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A BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



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^ 



^!^^ 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO.. Umitkd 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MBLBOURNB 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. 

TORONTO 



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A BOOK OF 

-ENGLISH LITERATURE 



SELECTED AND EDITED 

BY 

FRANKLYN BLISS SNYDER, Ph. D. 

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 

AND 
ROBERT GRANT MARTIN, Ph. D. 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 



Nfto fork 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1916 

AU ritkts I 



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cj 17 



Copyright, 1916, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 191 6. 



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PREFACE 

In prq)aring this volume, primarily intended for college courses in the development 
of English literature, the editors have tried to give to the most important men a repre- 
sentation more adequate than they have been accorded in previous volumes of the 
kindy and so comprehensive that whoever uses the book will find a considerable range 
of possible selection. In addition, the editors have included enough work by men of 
secondary importance to fill the gaps between the larger figiu-es, and to make this text 
adequate for any survey of English literature from Chaucer to Meredith, save in the 
fields of drama and fiction. Fiction has been omitted for obvious reasons. The drama 
would have been excluded entirely, had it not been felt that some teachers would be 
glad of a specimen miracle play. An appendix containing brief biographies of the chief 
men represented, and bibliographical suggestions, may be of assistance to those who 
desire to use the volume without an accompan3ring history. 

In certain respects the texts here presented have been standardized. Punctuation 
has been modernized; the spelling -or instead of -our for words such as honor, labor , 
etc., has been adopted; except in a few obvious instances, the full form of the weak past 
participle in -ed has been used throughout the volume. 

The thanks of the editors are due to Professor R. E. Neil Dodge, of the University 
of Wisconsin, and Houghton MiflSin Company, for permission to use the Cambridge 
text of Spenser. Stevenson's Aes Triplex is taken from the ThisUe edition, published 
by Charles Scribner's Sons, the authorized publishers of Stevenson's works. The debt 
of the editors to such standard works as Skeat's Oxford Chaucer^ Child's Ballads, and 
Lucas's Lamb, will be recognized by all who use the book. 



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CONTENTS 
THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 

Geoffrey Chaucer page 

The Prologue i 

The Nun's Priest's Tale ii 

The Pardoner's Tale 19 

Balade de Bon Conseyl 25 

Chaucer's Complaint to His Purse 25 

Anonymous 

Piers the Plowman 26 

Anonymous 

The Chester Miracle Play of Noah's Flood 27 

English and Scottish Popular Ballads 

Edward 32 

Kemp Owyne 33 

Sir Patrick Spens 34 

The Wife of Usher's Well '34 

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbome 35 

Robin Hood's Death and Burial 38 

The Huntipg of the Cheviot 39 

Bonnie George Campbell 43 

Sir Thomas Malory 

Le Morte Darthur: Caxton's Preface 44 

Book XXI .» 45 

r THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 
Edmund Spenser 

The Faerie Queene: Letter to Raleigh 49 

'*■ Book I, Canton 51 

Cantd iii 56 

Cant ► xi 57 

66 



Prothalamion . 
Elizabethan Sonneteers 
Sir Thomas Wyatt / 

The Lover Compareth His Statfe ^ 69 

Henry Howard, Earl 6f Surre^ 

Description of Spring 69 

Sir Philip Sidney 

Astrophel and Stella: Nos. i, 3|i, 39, 41 69 

Edmund Spenser | 

Amoretti: Nos. 24, 34, 63, 70, y 5, 79 71 

Samuel Daniel 

Care-Charmer Sleep \ . \ 72 

Michael Drayton \ \ 

Since There's no Help \. ' '^ 72 

WiLUAM Shakespeare \ ' 

Sonnets: Nos. 18, 29, 30}. 33, 64, 65, 66, 71, 73, 98, 106, 116, 146 ... . 72 

vii 



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viii CONTENTS 



tv 



Elizabethan Song Writers 

Anonymous page 

Back and Side, Go Bare, Go Bare 75 

Sir Edward Dyer 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 76 

Sir Philip Sidney 

Love Is Dead 76 

John Lyly 

Cupid and Campaspe 77 

Spring's Welcome 77 

George Peele 

Cupid's Curse 77 

Robert Greene 

Sweet Are the Thoughts 77 

Sephestia's Song to Her Child 78 

Thomas Lodge 

Rosalind's Madrigal 78 

Christopher Marlowe 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 78 

Thomas Nash 

Litany in Time of Plague 79 

Sir Walter Raleigh 

His Pilgrimage 79 

The Conclusion 80 

Robert Southwell 

The Burning Babe 80 

William Shakespeare 
Songs from Plays 

When Icicles Hang by the Wall 80 

' Who Is Silvia? 81 

Over HilJ, Over Dale ^ 81 

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred 81 

Under the Greenwood Tree 81 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 81 

It Was a Lover and His Lass 82 

O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming? • 82 

Take, O Take Those Lips Away 82 

Come, Thou Monarch of the Vine 82 

Hark, Hark! the Lark 82 

Fear no More the Heat o' the Sun 82 

Come imto These Yellow Sands 82 

Full Fathom Five Thy Father Lies 83 

Where the Bee Sucks 83 

Anonymous 

Hey Nonny No! 83 

t)c^- Edmund Campion 

Of Corinna's Singing 83 

When Thou Must Home 83 

Come, Cheerful Day 83 

Now Winter Nights Enlarge 84 

Cherry-Ripe * 84 

Chance and Change 84 

Thomas Dekker 

O Sweet Content 84 



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CONTENTS ix 



PAGE 

Lullaby 85 

Michael Drayton 

Agincourt 85 

Ben Jonson 

Hymn to Diana 86 

Song to Celia 86 

The Triumph of Charis 87 

To the Memory of Shakespeare 87 

A Pindaric Ode 88 

An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy ^'^ 

John Donne 

Go and Catch a Falling Star 88 

Love's Deity 89 

Sweetest Love, I Do not Go 89 

Death, Be not Proud 90 

Francis Beaumont 

Even Such Is Man 90 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 90 

John Fletcher 

Sweetest Melancholy 90 

Care-Charming Sleep 91 

Song to Bacchus 91 

John Webster 

A Dirge 91 

Hark, Now Everything Is Still 91 

William Browne 

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 91 

Elizabethan Prose 

Sir Thomas North 

The Death of Caesar 91 

John Lyly 

Queen Elizabeth 97 

Sir Philip Sidney 

The Defence of Poesy 100 

Sir Walter Raleigh 

The Last Fight of the Revenge 103 

Franqs Bacon 

Essays: Of Truth 107 

Of Adversity 108 

Of Marriage and Single Life 109 

Of Great Place 109 

Of Wisdom for a Man's Self iii 

Of Youth and Age 112 

Of Gardens 112 

Of Studies 114 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 

Caroline Song Writers 
George Wither 
Shall I, Wasting m Despair 115 



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CONTENTS 



Thomas Carew page 

Ask Me no More Where Jove Bestows 115 

He That Loves a Rosy Cheek 115 

Sir John Suckling 

Constancy 116 

Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 116 

Richard Lovelace 

To Lucasta, on Gomg to the Wars 116 

To Althea, from Prison 116 

James Shirley 

A Dirge 117 

Robert Herrick 

The Argument of His Book 117 

Upon the Loss of His Mistresses 117 

Corinna's Going A-Maying 117 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 118 

How Roses Came Red 118 

To Daffodils 119 

Night Piece, to Julia 119 

Upon Julia's Clothes 119 

An Ode for Ben Jonson 119 

Grace for a Child 119 

To Keep a True Lent 119 

George Herbert 

Virtue 120 

The Collar 120 

The Quip 120 

The Pulley 121 

Richard Crashaw 

In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 121 

Henry Vaughan 

The Retreat 123 

Peace 123 

The World 123 

Edmund Waller 

On a Girdle 124 

Go, Lovely Rose! 124 

Andrew Marvell 

An Horatian Ode 124 

Abraham Cowley 

The Change 126 

The Wish 126 

The Swallow 127 

The Thief 127 

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset 

Song: To All You Ladies now at Land 127 

Caroline Prose 

Sir Thomas Browne 

Hydriotaphia, or Urn-Burial 128 

Thomas Fuller 

The Good Schoolmaster 132 

The Life of Queen Elizabeth 134 

IzAAK Walton 

The Complete Angler 137 



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CONTENTS xi 



Jeremy Taylor page 

Holy Dying 142 

John Milton 

y L'AU^pro 145 

y H Penseroso 147 

Lyddas . 148 

Oi His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three . 151 

On Shakespeare 152 

To the Lord General Cromwell 152 

y On His Blindness 152 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 152 

To Cyriack Skinner 153 

On His Deceased Wife 153 

y Paradise Lost: Book I 153 

BookU 165 

" BookXn 180 

Areopagitica 181 

Samuel Pepys 

The Diary 187 

Loyalist Stall Ballads 

To Make Charles a Great King 191 

The Himible Petition of the House of Conmions 192 

The Character of a Romidhead 192 

Come, Drawer, Some Wine 192 

The Protecting Brewer 193 

The Lawyers' Lamentation 193 

THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 

John Dryden 

y Absalom and Achitophel 195 

Mac Flecknoe 204 

The Hind and the Panther 207^ 

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 208 

Alexander's Feast 209 

lines Under the Portrait of Milton 211 

An Essay of Dramatic Poesy — ^ — ^ 211- 

Preface to the Fables 213 

Daniel Defoe 

The True-Bom Englishman 214 

The Shortest Way with the Dissenters 216 

The Apparition of Mrs. Veal 221 

JOl^THAN SWIPT 

y The Tale of a Tub 226 

A Modest Proposal 231 

The Journal to Stella 236 

Joseph Addison 

The Campaign 239 

The Spacious Firmament on High . 340 

Joseph Addison and Richard Steele 
The Tatler 

Pro^>ectus 240 

Duelling 241 

Ned Softly 242 



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xii CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Frozen Words 244 

