No More Learning

I am sensible, as I ought to be, of the scandal I have
given by my loose writings; and make what reparation I am able, by this
public acknowledgment. If any thing of this nature, or of profaneness,
be crept into these poems, I am so far from defending it, that I disown
it, _totum hoc indictum volo_. Chaucer makes another manner of apology
for his broad speaking, and Boccace makes the like; but I will follow
neither of them. Our countryman, in the end of his characters, before
the "Canterbury Tales," thus excuses the ribaldry, which is very gross
in many of his novels:

But firste, I praie you of your curtesie,
That ye ne arette it not my vilanie,
Though that I plainly speke in this matere,
To tellen you hir wordes, and hir chere:
Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely,
For this ye knowen al so well as I,
Who so shall telle a tale after a man,
He moste reherse as neighe as ever he can;
Everich word, if it be in his charge,
All speke he, never so rudely and so large:
Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe:
He may not spare, although he were his brother,
He moste as wel sayn o word as an other.
Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ,
And wel ye wote no vilanie is it,
Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede,
The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede.

Yet if a man should have inquired of Boccace or of Chaucer, what need
they had of introducing such characters, where obscene words were proper
in their mouths, but very indecent to be heard? I know not what answer
they could have made; for that reason, such tale shall be left untold by
me. You have here a specimen of Chaucer's language, which is so
obsolete, that his sense is scarce to be understood; and you have
likewise more than one example of his unequal numbers, which were
mentioned before. Yet many of his verses consist of ten syllables, and
the words not much behind our present English: as for example, these two
lines, in the description of the carpenter's young wife:

Winsing she was, as is a jolly colt,
Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.

I have almost done with Chaucer, when I have answered some objections
relating to my present work. I find some people are offended that I have
turned these tales into modern English; because they think them unworthy
of my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned wit, not worthy
reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester[128] say, that
Mr Cowley himself was of that opinion; who, having read him over at my
lord's request, declared he had no taste of him. I dare not advance my
opinion against the judgment of so great an author; but I think it fair,
however, to leave the decision to the public. Mr Cowley was too modest
to set up for a dictator; and being shocked perhaps with his old style,
never examined into the depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I confess, is
a rough diamond, and must first be polished, ere he shines. I deny not
likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always
of a piece; but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater
moment. Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and
knows not when he has said enough. But there are more great wits beside
Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted.
An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. Having
observed this redundancy in Chaucer, (as it is an easy matter for a man
of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater,) I have not tied
myself to a literal translation; but have often omitted what I judged
unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better
thoughts. I have presumed farther, in some places, and added somewhat of
my own where I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his
thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the beginning of our
language. And to this I was the more emboldened, because (if I may be
permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul congenial to his,
and that I had been conversant in the same studies. Another poet, in
another age, may take the same liberty with my writings; if at least
they live long enough to deserve correction. It was also necessary
sometimes to restore the sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled in
the errors of the press. Let this example suffice at present: in the
story of Palamon and Arcite, where the temple of Diana is described, you
find these verses, in all the editions of our author:

Ther saw I Dane yturned til a tree,
I mene not hire the goddesse Diane,
But Venus daughter, which that hight Dane.

which, after a little consideration, I knew was to be reformed into this
sense,--that Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, was turned into a
tree. [129] I durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future
Milbourne should arise, and say, I varied from my author, because I
understood him not.

But there are other judges, who think I ought not to have translated
Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion: they suppose there
is a certain veneration due to his old language; and that it is little
less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of
opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this
transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be
lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. Of this opinion
was that excellent person, whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester,
who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised him. My lord dissuaded
me from this attempt, (for I was thinking of it some years before his
death,) and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my
undertaking while he lived, in deference to him: yet my reason was not
convinced with what he urged against it. If the first end of a writer be
to be understood, then, as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts
must grow obscure:

_Multa renascentur, quæ jam cecidere; cadentque
Quæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus,
Quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi. _

When an ancient word, for its sound and significancy, deserves to be
revived, I have that reasonable veneration for antiquity to restore it.
All beyond this is superstition. Words are not like landmarks, so
sacred as never to be removed; customs are changed, and even statutes
are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were
enacted. As for the other part of the argument,--that his thoughts will
lose of their original beauty by the innovation of words,--in the first
place, not only their beauty, but their being is lost, where they are no
longer understood, which is the present case. I grant that something
must be lost in all transfusion, that is, in all translations; but the
sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at least be maimed,
when it is scarce intelligible, and that but to a few. How few are
there, who can read Chaucer, so as to understand him perfectly? And if
imperfectly, then with less profit, and no pleasure. It is not for the
use of some old Saxon friends, that I have taken these pains with him:
let them neglect my version, because they have no need of it. I made it
for their sakes, who understand sense and poetry as well as they, when
that poetry and sense is put into words which they understand. I will go
farther, and dare to add, that what beauties I lose in some places, I
give to others which had them not originally: but in this I may be
partial to myself; let the reader judge, and I submit to his decision.
Yet I think I have just occasion to complain of them, who, because they
understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their countrymen
of the same advantage, and hoard him up, as misers do their grandam
gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from making use
of it. In sum, I seriously protest, that no man ever had, or can have, a
greater veneration for Chaucer than myself. I have translated some part
of his works, only that I might perpetuate his memory, or at least
refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have altered him any where for
the better, I must at the same time acknowledge, that I could have done
nothing without him. _Facile est inventis addere_ is no great
commendation; and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a greater. I
will conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one remark: A
lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of correspondence with some
authors of the fair sex in France, has been informed by them, that
Mademoiselle de Scuderi, who is as old as Sibyl, and inspired like her
by the same god of poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into
modern French. [130] From which I gather, that he has been formerly
translated into the old Provençal; for how she should come to understand
old English, I know not. But the matter of fact being true, it makes me
think that there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain
periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits should be renewed, as
Chaucer is both in France and England. If this be wholly chance, it is
extraordinary; and I dare not call it more, for fear of being taxed with
superstition.

Boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with
Chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies. Both writ
novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue. But the greatest
resemblance of our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and
pleasing way of relating comical adventures, I may pass it over,
because I have translated nothing from Boccace of that nature. In the
serious part of poetry, the advantage is wholly on Chaucer's side; for
though the Englishman has borrowed many tales from the Italian, yet it
appears, that those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but
taken from authors of former ages, and by him only modelled; so that
what there was of invention, in either of them, may be judged equal. But
Chaucer has refined on Boccace, and has mended the stories, which he has
borrowed, in his way of telling; though prose allows more liberty of
thought, and the expression is more easy when unconfined by numbers. Our
countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at disadvantage. I
desire not the reader should take my word; and, therefore, I will set
two of their discourses, on the same subject, in the same light, for
every man to judge betwixt them. I translated Chaucer first, and,
amongst the rest, pitched on the "Wife of Bath's Tale;" not daring, as I
have said, to adventure on her prologue, because it is too
licentious. [131] There Chaucer introduces an old woman, of mean
parentage, whom a youthful knight, of noble blood, was forced to marry,
and consequently loathed her. The crone, being in bed with him, on the
wedding-night, and finding his aversion, endeavours to win his affection
by reason, and speaks a good word for herself, (as who could blame her? )
in hope to mollify the sullen bridegroom. She takes her topics from the
benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity
of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and titles, without inherent
virtue, which is the true nobility. When I had closed Chaucer, I
returned to Ovid, and translated some more of his fables; and, by this
time, had so far forgotten the "Wife of Bath's Tale," that, when I took
up Boccace, unawares I fell on the same argument, of preferring virtue
to nobility of blood and titles, in the story of Sigismunda; which I had
certainly avoided, for the resemblance of the two discourses, if my
memory had not failed me. Let the reader weigh them both; and, if he
thinks me partial to Chaucer, it is in him to right Boccace.

I prefer, in our countryman, far above all his other stories, the noble
poem of "Palamon and Arcite," which is of the epic kind, and perhaps not
much inferior to the Ilias, or the Æneis. The story is more pleasing
than either of them, the manners as perfect, the diction as poetical,
the learning as deep and various, and the disposition full as artful,
only it includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven years at
least: but Aristotle has left undecided the duration of the action,
which yet is easily reduced into the compass of a year, by a narration
of what preceded the return of Palamon to Athens. I had thought, for the
honour of our nation, and more particularly for his, whose laurel,
though unworthy, I have worn after him, that this story was of English
growth, and Chaucer's own: but I was undeceived by Boccace; for,
casually looking on the end of his seventh Giornata, I found Dioneo
(under which name he shadows himself,) and Fiametta, (who represents his
mistress, the natural daughter of Robert, king of Naples,) of whom these
words are spoken:--"_Dioneo e Fiametta gran pezza Eantarono insieme
d'Arcita, e di Palemone_;" by which it appears, that this story was
written before the time of Boccace; but the name of its author being
wholly lost, Chaucer is now become an original; and I question not but
the poem has received many beauties, by passing through his noble
hands. [132] Besides this tale, there is another of his own invention,
after the manner of the Provençals, called "The Flower and the Leaf,"
with which I was so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the
moral, that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader.

As a corollary to this preface, in which I have done justice to others,
I owe somewhat to myself; not that I think it worth my time to enter the
lists with one Milbourne, and one Blackmore, but barely to take notice,
that such men there are, who have written scurrilously against me,
without any provocation. Milbourne, who is in orders, pretends, amongst
the rest, this quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul on priesthood: if
I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part
of the reparation will come to little. [133] Let him be satisfied, that
he shall not be able to force himself upon me for an adversary. I
contemn him too much to enter into competition with him. His own
translations of Virgil have answered his criticisms on mine. If, as they
say, he has declared in print, he prefers the version of Ogilby to mine,
the world has made him the same compliment; for it is agreed, on all
hands, that he writes even below Ogilby. That, you will say, is not
easily to be done; but what cannot Milbourne bring about? I am
satisfied, however, that, while he and I live together, I shall not be
thought the worst poet of the age. It looks, as if I had desired him,
underhand, to write so ill against me; but, upon my honest word, I have
not bribed him to do me this service, and am wholly guiltless of his
pamphlet. It is true, I should be glad if I could persuade him to
continue his good offices, and write such another critique on any thing
of mine; for I find, by experience, he has a great stroke with the
reader, when he condemns any of my poems, to make the world have a
better opinion of them. He has taken some pains with my poetry; but
nobody will be persuaded to take the same with his. If I had taken to
the church, as he affirms, but which was never in my thoughts, I should
have had more sense, if not more grace, than to have turned myself out
of my benefice, by writing libels on my parishioners. But his account of
my manners, and my principles, is of a piece with his cavils and his
poetry; and so I have done with him for ever.

As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his quarrel to me is,
that I was the author of "Absalom and Achitophel," which, he thinks, is
a little hard on his fanatic patrons in London.

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill
is to be spoken of the dead; and, therefore, peace be to the manes of
his "Arthurs. "[134] I will only say, that it was not for this noble
knight that I drew the plan of an epic poem on King Arthur, in my
preface to the translation of Juvenal. The guardian angels of kingdoms
were machines too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected
them, as Dares did the whirlbats of Eryx, when they were thrown before
him by Entellus: yet from that preface, he plainly took his hint; for
he began immediately upon the story, though he had the baseness not to
acknowledge his benefactor, but, instead of it, to traduce me in a
libel.

I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he has taxed
me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of
mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or
immorality, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he
be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise,
he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in
the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good
one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that, in many places, he has
perverted my meaning by his glosses, and interpreted my words into
blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides, that he is
too much given to horse-play in his raillery, and comes to battle like a
dictator from the plough. I will not say, "the zeal of God's house has
eaten him up;" but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good
manners and civility. It might also be doubted, whether it were
altogether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding;
perhaps, it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of
ancient and modern plays: a divine might have employed his pains to
better purpose, than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes, whose
examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed, that
he read them not without some pleasure. They, who have written
commentaries on those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have
explained some vices, which, without their interpretation, had been
unknown to modern times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the
former age and us. There is more bawdry in one play of Fletcher's,
called "The Custom of the Country," than in all ours together. [135] Yet
this has been often acted on the stage, in my remembrance. Are the times
so much more reformed now, than they were five-and-twenty years ago? If
they are, I congratulate the amendment of our morals. But I am not to
prejudice the cause of my fellow poets, though I abandon my own defence:
they have some of them answered for themselves; and neither they nor I
can think Mr Collier so formidable an enemy, that we should shun him. He
has lost ground, at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too
far, like the Prince of Condé, at the battle of Senneph:[136] from
immoral plays, to no plays, _ab abusu ad usum, non valet consequentia_.
But, being a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge. As for the
rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels,
that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmore
and Milbourne are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered
to their infamy:

----_Demetri, teque, Tigelli,
Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. _


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 104: This was, I suppose, our author's old foe, Villiers, Duke
of Buckingham, the tardy progress of whose great buildings at Cleveden
was often the subject of satire:

"Once more, says fame, for battle he prepares,
And threatens rhymers with a second farce;
But if as long for that as this we stay,
He'll finish Cleveden sooner than his play. "

_The Review. _
]

[Footnote 105: These translations are to be found in the 12th volume,
being placed after the versions of Ovid's "Epistles. "]

