^^nj Itaxgm THE POEMS i&toffvts ©fiance*, MODERNIZED. That noble Chaucer, in those former times, "Who first enriched our English with his rhymes, And was the first of ours that ever broke Into the Muse's treasures, and first spoke In mighty numbers ; delving in the mine Of perfect knowledge. Wordsworti LONDON: WHITTAKER & Co. AVE MARIA LANE. 1841. LOAN STACK LONDON : gilbert & rivington, printers, st. jomn's square. PR I55r ttt,n MM/) CONTENTS. Introduction By R. H. Horse Life of Chaucer. Eulogies on Chaucer. /By Professor Leonhard I Schmitz cvii /By his Contemporaries \ and Others cxxxix Prologue to the Canterbury Tales By R. H. Horne ] The Cuckoo and the Nightingale By William Wordsworth 3,5 The Legends of Ariadne, Philomene, | ByThqmas Pqwell .. AND i HILLIS • •>■••••• J The Manciple's Tale By Leigh Hunt 87 The Rime of Sire Thopas By Z. A. Z 107 Extract from Troilus and Cresida By William Wordsworth 125 The Reye's Tale By R. H. Horne 137 The Flower and the Leaf By Thomas Powell 161 The Friar's Tale By Leigh Hunt 193 The Complaint of Mars and Venus. ...By Robert Bell 211 Queen Annelida and false Arcite By Elizabeth B. Barrett 235 The Squire's Tale By Leigh Hunt 259 The Franklin's Tale By R. H. Horne 289 A 2 575 INTRODUCTION. For out of the olde fieldes, as men sayth, Cometh all this new corn from year to year ; And out of olde bookes, in good faith Cometh all this new science that men lere. Chaucer. The present publication does not result from an anti- quarian feeling about Chaucer, as the Father of English Poetry, highly interesting as he must always be in that character alone ; but from the extraordinary fact, to which there is no parallel in the history of the literature of nations, — that although he is one of the great poets for all time, his works are comparatively unknown to the world. Even in his own country, only a very small class of his countrymen ever read his poems. Had Chaucer's poems been written in Greek or Hebrew., they would have been a thousand times better known. VI INTRODUCTION. They Avould have been translated. Hitherto they have had almost everything done for them that a nation could desire, in so far as the most careful collation of texts, the most elaborate essays, the most ample and erudite notes and glossaries, the most elaborate and classical (as well as the most trite and vulgar) para- phrases, the most eloquent and sincere admiration and comments of genuine poets, fine prose writers, and scholars — everything, in short, has been done, except to make them intelligible to the general reader. Except in the adoption of a modern typography, Chaucer's poems have always appeared hitherto, under no better auspices for modern appreciation than on their first day of publication, some three centuries and a half ago. Concerning the various attempts to render several of his poems available to the public, which have been made at intervals by poets and lovers of Chaucer, a few remarks will shortly be submitted. With what- ever reverence or admiration these latter may have been received by the readers of those poets who intro- INTRODUCTION. Vll duced such specimens among their own works, it is certain that they produced no perceptible effect in the popularity of the original author. Whether there has been a feeling in the public about Chaucer, amounting to a sort of unconscious resent- ment at the total inability to read his poems without first bestowing the same pains upon his glossary, which has been more willingly accorded to poetry and prose in the Scottish dialect ; or whether on account of cer- tain passages which in the present stage of refine- ment appear offensive to a degree that the good folks of Chaucer's time, as well as the poet himself, could never have contemplated, it is not necessary to deter- mine. Such an antipathy to the study of his language does exist; and — while we, curiously enough, find Chaucer sometimes apologizing, with meek humility and gentilesse, for using some expressions which are now in common use, but which were considered very improper in his day — it is undeniable that various pas- sages and expressions occur here and there, in his Vlll INTRODUCTION. works, which are calculated to startle a modern reader, and make him doubt his eyes. Howbeit, this great fact is sufficiently apparent, — that Chaucer is a poet, and a founder of the language of his country ; (taking rank, as such, with Homer and with Dante, and being the worthy forefather of Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton ;) whose poetry is comparatively unread and unknown even in his own country. The simple statement of such a fact will sufficiently explain the feeling which, in all sincerity and reverent admiration, has prompted those who have united in the present undertaking. From what has been said, it will be readily appre- hended, that this attempt at a translation, or trans- fusion of Chaucer into modern English, is by no means intended for the reading of those, who, being learned in the black letter, or familiar with the dialect of the period, can and do read the great poet with facility and delight. Tt is expressly intended for all that vast majority of our countrymen, and of foreigners acquainted with the English and English literature, INTRODUCTION. IX who are unable to do this ; and who, either from indisposition, or the want of sufficient leisure, have never given the study requisite for a right appreciation of the author's meaning, but who, at the same time, having a genuine love for noble poetry, would rejoice to find such labours superseded by a faithful version of the great poet, bereft of his obsolete dialect. The project has already received demonstration of the utmost sympathy