The Spectator 

Mr. Spectator 246 

The Club 248 

Westminster Abbey 251 

Sir Roger at Church 253 

Sir Roger at the Assizes 254 

The Vision of Mirza 256 

A Coquette's Heart 25S 

Alexander Pope 

Windsor Forest 260 

An Essay on Criticism 262 

y The Rape of the Lock 264 

An Essay on Man 276 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 278 

The Universal Prayer 279 

Oliver Goldsmith 

The Deserted Village 279 

The Retaliation 286 

The Citizen of the World 

Beau Tibbs at Home 287 

A Visit to a Silk-Merchant 289 

Samuel Johnson 

The Rambler, No. 121 290 

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield 293 

Letter to James Macpherson 294 

Lives of the English Poets 

Milton 294 

Dryden 297 

Addison 298 

Pope 299 

Gray 300 

James Boswell 

The Life of Samuel Johnson: The Year 1763 301 

Edmund Burke 

Address to the Electors of Bristol 322 

The Imp>eachment of Warren Hastings 326 

Reflections on the Revolution in France 329 

The Precursors of Romanticism 

Allan Ramsay 

Peggy . ^ 332 

The Lass with a Lump of Land 332 

James Thomson 

The Seasons 333 

The Castle of Indolence 335 

Rule, Britannia 336 

' Edward Young 

Night Thoughts 336 

Robert Blair 

The Grave 337 

William Collins 

A Song from Cymbeline 339 



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CONTENTS xiii 



-,/■ 



PAGE 

How Sleep the Brave 339 

Ode to Evening 339 

The Passions 340 

Thomas Gray 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 342 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 343 

The Progress of Poesy 345 

The Bard 347 

The Fatal Sisters 349 

Sketch of His Own Character 350 

Letters 350 

James Macpherson 

Cath-Loda 352 

)^. The Songs of Selma 353 

.> Carthon . 353 

Robert Fergusson 

TTie Daft Days 353 

Thomas Chatterton 

Bristowe Tragedie 354 

Song from ^Ella 359 

WiLUAM Cowper 

Walking with God 360 

The Loss of the Royal George 360 

The Task 361 

On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture 362 

Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin 364 

To Mary 364 

Tte Castaway 365 

Robert Burns 

Lines to John Lapraik 366 

The Holy Fair 366 

To a Mouse 369 

To a Daisy 369 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 370 

Address to the Unco Guid 373 

TamO'Shanter 374 

Scots WhaHae 377 

Songs 

Mary Morison 377 

Green Grow the Rashes 377 

Auld Lang Syne 378 

Of A' the Airts 378 

TamGlen 378 

My Heart's in the ffighlands 379 

Go Fetch to Me a Pint of Wine 379 

John Anderson 379 

Willie Brewed a Peck o' Maut 379 

Sweet Afton 380 

Bonie Doon 380 

Ae Fond Kiss 380 

Highland Mary 381 

Duncan Gray '. 381 

See, the Smoking Bowl before Us 382 



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xiv CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Contented wi' Little 382 

A Man's a Man for A' That 382 

O, Wert Thou in the Cauid Blast 383 

William Blake 
Songs of Innocence 

Introduction 383 

The Lamb 383 

Cradle Song 384 

The Little Black Boy 384 

Songs of Experience 

The Clod and the Pebble 384 

The Sick Rose 385 

The Tiger 385 

The Sunflower 385 

Auguries of Innocence 385 

Milton 385 

George Crabbe 

The Village 385 

The Borough 387 

William Lisle Bowles 

Time 387 

Hope 388 

To the River Tweed 388 

Bamborough Castle 388 

Written at Tynemouth after a Tempestuous Voyage 388 

THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 

William Wordsworth 

Preface to the Lyrical Ballads 389 

Lines Written in Eariy Spring 392 

Expostulation and Reply 392 

The Tables Turned ^ .... 392 

y Tintem Abbey 393 

Lucy Gray 395 

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Waj^ 396 

Three Years She Grew . . • 396 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal >^96 

The Prelude 396 

Michael 399 

My Heart Leaps Up 406 

Resolution and Independence 406 

Yew Trees 408 

At the Grave of Bums 409 

The Solitary Reaper 409 

To the Cuckoo 410 

She Was a Phantom of Delight 410 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 411 

Ode to Duty 411 

/ Character of the Happy Warrior 411 

^ Ode: Intimations of Immortality * . . . . 413 

To a Sky-Lark 415 



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CONTENTS XV 



PAGE 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 415 

London, 1802 416 

Westminster Bridge 416 

On the Sea-Shore near Calais 416 

The World Is too Much with Us 416 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 417 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

France: An Ode 417 

J Kubla Khan l ^ l-ituv 4^9 

y The Rime of the Ancient Mariner A-V-^^f'*'^^ 419 

Frost at Midnight 430 

Hymn before Simrise in the Vale of Chamouni 431 

Dejection: An Ode 433 

Youth and Age 435 

Work without Hope 436 

Biographia Literaria . 436 

Robert Souihey 

The Inchcape Rock 440 

My Days among the Dead Are Passed 441 

Sir Walter Scott 

Lochinvar 441 

Soldier, Rest! 442 

Boat Song 442 

Coronach 443 

Harp of the North 443 

Jock of Hazddean 444 

Brignall Banks 444 

Coimty Guy 445 

Bonny Dundee 445 

George Gordon, Lord Byron 

When We Two Parted 446 

Know Ye the Land 446 

She Walks in Beauty 447 

The Destruction of Sennacherib '. . 447 

Stanzas for Music 447 

So We'll Go no More A-Roving 448 

My Boat Is on the Shore 448 

Soimet on Chillon . . . L-->-^srr;. /^ * J^ (• 448 

The Prisoner of Chillon f^^^Y^C''^ ^ - ^ 448 

Chflde Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto m . ' 452 

Canto IV 456 

Don Juan: Dedication 460 

Canto in 460 

Canto IV 463 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 471 

Ozymandias 472 

y Ode to the West Wind 472 

The Indian Serenade 474 

^TheQoud 474 

vHTo a Skylark 475 

To (Music, When Soft Voices Die) 476 

Stanzas Written in Dejection 476 



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xvi CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The World's Wanderers 477 

.Time 477 

^ To Night 477 

To (One Word Is Too Often Profaned) 478 

Lyrics from Prometheus Unbound 478 

yAdonais 479 

Final Chorus from Hellas ■ 488 

When the Lamp Is Shattered 488 

With a Guitar, to Jane 489 

John Keats 

Sleep and Poetry 490 

Endymion • . 490 

La Belle Dame sans Merd 491 

y Ode to a Nightingale 492 

v^Ode on a Grecian Urn 493 

/Ode on Melancholy 494 

/ToAutimm 494 

Lines on the^ Mermaid Tavern 495 

Robin Hood 495 

The Eve of St. Agnes 496 

Hyperion: Book I 502 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 507 

When I Have Fears 507 

Bright Star 508 

Thomas Campbell 

Ye Mariners of England 508 

Thomas Moore 

The Time Tve Lost in Wooing 508 

Oft in the Stilly Night 509 

The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls 509 

Oh, Breathe not His Name 509 

Charles Wolfe 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 509 

Thomas Hood 

The Bridge of Sighs 510 

The Song of the Shirt 511 

Charles Lamb 

Christ's Hospital Five and Tliirty Years Ago 512 

Dream Children 519 

The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers 521 

A Dissertation upon Roast Kg 525 

The Superannuated Man 529 

WiLLUM Hazutt 

The Fight 533 

On Going a Journey 542 

On FamiUar Style 548 

Thomas de Quincy 

Confessions of an Opium-Eater 551 

On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth 559 

y Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow 561 



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CONTENTS xvii 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 

Walter Savage Landor page 

RoseAylmer 566 

The Death of Artemidora 566 

Sq>pho to Hesperus 566 

Oiie Year Ago 566 

To Robert Browning 566 

On the Hellenics 567 

Iphigeneia and Agamemnon 567 

To Youth 568 

To Age 568 

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday 568 

To My Ninth Decade 568 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

The Lady of Shalott 568 

(Enone 570 

y The Lotos-Eaters 574 

A Dream of Fair Women 575 

You Ask Me Why 579 

Morte D'Arthur 579 

^Ulysses 583 

LocksleyHall 584 

Break, Break, Break 589 

Songs from the Princess: Bugle Song 589 

Tears, Idle Tears 589 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead . . . 590 

• InMemoriam 590 

The Eagle 592 

Maud 592 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 594 

The Northern Farmer— Old Style 594 

The Higher Pantheism 596 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 596 

The Revenge 597 

Riq»h 599 

By an Evolutionist . 601 

Meiiin and the Gleam 601 

Crossing the Bar 603 

Robert Browning 

Song from Pippa Passes 603 

Cavalier Tunes 603 

The Lost Leader 604 

How They Brought the Good News 605 

Meeting at Night 606 

Parting at Morning 606 

Solfloquy of the Spanish Cloister 606 

Home-Ilioughts, from Abroad 607 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 607 

Saul 607 

Love among the Ruins 614 

Memorabilia 615 

^ My Last Duchess 615 



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xviii CONTENTS 



I 



1 



PAGE 

In a Gondola 6i6 

A Grammarian's Funeral 619 

The Bishop Orders His Tomb 621 

y Andrea Del Sarto 623 

Prospice 627 

AbtVogler 627 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 629 

Epilogue to Asolando 632 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 632 