[Footnote 106: I cannot find any such passages in Spenser as are here
alluded to. ]

[Footnote 107: Edward Fairfax, natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of
Denton in Yorkshire, translated Tasso's celebrated poem, stanza for
stanza, with equal elegance and fidelity. His version, entitled "Godfrey
of Bulloigne, or the Recovery of Jerusalem," was first published in
1600. Collins has paid the original author and translator the following
singular compliment:

"How have I sate, while piped the pensive wind,
To hear thy harp by British Fairfax strung;
Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders that he sung. "

_Ode on Highland Superstitions. _
]

[Footnote 108: It would seem, from this respectful expression, that our
author's feud with Rymer (See Vol. XI. p. 60. Vol. XII. p. 46. ) was now
composed. ]

[Footnote 109: Jeremy Collier, whose diatribe against the theatre galled
Dryden severely. ]

[Footnote 110: See this version, Vol. XII. p. 357. ]

[Footnote 111: The celebrated author of the "Leviathan. " Burnet says, he
was esteemed at court as a mathematician, though he had little talent
that way. ]

[Footnote 112: In this instance Dryden has inverted the fact. Boccacio
tells the story of Griselda in his "Decameron," which was written about
1160, and Petrarch did not translate it till 1173, the year of his
death, when he executed a Latin version of it. Even then, he mentions it
as a traditional tale, which he had often heard with pleasure. The
original edition of the story is difficult to discover. Noguier, in his
"Histoire de Tholouse," affirms, that this mirror of female patience
actually existed about the year 1103, and Le Grand lays claim to her
history as originally a French fabliau. It seems certain, at least, that
it was not invented by Petrarch, although Chaucer quotes his authority,
probably that he might introduce a panegyric on his departed friend:

"I wol you tell a tale, which that I
Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,
As proved by his wordes, and his werk:
He now is dede, and nailed in his cheste,
I pray to God so geve his soule reste.
Fraunceis Petrark, the laureate poete,
Highte this clerke, whose rhetorik swete
Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie. "

_Clerke's Prologue. _
]

[Footnote 113: Tyrwhitt has laboured to show, that Boccacio's poem,
called the "Philostrato," contains the original of Chaucer's "Troilus
and Creseide. " But Chaucer himself calls his original "Lollius" and the
Book "Trophe;" and I think, with Mr Godwin, that we are not hastily to
conclude that this was an invention, to disguise his pillaging Boccacio,
when we consider the probability of the work, which served as their
common original, being lost in the course of so many ages. See this
question discussed in Godwin's "Life of Chaucer," Vol. I. p 263. ]

[Footnote 114: Unquestionably these poems are original as to the mode of
treating them; but, in both cases, Chaucer was contented to adopt the
story of some more ancient tale-teller. The "Wife of Bath's Tale" is
imitated from the "Florent" in Gower, and that probably from the work of
an older minstrel. Or Chaucer may have copied the old tale called the
"Marriage of Sir Gawain," which is probably the corrupted fragment of a
metrical romance. The apologue of "The Cock and the Fox," is to be found
in the "Fables" of Marie of France, who seems to have lived in the reign
of Henry III. of England. ]

[Footnote 115: The Tabard was the inn whence Chaucer's pilgrims set
forth on their joyous party to Canterbury, and took its name from the
sign, a herald's coat, or tabard.

It is much to the credit of British painting, that Mr Stothard, of
London, has been able to execute a picture, representing this celebrated
groupe on their journey to Canterbury, with the genius and spirit of a
master, and all the rigid attention to costume that could be expected by
the most severe antiquary. ]

[Footnote 116: Dryden seems here to intimate some hankering after those
_Dalilahs of composition_, as he elsewhere calls them, that consisted in
turning and playing upon words. ]

[Footnote 117: The famous Cowley, whose metaphysical conceits had
already, it would seem, begun to tarnish the brilliancy of his
reputation. ]

[Footnote 118: Thomas Speght's edition of Chaucer was published in 1597
and 1602. The preface contains the passage which Dryden alludes to: "And
for his (Chaucer's) verses, although, in divers places, they seem to us
to stand of unequal measures, yet a skilful reader, who can scan them in
their nature, shall find it otherwise. And if a verse, here and there,
fal out a syllable shorter or longer than another, I rather aret it to
the negligence and rape of Adam Scrivener, (that I may speake as Chaucer
doth) than to any unconning or oversight in the author: For how fearful
he was to have his works miswritten, or his verse mismeasured, may
appeare in the end of his fift booke of "Troylus and Creseide," where he
writeth thus:

"And for there is so great diversitie
In English, and in writing of our tongue,
So pray I God that none miswrite thee,
Ne thee mismetre for defaut of tongue. "

By his hasty and inconsiderate contradiction of honest Speght's
panegyric, Dryden has exposed himself to be censured for pronouncing
rashly upon a subject with which he was but imperfectly acquainted. The
learned Tyrwhitt has supported Speght's position with equal pains and
success, and plainly proves, that the apparent inequalities of the rhyme
of Chaucer, arise chiefly from the change in pronunciation since his
time, particularly from a number of words being now pronounced as one
syllable, which in those days were prolonged into two, or as two
syllables which were anciently three. These researches, in the words of
Ellis, "have proved what Dryden denied, viz. that Chaucer's
versification, wherever his genuine text is preserved, was uniformly
correct, although the harmony of his lines has, in many cases, been
obliterated by the changes that have taken place in the mode of
accenting our language. "--_Specimens of the Early English Poets_, Vol.
I. p. 209. ]

[Footnote 119: Chaucer was doubtless employed and trusted by Edward and
by his grandson, and probably favoured by Henry IV. , the son of his
original patron; but if Dryden meant, that he held, during these reigns,
the precise office of poet-laureat, once enjoyed by himself, it is
difficult to suppose that any such had existence. ]

[Footnote 120: The rebellion of the Commons was that tumult which took
place under the management of John of Northampton, commonly called John
Cumbertown. Chaucer was forced to fly to Holland, in consequence of
having some concern in that insurrection, and on his return he was
arrested and committed to the Tower. Katherine Swynford, mistress, and
at length wife, to John of Gaunt, was sister of Philippa Rouet, wife of
the poet. ]

[Footnote 121: "The Ploughman's Tale" is now generally accounted
spurious. In speaking of it, Dryden inadvertently confounds it with the
work of Robert Langland, a secular priest, well known to collectors by
the title of "Pierce Plowman's Visions. " Both poems contain a bitter
satire against the clergy; but that which has been falsely ascribed to
Chaucer, is expressly written in favour of Wickliffe's doctrine. Dryden
probably was sufficiently ready to adopt any authority which seemed to
countenance severity against the churchmen,--a subject upon which he
always flies into declamation. ]

