick, to +obtain the lead, he declares that aloud by saying _Gano_, that is, “I +win.” His partner then lets him win, if he can. Thus, Ombre has played +a spade, which the next player wins with the Queen, saying _Gano_ when he +does so. If the third player has the King in his hand he refrains from +playing it, unless he have no spade in his hand of smaller value, in +which case he is obliged to follow suit and win the trick against his +partner. Where the lead is urgently desired, not for a personal gain of +more tricks than the Ombre, which is called _Codille_, but to defend the +stake, and the third player is seen to hesitate, _Gano_ may be pressed +for, three times, “Gano, if possible.” When Ombre was played by gambling +courtiers under Queen Anne and George I., all such words spoken in the +game had to be given strictly in the Spanish form, which was, in this +case, _Yo Gano_, _si se puede_. + +Ombre, to win the stake, must make five tricks; but he can win with four +if the other five are so divided between his antagonists that one has +only three of them, the other only two. If one of the two defenders of +the stakes, playing against Ombre, does not feel almost sure that he can +win at least three tricks, with a chance of the fourth, he should win +one, and try to avoid winning more, but help whatever chance his partner +seems to have of winning four, because Ombre wins with four when each of +the other players has won less than four. + +If Ombre lose he is said to be Beasted. Whoever loses is said to be +Beasted. Whoever is Beasted has to pay to the board counters of the +value of what the Ombre takes up if he wins. When players were beasted +for revokes and other oversights in play, the fines were heavy upon +carelessness. + +At the end of the game tricks are counted. When Ombre wins he takes the +stakes; when he loses the two opponents will divide the stakes between +them, unless one of them should have taken more tricks than the Ombre, in +which case that one is said to have won _Codille_. Whoever wins +_Codille_ takes all the stake the Ombre played for. For this reason it +was not thought creditable for any one to call _Gano_ who had four tricks +in his hand, as by so doing he would only be inducing the other player +against Ombre to give up to him his half of the winnings. Each player +against the Ombre aims at _Codille_ when he thinks it within reach, but +in that case it used to be held very bad manners to win by calling +_Gano_. When one of the players against the Ombre must either give +_Codille_ to the other or let the Ombre win, he gives the _Codille_. For +if the Ombre be beasted he has to replace the stakes. But if the Ombre +wins, both of the players against him have to stake again. If any one +wins all the nine tricks he is said to have won the _Vole_, and clears +all stakes upon the table. + +Belinda, in the _Rape of the Lock_, having looked at her hand, named +trumps— + + “‘Let spades be trumps,’ she said, and trumps they were.” + +She chose that suit because she had not only the King but also the two of +Spades, and two of trumps, called _Manille_, is the second best trump +after _Spadille_. Her hand contained also the Ace of Spades, +“unconquerable lord” _Spadille_, and the third trump, _Basto_, Ace of +Clubs. By making spades trumps she secured the addition of _Manille_. +The three best trumps secured her the three best tricks. _Spadille_ and +_Manille_ fetched small trumps out of the hands of her antagonists. +_Basto_ brought a trump out of the Baron’s suit, that also held the Knave +and Queen of trumps, and a small card from the other hand, which showed +that it was out of trumps. Then came Belinda’s King of trumps, to win +her fourth sure trick, and the Baron, who still had his best trumps in +his hand, the Knave and Queen, lost the Knave to it. + +After this the Baron’s Queen of trumps was the best card, and Belinda, +with no more trumps in her hand, or possibly