from many high quarters at home and abroad, while the work was going through the press ; and we have at present only met with one individual of literary eminence who boldly declared, that he still wished - to keep Chaucer for himself and a few friends." The grand obstacle to be surmounted in reading Chaucer has, of course, been always, that of his obso- lete dialect ; but one of the main causes of his poems remaining so long without modernizing, (for they have hitherto been only paraphrased in a very free manner) is because they are all in rhyme. Here begins the first and most trying difficulty in rendering his poems avail- X INTRODUCTION. able to the public of the present time. To translate his poems into blank verse, would be losing a characteristic feature of the original ; to give the rhymes he uses is often impossible, because the words themselves, or the grammatical structure of the terminations, are obsolete ; to substitute rhymes of similar quantity and sound can seldom be successfully accomplished, because it has a tendency, while you are struggling to obtain the sense of the passage, to induce a mechanical awkwardness ; and to supply new rhymes generally re- quires that a whole line, if not the couplet, must be changed in rhythm, or totally remodelled. In the attempts, therefore, which have been hitherto made (with the exception of two of the Tales, modernized by Lord Thurlow and Mr. Wordsworth) the whole substan- tial materiel of Chaucer has been left as it stood, and the leading ideas only being adopted, a new poem has been written with more or less ability and verisimilitude, according to the genius and talent of the individual and the principle on which he proceeded. The versions of Chaucer which have been given by INTRODUCTION. XI Dryden and Pope, are elaborate and highly-finished productions, reading exactly like their own poems, and not bearing the slightest resemblance to Chaucer. Even his finest lines and couplets, which often require little or nothing more than a change in the orthography, have scarcely ever been retained. Everything was paraphrased, made fluent, sounding, and full of ' effects ;' though it is equally true, that Chaucer occasionally received a very noble present from Dryden, for which nothing more than a suggestion is traceable in the original*. Their versions of several of the Canterbury Tales, bearing the dates of 1699 and 1711, were sub- sequently adopted by Ogle, together with some of his own, and of sundry other writers, and published in three volumes in 1741. The same versions, with * " Did the interest to be derived from Chaucer's works arise solely from their poetical merits, and did not their historical interest, as descriptive of contemporary manners and opinions, enter at all into the question, the criti- cisms of Dryden upon his remodincations of Chaucer might be regarded as just. But, as it is, the improvements and additions of Dryden are in fact blemishes fully as great as his omissions." — Hippisley's Early English Literature, Cap. II. Xll INTRODUCTION. additions, were collected by Lipscombe, and published in 1795. As it is impossible to praise these editions for any resemblance to the original, it would be far more agreeable to pass them without further remark ; but our readers will naturally expect some proofs in support of the judgment thus hazarded. It is earnestly requested, however, that the following brief review may not be understood as given for the sake of criticism, but solely out of reverence towards Chaucer, who has not been fairly treated. With every respect, then, for the genius, and for everything that belongs to the memory of Dryden, the grand charge to which his translations from Chaucer are amenable is that he has acted upon an erroneous principle. While it is manifest that much of Chaucer needs l>ut little more than modern orthography and an occasional transposition of words, in order to retain such portions as entire and as intelligible as the productions of the most lucid writer of the present time, — Dryden considered that nothing whatever of the original substance 1 INTRODUCTION. Xlll should be retained. He translates Chaucer, without any exceptions, as he would Ovid, Virgil, or Homer, and there seem no characteristic differences. Some idea may be formed of the manner in which Chaucer's foundation is built over, by the fact that the charac- ter of the poor Parson in the Prologue to the Can- terbury Tales contains only fifty- two lines, — while Dryden's version of it occupies one hundred and forty lines. However the execution may be admired, it is quite clear that the grand and sonorous pomp of the style is directly opposite to the extreme sim- plicity of the original. Chaucer says of his poor Parson, that, — To drawen folk to heaven with faireness, By good ensample, was his business. Dryden says of his, — For, letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky ! The lofty idea here suggested of a figure standing in the clouds, and letting down " the golden chain" XIV INTRODUCTION. for his audience, can surely never be received as the companion or representative of the meek and unos- tentatious man of God who went in all weathers to visit his sick parishioners, — Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff. In Dryden's version of the ' Knight's Tale' these lines occur : — Next stood Hypocrisy, with holy fear ; Soft smiling and demurely looking down, But hid the dagger underneath the gown : The assassinating wife, the holy fiend ; And far the blackest there, the traitor-friend. The original of all this is one line, — The smiler with the knife under the cloak. It is hard to lose such a line for the sake of a trifling matter of spelling. The " obsolete" outcast is merely this, — The smiler with the knif under the cloke. There is in Chaucer the strength of a giant com- bined with the simplicity of a child. The latter is quite INTRODUCTION. XV metamorphosed in Dryden's swelling verse. Whenever he attempts simplicity, which is very rarely, he fails. Let the reader compare his account of the death of Arcite with Chaucer's profound pathos. The follow- ing is one of his closest imitations of the original : — Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw, Though less and less of Emily he saw ; So, speechless, for a little space he lay ; Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away. Dryden. Dusked his eyen two, and faill'd his breth, But on his ladie yet cast he his eye ; His last-e word was ' Mercy, Emelie !' His spirit changed house — Cliaucer. The fact is, Dryden's version of the ■ Knight's Tale' would be most appropriately read by the towering shade of one of Virgil's heroes, walking up and down a battlement and waving a long gleaming spear to the roll and sweep of his sonorous numbers. Of the highly finished paraphrase, by Mr. Pope, of the ' Wife of Bath's Prologue,' and the ' Merchant's Tale,' XVI INTRODUCTION. suffice it to say that the licentious humour of the original being divested of its quaintness and obscurity, becomes yet more licentious in proportion to the fine touches of skill with which it is brought into the light. Spontaneous coarseness is made revolting by meretricious artifice. Instead of keeping in the distance that which was objectionable by such shades in the modernizing as should have answered to the hazy appearance of the original, it receives a clear outline, and is brought close to us. An ancient Briton, with his long rough hair and painted body, laughing and singing half naked under a tree, may be coarse, yet innocent of all intention to offend ; but if the ima- gination, (absorbing the anachronism,) can conceive him shorn of his falling hair, his paint washed off, and in this uncovered state introduced into a drawing- room full of ladies in rouge and diamonds, hoops and hair-powder, no one can doubt the injury thus done to the ancient Briton. This is no unfair illustration of what was done in the time of Pope, and by these INTRODUCTION. XV11 editions of Ogle and Lipscombe. They are not mo- dernized versions — which implies modern delicacy, as well as modern language — they are vulgarized ver- sions. The public of the present day would certainly never tolerate any similar proceeding, even were it likely to be attempted. But if such poets and artists as Dryden and Pope, are open to objections for their unceremonious para- phrases, what shall be said of the presumption of Messrs. Ogle, Lipscombe, and others, in following their example. Perhaps the worst of these specimens are from the pens of Mr. Betterton and Mr. Cobb. Their modern grossness and vulgarity are astonishing. In their execution of the finest passages of pathos or of humour there is, at best, only such a vestige remain- ing of the original as serves to show the difference of men's minds in contemplating the same objects. Let the reader, who is not familiar with the portrait and character of Absolon, in the * Miller's Tale,' imagine a jolly parish clerk of these olden times — with a ruddy a XV1I1 INTRODUCTION. complexion, and thick golden locks " strouting " out behind, like a " broad fan " — his dress neat and close, with red stockings, and " St. Paul's windows carved upon his shoes ;" a kirtle thick with points and tags ; and a " gay surplice " over all, as " white as is the blossom upon the thorn." This jolly parish clerk, smitten with the charms of the wife of a carpenter, sends her all sorts of presents, and serenades her con- tinually with voice and instrument. But finding all his efforts to attract her love or admiration ineffectual, he has recourse to a more dignified proceeding. He brings a small scaffolding or stage (probably drawn by a mule) before her window, — mounts it, and enacts the part of Herod in one of the Miracle plays ! This most ludicrous and matchless climax- is vulgarized by Mr. Cobb in these lines ; not one word of which belongs to Chaucer any more than the sense of them, — "Sometimes he gearamouch'd it all on hie, And harlequin'd it with activity : Betrays the lightness of his empty head, And how he gould cut capers * * '* ." INTRODUCTION. XIX But it is not only the loss of this unexampled picture, as a piece of rich graphic humour, that constitutes the ground of complaint, but the loss of the historical in- formation involved in the original description. This performance of the part of Herod by the jolly parish clerk is a proof of the kind of plays that were acted in the reigns of Edward III. and Richard II., viz. Miracle Plays; since called, erroneously, Mysteries and Moralities. When the Pardoner is describing how he stands up " like a clerk in his pulpit," to preach the money out of the pockets of his deluded audience, by "an hundred japes" or knaveries, the following most graphic picture is given : — Then paine I me to stretchen forth my necke, And east and west upon the people I beck As doth a dove, sitting upon a barn ! Chaucer. Then forth with painful toil my neck I stretch, And east and west my arms extended reach. So on a barn's long roof yon might have seen A pouting pigeon woo his feather' d queen ! Lipscombe. a 2 XX INTRODUCTION. In the quotation from Chaucer, be it observed, all the words are his own, and only one spelt differently, An old man, (who is Death in disguise) tired of life through decrepitude and loss of his faculties, is thus described : — And on the ground, which is my mother's gate, I knock-e with my staff, early and late, And say to her, * Leave, mother ! — let me in ! ' Chaucer. Here at my mother earth's deaf sullen gate, My staff, sad sole support, early and late Knocks with incessant stroke, but knocks in tain, For nought she hears though sadly I com)>l>ner of the original lines has accordingly endeavoured to retain the kind of tabernacle, or old woman's, tone, into which be conceives tin- Manciple to have fallen, compared with that of his narrative style. PHCEBUS AND THE CROW. 105 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 let'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, Cometh 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 mis-said, I dare well say, His fingers shall find blood thereon, some day. Thing that is said, is said ; it may not back Be call'd, for all your ' Las !' and your ■ Alack !' 