[Footnote 122: This ceremony having been only partially performed when
Samuel Johnson, the author of Julian, was thus ignominiously punished,
it was found that the degradation was incomplete, and thus he saved his
benefice. ]

[Footnote 123: It is almost unnecessary to mention their names,--Henry
the Second and Thomas a Becket. ]

[Footnote 124: Dr James Drake wrote, in answer to Collier, a work
called, "The Ancient and Modern Stage Surveyed, or Mr Collier's View of
the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage set in a true light. " 8vo,
1699, p. 348-355. ]

[Footnote 125: The famous Italian physiognomist. ]

[Footnote 126: _Gat-toothed_, according to Chaucer; meaning nothing more
than _goat-toothed_, which, applied to such a character, has an obvious
meaning. The commentators, however, chose to read _gap-toothed_, as of
more easy explanation. ]

[Footnote 127: Alluding here, as elsewhere in the preface, to Jeremy
Collier and Luke Milbourne, who had assailed not only his writings, but
his moral character, with great severity. ]

[Footnote 128: To whom "Don Sebastian" is dedicated. See Vol. VII. page
281. He died in 1696-7. ]

[Footnote 129: This literal error was corrected by Tyrwhitt, from the
better MSS. of Chaucer, being in fact, not a blunder of the poet, but of
the press. ]

[Footnote 130: This lady lived to the age of ninety-four. Her huge
romances, "Artamenes, Clelia, and Cleopatra," were in my childhood still
read in some old-fashioned Scottish families, though now absolutely
forgotten, and in no chance of being revived. Mademoiselle de Scuderi
died about eighteen months after this discourse was written. There is no
reason to think she was seriously engaged in translating Chaucer, whose
works certainly never existed in the old Provençal or Norman French,
into which last they were more likely to have been translated. ]

[Footnote 131: Pope, however, modernized this prologue, and, it is said,
some of Chaucer's looser tales, though the latter were published under
the name of Betterton. _Malone_, vol. iv. p. 631. ]

[Footnote 132: The allusion, in Boccace, was probably to his own poem,
the "Theseida," a work so scarce, as almost never to have been heard of,
until it was described by Tyrwhitt, in his Essay concerning the
Originals whence Chaucer drew his tales. It contains the whole story of
Palamon and Arcite. But the tale itself was more ancient than the days
of Boccace. ]

[Footnote 133: There seems to have been something questionable in
Milbourne's character. Dryden, a little lower down, hints, that he lost
his living, for writing a libel upon his parishioners. ]

[Footnote 134: "Prince Arthur," and "King Arthur," two works,
facetiously entitled epic poems, published in 1695 and 1697.
In the
preface to the first, occurred the following severe attack upon Dryden,
which is inserted by Mr Malone as illustrative of the passage in the
text.

"Some of these poets, to excuse their guilt, allege for themselves, that
the degeneracy of the age makes their lewd way of writing necessary.
They pretend, the auditors will not be pleased, unless they are thus
entertained from the stage; and to please, they say, is the chief
business of the poet. But this is by no means a just apology. It is not
true, as was said before, that the poet's chief business is to please:
his chief business is to instruct, to make mankind wiser and better;
and, in order to this, his care should be to please and entertain the
audience, with all the wit and art he is master of. Aristotle and
Horace, and all their critics and commentators, all men of wit and
sense, agree, that this is the end of poetry. But they say, it is their
profession to write for the stage; and that poets must starve, if they
will not, in this way, humour the audience; the theatre will be as
unfrequented as the churches, and the poet and the parson equally
neglected. Let the poet, then, abandon his profession, and take up some
honest, lawful, calling; where, joining industry to his great wit, he
may soon get above the complaints of poverty, so common among these
ingenious men, and lie under no necessity of prostituting his wit, to
any such vile purposes as are here censured. This will be a course of
life more profitable and honourable to himself, and more useful to
others. And there are, among these writers, _some, who think they might
have risen to the highest dignities, in other professions, had they
employed their wit in those ways_. It is a mighty dishonour and reproach
to any man that is capable of being useful to the world, in any _liberal
and virtuous_ profession, _to lavish out his life and wit, in
propagating vice and corruption of manners_, and in battering, from the
stage, the strongest entrenchments, and best works, of religion and
virtue. Whoever makes this his choice, when the other was in his power,
may he go off the stage unpitied, _complaining of neglect and poverty,
the just punishments of his irreligion and folly_. "]

[Footnote 135: This play is bad enough, yet the assertion seems a strong
one. There can be little pleasure, however, in weighing filth against
filth, so the point may be left undecided. ]

[Footnote 136: There is an account of this desperate action, in the
Memoirs of Captain Carleton. The Confederate Army were upon their march
when the Prince of Condé suddenly attacked their rear, which he totally
routed, and then led his forces between the second line of the
Confederates, and their line of baggage, to compel them to a general
action. But the plunder of the baggage occasioned so much delay, that
the van of the Prince of Orange's army had time to rejoin the centre;
and, though the French maintained the action with great vigour, they
were, in the end, compelled to leave the Confederates in possession of
the field of battle. This battle was fought 11th August, 1674. ]




PALAMON AND ARCITE;

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.




PALAMON AND ARCITE.


"The Knight's Tale," whether we consider Chaucer's original poem, or the
spirited and animated version of Dryden, is one of the finest pieces of
composition in our language. We have treated of its merits so amply in
the general criticism on Dryden's poetry, that little remains here save
to trace the antiquity of the fable.

The history of Theseus, as, indeed, it is a sort of legend of
knight-errantry, was an early favourite during the middle ages. It is
probable, that the anecdote of Palamon and Arcite was early engrafted
upon the story of the siege of Thebes. But the original from which
Chaucer appears to have immediately derived his materials, is the
"Teseide" of Boccacio, an epic poem, composed in _ottava rima_, of which
Tyrwhitt has given an analysis. The work of Chaucer cannot, however,
properly be termed a translation; on the contrary, the tale has acquired
its most beautiful passages under the hand of the English bard. He
abridged the prolix, and enlarged the poetical, parts of the work;
compressed the whole into one concise and interesting tale; and left us
an example of a beautiful heroic poem, if a work is entitled to that
name which consists only of two thousand lines.

This romantic legend is, by Chaucer, with great propriety, put into the
mouth of the Knight, a distinguished character among the Pilgrims; who,
in their journey to the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, had agreed to
beguile the way by telling each a tale in turn. Hence the second title
of "The Knight's Tale. "




TO

HER GRACE

THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND. [137]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF

PALAMON AND ARCITE.


