No More Learning

To live uprightly, then, is sure the best;
To save ourselves, and not to damn the rest.
The soul of Arcite went where heathens go,
Who better live than we, though less they know.
In Palamon a manly grief appears;
Silent he wept, ashamed to show his tears.
Emilia shrieked but once; and then, oppressed
With sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast:
Till Theseus in his arms conveyed, with care,
Far from so sad a sight, the swooning fair.
'Twere loss of time her sorrow to relate; }
Ill bears the sex a youthful lover's fate, }
When just approaching to the nuptial state: }
But, like a low-hung cloud, it rains so fast,
That all at once it falls, and cannot last.
The face of things is changed, and Athens now,
That laughed so late, becomes the scene of woe:
Matrons and maids, both sexes, every state,
With tears lament the knight's untimely fate.
Nor[172] greater grief in falling Troy was seen
For Hector's death, but Hector was not then.
Old men with dust deformed their hoary hair;
The women beat their breasts, their cheeks they tear.
"Why would'st thou go, (with one consent they cry,)
When thou hadst gold enough, and Emily! "[173]
Theseus himself, who should have cheered the grief
Of others, wanted now the same relief:
Old Egeus only could revive his son,
Who various changes of the world had known,
And strange vicissitudes of human fate,
Still altering, never in a steady state:
Good after ill, and, after pain, delight,
Alternate, like the scenes of day and night.
Since every man, who lives, is born to die,
And none can boast sincere felicity,
With equal mind, what happens, let us bear,
Nor joy, nor grieve too much, for things beyond our care.
Like pilgrims, to the appointed place we tend;
The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
Even kings but play; and, when their part is done,
Some other, worse or better, mount the throne.
With words like these the crowd was satisfied,
And so they would have been had Theseus died.
But he, their king, was labouring in his mind, }
A fitting place for funeral pomps to find, }
Which were in honour of the dead designed. }
And, after long debate, at last he found
(As love itself had marked the spot of ground)
That grove, for ever green, that conscious lawnd,[174]
Where he with Palamon fought hand to hand;
That, where he fed his amorous desires
With soft complaints, and felt his hottest fires,
There other flames might waste his earthly part,
And burn his limbs, where love had burned his heart.
This once resolved, the peasants were enjoined,
Sere-wood, and firs, and doddered oaks to find.
With sounding axes to the grove they go,
Fell, split, and lay the fuel on a row;
Vulcanian food: a bier is next prepared,
On which the lifeless body should be reared,
Covered with cloth of gold; on which was laid
The corpse of Arcite, in like robes arrayed.
White gloves were on his hands, and on his head
A wreath of laurel, mixed with myrtle, spread.
A sword, keen-edged, within his right he held,
The warlike emblem of the conquered field.
Bare was his manly visage on the bier;
Menaced his countenance, even in death severe.
Then to the palace-hall they bore the knight,
To lie in solemn state, a public sight:
Groans, cries, and howlings, fill the crowded place,
And unaffected sorrow sat on every face.
Sad Palamon above the rest appears,
In sable garments, dewed with gushing tears;
His auburn locks on either shoulder flowed,
Which to the funeral of his friend he vowed:
But Emily, as chief, was next his side,
A virgin-widow, and a mourning bride.
And, that the princely obsequies might be
Performed according to his high degree,
The steed, that bore him living to the fight, }
Was trapped with polished steel, all shining bright, }
And covered with the achievements of the knight. }
The riders rode abreast; and one his shield,
His lance of cornel-wood another held;
The third his bow; and, glorious to behold,
The costly quiver, all of burnished gold.
The noblest of the Grecians next appear,
And, weeping, on their shoulders bore the bier;
With sober pace they marched, and often staid,
And through the master-street the corpse conveyed.
The houses to their tops with black were spread,
And even the pavements were with mourning hid.
The right side of the pall old Egeus kept,
And on the left the royal Theseus wept;
Each bore a golden bowl, of work divine,
With honey filled, and milk, and mixed with ruddy wine.
Then Palamon, the kinsman of the slain;
And after him appeared the illustrious train.
To grace the pomp, came Emily the bright,
With covered fire, the funeral pile to light.
With high devotion was the service made,
And all the rites of pagan honour paid:
So lofty was the pile, a Parthian bow,
With vigour drawn, must send the shaft below.
The bottom was full twenty fathom broad,
With crackling straw beneath in due proportion strowed.
The fabric seemed a wood of rising green,
With sulphur and bitumen cast between,
To feed the flames; the trees were unctuous fir, }
And mountain-ash, the mother of the spear; }
The mourner-yew, and builder-oak, were there; }
The beech, the swimming alder, and the plane, }
Hard box, and linden of a softer grain, }
And laurels, which the gods for conquering chiefs ordain. }
How they were ranked shall rest untold by me,
With nameless nymphs that lived in every tree;
Nor how the dryads, and the woodland train,
Disherited, ran howling o'er the plain;
Nor how the birds to foreign seats repaired,