The Cry of the Children 633 

A Musical' Instrument 636 

Edward Fitzgerald 

Rub&i3r&t of Omar Khayy&m 636 

Thomas Carlyle 

Sartor Resartus 644 

\ Past and Present 648 

Cromwell's Letters and Speeches 655 

/ John Ruskin 

Modem Painters: Sunrise and Sunset in the Alps 657 

The Two Boyhoods 658 

. The Stones of Venice: St. Mark's 664 

* Time and Tide: Letter XV 669 

The Relation of Art to Morals 671 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay 

Oliver GoldsmiA 675 

Arthur Hugh Clough 

Qua Cursimi Ventus 683 , 

Where Lies the Land 684 

All Is Well 684 

Life Is Struggle 684 

Ite Domum Saturae 684 

Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth 685 

Matthew Arnold 

Shakespeare , 685 

The Forsaken Merman 686 

Philomela 687 

Requiescat 688 

The Scholar-Gipsy 688 

Sohrab and Rustum 692 

The Austerity of Poetry 706 

Rugby Chapel 706 

Dover Beach 709 

The Last Word 709 

Literature and Science 709 

Thomas Henry Huxley 

On the Advisableness of Improving Natural Knowledge ...... yao 

John Henry, Cardinal Newman 

The Idea of a University 728 

Apologia pro Vita Sua 739 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 

The Blessed Damozd 740 

Sister Helen 741 



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CONTENTS xix 

PAGE 

%/ The House of Life: The Sonnet 745 

Lovesight 745 

Silent Noon 745 

A Superscription 745 

William Mossis 

The Earthly Paradise: An Apology 746 

Prologue 746 

Atalanta's Race 747 

The Haystack in the Floods 758 

Walter Horatio Pater 

Style 760 

Wordsworth 772 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

iEs Triplex 780 

Algernon Charles Swinbxtrne 

y The Garden of Proserpine 784 

Atalanta in Calydon: Choruses 785 

A Match 787 

To Walt Whitman in America 787 

After Sunset 789 

On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot 789 

Christq>her Mariowe 789 

Ben Jonson 790 

George Meredith 

Love in the Valley 790 

Jugglmg Jerry 794 

Lucifer in Starlight 795 



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A BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



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A BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



THE END OF THE MEDDLE AGES 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1840-1400) 

THE PROLOGUE 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote 
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the 

rote, 
And bathed every ve)me in swich licour, 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 
Inspired hath in every hoit^ and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 
And smale fowles maken melodye, 
That slepen al the night with open ye, 10 
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages^): 
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages 
(And* palmers for to seken straunge 

strondes) 
To feme' halwes,* couthe^ in sondry Son- 
des; 
And specially, from every shires ende 1 5 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The holy blisf ul martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen, whan that they 
were seke. 
Bif el that, in that seson on a day. 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay 20 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
At night was come in-to that hosteltye 
Wei nyne and twenty in a companye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure® y-falle^ 25 
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they 

alle. 
That toward Caimterbury wolden ryde; 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
And wd we weren esed atte beste * 
.\nd shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon, 31 
That I was of hir felawshipe anon, 
And made forward* erly for to ryse, 
To take our wey, ther as I yow devjrse. 
But natheles, whyl I have tyme and 
q>ace, 35 

iwood * hearts. * distant. < shrines. * known. 
* dKiDce. ' fallen. ' "entertained in the best manner." 
* agreement. 



Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun. 

To telle yow al the condicioun 

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 

And whiche they weren, and of what 

degree; 40 

And eek in what array that they were 

inne: 
And at a knight than wol I first biginne. 
A Knight ther was, and that a worthy 

man. 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, 45 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and cur- 

teisye. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,^'* 
And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre^^) 
As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse. 
And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 50 
At Alisaimdre he was, whan it was wonne; 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bi- 

gonne^^ 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettow hadde he reysed^^ and in Ruce, 
No Cristen man so ofte of his degree. 55 
In Gemade at the sege eek hadde he be 
Of Algezir, and rideitm^elmarye. 
At Lyeys was he, and at Sataiye^^ 
Whan they were wonne; and in the^rete 

See 
At many a noble aryve^* hadde he be. 60 
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene. 
And foughten for our feith at Tramissene 
In Ustes thryes, and ay slajm his foo. 
This ilke worthy knight hadde been also 
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 65 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye: 
And evermore he hadde a sovereyn 

prys.^^ 
And though that he were worthy, he was 

wys. 
And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde 70 

In al his lyf , un-to no maner wight.^® 
He was a verray parfit gentil knight. 

» war. " farther. 

" "be had been placed at the head of the Uble." 
M gone on an expedition. ^* disembarkation, 

u reputation. ^' no sort of person. 



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But for to tellen yow of his array, 
BUs hors^ were goode, but he was nat gay. 
Of fustian he wered a gipoun* 75 

Al bismotered' with Ms habergeoim;^ 
For he was late y-come from his viage,^ 
And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 
With him ther was his sone, a yong 

Squyer, 
A lovyere, and a lusty bachder, 80 

With lokkes crulle ,• as they were leyd in 

presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene leni;the,^ 
And wonderly deliver,* and greet of 

strengthe. 
And he had been somtyme in chivachye,' 
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, 86 
And bom him wel, as of so litel space/^ 
In hope to stonden in his lady" grace. 
Embrouded*^ was he, as it were a mede*' 
Al f ul of f resshe floiures, whjrte and rede. 90 
Singinge he was, or floytinge,*^ al the day; 
He was as fresh as is the month of May. 
Short was his goune, with sieves longe and 

wyde. 
Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
He coude songes make and wel end3rte, 95 
luste^^ and eek daunce, and wel purtreye^* 

and wryte. 
So hote^^ he lovede, that by nightertale^® 
He sleep namore than dooth a nightin- 
gale. 
Curte)rs he was, lowly, and servisable. 
And carf bifom his fader at the table. 100 
A Yeman hadde he, and servaunts namo 
At that tyme, for him liste^' ryde so; 
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene; 
A sheef of pecock-arwes brighte and kene 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily, 105 

(Wel coude he dresse his takel^ yemanly: 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres 

lowe), 
And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe. 
A not-heed*^ hadde he, with a broun 

visage. 
Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.iio 
Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer,^ 
And by his syde a sweid and a bokeler, 
And on that other syde a gay daggere, 

1 bones (plural). > doublet . « spotted. 

« coat of mail. » vo>rage. • curly. 

1 ordinarv beigbt. * active. * military expedition. 
^^ " considering tbe abort time be bad served." 

» lady's. 1' adorned. " meadow. >< fluting. 

" joust. " draw. " botly. »■ in the nigbt-time. 

>* It pleased bim. ** take care of bis weapons. 

s> cropped bead. ** guard. 



Hameised*^ wel, and sharp as point of 

spere; 
A Cristofre** on his brest of silver shene.115 
An horn he bar, the bawdrik^ was of grene; 
A forster* was he, soothly, as I gesse. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Piugresse, 
That of hir smyling was ful simple and 

coy; 119 

Hir gretteste 00th was but by sgjmt Loy, 
And she was cleped^ madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel she song the service divyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely; 
And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly,* 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 125 
For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce d^)e. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wd 

kepe, 130 

That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. 
In curteisye was set ful moche hir lest.^ 
Hir over Uppe wyped she so dene. 
That in hir cof^ was no ferthing sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir 

draughte. 135 

Ful semdy after hir mete she raughte,*^ 
And sikerly*^ she was of greet disport,** 
And full plesaimt, and amiable of port,*' 
And peyned hir*^ to countrdete chere** 
Of court, and been estatlich* of manere,i4o 
And to ben holden digne*' of reverence. . 
But, for to speken of hir consdence,* 
She was so diaritable and so pitous. 
She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or 

bledde. 14s 

Of smale houndes had she, that she f edde 
With rosted flesh, or milk and wastd 

breed.** 
But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, 
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: 
And al was consdence and tendre herte.iso 
Ful semdy hir wimpel pinched^ was; 
Hir nose tretys;*^ hir eyen greye as glas; 
Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and 

reed; 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; 
It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; 155 

** equipped. 

>« " figure of St. Cbristopher used as a brooch." 

Mbelt M forester. » named. <• elegantly. 

• pleasure, m reacbed. *^ truly. ** fond of pleasure. 

•* behavbr. m tried bard. ** deportment. 

>• dignified. •' wortby. ** tenderness of beart. 

"fiiM bread. 'pleated. «i well proportioiied. 



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For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 
Ful fetis* was hir cloke, as I was war. 
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 
A peire* of bedes, gauded al with grene; 
And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful 

sbene, i6o 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
And after, Amor vincU omnia. 

Another Nonn£ with hir hadde she, 
That was hir chapeleyne, and Preestes 

thre. 
A Monk ther was, a fair for the mais- 

trye,' 165 

An out-rydere, that lovede venerye;* 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in 

stable: 
And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel 

here 
Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere, 1 70 
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle, 
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 
By<ause that it was old and som-del 

strdt,* 174 

This ilke* monk leet olde thinges pace,^ 
And held after the newe world the space. 
He yaf' nat of that text a pulled hen, 
That seith, that himters been nat holy 

men; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees, 
Is lykned til a fish that is waterlees; 180 
Thb is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre. 
But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre. 
And I seyde, his opinioun was good. 
What sh<dde he studie, and make him- 

sdven wood,' 
Upon a bode in cloistre alwey to poiure, 185 
Or swinken^ with his handes, and laboure, 
As Austin bit? How shal the world be 

served? 
Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
Therfwc he was a pricasoiu"^^ aright; 
Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel 

in flight; 190 

Of priking^^ and of hunting for the hare 
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
I seigh his sieves piu^ed^' at the bond 
With grys," and that the fyneste of a 

lond; 
And, for to festne his hood under his chin, 

s string. * a superior sort of fellow. 
* somewhat strict. * same. ' go. 
•mad. »wofk. "hard rider. 
X trimmed. *« gray fur. 