MADAM,

The bard, who first adorned our native tongue,
Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song;
Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
He matched their beauties, where they most excel;
Of love sung better, and of arms as well.
Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond, to behold
What power the charms of beauty had of old;
Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own.
If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
And poets can divine each other's thought,
The fairest nymph before his eyes he set,
And then the fairest was Plantagenet;[138]
Who three contending princes made her prize,
And ruled the rival nations with her eyes;
Who left immortal trophies of her fame,
And to the noblest order gave the name.
Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,
You keep her conquests, and extend your own:
As when the stars in their ethereal race, }
At length have rolled around the liquid space, }
At certain periods they resume their place, }
From the same point of heaven their course advance,
And move in measures of their former dance;
Thus, after length of ages, she returns,
Restored in you, and the same place adorns;
Or you perform her office in the sphere,
Born of her blood, and make a new platonic year. [139]
O true Plantagenet, O race divine,
(For beauty still is fatal to the line,)
Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view,
Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;
Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right,
Your noble Palamon had been the knight;
And conquering Theseus from his side had sent
Your generous lord, to guide the Theban government.
Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see
A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.
Already have the Fates your path prepared,
And sure presage your future sway declared:
When westward, like the sun, you took your way,
And from benighted Britain bore the day,
Blue Triton gave the signal from the shore,
The ready Nereids heard, and swam before
To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale
But just inspired, and gently swelled the sail:
Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand[140] }
Heaved up the lightened keel, and sunk the sand, }
And steered the sacred vessel safe to land. }
The land, if not restrained, had met your way,
Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea. [141]
Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored,
In you, the pledge of her expected lord;
Due to her isle, a venerable name;
His father and his grandsire known to fame;
Awed by that house, accustomed to command, }
The sturdy kerns in due subjection stand, }
Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand, }
At your approach, they crowded to the port;
And scarcely landed, you create a court:
As Ormond's harbinger[142] to you they run,
For Venus is the promise of the sun.
The waste of civil wars, their towns destroyed,
Pales unhonoured, Ceres unemployed,
Were all forgot; and one triumphant day
Wiped all the tears of three campaigns away. [143]
Blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought,
So mighty recompence your beauty brought.
As when the dove returning bore the mark
Of earth restored to the long-labouring ark,
The relics of mankind, secure of rest, }
Ope'd every window to receive the guest, }
And the fair bearer of the message blessed: }
So, when you came, with loud repeated cries, }
The nation took an omen from your eyes, }
And God advanced his rainbow in the skies, }
To sign inviolable peace restored;
The saints, with solemn shouts, proclaimed the new accord.
When at your second coming you appear,
(For I foretel that millenary year,)
The sharpened share shall vex the soil no more,
But earth unbidden shall produce her store;
The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile,
And heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.
Heaven, from all ages, has reserved for you
That happy clime, which venom never knew;
Or if it had been there, your eyes alone
Have power to chase all poison, but their own.
Now in this interval, which fate has cast
Betwixt your future glories and your past,
This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn;
While England celebrates your safe return,
By which you seem the seasons to command,
And bring our summers back to their forsaken land.
The vanquished isle our leisure must attend, }
Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; }
Nor can we spare you long, though often we may lend. }
The dove was twice employed abroad, before
The world was dried, and she returned no more.
Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger,
New from her sickness,[144] to that northern air;
Rest here a while your lustre to restore,
That they may see you, as you shone before;
For yet, the eclipse not wholly past, you wade
Through some remains, and dimness of a shade.
A subject in his prince may claim a right,
Nor suffer him with strength impaired to fight;
Till force returns, his ardour we restrain,
And curb his warlike wish to cross the main.
Now past the danger, let the learned begin
The inquiry, where disease could enter in;
How those malignant atoms forced their way;
What in the faultless frame they found to make their prey,
Where every element was weighed so well, }
That heaven alone, who mixed the mass, could tell }
Which of the four ingredients could rebel; }
And where, imprisoned in so sweet a cage,
A soul might well be pleased to pass an age.
And yet the fine materials made it weak;
Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break;
Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire, }
And, forced from that fair temple to retire, }
Profanely set the holy place on fire. }
In vain your lord, like young Vespasian,[145] mourned,
When the fierce flames the sanctuary burned;
And I prepared to pay in verses rude
A most detested act of gratitude:
Even this had been your elegy, which now
Is offered for your health, the table of my vow.
Your angel sure our Morley's[146] mind inspired,
To find the remedy your ill required;
As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,
Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy:
Or heaven, which had such over-cost bestowed,
As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,
So liked the frame, he would not work anew,
To save the charges of another you.
Or by his middle science did he steer, }
And saw some great contingent good appear }
Well worth a miracle to keep you here: }
And for that end, preserved the precious mould,
Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;
And meditated, in his better mind,
An heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind.
Blest be the power, which has at once restored
The hopes of lost succession to your lord;
Joy to the first and last of each degree, }
Virtue to courts, and, what I longed to see, }
To you the Graces, and the Muse to me. }
O daughter of the rose, whose cheeks unite
The differing titles of the red and white;
Who heaven's alternate beauty well display,
The blush of morning, and the milky way;
Whose face is paradise, but fenced from sin;
For God in either eye has placed a cherubin.
All is your lord's alone; even absent, he
Employs the care of chaste Penelope.
For him you waste in tears your widowed hours;
For him your curious needle paints the flowers:
Such works of old imperial dames were taught;
Such, for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought.
The soft recesses of your hours improve
The three fair pledges of your happy love:
All other parts of pious duty done,
You owe your Ormond nothing but a son;[147]
To fill in future times his father's place,
And wear the garter of his mother's race.



FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 137: Lady Mary Somerset, second wife of the Duke of Ormond, to
whom she was married in 1685. She was second daughter of Henry, first
Duke of Beaufort. ]

[Footnote 138: The first patroness of Chaucer was Blanche, first wife of
John, Duke of Gaunt, whose death he has celebrated in the "Boke of the
Duchesse. " She was the second daughter of Henry, Duke of Lancaster,
grandson of Edmund, surnamed Crouchback, brother of Edward I. But I do
not know how the Duchess of Ormond could be said to be "born of her
blood," since she was descended of John of Gaunt by his third, not his
first wife. Dryden, however, might not know, or might disregard, these
minutiæ of genealogy. ]

[Footnote 139: John of Gaunt had by his mistress, Catharine Rouet, whom
he afterwards married, three sons and a daughter, who were legitimated
by act of Parliament. John de Beaufort, the eldest of these, was created
Earl of Somerset, and from him the ducal family of Beaufort are lineally
descended. The patent of the first Duke, the father of this Duchess of
Ormond, bears to be, in consideration of his services, and of his most
noble descent from King Edward III. , by John de Beaufort, eldest son of
John of Gaunt, by his third marriage. ]

[Footnote 140: Our author remembered his master Virgil:

_Et Pater ipse, manu magnâ, Portunus euntem
Impulit_---- ÆNEIDOS, _Lib. V. _
]

[Footnote 141: Our author is guilty of the same extravagant idea in the
"Astræa Redux:"

It is no longer motion cheats your view;
As you meet it, the land approacheth you.