the other player, sacrificed +the King of Clubs to it. + +Trumps being exhausted, and the Baron having won a trick and the lead, it +is his turn now to win three tricks in succession with the King, Queen, +and Knave of Diamonds. At the third round of the Diamonds Belinda has +left in her hand only the King and Queen of Hearts. She gives up the +Queen. + +Each has now four tricks. It is the Baron’s lead. If his card be best +he has more tricks than the Ombre, and will win _Codille_. If his card +be a club or a diamond—spades are played out—Belinda’s King of Hearts +will be unable to follow suit. He will be taken. Thus is she “between +the jaws of ruin and codille.” But should his last card be a heart—she +has the best heart— + + “An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen + Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive Queen. + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. + The nymph exulting, fills with shouts the sky, + The walls, the woods, the long canals reply.” + +In addition to the stakes she won, Belinda was entitled also to the value +of four counters from each of her antagonists for her sequence of four +_Matadores_, _Spadille_, _Manille_, _Basto_, and the King of Spades. +Furthermore, if she had been playing _Sans-prendre_, each of her +opponents would have three counters to pay her. + + + + +GLOSSARY + + +{114} And, in old English could be placed like “also” in different parts +of a sentence. Thus, in _Nymphidia_, + + “She hies her then to Lethe spring, + A bottle and thereof doth bring.” + +{129} Atalantis, “As long as Atalantis shall be read.” Atalantis was a +book of Court scandal by Mrs. De la Rivière Manley, in four volumes, +entitled “Secret Memoirs and Manners of several Persons of Quality of +both Sexes from the New Atalantis, an Island in the Mediterranean.” Mrs. +Manley died in 1724. + +{94h} Bauzon, badger. French, _bausin_. + +{147a} Billies, fellows, used rather contemptuously. + +{147f} Blellum, idle talker. + +{150a} Boddle, a Scottish copper coin worth the third part of an English +halfpenny; said to be named after the Mint-master who first coined it, +Bothwell. + +{150h} Bore, hole in the wall. + +{91e} But, “without,” “but merriness,” without mirth. + +{152d} Byke, hive. + +{150f} Cantrip, charm, spell. Icelandic, _gandr_, enchantment; +_gand-reithr_ was the witches’ ride. + +{83} Can’wick Street, Candlewick, where now there is Cannon Street. + +{86a} Champarty, Champartage, was a feudal levy of a share of profit +from the ground (_campi pars_), based originally upon aid given to enable +profit to be earned. Thus it became a law term for right of a stranger +to fixed share in any profits that on such condition he helped a litigant +to win. + +{85b} Chiche vache, lean cow. French _chiche_, Latin _ciccus_, +wretched, worthless; from Greek kíkkos, the core of a pomegranate. Worth +no more than a pomegranate seed. + +{94i} Cockers, rustic half-boots. + +{151g} Coft, bought. German, _kaufte_. + +{82b} Copen, buy. Dutch, _koopen_. + +{94j} Cordiwin, or cordewane, Cordovan leather. + +{89} Coueyn, coveyne convening or conspiring of two or more to defraud. + +{94f} Crank, lively. A boat was “crank” when frail, lightly and easily +tossed on the waves, and liable to upset. Prof. Skeat thinks that the +image of the tossed boat suggested lively movement. + +{151c} Creeshie flannen, greasy flannel. + +{151e} Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. + +{151f} Cutty, short; so cutty pipe, short pipe. + +{85a} Darrain, decide. To “arraign” was to summon _ad rationes_ to the +pleadings. To darraign was _derationare_, to bring them to a decision. + +{86b} Defy, digest. As in the Vision of Piers Plowman + + “wyn of Ossye + Of Ruyn and of Rochel, the rost to defye.” + +Latin, _defio_ = _deficio_, to make one’s self to be removed from +something, or something to be removed from one’s self. To defy in the +sense of challenging is a word