He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin: 
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that shoon as any 

glas, 198 

And eek his face, as he had been anoint. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good point ;'^ 
His eyen stepe,^* and rollinge in his heed, 
That stemed^^ as a fomeys of a leed;'* 
His botes souple, his hors in greet estat. 
Now certeinly he was a fair prelat; 
He was nat pale as a for-pjnied^' goost. 205 
A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
A Frere there was, a wantown and a 

merye, 
A limitoiu",^ a ful solempne^' man. 
In alle the ordres foure is noon that can** 
So moche of daliaunce and fair langage.211 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wommen, at his owne cost. 
Un-to his ordre he was a noble post. 
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 
With frankeleyns** over-al in his contree. 
And eek with worthy wommen of the 

toun: 
For he had power of confessioun, 
As seyde him-self , more than a curat. 
For of his ordre he was licentiat.*^ 220 

Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
And plesaimt was his absolucioun; 
He was an esy man to yeve*^ penaunce 
Ther-as he wiste to han a good pitaunce; 
For unto a povre order for to yive 225 

Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive. 
For if he yaf , he dorste make avaunt,** 
He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 
For many a man so hard is of his herte, 
He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore 

smerte. 230 

Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres. 
Men moot yeve silver to Ae povre freres. 
His tipet was ay farsed*^ full of knyves 
And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves. 
And certeinly he hadde a mery note ; 235 
Wel coude he synge and pleyen on a rote.** 
Of yeddinges** he bar utterly the prys. 
His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys; 
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 
He knew the tavemes well in every 

toun, 240 

1' in good condition. >* glittering. <' glowed. 
>* 6re under a cauldron. >* wasted away. 

* licensed beggar. " important. ** knows. 

** country gentlemen. ^ licensed to hear ccNifessioos. 
» give. « boast. •' stuflfed. 

** a sort of fiddle. <* songs. 



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And everich hostiler and tappestere^ 
Bet^ than a lazax^ or a beggestere;* 
For unto swich a worthy man as he 
Acorded nat, as by his facultee,* 
To have with seke iazars aque)nitaunce.24s 
It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce* 
For to delen with no swich poraille/ 
But al with riche and sellers of vitaille. 
And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse, 
Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse. 250 
Ther nas* no man nowher so vertuous. 
He was the beste beggere in his hous; 
For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho. 
So plesaunt was his In principio^ 
Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente. 
His purchas^® was wel bettre than his 

rente.^^ 256 

And rage he coude as it were right a 

whdpe. 
In love-dayes ther coude he mochel helpe. 
For ther he was nat lyk a cloisterer, 
With a thredbar cope, as is a povre scoler, 
But he was lyk a maister or a pope. 261 
Of double worsted was his semi-cope, 
That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 
Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, 
To make his English swete up-on bis 

tonge; 265 

And in his harping, whan that he had 

songe. 
His eyen twinkled in his heed aright. 
As doon the sterres in the frosty night. 
This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 
A Marchant was ther with a forked 

berd, 270 

In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat, 
Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat; 
His botes clasped faire and fetisly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely, 
Souninge^^ alway thencrees of his winning. 
He wolde the see were kept^^ for any 

thing 276 

Bitwixe Middlelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wel coude he in eschaunge sheeldes" selle. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;^** 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette. 
So estatly was he of his govemaunce,^^ 281 
With his bargaynes, and with his chev- 

isaunce.^^ 

> barmaid. « better. " leper. * beggar woman. 
» considering his ability. • profit. ' poor people. 

• was not. 

* the beginning^ of the Latin Gospel of St. John. 

>o proceeds of his begging. » regular income. 

" tending towards. " guarded. 

1^ shields, French coins. >> employed. 

M management. i' dealings. 



For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle. 
But sooth to se)^, I noot^® how men him 

calle. 
A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 
That im-to logik hadde longe y-go. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake. 
And he nas nat right fat, I imdertake; 
But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. 
Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy ;^29o 
For he had geten him yet no benefyce, 
Ne was so worldly for to have ofifyce. 
For him was lever have at his beddes heed 
Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed. 
Of Aristotle and his philosophve, 295 

Than robes riche, or fithele,^ or gay sau- 

trye.2^ 
But al be that he was a philosophre. 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 
But al that he mighte of his freendes 

hente,^^ 
On bokes and on leminge he it spente, 300 
And bisily gan for the soules preye 
Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. 
Of studie took he most ciu« and most 

hede. 
Noght o word spak he more than was nede. 
And that was seyd in forme and rever- 
ence,^ 305 
And short and quik, and ful of hy sen- 

tence.^^ 
Souninge^ in moral vertu was his speche. 
And gladly wolde he leme, and gladly 

teche. ^«. 

A Sergeant of the La we, war^ and wys. 
That often hadde been at the p)arvys,^ 310 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence: 
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse. 
lustyce he was ful often in assyse. 
By patente, and by pleyn commissioun,3is 
Foi^ his science, and for his heigh renoun, 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 
So greet a purchasour^ was nowher noon. 
Al was fee simple to him in effect. 
His purchasing mighte nat been infect. 320 
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas. 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas'® and domes^^ alle. 
That from the tyme of king William were 

falle. 



» know not. " outer coat. » fiddle. " psaltery. 

« get. ** " with propriety and modesty." 

«* meaning. ** conducing to. " cautious. 

" church-porch. «• because of. " conveyancer. 

" cases. '^ judgments. 



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Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing, 
Ther coude no wight pinche^ at Ms 

wry ting; 326 

And every statut coude he pleyn by rote. 
He rood but hoomly in a medlee^ cote 
Girt with a ceint' of silk, with barres 

smale; 
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 

A Frankeleyn was in his companye; 
Whyt was his herd, as is the dayesye. 
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.^ 
Wei loved he by the morwe^ a sop® in 

wyn.® 
To liven in delyt was ever his wone/ 335 
For he was Epicurus owne sone, 
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delyt^ 
Was verraily felicitee parfyt. 
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; 
Seynt lulian he was in his contree. 340 

His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon;* 
A bettre envyned^® man was no-wher noon. 
With-oute bake mete was never his hous. 
Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous. 
It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, 
Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke.346 
After the sondry sesons of the yeer. 
So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in 

mewe,^^ 
And many a breem^* and many a luce^^ in 

stewe.'* 350 

Wo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 
Poynaimt and sharo, and redy al his gere. 
His table dormant^^ in his halle al way 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 355 
Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shire. 
An anlas** and a gip)ser^^ al of silk 
Heng at his girdel, whyt as mome milk. 
A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;^ 
Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.'^ 360 
An Haberdassher and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe,** a Dyere, and a Tapicer,^^ 
Were with us eek, clothed in o^ liveree. 
Of a sdempne and greet fratemitee. 
Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked^ was; 
Hir knyves were y-chaped^^ noght with 

bras, 366 

' find faoh with. * of mixed colon. ' girdle. 

• ruddy. > in the morning. 

• wine with bread in it. ' custom. 

• joy. • of one Quality. '*• stored with wine. 
I* coo(^ ** a sort of fish. >> pike. 

»* fish-pond. " permanent side table. •• short dagger. 
" pufse. ■ auditor. » landed gentleman. 

■ weaver. " upholsterer. «» one. 

** trimmed. '* capped. 



But al with silver, wroght ful dene and 

weel, 
Hir girdles and hir pouches every-deel. 
Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys, 
To sitten in a yeldhalle^^ on a deys. 370 
Everich, for the wisdom that he can, 
Was shaply for to been an alderman. 
For cateP hadde they y-nogh and rente, 
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; 
And elles certein were they to blame. 375 
It is ful fair to been y-clept "wa datne'\ 
And goon to vigilyes al bifore^ 
And have a mantel royalliche y-bore. 
A Cook they hadde with hem for the 

nones,^ 
To boille the chiknes with the mary-bones. 
And poudre-marchant tart,^ and galin- 

gale.^ 381 

Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London 

ale. 
He coude roste, and sethe,*^ and broille, 

and frye, 
Maken mortreux,'* and wel bake a pye. 
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte 

me, 38s 

That on his shine a mormal** hadde he; 
For blankmanger,*^ that made he with the 

beste. 
A Shipman was ther, woning fer by 

weste: 
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood up-on a roimcy,^^ as he couthe,^^ 
In a gowne of f aiding^ to the knee. 391 
A daggere hanging on a laas^^ hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The bote somer had maad his hewe al 

broim; 
And, certeinly, he was a good felawe. 395 
Ful many a draughte of wyn had he 

y-drawe 
From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chap- 
man^ sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep.'* 
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer 

bond, 
By water^® he sente hem hoom^ to every 

lond. 400 

But of his craft^^ to rekene wel his tydes, 
His stremes^^ and his daungers him bisydes, 



«» guild-hall. * projjerty. 

" a sharp sort of flavoring. 

» bofl. " pottages. 

M a sort of chicken compote. 

Mas well as he could. 

»' string. w super-cargo. - «wc 

^he made the losers "walk the plank." 

«i skill. "currents. 



" for the occasion. 

»• sweet cyperus. 

»«sorc. 

** hackney. 

»• coarse cloth. 

** cared nothing at all. 



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His herberwe* and his mone,^ his lode- 
menage,' 
Ther nas noon swich from Huile to 

Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to midertake ; 405 
With many a tempest hadde his herd been 

shake. 
He knew wel alie the havenes, as they 

were, 
From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere, 
And every cryke in Britayne and in 
Spa3aie; 409 

His barge y-deped was the Maudelayne. 
With us ther was a Doctour of Phisyk, 
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk 
To speke of phisik and of surgery e; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kepte^ his padent a f ul greet del 41 s 
In houres,* by his magik naturd. 
Wel coude he fortimen^ the ascendent 
Of his images for his padent. 
He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or 
drye, 420 

And where engendred, and of what hu- 
mour; 
He was a verrey parfit practisour. 
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the 

rote,* 
Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.^ 
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 425 
To sende him drogges, and his letuaries,® 
For ech of hem made other for to winne; 
Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne. 
Wel knew he \ht olde Esculapius, 
And Deiscorides, and eek Rirfus ; 430 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien; 
Serapion, Razis, and Avicen; 
Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn; 
Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable* was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluitee, 
But of greet norissing and digestible. 
His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
In sangwin^® and in pers^^ he clad was al, 
L3aied with taffata and with sendal,*^ 440 
And yet he was but esy of dispence;" 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
For gold in phisik is a cordial, 
Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

1 harbor. > position of the moon. * pilotage. 

