I pa.s.s the rest; the year was fully mourn'd, And Palamon long since to Thebes returned: When, by the Grecians' general consent, At Athens Theseus held his parliament: Among the laws that pa.s.s'd, it was decreed, That conquer'd Thebes from bondage should be freed; Reserving homage to the Athenian throne, 1010 To which the sovereign summon'd Palamon.

Unknowing of the cause, he took his way, Mournful in mind, and still in black array.

The monarch mounts the throne, and, placed on high, Commands into the court the beauteous Emily: So call'd, she came; the senate rose, and paid Becoming reverence to the royal maid.

And first, soft whispers through the a.s.sembly went; With silent wonder then they watch'd the event: All hush'd, the king arose with awful grace, 1020 Deep thought was in his breast, and counsel in his face.

At length he sigh'd; and having first prepared The attentive audience, thus his will declared:

The Cause and Spring of motion, from above, Hung down on earth the golden chain of Love: Great was the effect, and high was his intent, When peace among the jarring seeds he sent.

Fire, flood, and earth, and air by this were bound, And Love, the common link, the new creation crown'd.

The chain still holds; for though the forms decay, 1030 Eternal matter never wears away: The same First Mover certain bounds has placed, How long those perishable forms shall last: Nor can they last beyond the time a.s.sign'd By that all-seeing, and all-making mind: Shorten their hours they may; for will is free; But never pa.s.s the appointed destiny.

So men oppress'd, when weary of their breath, Throw off the burden, and suborn their death.

Then since those forms begin, and have their end, 1040 On some unalter'd cause they sure depend: Parts of the whole are we; but G.o.d the whole; Who gives us life, and animating soul.

For nature cannot from a part derive That being, which the whole can only give: He perfect, stable; but imperfect we, Subject to change, and different in degree; Plants, beasts, and man; and as our organs are, We more or less of his perfection share.

But by a long descent, the ethereal fire 1050 Corrupts; and forms, the mortal part, expire: As he withdraws his virtue, so they pa.s.s, And the same matter makes another ma.s.s: This law the Omniscient Power was pleased to give, That every kind should by succession live: That individuals die, His will ordains; The propagated species still remains.

The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees; Three centuries he grows, and three he stays, 1060 Supreme in state, and in three more decays: So wears the paving pebble in the street, And towns and towers their fatal periods meet: So rivers, rapid once, now naked lie, Forsaken of their springs; and leave their channels dry.

So man, at first a drop, dilates with heat, Then, form'd, the little heart begins to beat; Secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell; At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the sh.e.l.l, And struggles into breath, and cries for aid; 1070 Then, helpless, in his mother's lap is laid: He creeps, he walks, and issuing into man, Grudges their life, from whence his own began: Reckless of laws, affects to rule alone, Anxious to reign, and restless on the throne: First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last; Rich of three souls, and lives all three to waste.

Some thus; but thousands more in flower of age: For few arrive to run the latter stage.

Sunk in the first, in battle some are slain, 1080 And others whelm'd beneath the stormy main.

What makes all this, but Jupiter the king, At whose command we perish, and we spring?

Then 'tis our best, since thus ordain'd to die, To make a virtue of necessity.

Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain; The bad grows better, which we well sustain; And could we choose the time, and choose aright, 'Tis best to die, our honour at the height.

When we have done our ancestors no shame, 1090 But served our friends, and well secured our fame; Then should we wish our happy life to close, And leave no more for fortune to dispose: So should we make our death a glad relief From future shame, from sickness, and from grief: Enjoying while we live the present hour, And dying in our excellence and flower.

Then round our death-bed every friend should run, And joyous of our conquest early won: While the malicious world with envious tears 1100 Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs.

Since then our Arcite is with honour dead, Why should we mourn, that he so soon is freed, Or call untimely, what the G.o.ds decreed?

With grief as just, a friend may be deplored From a foul prison to free air restored.

Ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife, Could tears recall him into wretched life?

Their sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost; And worse than both, offends his happy ghost. 1110 What then remains, but, after past annoy, To take the good vicissitude of joy?

To thank the gracious G.o.ds for what they give, Possess our souls, and while we live, to live?

Ordain we then two sorrows to combine, And in one point the extremes of grief to join; That thence resulting joy may be renew'd, As jarring notes in harmony conclude.

Then I propose that Palamon shall be In marriage join'd with beauteous Emily; 1120 For which already I have gain'd the a.s.sent Of my free people in full parliament.