Or beasts that bolted out, and saw the forest bared;
Nor how the ground, now cleared, with ghastly fright,
Beheld the sudden sun, a stranger to the light.
The straw, as first I said, was laid below;
Of chips, and sere-wood, was the second row;
The third of greens, and timber newly felled;
The fourth high stage the fragrant odours held,
And pearls, and precious stones, and rich array;
In midst of which, embalmed, the body lay.
The service sung, the maid, with mourning eyes,
The stubble fired; the smouldering flames arise:
This office done, she sunk upon the ground;
But what she spoke, recovered from her swoon,
I want the wit in moving words to dress;
But, by themselves, the tender sex may guess.
While the devouring fire was burning fast,
Rich jewels in the flame the wealthy cast;
And some their shields, and some their lances threw,
And gave the[175] warrior's ghost a warrior's due.
Full bowls of wine, of honey, milk, and blood, }
Were poured upon the pile of burning wood; }
And hissing flames receive, and, hungry, lick the food. }
Then thrice the mounted squadrons ride around
The fire, and Arcite's name they thrice resound.
_Hail and farewell! _ they shouted thrice amain,
Thrice facing to the left, and thrice they turned again:
Still, as they turned, they beat their clattering shields;
The women mix their cries, and clamour fills the fields.
The warlike wakes continued all the night,
And funeral-games were played at new-returning light:
Who, naked, wrestled best, besmeared with oil,
Or who, with gauntlets, gave or took the foil,
I will not tell you, nor would you attend;
But briefly haste to my long story's end.
I pass the rest. The year was fully mourned,
And Palamon long since to Thebes returned.
When, by the Grecians' general consent,
At Athens Theseus held his parliament;
Among the laws that passed, it was decreed,
That conquered Thebes from bondage should be freed;
Reserving homage to the Athenian throne,
To which the sovereign summoned Palamon.
Unknowing of the cause, he took his way,
Mournful in mind, and still in black array.
The monarch mounts the throne, and, placed on high,
Commands into the court the beauteous Emily.
So called, she came; the senate rose, and paid
Becoming reverence to the royal maid.
And first soft whispers through the assembly went;
With silent wonder then they watched the event:
All hushed, the king arose with awful grace,
Deep thought was in his breast, and counsel in his face:
At length he sighed, and, having first prepared
The attentive audience, thus his will declared:--
The Cause and Spring of motion, from above,
Hung down on earth, the golden chain of Love;
Great was the effect, and high was his intent,
When peace among the jarring seeds he sent:
Fire, flood, and earth, and air, by this were bound,
And love, the common link, the new creation crowned.
The chain still holds; for, though the forms decay,
Eternal matter never wears away:
The same first mover certain bounds has placed,
How long those perishable forms shall last;
Nor can they last beyond the time assigned
By that all-seeing, and all-making Mind:
Shorten their hours they may; for will is free;
But never pass the appointed destiny.
So men oppressed, when weary of their breath,
Throw off the burden, and suborn their death.
Then, since those forms begin, and have their end,
On some unaltered cause they sure depend:
Parts of the whole are we; but God the whole;
Who gives us life, and animating soul.
For nature cannot from a part derive
That being, which the whole can only give:
He, perfect, stable; but imperfect we,
Subject to change, and different in degree;
Plants, beasts, and man; and, as our organs are,
We, more or less, of his perfection share.
But, by a long descent, the ethereal fire
Corrupts; and forms, the mortal part, expire.
As he withdraws his virtue, so they pass,
And the same matter makes another mass.
This law the Omniscient Power was pleased to give,
That every kind should by succession live;
That individuals die, his will ordains;
The propagated species still remains.
The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees,
Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees;
Three centuries he grows, and three he stays,
Supreme in state, and in three more decays:
So wears the paving pebble in the street,
And towns and towers their fatal periods meet:
So rivers, rapid once, now naked lie,
Forsaken of their springs, and leave their channels dry:
So man, at first a drop, dilates with heat,
Then formed, the little heart begins to beat;
Secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell;
At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the shell,
And struggles into breath, and cries for aid;
Then, helpless, in his mother's lap is laid.
He creeps, he walks, and, issuing into man,
Grudges their life, from whence his own began;
Retchless of laws, affects to rule alone,
Anxious to reign, and restless on the throne;
First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last;
Rich of three souls, and lives all three to waste.
Some thus, but thousands more in flower of age;
For few arrive to run the latter stage.
Sunk in the first, in battle some are slain,
And others whelmed beneath the stormy main.
What makes all this, but Jupiter the king,
At whose command we perish, and we spring?
Then 'tis our best, since thus ordained to die,
To make a virtue of necessity;
Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain;