* watched for his patient's favorable star. 

* On the five following lines consult the notes. 

* root, origin, 'remedy. * remedies. * temperate, 
w red cloth. » blue doth. " thin silk. i> expenditure. 



A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, 
But she was som-del deef, and that was 

scathe.'* 446 

Of dooth-making she hadde swiche an 

haunt,'^ 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaimt. 
In aJ the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon 
That to the offring blfore hir sholde goon; 
And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was 

she, 451 

That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs** ful fyne were of ground;" 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten poimd 
That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. 455 
Hir hosen weren of lyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moiste" 

and newe. 
Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of 

hewe. 
She was a worthy wonmian al hir lyve ; 
Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde 

fyve, . 460 

Withouten other companye in youthe; 
But therof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe.^ 
And thryes hadde she been at lerusalem; 
She hadde passed many a straunge streem; 
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 
In Galice at seint lame, and at Coloigne. 
She coude muche of wandring by the 

weye. 467 

Gat-totJied** was she, soothly for to seye. 
Up-on an amblere esily she sat, 
Y-wimpled^' wel, and on hir heed an hat 470 
As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; 
A foot-mantel^ aboute hir hipes large. 
And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
In f elaweschip wel coude she laughe and 

carpe.^ 474 

Of remedies of love she knew per-chaunce. 
For she coude of that art the olde daunce. 

A good man was ther of religioun. 
And was a povre Persoun^* of a toun; 
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk. 
He was also a lemed man, a clerk, 480 
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; 
His parisshen3 devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. 
And in adversitee ful padent ; 484 

And swich he was y-preved^^ of te sythes.*^ 
Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes, 

»<apitv. "skill. "head-dresses. »' texture. 

» supple. >• at present. » with teeth far apart. 

>i her head well covered with a wimple. 

n cloth to protect the skirt. <• talk. 

'* parish priest. ** proved. " many a time. 



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CHAUCER 



But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Un-to his povre paiisshens aboute 
Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. 
He coude in Utei thing han suffisaunce. 490 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer 

a-sonder, 
But he ne iafte^ nat for reyn ne thonder, 
In siknes nor in meschief to visjrte 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche^ and 

lyte,* 

Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf . 495 
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, 
That first he wrpghte, and afterward he 

taughte; 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte; 
And this figure he added eek ther-to, 
That if gold niste, what shal iren do? 500 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed^ man to ruste; 
And shame it is, if a preest take keep,^ 
A [^x>tted] shepherde and a dene sheep. 
Wd oghte a preest ensample for to yive,so5 
By his dennesse, how that his sheep shold 

live. 
He sette nat his benefice to hjre, 
And leet his sheep encombred in the 

myre, 
And ran to London, un-to s6ynt Poules, 
To seken him a diaunterie for soules, 510 
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;* 
But dwdte at hoom, and kepte wel his 

folde, 
So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie; 
He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. 
And though he holy were, and vertuous,5i5 
He was to sinful man nat despitous/ 
Ne of his speche daungerous^ ne digne,' 
But in his teching discreet and benigne. 
To drawen folk to heven by f aimesse 
By good ensample, this was his bisinesse: 
But it were any persone obstinat, 521 

What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, 
Him wolde he snibben"^ sharply for the 

ncHies. 
A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon 



is. 



He wayted after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne maked him a spyced" consdence, 526 
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
He taughte, and first he folwed it him- 
sehre. 



•repfove. 



» pay atteotioo to it. 

sdMdainful. 

11 over-scrupulous. 



With him ther was a Plowman, was his 

brother, 
That hadde y-lad^* of dong ful many a 

fother;" 530 

A trewe swinkere" and a good was he, 
Livinge in pees and parfit charitee. 
God loved he best with al his hole herte 
At alle t)rmes, thogh him gamed^^ or 

smerte,^* 
And thanne his neighebour right as him- 

selve. 535 

He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke^^ and 

delve. 
For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, 
Withouten hjn^, if it lay in his might. 
His tythes payed he ful faire and wel, 
Bothe of his propre swink'* and his catel."^ 
In a tabard^ he rood upon a mere. 541 

Ther was also a Reve^^ and a Millere, 
A Somnour^ and a Pardoner also, 
A Maundple,** and my-self; ther were 

namo. 
The Miller was a stout carl, for the 

nones, 545 

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones; 
That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam, 
At wrastling he wolde have alwey the 



ram. 



24 



•low. 

* confined. 

* scornful. 



He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke 

knarre,^ 
Ther nas no dore that he nolde^ heve of 

harre,^ 550 

Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. 
His herd as any sowe or fox was reed. 
And ther-to brood, as though it were a 

spade. 
Up-on the cop^ right of his nose he hade 
A werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres, 
Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres ; 556 
His nose-thirles^ biake were and wyde. 
A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde; 
His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys. 
He was a langlere^ and a goliardeys,^ 560 
And that was most of sinne and harlotryes. 
Wd coude he stelen com, and tollen 

thryes; 
And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, 

pardee. 
A wh)rt cote and a blew hood wered he. 



^' carried in a cart 

» it pleased. 

» labor. 

» bailiff. « 

«« steward of a collie. 

«• a sturdy fellow. 

" top. • nostrils. 



»load. 
>* pained. 



»< laborer, 
"dig. 
'loose coat. 



>• property, 
sununooer for an ecclesiastical court. 
*< win the prize, a ram. 
* could not lift off its hinges. 
«• talker. » buffoon. 



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Googl( 



8 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



A baggepjrpe wel coude he blowe and 

sowne, 565 

And therwithal he broghte us out of 

towne. 
A gentil Maunciple was ther of a tem- 
ple, 
Of which achatours^ mighte take exemple 
For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. 
For whether that he payde, or took by 

taille,* 570 

Algate^ he wayted^ so in his achat,^ 
That he was ay bif orn and in good stat. 
Now is nat that of God a f ul fair grace, 
That swich a lewed^ mannes wit shal pace 
The wisdom of an heep of lemed men? 575 
Of maistres hadde he mo than thryes ten. 
That were of lawe expert and curious; 
Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous. 
Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and 

iond 
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 

To make him live by his propre good, 
In honoiu" dettelees,^ but he were wood,* 
Or live as scarsly as him list desire; 
And able for to helpen al a shire 
In any cas that mighte falle or happe; 585 
And yit this maunciple sette^ hir aller 

capf)e.* 
The Reve was a sclendre colerik man, 
His berd was shave as ny as ever he 

can. 
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn. 
His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn.sgo 
Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
Y-lyk a staf , ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wel coude he kep)e a gemer'^ and a binne; 
Ther was noon auditoiu* coude on him 

winne. 
Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the 

reyn, 595 

The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn. 
His lordes sheep, his neet,^' his dayerye. 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor,^^ and his 

pultrye, 
Was hoolly in this reves governing. 
And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening,6oo 
Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age; 
Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage. 
Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other h)^e,^^ 
That he ne knew his sleighte^"* and his 



covyne; 



604 



> caterers. * od credit. * alwavs. < took precautions. 

* buying. • ignorant. ' free from debt. 

• Duid. • over-reached them all. »• granaiy. 
"cattle, "stock, "servant, "trickery, "deceit. 



They were adrad of him, as of the deeth. 
His woning^* was ful fair up-on an heeth, 
With grene trees shadwed was his place. 
He coude bettre than his lord piu-chace. 
Ful riche he was astored prively, 
His lord wel coude he plesen subtiUy, 610 
To yeve and lene^^ hun of his owne good, 
And have a thank, and yet a cote and 

hood. 
In youthe he lemed hadde a good mister;^® 
He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,^ 615 
That was al pomely^ ?^y» ^^^ highte Scot. 
A long siu-cote of pers^^ up-on he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. 
Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle, 
Bisyde a toim men clepen Baldeswelle.620 
Tukked^^ he was, as is a frere, aboute. 
And evere he rood the hindreste of our 

route. 
A SoMNOUR was ther with us in that 

place, 
That hadde a f)n:-reed cherubinnes face, 

Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek 

lekes. 
And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as 

blood. 635 

Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he 

were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the 

wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, two or three. 
That he had lemed out of som decree ; 640 
No wonder is, he herde it al the day; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a lay 
Can clepen ''Watte,"^^ as well as can the 

pope. 
But who-so coude in other thing him 

grope,24 

Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye; 
Ay " Questio quid iuris " wolde he crye. 646 
He was a gentil harlot^ and a kynde; 
A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde. 
He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 
A good felawe to have his [wikked sin] 650 
A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fuUe: 
And prively a finch eek coude he pulle. . 
And if he fond owher^ a good felawe. 
He wolde techen him to have non awe, 

'•house. "lend. "trade. » horse. 

» dappled. " blue cloth. « tucked. 
" jay can cry " Wat." ** "test him in any other point" 
«» rogue. »• anywhere. 



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GooglQ 



CHAUCER 



In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs, 655 
But-if^ a mannes soule were in his purs; 
For in his purs he sholde y-pimisshed be. 
"Purs is tJie erchedeknes heUe," seyde he. 
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede; 
Of cursing oghte ech gUty man him drede — 
For curs wol slee, right as assoiUing^ 

saveth — 66i 

And also war him' of a significcmt. 
In daimger^ hadde he at his owne gyse* 
The yonge girles* of the diocyse, 
And knew hir coimseil, and was al hir 

reed/ 665 

A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed, 
As greet as it were for an ale-stake; 
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Roundval, his freend and his compeer. 
That streight was comen fro the court of 

Rome. 671 . 