Long love to her has borne the faithful knight, And well deserved, had fortune done him right: 'Tis time to mend her fault; since Emily By Arcite's death from former vows is free: If you, fair sister, ratify the accord, And take him for your husband, and your lord, 'Tis no dishonour to confer your grace On one descended from a royal race: 1130 And were he less, yet years of service past, From grateful souls exact reward at last: Pity is Heaven's and yours; nor can she find A throne so soft as in a woman's mind.

He said; she blush'd; and as o'er-awed by might, Seem'd to give Theseus what she gave the knight.

Then turning to the Theban thus he said: Small arguments are needful to persuade Your temper to comply with my command; And speaking thus, he gave Emilia's hand. 1140 Smiled Venus, to behold her own true knight Obtain the conquest, though he lost the fight; And bless'd with nuptial bliss the sweet laborious night.

Eros, and Anteros, on either side, One fired the bridegroom, and one warm'd the bride; And long-attending Hymen from above, Shower'd on the bed the whole Idalian grove.

All of a tenor was their after-life, No day discolour'd with domestic strife; No jealousy, but mutual truth believed, 1150 Secure repose, and kindness undeceived.

Thus Heaven, beyond the compa.s.s of his thought, Sent him the blessing he so dearly bought.

So may the Queen of Love long duty bless, And all true lovers find the same success!

THE c.o.c.k AND THE FOX: OR, THE TALE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST.

There lived, as authors tell, in days of yore, A widow somewhat old, and very poor: Deep in a cell her cottage lonely stood, Well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood.

This dowager, on whom my tale I found, Since last she laid her husband in the ground, A simple sober life, in patience, led, And had but just enough to buy her bread: But huswifing the little Heaven had lent, She duly paid a groat for quarter rent; 10 And pinch'd her belly, with her daughters two, To bring the year about with much ado.

The cattle in her homestead were three sows, A ewe call'd Mally, and three brinded cows.

Her parlour-window stuck with herbs around, Of savoury smell; and rushes strew'd the ground.

A mapple-dresser in her hall she had, On which full many a slender meal she made; For no delicious morsel pa.s.s'd her throat; According to her cloth she cut her coat: 20 No poignant sauce she knew, nor costly treat, Her hunger gave a relish to her meat: A sparing diet did her health a.s.sure; Or sick, a pepper posset was her cure.

Before the day was done, her work she sped, And never went by candlelight to bed: With exercise she sweat ill humours out, Her dancing was not hindered by the gout.

Her poverty was glad; her heart content; Nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant. 30 Of wine she never tasted through the year, But white and black was all her homely cheer: Brown bread, and milk (but first she skimm'd her bowls), And rashers of singed bacon on the coals; On holy days, an egg or two at most; But her ambition never reach'd to roast.

A yard she had with pales enclosed about, Some high, some low, and a dry ditch without.

Within this homestead lived, without a peer For crowing loud, the n.o.ble Chanticleer; 40 So hight her c.o.c.k, whose singing did surpa.s.s The merry notes of organs at the ma.s.s.

More certain was the crowing of the c.o.c.k To number hours, than is an abbey-clock; And sooner than the matin-bell was rung, He clapp'd his wings upon his roost, and sung: For when degrees fifteen ascended right, By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night.

High was his comb, and coral-red withal, In dents embattled like a castle wall; 50 His bill was raven-black, and shone like jet; Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet; White were his nails, like silver to behold, His body glittering like the burnish'd gold.

This gentle c.o.c.k, for solace of his life, Six misses had, besides his lawful wife.

Scandal that spares no king, though ne'er so good, Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood, His sisters both by sire and mother's side; And sure their likeness show'd them near allied. 60 But make the worst, the monarch did no more, Than all the Ptolemys had done before: When incest is for interest of a nation, 'Tis made no sin by holy dispensation.

Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone, Which by their common ugliness are known.

But pa.s.sing this, as from our tale apart, Dame Partlet was the sovereign of his heart: Ardent in love, outrageous in his play, He feather'd her a hundred times a day: 70 And she, that was not only pa.s.sing fair, But was with all discreet, and debonair, Resolved the pa.s.sive doctrine to fulfil, Though loth; and let him work his wicked will: At board and bed was affable and kind, According as their marriage vow did bind, And as the Church's precept had enjoin'd.

Even since she was a se'ennight old, they say, Was chaste and humble to her dying day, Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey. 80

By this her husband's heart she did obtain; What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain!