of different origin, _diffidere_, to +separate from _fides_, faith, trust, allegiance to another. + +{91d} Degest, orderly. To “digest” is to separate and arrange in an +orderly manner. + +{150e} Dirl, vibrate, echo. + +{147b} Drouthy, droughty, thirsty. + +{151a} Duddies, clothes. + +{152e} Eldritch, also elrische, alrische, alry, having relation to elves +or evil spirits, supernatural, hideous, frightful. + +{152f} Ettle, endeavour, aim. Icelandic, _ætla_, to mean anything, +design, have aim, is the Scottish _ettle_. + +{108d} Fire-drake, dragon breathing out fire. + +{91b} Flicht and wary, fluctuate and change. + +{92b} Frawfull fary, froward tumult. + +{152c} Fyke, fuss. + +{30} Fytte, a song, canto. First English, _fit_, a song. + +When Wisdom “_thas fitte asungen hæfde_” had sung this song. King +Alfred’s Boëthius. + +{150g} Gab, mouth. + +{148b} Gars, makes; “gars me greet,” makes me weep. + +{147h} Gate, road. Icelandic, _gata_. + +{35} Habergeon, small hauberk, armour for the neck. Old High German, +_hals_, the neck; _bergan_, to protect. + +{94d} Harlock, This plant-name occurs only here and in Shakespeare’s +_Lear_, Act iv. sc. 4, where Lear is said to be crowned “with harlocks, +hemlocks, nettles, cuckoo-flowers.” Probably it is charlock, _Sinapis +arvensis_, the mustard-plant. + +{98} Hays, The hay was a French dance, with many turnings and windings. + +{100} Hient Hill, Ben Hiand, in Ardnamurchan, Argyleshire. + +{152a} Hotched, hitched. + +{147g} Ilka, each one, every. + +{85c} Infere, together. + +{148c} Ingle, fire. Gaelic, _aingeal_, allied to Latin _ignis_. + +{95b} Keep, “take thou no keep”—heed, “never mind.” + +{148f} Kirkton, familiar term for the village in which the country +people had their church. + +{94k} Ladysmock, _Cardamine pratensis_. + +{93b} Leir, lore, doctrine. + +{94g} Learned his sheep, taught his sheep. + +{94a} Lemster, Leominster. + +{95a} Lingell, a shoemaker’s thong. Latin _lingula_. + +{151h} Linkit, tripped, moved briskly. + +{108c} Lubrican, the Irish leprechaun, a fairy in shape of an old man, +discovered by the moan he makes. He brings wealth, and is fixed only as +long as the finder keeps his eye upon him. + +{108b} Mandrake, the root of mandragora, rudely shaped like the forked +animal man, and said to groan or shriek when pulled out of the earth. + +{93c} Marchpine, sweet biscuit of sugar and almonds. Marchpane paste +was used by comfit-makers for shaping into letters, true-love knots, +birds, beasts, etc. + +{130} Megrim, pain on one side of the head, headache. French +_migraine_, from Gr. _eemikranía_. + +{147i} Melder, milling. The quantity of meal ground at once. + +{148a} Mirk, dark. + +{108a} Molewarp, mole. First English, _moldwearp_. + +{148e} Nappy, nap, strong beer. + +{126} Pam, Knave of Clubs, the highest card in the game of Loo, derived +from “palm,” as “trump” from “triumph.” + +{137} Partridge, a maker of prophetic almanacs, who was ridiculed by +Swift as type of his bad craft. + +{94b} Peakish hull, hill by the Peak of Derbyshire. + +{19} Pose, catarrh. First English, _gepósu_. + + “By the pose in thy nose, + And the gout in thy toes.” + + —_Beaumont and Fletcher_. + +{88b} Prow, profit. Old French, _prou_, _preu_—“_Oïl voir_, _sire_, +_pour vostre preu i viens_.”—_Garin le Loharain_. + +{91a} Qu, Scottish = W. Quhair, where; quhois, whose; quheill, wheel; +quha, quho, who; quhat, what. + +{82a} Ray, striped cloth. + +{151d} Rigwoodie, tough. Rigwiddie is the rope crossing the back of a +horse yoked in a cart; _rig_, back, and _withy_, a twig. Applied to +anything strong-backed. + +{82c} Rise, “cherries in the rise,” cherries on the twig. First English, +_hris_, a twig, or thin branch. The old practice of selling cherries +upon shoots cut from the tree ended in their sale by pennyworths with +their stalks tied to a little stick of wood. So they were sold in London +when I was a boy. + +{151b} Sark, shirt or shift. First