For which he is deservedly censured by Dr Johnson. ]

[Footnote 142: The Duchess of Ormond went to Ireland in autumn 1697,
according to Mr Malone, and was followed by the Duke. ]

[Footnote 143: Alluding to the wars of the Revolution in Ireland. ]

[Footnote 144: She seems to have been just recovered from a fever. ]

[Footnote 145: Titus, who is said to have wept at the destruction of the
Temple, during the storm of Jerusalem. ]

[Footnote 146: Dr Christopher Love Morley, a physician of eminence. ]

[Footnote 147: It was not the Duchess's fortune ever to pay this debt to
the house of Ormond. ]




PALAMON AND ARCITE

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.


BOOK I.

In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame,
A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name;
A chief, who more in feats of arms excelled,
The rising nor the setting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquered, then by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,
With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride, }
With love to friend, and fortune for his guide, }
And his victorious army at his side. }
I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,
Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way;
But, were it not too long, I would recite }
The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight }
Betwixt the hardy queen, and hero knight; }
The town besieged, and how much blood it cost
The female army, and the Athenian host;
The spousals of Hippolita the queen;
What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen;
The storm at their return, the ladies' fear;
But these, and other things, I must forbear.
The field is spacious I design to sow,
With oxen far unfit to draw the plow:
The remnant of my tale is of a length
To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;
And trivial accidents shall be forborne,
That others may have time to take their turn;
As was at first enjoined us by mine host, }
That he whose tale is best, and pleases most, }
Should win his supper at our common cost. }
And therefore where I left, I will pursue }
This ancient story, whether false or true, }
In hope it may be mended with a new. }
The prince I mentioned, full of high renown,
In this array drew near the Athenian town;
When in his pomp and utmost of his pride,
Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside,
And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay,
By two and two, across the common way:
At his approach they raised a rueful cry,
And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high;
Creeping and crying, till they seized at last,
His courser's bridle, and his feet embraced.
Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are,
And why this funeral pageant you prepare?
Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds,
To meet my triumph, in ill-omened weeds?
Or envy you my praise, and would destroy
With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy?
Or are you injured, and demand relief?
Name your request, and I will ease your grief. --
The most in years, of all the mourning train,
Began; but swooned first away for pain:
Then, scarce recovered, spoke;--Nor envy we
Thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory:
'Tis thine, O king, the afflicted to redress,
And fame has filled the world with thy success:
We wretched women sue for that alone,
Which of thy goodness is refused to none;
Let fall some drops of pity on our grief,
If what we beg be just, and we deserve relief;
For none of us, who now thy grace implore,
But held the rank of sovereign queen before;
Till, thanks to giddy chance, which never bears,
That mortal bliss should last for length of years,
She cast us headlong from our high estate,
And here in hope of thy return we wait;
And long have waited in the temple nigh,
Built to the gracious goddess Clemency.
But reverence thou the power, whose name it bears;
Relieve the oppressed, and wipe the widow's tears.
I, wretched I, have other fortune seen,
The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen:
At Thebes he fell; curst be the fatal day!
And all the rest thou seest in this array,
To make their moan, their lords in battle lost
Before that town besieged by our confederate host;
But Creon, old and impious, who commands
The Theban city, and usurps the lands,
Denies the rites of funeral fires to those
Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes.
Unburned, unburied, on a heap they lie;
Such is their fate, and such his tyranny;
No friend has leave to bear away the dead,
But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed. --
At this she shrieked aloud; the mournful train
Echoed her grief, and, grovelling on the plain,
With groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind,
Besought his pity to their helpless kind.
The prince was touched, his tears began to flow,
And, as his tender heart would break in two,
He sighed; and could not but their fate deplore,
So wretched now, so fortunate before.
Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew,
And raising one by one the suppliant crew,
To comfort each, full solemnly he swore,
"That, by the faith which knights to knighthood bore,
And whate'er else to chivalry belongs,
He would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs;
That Greece should see performed what he declared;
And cruel Creon find his just reward. "--
He said no more, but, shunning all delay,
Rode on, nor entered Athens on his way;
But left his sister and his queen behind,
And waved his royal banner in the wind,
Where, in an argent field, the god of war
Was drawn triumphant on his iron car;
Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire,
And all the godhead seemed to glow with fire;
Even the ground glittered where the standard flew,
And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue.
High on his pointed lance, his pennon bore[148]
His Cretan fight, the conquered Minotaur:
The soldiers shout around with generous rage,
And in that victory their own presage.
He praised their ardour; inly pleased to see
His host the flower of Grecian chivalry.
All day he marched, and all the ensuing night,
And saw the city with returning light.
The process of the war I need not tell,
How Theseus conquered, and how Creon fell;
Or after, how by storm the walls were won,
Or how the victor sacked and burned the town;
How to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their lords in battle slain;
And with what ancient rites they were interred,--
All these to fitter times shall be deferred:
I spare the widows' tears, their woful cries,
And howling at their husbands' obsequies;
How Theseus at these funerals did assist,
And with what gifts the mourning dames dismissed.
Thus when the victor-chief had Creon slain,
And conquered Thebes, he pitched upon the plain
His mighty camp, and, when the day returned,
The country wasted, and the hamlets burned,
And left the pillagers, to rapine bred,
Without controul, to strip and spoil the dead.
There, in a heap of slain, among the rest,
Two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppressed
Of slaughtered foes, whom first to death they sent,
The trophies of their strength, a bloody monument.
Both fair, and both of royal blood they seemed,
Whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds deemed;
That day in equal arms they fought for fame;
Their swords, their shields, their surcoats, were the same.
Close by each other laid, they pressed the ground,
Their manly bosoms pierced with many a grisly wound;
Nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were,
But some faint signs of feeble life appear;
The wandring breath was on the wing to part,
Weak was the pulse, and hardly heaved the heart.
These two were sister's sons; and Arcite one,
Much famed in fields, with valiant Palamon.
From these their costly arms the spoilers rent,
And softly both conveyed to Theseus' tent;
Whom, known of Creon's line, and cured with care,