She was his only joy, and he her pride, She, when he walk'd, went pecking by his side; If spurning up the ground, he sprung a corn, The tribute in his bill to her was borne.

But oh! what joy it was to hear him sing In summer, when the day began to spring, Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat; _Solus c.u.m sola_ then was all his note. 90 For in the days of yore, the birds of parts Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal arts.

It happ'd that, perching on the parlour-beam Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream, Just at the dawn; and sigh'd, and groan'd so fast, As every breath he drew would be his last.

Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his side, Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cried For help from G.o.ds and men: and sore aghast She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last. 100 Dear heart, said she, for love of heaven declare Your pain, and make me partner in your care!

You groan, sir, ever since the morning-light, As something had disturb'd your n.o.ble sprite.

And, madam, well I might, said Chanticleer; Never was shrovetide c.o.c.k in such a fear.

Even still I run all over in a sweat, My princely senses not recover'd yet.

For such a dream I had, of dire portent, That much I fear my body will be shent: 110 It bodes I shall have wars and woful strife, Or in a loathsome dungeon end my life.

Know, dame, I dreamt within my troubled breast, That in our yard I saw a murderous beast, That on my body would have made arrest.

With waking eyes I ne'er beheld his fellow; His colour was betwixt a red and yellow: Tipp'd was his tail, and both his p.r.i.c.king ears Were black; and much unlike his other hairs: The rest, in shape a beagle's whelp throughout, 120 With broader forehead, and a sharper snout: Deep in his front were sunk his glowing eyes, That yet, methinks, I see him with surprise.

Reach out your hand, I drop with clammy sweat, And lay it to my heart, and feel it beat.

Now fie, for shame, quoth she; by Heaven above, Thou hast for ever lost thy lady's love!

No woman can endure a recreant knight, He must be bold by day, and free by night: Our s.e.x desires a husband or a friend, 130 Who can our honour and his own defend.

Wise, hardy, secret, liberal of his purse: A fool is nauseous, but a coward worse: No bragging c.o.xcomb, yet no baffled knight.

How darest thou talk of love, and darest not fight?

How darest thou tell thy dame thou art affear'd?

Hast thou no manly heart, and hast a beard?

If aught from fearful dreams may be divined, They signify a c.o.c.k of dunghill kind.

All dreams, as in old Galen I have read, 140 Are from repletion and complexion bred; From rising fumes of indigested food, And noxious humours that infect the blood: And sure, my lord, if I can read aright, These foolish fancies you have had to-night Are certain symptoms (in the canting style) Of boiling choler, and abounding bile; This yellow gall, that in your stomach floats, Engenders all these visionary thoughts.

When choler overflows, then dreams are bred 150 Of flames, and all the family of red; Red dragons, and red beasts, in sleep we view, For humours are distinguish'd by their hue.

From hence we dream of wars and warlike things, And wasps and hornets with their double wings.

Choler adust congeals our blood with fear, Then black bulls toss us, and black devils tear.

In sanguine airy dreams, aloft we bound; With rheums oppress'd, we sink in rivers drown'd.

More I could say, but thus conclude my theme, 160 The dominating humour makes the dream.

Cato was in his time accounted wise, And he condemns them all for empty lies.

Take my advice, and when we fly to ground, With laxatives preserve your body sound, And purge the peccant humours that abound.

I should be loath to lay you on a bier; And though there lives no pothecary near, I dare for once prescribe for your disease, And save long bills, and a d.a.m.n'd doctor's fees. 170 Two sovereign herbs, which I by practice know, And both at hand (for in our yard they grow), On peril of my soul shall rid you wholly Of yellow choler, and of melancholy: You must both purge, and vomit; but obey, And for the love of heaven make no delay.

Since hot and dry in your complexion join, Beware the sun when in a vernal sign; For when he mounts exalted in the Ram, If then he finds your body in a flame, 180 Replete with choler, I dare lay a groat, A tertian ague is at least your lot.

Perhaps a fever (which the G.o.ds forefend!) May bring your youth to some untimely end: And therefore, sir, as you desire to live, A day or two before your laxative, Take just three worms, nor under nor above, Because the G.o.ds unequal numbers love, These digestives prepare you for your purge; Of fumetory, centaury, and spurge, 190 And of ground ivy add a leaf or two,-- All which within our yard or garden grow.

Eat these, and be, my lord, of better cheer; Your father's son was never born to fear.