English, _syrc_. + +{94c} Setiwall, garden valerian. + +{147e} Skellum, a worthless fellow. German, _schelm_. + +{149a} Skelpit, beat the ground with strong pulsation; rode quickly; +pounded along. + +{150d} Skirl, sound shrill. + +{147d} Slaps, breaks in walls or hedges; also narrow passes. + +{149b} Smoored, smothered. + +{151j} Spean, wean. + +{32} Spear-hawk, sparrow-hawk. From the root _spar_, to quiver or +flutter, comes the name of “sparrow” and a part of the name +“sparrow-hawk.” + +{94e} Summerhall, Stubbs, in the “Anatomy of Abuses,” speaking of the +maypole, tells how villagers, when they have reared it up, “with +handkerchiefs and flags streaming on the top, they strew the ground +about, bind green boughs about it, set up _summerhalls_, bowers, and +arbours hard by it, and then fall they to banquet and feast, and leap and +dance about it.” + +{148d} Swats, new ale, wort. First English, _swate_. + +{88c} Teen, vexation, grief. + +{152b} Tint, lost. + +{150c} Towsie tyke, a large rough cur. + +{92a} Tynsall, loss. + +{147c} Unco’, uncouth, more than was known usually. + +{151i} Wally, walie thriving. First English, _wælig_. + +{91c} Warsill, wrestle. + +{150b} Winnock-bunker, the window seat. + +{93d} Woned, dwelt. + +{17} Wottest, knowest. + +{88a} Woxen, grown. + +{93a} Yconned, taught. + +{81} Yode, went. First English, _eóde_, past of _gán_, to go. + + + + +FOOTNOTES. + + +{21} This old French and Anglo-Norman word, answering to the Italian +_gentilezza_, and signifying the possession of every species of +refinement, has been retained as supplying a want which there is no +modern word to fill up.—_Leigh Hunt_. + +{26} The sententious sermon which here follows might have had a purely +serious intention in Chaucer’s time, when books were rare, and moralities +not such commonplaces as they are now; yet it is difficult to believe +that the poet did not intend something of a covert satire upon at least +the sermoniser’s own pretensions, especially as the latter had declared +himself against text-spinning. The Host, it is to be observed, had +already charged him with forgetting his own faults, while preaching +against those of others. The _refashioner_ of the original lines has +accordingly endeavoured to retain the kind of tabernacle, or old woman’s +tone, into which he conceives the Manciple to have fallen, compared with +that of his narrative style.—_Leigh Hunt_. + +{42} “We possess,” says Satan in _Paradise Lost_, “the quarters of the +north.” The old legend that Milton followed placed Satan in the north +parts of heaven, following the passage in Isaiah concerning Babylon on +which that legend was constructed (Isa. xiv. 12–15), “Thou hast said in +thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the +stars of God; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation _in the +sides of the north_.” + +{49} Alluding to the “Millers Tale,” which has rather offended the Reve, +by reason that it ridiculed a worthy carpenter.—R. H. H. + +{50} Or thus:— + + For when our climbing’s done our speech aspires; + _E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires_. + +The original lines are:— + + “For whanne we may not don than wol we speken, + Yet in our ashen olde is fyre yreken.” + +The coincidence of the last line with the one quoted from Gray’s Elegy +will be remarked. Mr. Tyrwhit says he should certainly have considered +the latter as an “imitation” (of Chaucer), “if Mr. Gray himself had not +referred us to the 169 Sonnet of Petrarch as his original:— + + Ch’ i’ veggio nel pensier, dolce mio foco, + Fredda una lingua, e duo begli occhi chiusi + Rimaner dopo noi pien’ di faville. + +The sentiment is different in all three; but the form of expression here +adopted by Gray closely resembles that of the Father of English Poetry, +although in Gray’s time it was no doubt far more elegant to quote +Petrarch than Chaucer.—_R. H. 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