The bad grows better, which we well sustain;
And could we chuse the time, and chuse aright,
'Tis best to die, our honour at the height.
When we have done our ancestors no shame,
But served our friends, and well secured our fame;
Then should we wish our happy life to close,
And leave no more for fortune to dispose.
So should we make our death a glad relief
From future shame, from sickness, and from grief;
Enjoying, while we live, the present hour,
And dying in our excellence and flower.
Then round our death-bed every friend should run,
And joyous of our conquest early won;
While the malicious world, with envious tears,
Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs.
Since then our Arcite is with honour dead, }
Why should we mourn, that he so soon is freed, }
Or call untimely, what the gods decreed? }
With grief as just, a friend may be deplored,
From a foul prison to free air restored.
Ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife,
Could tears recal him into wretched life?
Their sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost;
And, worse than both, offends his happy ghost.
What then remains, but, after past annoy,
To take the good vicissitude of joy;
To thank the gracious gods for what they give,
Possess our souls, and while we live, to live?
Ordain we then two sorrows to combine,
And in one point the extremes of grief to join;
That thence resulting joy may be renewed,
As jarring notes in harmony conclude.
Then I propose, that Palamon shall be
In marriage joined with beauteous Emily;
For which already I have gained the assent
Of my free people in full parliament.
Long love to her has borne the faithful knight,
And well deserved, had fortune done him right:
'Tis time to mend her fault, since Emily,
By Arcite's death, from former vows is free;
If you, fair sister, ratify the accord,
And take him for your husband and your lord.
'Tis no dishonour to confer your grace
On one descended from a royal race;
And were he less, yet years of service past,
From grateful souls, exact reward at last.
Pity is heaven's and your's; nor can she find
A throne so soft as in a woman's mind. --
He said: she blushed; and, as o'erawed by might,
Seemed to give Theseus what she gave the knight.
Then, turning to the Theban, thus he said:--
Small arguments are needful to persuade
Your temper to comply with my command:--
And, speaking thus, he gave Emilia's hand.
Smiled Venus, to behold her own true knight }
Obtain the conquest, though he lost the fight; }
And blessed, with nuptial bliss, the sweet laborious night. }
Eros and Anteros, on either side,
One fired the bridegroom, and one warmed the bride;
And long-attending Hymen, from above,
Showered on the bed the whole Idalian grove.
All of a tenor was their after-life,
No day discoloured with domestic strife;
No jealousy, but mutual truth believed,
Secure repose, and kindness undeceived.
Thus heaven, beyond the compass of his thought,
Sent him the blessing he so dearly bought.
So may the Queen of Love long duty bless,
And all true lovers find the same success!


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 158: Prussia. ]

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

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

[Footnote 161: First edition, _pots_. ]

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

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

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

[Footnote 165: That is, at disadvantage. ]

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 169: Emetrius. ]

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

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

[Footnote 172: Folio Edit. _Not. _]

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

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

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




THE

COCK AND THE FOX.


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




THE

COCK AND THE FOX;

OR, THE

TALE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST.


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



FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

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

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

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

A court of coblers, and a mob of kings;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE MORAL.


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




THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF.


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

"_A gentlewoman, out of an arbour, in a grove, seeth a great company of
knights and ladies in a dance, upon the green grass. The which being
ended, they all kneel down, and do honour to the daisy, some to the
flower, and some to the leaf. Afterwards this gentlewoman learneth, by
one of these ladies, the meaning hereof, which is this: They which
honour the flower, a thing fading with every blast, are such as look
after beauty and worldly pleasure; but they that honour the leaf, which
abideth with the root, notwithstanding the frosts and winter storms, are
they which follow virtue and during qualities, without regard of worldly
respects. _"

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

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

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