Ful loude he song, "Com hider, love, to 

me. 
This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun. 
Was never trompe of half so greet a soun. 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex, 
But smothe it heng, as doth a strike^ of 

flex; 676 

By ounces* henge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And ther-with he his shuldres over- 

spradde; 
But thinne it lay, by colpons^® oon and 

oon; 
But hood, for lolitee, ne wered he noon,68o 
For it was trussed up in his walet. 
Him thoughte,^^ he rood al of the newe 

Iet;« 
Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
Swiche glaringe eyen haidde he as an hare. 
A vemide hadde he sowed on his cappe.685 
His walet lay bifom him in his lappe, 
Bret-ful'^ of pardoun come from Rome al 

hoot. 
A voy^ he hadde as smal as hath a goot. 
No berd hadde he, ne never sholde have. 
As smothe it was as it were late 

y-shave; 690 

But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware, 
Ne was ther swich another pardoner. 
For in his male" he hadde a pilwe-beer,^* 



* absolution. » kt him beware of. 

« in his jarisdktioQ. * way. ' * people. 

' advker. * hank of flax. * small portions. 

* shreds. " it seemed to him. " fashion, 

u brin^uU. M wallet. i» pillow-case. 



Which that, he seyde, was oiu" lady veyl:^* 
He seyde, he hadde a gobet^^ of the seyl 696 
That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he 

wente 
Up-on the see, til lesu Crist him hente.^* 
He hadde a croys of latoun,^ ful of stones, 
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 
But with thise relikes, whan that he fond 
A povre person dwelling up-on lond,^ 
Up-on a day he gat him more moneye 
Than that the person got in monthes 

tweye. 
And thus with fe3aied flaterye and lapes,^^ 
He made the person and the peple his apes. 
But trewely to tellen, atte laste, 707 

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste. 
Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie. 
But alderbest^^ he song an oflfertorie; 710 
For wel he wiste, whan that song was 

songe. 
He moste preche, and wel aflfyle*^ his tonge, 
To winne silver, as he ful wel coude; 
Therefore he song so meriely and loude. 
Now have I told you shortly, in a clause, 
Thestat,*'* tharray, the nombre, and eek 

the cause 716 

Why that assembled was this comp^nye 
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, 
That highte the Tabard, faste by the 

Belle. 
But now is t)rme to yow for to telle 720 
How that we baren us that ilke night. 
Whan we were in that hostelrye alight. 
And after wol I telle of oiu" viage. 
And al the remenaunt of oiu* pilgrimage. 
But first I pray vow, of your curteisye, 725 
That ye narette^ it nat my vileinye,^ 
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere. 
To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere,^ 
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes properly.^ 
For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 

Who-so shal telle a tale after a man. 
He moot reherce, as ny as ever he can, 
Everich a^ word, if it be in his charge, 
Al speke he^ never so rudeliche and large;*® 
Or elles he moot telle his tale imtrewe, 73s 
Or fe3aie thing, or f3aide wordes newe. 
He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his 

brother; 
He moot as wel seye o word as another. 

M the Virgin Mary's veil. " piece. » took. 

*• brass. *• m the country, 

"tricks. M best of all. "sharpen. MtheesUte. 
it not to my ill breeding." • behavior. 



» "ascribe it i 

" literally. 

> although he sptek. 



■every, 
"freefr. 



Digitized by 



Qoo^(. 



lO 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ, 
And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740 

Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede, 
The wordes mote be cosin to the dede. 
Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, 
Al have I nat set folk in hir degree* 
Here in this tale, as that they shdde 

stonde; 745 

My wit is diort, ye may wel understonde. 
Greet chere niade our hoste us everichon, 
And to the soper sette he us anon; 
And served us with vitaille at the beste. 
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us 

leste.* 750 

A semely man our hoste was with-alle • 
For to han been a marshal in an halle ; 
A large man he was with eyen stepe,' 
A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe: 
Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel 

y-taught, 755 

And of manhod him lakkede right naught. 
Eek therto he was right a mery man, 
And after soper pleyen^ he bigan, 
And spak of mirthe amonges othere 

thinges, 759 

Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges; 
And seyde thus: "Now, lordinges, trewely 
Ye 6een to me right welcome hertely : 
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I ne saugh^ this yeer so mery a companye 
At ones* in this herberwe^ as is now. 765 
Fajni wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I 

how. 
And of a mirthe, I am right now bithoght. 
To doon yow ese,* and it shal coste noght. 
Ye goon to Caunterbury; God yow 

spede, 
The blisful martir quyte yow your mede.® 
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,77i 
Ye shapen yow to talen'^ and to pleye; 
For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noon 
To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon ; 
And therf ore wol I maken yow disport, 7 75 
As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. 
And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent. 
Now for to stonden at my lugement. 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye, 780 
Now, by my fader soule, that is deed, 
But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow m)^ 

heed. 



> proper rank. 
«maLc merry. 


> it pleased us. 
* have not seen. 


•guttering. 
• one time. 


' inn. 


• entertain you. 
10 plan to Ulk. 




• reward you duly. 





Hold up your hond, withoute more speche." 

Our coimseil was nat longe for to seche; 
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it 

wys," 785 

And graimted him with-outen more avjrs," 

And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste. 

"Lordinges," quod he, "now herkneth 

for the beste; 
But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn; 
This is the po3ait, to speken short and 

pleyn, 790 

That ech of yow, to shorte with your 

weye,^^ 
In this viage, shal telle tales tweye. 
To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so. 
And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two, 
Of aventures that whylom^^ han bif alle. 795 
And which of yow that bereth him best of 

alle. 
That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas 
Tales of best sentence^ and most solas,** 
Shal han a soper at our aller cost" 
Here in this place, sitting by this post, 800 
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunter- 
bury. 
And for to make yow the more mery, 
I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde. 
Right at m3ai owne cost, and be yoiu" gyde. 
And who-so wol my lugement withseye 805 
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo. 
And I wol erly shape me*® therfore." 
This thing was graunted, and oiu* othes 

swore 810 

With ful glad herte, and preyden him also 
That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so. 
And that he wolde been our govemoiu". 
And of our tales luge and reportoiu". 
And sette a soper at a certeyn prys ; 81 5 
And we wold reuled been at his devys,** 
In heigh and lowe; and thus, by oon assent, 
We been acorded to his lugement. 
And ther-up-on the wyn was fet^ anon; 
We dronken, and to reste wente echon, 820 
With-outen any lenger taryinge. 
A-morwe, whan that day bigan to 

springe. 
Up roos our host, and was our aller cok,** 
And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok. 



" deliberate about it. 

^* make the journey short. 

i> meaning. 

1' the expense of us all. 



xpense oi us an. 
-' ttkwitling to his decision. 
*i cock of us all. 



" consideration. 

" formerly. 

I* amusement. 

" get myself ready. 

••Drought. 



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Googl( 



CHAUCER 



II 



And forth we riden, a litel mdre than 
pas/ 825 

Un-to the watering of seint Thomas. 
And there our host bigan his hors areste,^ 
And seyde; "Lordinges, herkneth if yow 

leste. 
Ye woot your forward,' and I it yow re- 
corded 
If even-song and morwe-song acorde, 830 
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
As ever mote I drinke wyn or ale, 
Who-so be rebel to my Ingement 
Shal paye for al that by the weye b 

^>ent. 
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer* 
twinne;* 835 

He which that hath the shortest shal be- 

ginne. 
Sire knight," quod he, "my maister and 

my lord, 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord.^ 
Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady prior- 



And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfast- 

nesse,^ 840 

Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every 

man." 
Anon to drawen every wight bigan, 
And shortly for to tellen, as it was. 
Were it by aventiure,' or sort,^® or cas," 
The sothe^^ is this, the cut fil to the knight, 
Of which ful blythe and glad was every 

wight; 846 

And tdle he moste his tale, as was resoun, 
By forward and by composidoun," 
As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes 

mo? 
And whan this goode man saugh it was so. 
As he that wys was and obedient 851 

To kepe his forward by his free assent. 
He seyde: "Sin'* I shal beginne the 

game. 
What, welcome be the cut, a^^ Goddes 

name! 
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I 

seye." 855 

And with that word we riden forth our 

weye; 
And he bigan with right a mery chere** 
His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. 



1 a Uttle (Mter Umii a walk. 



•depart. 
* accident. 
"tnttlL 



» farther, 
•modesty. 



>8top. 

• remind jrou of it. 

'judgment. 

* destiny. 

1* compact. 



THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE 

Here biginneih the Nonne Preestes Tale of 
the Cok and Hen, Chauntecleer and 
Pertelote, 

A povre widwe somdel stope^^ in age. 
Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage, 
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale. 
This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale. 
Sin thilke^* day that she was last a wyf , 5 
In pacience ladde a ful simple l)Ht, 
For litel was hir cateP* and hir rente;** 
By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente. 
She fond^^ hir-self, and eek hir doghtren 

two. 
Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, 10 
Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte 

MaUe. 
Ful sooty was hir bour,^ and eek hir halle, 
In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel. 
Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. 
No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir 

throte; 15 

Hir dyete was accordant to*^ hir cote. 
Replecdoun*^ ne made hir never syk; 
Attempree** dyete was al hir phisyk, 
And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.^ 
The goute lette^ hir no-thing for to 

daunce, 20 

Napoplexye® shente^ nat hir heed; 
No wyn ne drank she, neither wh3rt ne 

reed; 
Hir bord was served most with whyt and 

blak. 
Milk and broun breed, in which she fond 

no lak, 
Seynd*** bacoun, and somt3rme an ey^^ or 

tweye, 25 

For she was as it were a maner deye.*^ 

A yerd she hadde, endosed al aboute 
With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute, 
In which she hadde a cok, hight Chaunte- 
cleer, 
In al the land of crowing nas** his peer. 30 
His vois was merier than the mery orgon 
On messe-dayes that in the chirdie gon; 
Wei sikerer*^ was his crowing in his logge,** 
Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge.^ 
By nature knew he ech ascensioun 35 

Of equinoxial in thilke toun; 

"advanced. "that. >* chattels. * income. 