106 THE MANCIPLE'S TALE. 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. THE RIME OF SIRE THOPAS; MODERNIZED BY Z. A. Z. PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS. 1. Now when the Prioress had done, each man, So serious look'd, '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 : * In this Prologue Chaucer gives the portrait of himself. 110 PROLOGUE TO ?IRE THOPAS. 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. :{. 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 heai Some dainty thing, methinketh, by thy cheer." THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. Fytte the First. 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 countrey, 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, 11 '2 THE RIMK OF SIR THOPAS. 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. Well could he hunt the strong wild deer, And ride a hawking for his cheer With grey goshawk on hand ; His archery fill'd the woods with fear, In wrestling eke he had no peer, — No man 'gainst him could stand. • Written by Spenser checklaton, and by Bome Bupposed to have been a species of base metal like gold; by others, more probably especially in Instances like the present), the cloth of gold, of which a kind of circular state- robe was made. THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 113 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. * No doubt the word bramble bore this signification in Chaucer's time ; but now it is the bramble which bears the blackberry, and the wild rose the hip. Ed, 114 THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. And herbs sprang up, or creeping ran ; The liquorice, and valerian, Clove-gillyflowers, sun-dress'd ; 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, 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. Sir Thopas fell in love-longing All when he heard the throstle sing, And spurr'd 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 seem'd clad. THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 115 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 solace, 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 T 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, i 2 116 THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 15. Into his saddle he clomb anon, And pricketh over stile and stone, An elf queen to espie ; 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 Sire Oliphaunt, A perilous man of deed : And he said, " Childe, by Termagaunt If thou ride not from thi< my haunt, Soon will I shiv tbv Bteed THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 117 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 ; iVnd then I promise 'par ma fay' That thou shalt feel this javelin gay, And dread its w T ondrous 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 Thopas, And it was all thro' God's good grace, And through his bearing high. 118 THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 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 debonaire, While T am clad and armed ; Romances, full of real tales, Of dames, and popes, and cardinals, And maids by wizards charmed. THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 119 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 refin'd. 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, 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 armoure, As white as is the lily flower, In which he would debate. 120 THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 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, What ever 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 moon's 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 softlv and full round. THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 121 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. 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, also Of Bevis and Sir Guy ; Of Sire Libeaux, and Pleindamour ; But Sire Thopas, he is the flower Of real chivalry. 122 THE RIME OF SIR THOPAS. 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.'] 123 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." EXTRACT TROILUS AND CRESIDA; MODERNIZED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. EXTRACT TROILUS AND CRESIDA. Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own brother dear, For love of God, full piteouslv did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida ; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least ! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the town to go, And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went ; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would burst in two ; For when he saw her doors fast-bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. 