He to his city sent as prisoners of the war,
Hopeless of ransom, and condemned to lie
In durance, doomed a lingering death to die.
This done, he marched away with warlike sound, }
And to his Athens turned with laurels crowned, }
Where happy long he lived, much loved, and more renowned. }
But in a tower, and never to be loosed,
The woful captive kinsmen are inclosed.
Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,
Till once,--'twas on the morn of cheerful May,--
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen
Than the fair lily on the flowery green,
More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,
For with the rosy colour strove her hue,
Waked, as her custom was, before the day,
To do the observance due to sprightly May;
For sprightly May commands our youth to keep
The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;
Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves;
Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.
In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,
Arose, and dressed herself in rich array;
Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,
Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;
A ribband did the braided tresses bind,
The rest was loose, and wantoned in the wind:
Aurora had but newly chased the night,
And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,
When to the garden walk she took her way, }
To sport and trip along in cool of day, }
And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. }
At every turn she made a little stand,
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand
To draw the rose, and every rose she drew,
She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew;
Then party-coloured flowers of white and red
She wove, to make a garland for her head
This done, she sung and carolled out so clear,
That men and angels might rejoice to hear;
Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing,
And learned from her to welcome in the spring.
The tower, of which before was mention made,
Within whose keep the captive knights were laid,
Built of a large extent, and strong withal,
Was one partition of the palace wall;
The garden was enclosed within the square,
Where young Emilia took the morning-air.
It happened Palamon, the prisoner knight,
Restless for woe, arose before the light,
And with his jailor's leave desired to breathe
An air more wholesome than the damps beneath.
This granted, to the tower he took his way,
Cheered with the promise of a glorious day;
Then cast a languishing regard around, }
And saw, with hateful eyes, the temples crowned }
With golden spires, and all the hostile ground. }
He sighed, and turned his eyes, because he knew
'Twas but a larger jail he had in view;
Then looked below, and from the castle's height
Beheld a nearer and more pleasing sight;
The garden, which before he had not seen, }
In spring's new livery clad with white and green, }
Fresh flowers in wide parterres, and shady walks between. }
This viewed, but not enjoyed, with arms across
He stood, reflecting on his country's loss;
Himself an object of the public scorn,
And often wished he never had been born.
At last, for so his destiny required,
With walking giddy, and with thinking tired,
He through a little window cast his sight,
Though thick of bars, that gave a scanty light;
But even that glimmering served him to descry
The inevitable charms of Emily.
Scarce had he seen, but, seized with sudden smart,
Stung to the quick, he felt it to his heart;
Struck blind with overpowering light, he stood,
Then started back amazed, and cried aloud.
Young Arcite heard, and up he ran with haste,
To help his friend, and in his arms embraced;
And asked him why he looked so deadly wan,
And whence and how his change of cheer began?
Or who had done the offence? "But if," said he,
"Your grief alone is hard captivity;
For love of heaven with patience undergo
A cureless ill, since fate will have it so:
So stood our horoscope in chains to lie,
And Saturn in the dungeon of the sky,
Or other baleful aspect, ruled our birth,
When all the friendly stars were under earth:
Whate'er betides, by destiny 'tis done;
And better bear like men, than vainly seek to shun.
Nor of my bonds, said Palamon again,
Nor of unhappy planets, I complain;
But when my mortal anguish caused my cry,
That moment I was hurt through either eye;
Pierced with a random shaft, I faint away,
And perish with insensible decay:
A glance of some new goddess gave the wound,
Whom, like Acteon, unaware I found.
Look how she walks along yon shady space! }
Not Juno moves with more majestic grace, }
And all the Cyprian queen is in her face. }
If thou art Venus, (for thy charms confess,
That face was formed in heaven, nor art thou less;
Disguised in habit, undisguised in shape,)
O help us captives from our chains to 'scape!
But if our doom be past in bonds to lie
For life, and in a loathsome dungeon die,
Then be thy wrath appeased with our disgrace,
And shew compassion to the Theban race,
Oppressed by tyrant power! "--While yet he spoke,
Arcite on Emily had fixed his look;
The fatal dart a ready passage found,
And deep within his heart infixed the wound:
So that if Palamon were wounded sore,
Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more:
Then from his inmost soul he sighed, and said,
The beauty I behold has struck me dead:
Unknowingly she strikes, and kills by chance;
Poison is in her eyes, and death in every glance.
O, I must; nor ask alone, but move
Her mind to mercy, or must die for love. --
Thus Arcite: And thus Palamon replies,
(Eager his tone, and ardent were his eyes,)
Speak'st thou in earnest, or in jesting vein? }
Jesting, said Arcite, suits but ill with pain. }
It suits far worse, (said Palamon again, }
And bent his brows,) with men who honour weigh,
Their faith to break, their friendship to betray;
But worst with thee, of noble lineage born,
My kinsman, and in arms my brother sworn.
Have we not plighted each our holy oath,
That one should be the common good of both;
One soul should both inspire, and neither prove
His fellow's hindrance in pursuit of love?
To this before the gods we gave our hands,
And nothing but our death can break the bands.
This binds thee, then, to further my design,
As I am bound by vow to further thine:
Nor canst, nor dar'st thou, traitor, on the plain,
Appeach my honour, or thy own maintain;
Since thou art of my council, and the friend
Whose faith I trust, and on whose care depend.
And wouldst thou court my lady's love, which I
Much rather than release would choose to die?
But thou, false Arcite, never shalt obtain
Thy bad pretence; I told thee first my pain:
For first my love began ere thine was born;
Thou, as my council, and my brother sworn,
Art bound to assist my eldership of right,
Or justly to be deemed a perjured knight. --
Thus Palamon: But Arcite, with disdain,
In haughty language, thus replied again,--
Forsworn thyself: the traitor's odious name
I first return, and then disprove thy claim.
If love be passion, and that passion nurst
With strong desires, I loved the lady first.
Canst thou pretend desire, whom zeal inflamed
To worship, and a power celestial named?
Thine was devotion to the blest above,
I saw the woman, and desired her love;
First owned my passion, and to thee commend
The important secret, as my chosen friend.
Suppose (which yet I grant not) thy desire
A moment elder than my rival fire;
Can chance of seeing first thy title prove?
And know'st thou not, no law is made for love?
Law is to things which to free choice relate;
Love is not in our choice, but in our fate:
Laws are but positive; love's power, we see,
Is nature's sanction, and her first decree.
Each day we break the bond of human laws
For love, and vindicate the common cause.
Laws for defence of civil rights are placed;
Love throws the fences down, and makes a general waste:
Maids, widows, wives, without distinction fall;
The sweeping deluge, love, comes on, and covers all.