" provided (or. ** bed-chamber. ** in keefung with. 

** over-eating. * a temperate. * contentment. 

^ hindered. * nor apoplexy. * injured. 

* broiled. ** egg. ** sort of dairywoman. 

>* was not. M moce certain. ** lodge. "dock. 



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12 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, 
Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben 

amended.* 
His comb was redder than the fyn coral, 
And batailed,^ as it were a castei-wal. 40 
His bile* was blak, and as the leet* it 

shoon; 
Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;^ 
His nayies whjrtter than the lilie flour, 
And lyk the burned gold was his colour. 
This gen til cok hadde in his govemaunce 45 
Sevene hennes, for to doon aJ his plesaunce, 
Whiche were his sustres and his para- 
mours. 
And wonder lyk to him, as of colours. 
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir 

throte 
Was cleped* faire damoysele Pertelote. 50 
Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire, 
And compaignable, and bar hirself so 

faire, 
Syn thilke day that she was seven night 

old. 
That trewely she hath the herte in hold^ 
Of Chaun tecleer loken* in every lith ;® 55 
He loved hir so, that wel was him ther- 

with. 
But such a loye was it to here hem singe. 
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to 

springe, 
In swete accord, "My lief is faren*® in 

londe." 
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, 60 
Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe. 

And so bifel, that in a daweninge,** 
As Chaim tecleer among his wyves alle 
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle. 
And next him sat this faire Pertelote, 65 
Thk Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, 
As man that in his dreem is drecched*^ 

sore. 
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him 

rore, 
She was agast, and seyde, "O herte dere. 
What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? 
Ye been a verray'* slep)er, fy for shame! "71 
And he answerde and seyde thus, "ma- 
dame, 
I pray yow, that ye take it nat agrief : 
By god, me mette** I was in swich mes- 

chief 



1 improved. * indented. 

* toes. * named. 

• locked. • limb. 
» troubled. " true. 



•bfll. «Jet. 

' possession, safe-keeping, 
"ione. "dawn. 

*< I dreamed. 



Right ifow, that yet myn herte is sore 

afright. 75 

Now god," quod he, "my sweven^^ rede^* 

aright. 
And keep my body out of foul prisoun ! 
Me mette, how that I romed up and doun 
Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a 

beste, 
Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad 

areste 80 

Upon my body, and wolde han had me 

deed. 
His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; 
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, 
With blak, \mlyk the remenant of his 

heres; 
His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen 

tweye. 85 

Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; 
This caused me my groning, doutelees." 
"Avoy!" quod she, "fy on yow, hert- 

elees! 
Alias!" quod she, "for, by that god above, 
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love; 
I can nat love a coward, by my feith. 91 
For certes, what so any womman seith, 
We alle desyren, if it mighte be. 
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,^^ 
And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool, 95 
Ne him that is agast of every tool,^® 
Ne noon avauntour,^* by that god above! 
How dorste ye sejni for shame unto your 

love. 
That any thing mighte make yow aferd? 
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? 
Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis? 
No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven 

is. 102 

Swevenes engendren of^ replecdouns. 
And of te of f ume,^^ and of compleccioims,^ 
Whan, humours been to habundant in a 

wight. 105 

Certes this dreem, which ye han met to- 
night, 
Cometh of the grete superfluitee 
Of youre rede^ colera^^ pardee, 
Which causeth folk to dreden in here 

dremes 
Of arwes,*^ and of fyr with rede lemes,^ no 
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte. 
Of contek,^ and of whelpes grete and Ijrte; 

"dream. "explain. "generous. "weapon. 

" boaster. «» are caused by. " vapor. 

•* temperaments. «• red. '* cboler. 

*• arrows. • flames. ^ strife. 



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13 



Right as the humour of malencolye 
Causeth ful many a man, m sleep, to crye, 
For fere of blake beres,^ or boles^ blake, 
Or elles, blake develes wole hem take. n6 
Of othere humours coude I telle also, 
That werken many a man m sleep ful wo; 
But I wol passe as lightly as I can. 
Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a 

man, 120 

Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of^ 

dremes? 
Now, sire," quod she, "whan we flee fro 

the hemes, 
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf ; 
Up peril of my soule,^ and of my l)rf , 
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat 

lye, I2S 

That both of colere, and of malencolye 
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, 
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, 
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, 
That shul ben for your hele,^ and for your 

prow;* 130 

And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde. 
The whiche han of here propretee, by 

kinde,^ 
To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. 
Forget not this, for goddes owene love! 
Ye been ful colerik of complecdoim. 135 
Ware* the sonne in his ascencioun 
Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humoiu^ 

hote; 
And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote. 
That ye shul have a fevere terdane. 
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.* 140 
A day or two ye shul have digestyves 
Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves. 
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, 
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, 
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,'® 14s 

Of erbe yye," growing in our yerd, that 

mery is; 
Pekke hem up right as they growe, and 

etc hem in. 
Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! 
Dredeth no dreem ; I can say yow namore." 
"Madame," quod he, ^^grautU mercy of 

your lore. 150 

But nathdes, as touching daim^^ Catoun, 
That hath of wisdom sudb a greet renoun, 

* bean. * bulb. * pay no attention to. 

^hy tof souL » healing. • profit. 

' natufe. " take caxe lest. * death. 

* berries ol the gay-tzce. " ground ivy. 
.kwd. 



Though that he bad no dremes for to 

drede. 
By god, men may in olde bokes rede 
Of many a man, more of auctoritee 15s 
Than ever Catoim was, so moot I thee,^' 
That al the revers seyn of his sentence, 
And han wel foimden by experience. 
That dremes ben significadoims, 
As wel of loye as tribuladouns 1 60 

That folk enduren in this \yl present. 
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument; 
The verray preve^^ sheweth it in dede. 
Oon of the grettest auctours that men 

rede 
Sdth thus, that whylom two felawes** 

wente 165 

On pilgrimage, in a full good intente; 
And happed so, they come into a toun, 
Wher as ther was swich congregadoun 
Of peple, and eek so streit^* of herber- 

gage," 169 

That they ne founde as muche as o'® cotage, 
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be. 
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee. 
As for that night, departen compaignye; 
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye, 
And took his logging as it wolde faJle. 175 
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, 
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough; 
That other man was logged wel y-nough. 
As was his aventure,^' or his fortune, 
That us govemeth alle as in conunune.^iSo 
And so bifd, that, long ex it were day, 
This man mette'^ in his bed, ther-as he 

lay. 
How that his felawe gan up-on him calle. 
And seyde, *allas! for in an oxes stalle 
This night I shal be mordred ther^ I lye. 
Now help me, dere brother, er I dye ; 1 86 
In alle haste com to me,' he sayde. 
This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde ;^ 
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep, 
He turned him, and took of this no keep;^ 
Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. 
Thus twyes in his sleping dremed he. 1 92 
And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe 
Cam, as him thoughte, and seide ^I am now 

slawe;^ 
Bihold my blody woundes, depe and 

wyde! 195 

Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde, 

1* may I prosper. >* proof. » companions. » little. 

" lodging. >* one. >• chance. 

*• commonly. "dreamed. < *« where. 

<* started. ^ thought, care. » slain. 



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14 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



And at the west gate of the toun,' quod 

he, 
'A carte ful of donge ther shaltow^ see, 
In which my body is hid ful prively; 
Do thilke carte aresten boldeiy . 200 

My gold caused my mordxe, sooth to 

sayn;' 
And tolde h)rm every poynt how he was 

slayn, 
With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe. 
And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful 

trewe; 
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,205 
To his f elawes in^ he took the way ; 
And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle. 
After his f elawe he bigan to calle. 

The hostiler answered hym anon, 
And seyde, 'sire, your felawe is agon, 210 
As sone as day he wente out of the toun.' 
This man gan fallen in suspedoun, 
Remembring on his dremes that he mette, 
And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he 

lette,' 
Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond 
A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond, 216 
That was arrayed in that same wyse 
As ye han herd the dede man devyse; 
And with an hardy herte he gan to crye 
Vengeaunce and lustice of this felonye: — 
*My felawe mordred is this same night, 221 
And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.^ 
I crye out on the ministres,' quod he, 
That sholden kepe and reiden this dtee; 
Harrow! alias! her lyth my felawe slayn! ' 
What sholde I more unto tiiis tale sa3m?226 
The peple out-sterte, and cast the cart to 

grounde. 

And in the middel of the dong they founde 

The dede man that mordred was al newe. 

O blisful god, that art so lust and trewe! 

Lo, how diat thou biwreyest*^ mordre 

alway! 231 

Mordre wol out, that se we day by day. 
Mordre is so wlatsom* and abhominable 
To god, that is so lust and resonable, 
That he ne wol nat suflfre it heled^ be ; 235 
Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three, 
Mordre wol out, this® my conclusioun. 
And right anoon, ministres of that toun 
Han hent the carter, and so sore him 

pyned,* 
And eek the hostiler so sore engyned,^® 240 

1 Shalt thou. >mn. *deUy. « on bis back. 

*revealcst. • 'heinous, 'concealed. * this is. 
•tortured. wracked. 