128 EXTRACT FROM Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold ; For which, with changed pale and deadly face, Without word utter'd, forth he 'gan to pace ; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus,— O Palace desolate ! O house of houses, once so richly dight ; O Palace empty and disconsolate ! Thou Lamp, of which extinguished is the light ; O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought' st to fall and I to die ; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. O of all houses once the crowned boast ! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss ; O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause hast been of bliss : Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors ; but I dare not for this rout : Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out ! TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 129 Therewith he cast on Pandarus his eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold ; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye, as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue. Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And every thing to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. And yonder with joy- smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid's laugh ; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully ; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — Now my sweet Troilus, love me well I pray ; And there so graciously did me behold, That hers unto the death my heart I hold. K 130 EXTRACT FROM And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, That in my soul raethinks I yet do hear The blissful sound ; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history ; What need to seek a conquest over me Since I am wholly at thy will ? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy ? Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked thine ire, Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief Now mercy, Lord ! thou knowest well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief ; And live and dje I will in thy belief ; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. TROILUS AND CRESTDA. 13] Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go Whence Cresida rode, as if in haste she was ; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas ! From hence my hope and solace forth did pass. would the blissful God now for his joy, 1 might her see again coming to Troy. And up to yonder hill was I her guide ; Alas, and there I took of her my leave ; Yonder I saw her to her father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave ; — And hither home I came when it was eve ; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy, k 2 132 EXTRACT FROM And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont ; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness ? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die : And thus a day or two drove wearily ; As ye have heard ; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might ; And made a fitting song, whose words but few, Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft voice, he of his lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. TROILUS AND CRES1DA. 133 Star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail ; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old ; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold ; And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said ; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, 1 shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, That cause is of my torment and my sorrow ; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above thy sphere ; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. 134 EXTRACT FROM The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be — for he thought so And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go ; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phaeton his son is yet alive, His too fond Father's car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see ; And ever thus he to himself would talk : — Lo, yonder is mine own bright Lady free ; Or yonder is it that the tents must be ; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore ; I prove it thus ; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain ; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain. TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 135 A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night ; And even at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart too light ; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. THE REVE'S TALE MODERNIZED By R. H. HORNE, NOTE. It has been thought that an idea of the extraordinary versatility of Chaucer's genius could not be adequately conveyed unless one of his matter-of-fact comic tales were attempted. The Reve's has accordingly been selected, as presenting a graphic painting of characters, — equal to those contained in the " Prologue to the Canterbury Tales," — displayed hi action by means of a story which may be designated as a broad farce ending in a pantomime of absurd reality. To those who are acquainted with the original, an apology may not be considered inadmissible for certain necessary variations and omissions. REVE'S PROLOGUE When all had laugh'd at this right foolish case Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas *, Diverse folk diversely their comments made. But, for the most part, they all laugh'd and play'd , Nor at this tale did any man much grieve, Unless indeed 'twas Oswald, our good Reve. Because that he w T as 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 * Alluding to the "Miller's Tale," which has rather offended the Reve, hy reason that it ridiculed a worthy carpenter. 