If then the laws of friendship I transgress, }
I keep the greater, while I break the less; }
And both are mad alike, since neither can possess. }
Both hopeless to be ransomed, never more
To see the sun, but as he passes o'er. --
Like Æsop's hounds contending for the bone,
Each pleaded right, and would be lord alone:
The fruitless fight continued all the day;
A cur came by, and snatched the prize away.
As courtiers therefore jostle for a grant,
And when they break their friendship, plead their want;
So thou, if fortune will thy suit advance,
Love on, nor envy me my equal chance:
For I must love, and am resolved to try
My fate, or, failing in the adventure, die.
Great was their strife, which hourly was renewed,
Till each with mortal hate his rival viewed:
Now friends no more, nor walking hand in hand,
But when they met, they made a surly stand,
And glared like angry lions as they passed,
And wished that every look might be their last.
It chanced at length, Perithous came, to attend
This worthy Theseus, his familiar friend:
Their love in early infancy began,
And rose as childhood ripened into man,
Companions of the war; and loved so well, }
That when one died, as ancient stories tell, }
His fellow to redeem him went to hell. }
But to pursue my tale; to welcome home
His warlike brother, is Perithous come:
Arcite of Thebes was known in arms long since,
And honoured by this young Thessalian prince.
Theseus, to gratify his friend and guest,
Who made our Arcite's freedom his request,
Restored to liberty the captive knight,
But on these hard conditions I recite:--
That if hereafter Arcite should be found
Within the compass of Athenian ground,
By day or night, or on whate'er pretence,
His head should pay the forfeit of the offence.
To this Perithous for his friend agreed,
And on his promise was the prisoner freed.
Unpleased and pensive hence he takes his way,
At his own peril; for his life must pay.
Who now but Arcite mourns his bitter fate,
Finds his dear purchase, and repents too late?
What have I gained, he said, in prison pent,
If I but change my bonds for banishment?
And banished from her sight, I suffer more
In freedom, than I felt in bonds before;
Forced from her presence, and condemned to live,
Unwelcome freedom, and unthanked reprieve:
Heaven is not, but where Emily abides,
And where she's absent, all is hell besides.
Next to my day of birth, was that accurst,
Which bound my friendship to Perithous first:
Had I not known that prince, I still had been
In bondage, and had still Emilia seen:
For though I never can her grace deserve,
'Tis recompence enough to see and serve.
O Palamon, my kinsman and my friend,
How much more happy fates thy love attend!
Thine is the adventure; thine the victory;
Well has thy fortune turned the dice for thee:
Thou on that angel's face may'st feed thine eyes,
In prison, no; but blissful paradise!
Thou daily seest that sun of beauty shine,
And lov'st at least in love's extremest line.
I mourn in absence, love's eternal night; }
And who can tell but since thou hast her sight, }
And art a comely, young, and valiant knight, }
Fortune (a various power) may cease to frown,
And, by some ways unknown, thy wishes crown?
But I, the most forlorn of human kind,
Nor help can hope, nor remedy can find;
But doomed to drag my loathsome life in care,
For my reward, must end it in despair.
Fire, water, air, and earth, and force of fates,
That governs all, and heaven that all creates,
Nor art, nor nature's hand can ease my grief;
Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief:
Then farewell youth, and all the joys that dwell
With youth and life, and life itself, farewell!
But why, alas! do mortal men in vain
Of fortune, fate, or Providence, complain?
God gives us what he knows our wants require,
And better things than those which we desire:
Some pray for riches; riches they obtain;
But, watched by robbers, for their wealth are slain:
Some pray from prison to be freed; and come,
When guilty of their vows, to fall at home;
Murdered by those they trusted with their life,
A favoured servant, or a bosom wife.
Such dear-bought blessings happen every day,
Because we know not for what things to pray.
Like drunken sots about the streets we roam;
Well knows the sot he has a certain home,
Yet knows not how to find the uncertain place,
And blunders on, and staggers every pace.
Thus all seek happiness; but few can find,
For far the greater part of men are blind.
This is my case, who thought our utmost good
Was in one word of freedom understood:
The fatal blessing came; from prison free,
I starve abroad, and lose the sight of Emily. --
Thus Arcite; but if Arcite thus deplore
His sufferings, Palamon yet suffers more.
For when he knew his rival freed and gone,
He swells with wrath, he makes outrageous moan,
He frets, he fumes, he stares, he stamps the ground;
The hollow tower with clamours rings around:
With briny tears he bathed his fettered feet,
And dropped all o'er with agony of sweat.
Alas! he cried, I, wretch! in prison pine,
Too happy rival, while the fruit is thine:
Thou liv'st at large, thou draw'st thy native air,
Pleased with thy freedom, proud of my despair:
Thou may'st, since thou hast youth and courage joined,
A sweet behaviour and a solid mind,
Assemble ours, and all the Theban race,
To vindicate on Athens thy disgrace;
And after, by some treaty made, possess
Fair Emily, the pledge of lasting peace.
So thine shall be the beauteous prize, while I
Must languish in despair, in prison die.
Thus all the advantage of the strife is thine,
Thy portion double joys, and double sorrows mine. --
The rage of jealousy then fired his soul,
And his face kindled like a burning coal:
Now cold despair, succeeding in her stead,
To livid paleness turns the glowing red.
His blood, scarce liquid, creeps within his veins,
Like water which the freezing wind constrains.
Then thus he said:--Eternal deities,
Who rule the world with absolute decrees,
And write whatever time shall bring to pass,
With pens of adamant, on plates of brass;
What, is the race of human kind your care
Beyond what all his fellow-creatures are?
He with the rest is liable to pain,
And like the sheep, his brother-beast, is slain.
Cold, hunger, prisons, ills without a cure,
All these he must, and, guiltless, oft endure;
Or does your justice, power, or presence fail,
When the good suffer, and the bad prevail?
What worse to wretched virtue could befal,
If fate or giddy fortune governed all?
Nay, worse than other beasts is our estate;
Them, to pursue their pleasures, you create;
We, bound by harder laws, must curb our will,
And your commands, not our desires, fulfil:
Then when the creature is unjustly slain,
Yet, after death at least, he feels no pain;
But man, in life surcharged with woe before,
Not freed when dead, is doomed to suffer more.
A serpent shoots his sting at unaware;
An ambushed thief forelays a traveller;
The man lies murdered, while the thief and snake,
One gains the thickets, and one thrids the brake.
This let divines decide; but well I know,
Just, or unjust, I have my share of woe:
Through Saturn seated in a luckless place,
And Juno's wrath, that persecutes my race;
Or Mars and Venus, in a quartil, move
My pangs of jealousy for Arcite's love. --
Let Palamon oppressed in bondage mourn,
While to his exiled rival we return.
By this, the sun, declining from his height,
The day had shortened to prolong the night:
The lengthened night gave length of misery,
Both to the captive lover and the free.
For Palamon in endless prison mourns,
And Arcite forfeits life if he returns.
The banished never hopes his love to see,
Nor hopes the captive lord his liberty:
'Tis hard to say who suffers greater pains;
One sees his love, but cannot break his chains;
One free, and all his motions uncontrouled,
Beholds whate'er he would, but what he would behold. [149]
Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell
What fortune to the banished knight befel.