140 the reve's prologue. By throwing dust in a proud miller's 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 with 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 w r orld 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 *. * 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 qteken, Yet in our ashen olde is fyre yitkin.' - The coincidence of the last line with the one quoted from Gray's Elegy will THE REVe's PROLOGUE. 141 ' 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 pass'd 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 passed is of yore : With aged folk, save dotage, there's nought more.' be remarked. Mr. Tynvhit says, he should certainly have considered the latter as an "imitation" (of Chaucer), "if Mr. Gray himself had not referred us to the 169 (170) 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. 142 the reve's prologue. 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 leach. 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. 1 144 the reve's tale. High and retreating was his bald ape's skull : He swagger' d 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 have a wife, he said, Unless she were well tutor' d 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 holydays before her would he 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 pass'd along the way, Who with her durst once toy or jesting play, the reve's tale. 145 Unless he wish'd 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 fill'd 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, 146 the reve's tale. Into some worthy blood of ancestry : For holy church's good must be expended On holy church's blood that is descended ; Therefore he Avould his holy church honour, Although that holy church he should devour. Great toll and fee had Simian, 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 ; THE REVE S TALE. 147 And merely for their mirth and revelry, Out to the warden eagerly they cry, That he 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 call'd 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 Sim kin, ' welcome, by my life ; l 2 148 THE REVE S TALE. 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, the reve's tale. 149 And thought, — all this is done but for a wile ; They fancy that no man can them beguile : But, by my thrift, I '11 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 '11 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 return' d ; no word he said, But doth his work, and with these clerks he play'd, Till that their corn was well and fairly ground. 150 THE REVe's TALE. And when the meal is sack'd and safely bound, John goeth out, and found his horse was gone, And cried aloud with many a stamp and groan, 4 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 hand that bound him so, And his that better should have knit the rein.' ' Alas !' quoth John, 'good Allen, haste amain Lav 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 scamper'd fast away THE REVE S TALE. 151 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 fear'd 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 turn'd into contempt and scorn. Our corn is stolen ; fools they will us call ; The warden, and our college fellows all, 152 the reve's tale. 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 learned 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 answer'd 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 reve's tale. 153 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 plann'd, 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 varnish'd 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 seem'd 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 : 154 the reve's tale. 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 furlong. The daughter routeth eke, par compagnie. Allen, the clerk, that heard this melody, Now poketh John, and said, ■ Why sleepest thou ? Heardest thou ever sic a song e'er 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 vet sooth to sav — the reve's tale. 155 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 — deil reward his sin ! By hallow-mass it shall no otherwise be V 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 villany.' ' 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 hand^, 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 ; 156 the reve's tale. 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 call'd a fool, or a cokemiy ! 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 night-mare 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, the reve's tale. 157 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. 1 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 also.' 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, 158 the reve's tale. ' 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 grasp' d 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 seem'd 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 also. She knew the place far better than this John, the reve's tale. 159 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 night-cap 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. FLOWER AND THE LEAF MODERNIZED By THOMAS POWELL. THE ARGUMENT. A Gentlewoman, out of an arbour, in a grove, seeth a great pan- pany of knighte and ladies in a dance upon the green grass ; the which being ended, they all kneel down, and do honour to the Daisy, — some to the Flower, and some to the Leaf. Afterward, 'his Gentlewoman leameth, by one of these Ladies, the meaning thereof, which is this: — They >chi<-b honour the Flower, a thing fading with ire such as look after beauty and worldly .-■ ,• but they tjxit honour the Leaf which i