That thay biknewe*^ hir wikkednesse 

anoon,' 
And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon. 
Here may men seen that dremes been to 

drede. 
And certes, in the same book I rede, 
Right in the nexte chapitre after this, 245 
(I gabbe" nat, so have I loye or blis). 
Two men that wolde han passed over 

see. 
For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree. 
If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie, 
That made hem in a dtee for to tarie, 250 
That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde. 
But on a day, agayn^* the even-tyde. 
The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as 

hem leste. 
lolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste. 
And casten hem^^ ful erly for to saille; 255 
But to that 00" man fd a greet mer- 

vaille. 
That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay. 
Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the 

day; 
Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes 

syde. 
And him comaunded, that he sholde 

abyde, 260 

And seyde him thus, 'if thou to-morwe 

wende. 
Thou shalt be dreynt;^* my tale is at an 

ende.' 
He wook, and tolde his felawe what he 

mette. 
And preyde him his viage for to lette;^^ 
As for that day, he preyde him to abyde. 
His felawe, that lay by lis beddes syde, 266 
Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful 

faste. 
'No dreem,' quod he, 'may so myn herte 

agaste,^® 
That I wol lette for to do my thinges.^* 
I sette not a straw by thy dreminges, 270 
For swevenes been but vanitees and 

lapes.^ 
Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes. 
And eke of many a mase^* therwithal; 
Men dreme of thing that nevere was ne 

shal. 
But sith^ I see that thou wolt heer abyde, 
And thus for-sleuthen^ wilfully thy tyde, 

"acknowledged, "lie. "towards, "planned. 

" one. * drowned. " deUy. 

" terrify. «• business. » jests. 

*» bewilderment. » since. *• waste. 



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God wot it reweth me;^ and have good 

day.' 277 

And thus he took his leve, and wente his 

way. 
But er that he hadde halfe his cours 

y-seyled, 
Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it 

eyled, 280 

But casueliy^ the shippes botme rente, 
And ship and man under the water wente 
In sighte of othere shippes it byside, 
That with hem seyled at the same tyde. 
And thcrfor, faire Pertelote so dere, 285 
By swiche ensampies olde maistow* lere* 
lliat no man sholde been to recchelees^ 
Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees, 
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede. 
Lo, in the \yl of seint Kenehn, I rede, 290 
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king 
Of Mercenrike,' how Kenelm mette a 

thing; 
A l)rte^ er he was mordred, on a dav, 
His mordre in his avisioun he say/ 
His norice* him expouned every del 295 
His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him 

wel 
For"* traisotm; but he nas but seven yeer 

old, 
And therfore litel tale" hath he told^* 
Of any dreem, so holy was his herte. 
Bygod, Ihaddelever^'thanmysherte 300 
That ye had rad his legende, as have I. 
Dame Pertelote, I sey yow trewely, 
Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun 
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun, 
Affermeth dremes, and seith that they 

been 305 

Warning of thinges that men after seen. 
And f orther-more, I pray yow loketh wel 
In the dde testament, of Daniel, 
If he held dremes any vanitee. 
Reed eek of loseph, and ther shul ye see 310 
Wher** dremes ben somt3mie (I sey nat 

aUe) 
Warning of thinges that shul after falle. 
Ixdce of Egipt the king, daun Pharao, 
His bakere and his boteler also, 314 

Whcr they ne f elte noon effect in dremes. 
Who so wol seken actes'^ of sondry remes'* 
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing. 



>ii 



'Kttle. 
•lor fear ol. 



s accidentaUy. < mayest thou. 

* careless. * Mcrcia. 

* saw. * nurse, 
u importance. ^* placed. 

>« whether, 
•realms. 



Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde'^ king, 
Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree. 
Which signified he sholde anhanged be?32o 
Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf , 
That day that Ector sholde lese^* his lyf , 
She dremed on the same night bifom, 
How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lom,^* 
If thilke day he wente in-to bataille ; 325 
She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; 
He wente for to fighte nathelees. 
But he was sla3ni anoon of Achilles. 
But thilke tale is al to long to telle. 
And eek it is ny^ day, I may nat dwelle. 330 
Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun. 
That I shal han of this avisioun 
Adversitee; and I seye f orther-more. 
That I ne telle of laxatyves no store,*^ 
For they ben venimous, I woot it wel ; 335 
I hem defye, I love hem never a del.^ 

Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte^ 
al this; 
Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,*^ 
Of o thing God hath sent me large grace ;^* 
For whan I see the beautee of your f ace,34o 
Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your y^n,^ 
It maketh al mv drede for to dyen; 
For, also siker*^as In principio, 
Mulier est hominis confusio; 
Madame, the sentence^ of this Latin is — 
Wonunan is mannes loye and al his blis;346 



I am so ful of loye and of solas 350 

That I defye bothe sweven and dreem." 
And with that word he fley® doun fro the 

beem. 
For it was day, and eek his hennes alle; 
And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle. 
For he had founde a com, lay in the yerd. 
Royal he was, he was namore af erd ; 356 



He loketh as it were a grim leoun; 

And on his toos he rometh up and doun,36o 

Him deyned not to sette his foot to 

grounde. 
He chukketh, whan he hath a com y- 

founde, 
And to him rennen thanne his wyves 

alle. 
Thus royal, as a prince is in his halle. 



"Lydia. "loee. "lost. 

Intake no faith in. » never a bit. 

•« as I hope for heaven. *• favor. " «res. 

sr «£ surdy as. * meaning. ** flew. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture 1365 
And after wol I telle his aventure. 
Whan that the month in which the 

world bigan, 
That highte March, whan god first maked 

man, 
Was complet, and y-passed were also, 
Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 
Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde,37i 
His seven wyves walking by his syde, 
Caste up hL eyen to the brighte sonne, 
That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne 
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat 

more; 37s 

And knew by kjnide,^ and by noon other 

lore,* 
That it was pryme,* and crew with blisful 

stevene.^ 
"The Sonne," he sayde, "is clomben up on 

hevene 
Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.^ 
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 380 
Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they 

singe, 
And see the fresshe floures how they 

springe; 
Ful is myn hert of revel and solas." 
But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas;* 
For ever the latter ende of loye is wo. 385 
God woot that worldly loye is sone ago;^ 
And if a rethor* coude faire endyte. 
He in a chronique saufl)^ mighte it write. 
As for a sovere)^ notabiUtee.^" 
Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; 
This storie is al-so trewe, I imdertake, 391 
As is the book of Laimcelot de Lake, 
That wonunen holde in ful gret reverence. 
Now wol I tome agayn to my sentence. 

A col-fox, ^^ ful of sly iniquitee, 395 

That in the grove hadde woned^* yeres 

three. 
By heigh imaginadoun fom-cast,^^ 
The same night thurgh-out the hegges^* 

brast^s 
Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire 
Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; 
And in a bed of wortes^* st&le he lay, 401 
Til it was passed undem^^ of the day. 
Way ting his t)ane on Chauntecleer to falle. 
As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, 

1 nature. * teaching. * nine o'clock A.M. 

* voice. * certainly. * a sad accident befell bim. 

'gone. •rhetoridan. •safely. »• wonder, 

"black fox. "lived. » premediUted. ii hedges. 

u bunt. ^ herbs. ^' the middle of the forenoon. 



That in awayt liggen^* to mordre men. 405 

O false morch-er, lurking in thy den! 

O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! 

False dissimilour,^® O Greek Sinon, 

That broghtest Troye al outrely^ to sorwe! 

Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe,4io 
That thou into that yerd flough fro the 

hemes! 
Thou were ful wel y-wamed by thy dremes, 
That thilke day was perilous to thee. 
But what that god forwot*^ mot nedes^ 

be. 
After the opinioim of (xxteyn derkis. 415 
Witnesse on him^ that any perfit clerk is. 
That in scole is gret altercadoun 
In this matere, and greet disputisoim. 
And hath ben of an himdred thousand 

men. 
But I ne can not bulte it to the bren,^ 420 
As can the holy doctour Augustyn, 
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradward)^, 
Whether that goddes worthy forwiting 
Streyneth^^ me nedely^ for to doon a 

thing, 
(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) ; 425 
Or elles, if free choys be graunted me 
To do that same thing, or do it noght. 
Though god forwot it, er that it was 

wroght; 
Or if his witing strejnieth nevere a del 
But by necessitee condidonel. 430 

1 wol not han to do of swich matere; 
My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, 

That took his counseil of his wyf, with 

sorwe, 
To walken in the yerd upon that morwe 
That he had met the dreem, that I yow 

tolde. 435 

Wonunennes counseils been ful ofte 

colde;^ 
Wonunannes counseil broghte us first to 

wp. 
And made Adam fro paradys to go, 
Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. 
But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, 
If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, 441 
Passe over, for I seyde it in my game.^ 
Rede auctours,^ wher they trete of swich 

matere. 
And what thay seyn of wonmien ye may 

here. 

» lie. '• dissembler. » absolutely. «• foresees. 

« necessarily. " let hira witness it. 

*< sift the matter. «* constrains. 

** necessarily. ** baneful. « in sport. '*authof8. 



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17 



Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat 
myne; 445 

I can noon harm of no woniman divyne.^ 
Faire in the sond,^ to bathe hir merily, 

Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, 

Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so 
free 

Song merier than the mermayde in the 

For Phisiologus seith sikerly, 45' 

How that they singen wel and merily. 
And so bifel, that as he caste his ye, 
Among the wortes,^ on a boterflye, 
He was war of this fox that lay fnl iowe^ss 
No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe, 
But cryde anon, "cok, cok," and up he 

sterte, 
As man that was affrayed in his herte. 
Y(X natureliy a beest <ies)n:eth flee 
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 460 

Though he never erst^ had seyn it with his 

ye. 
This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him 

espye, 
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon 
Seydc, "Gen til sire, alias! wher wol ye 

gon? 
Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend? 
Now certes, I were worse than a feend, 466 
If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. 
I am nat come yoiu" counseil* for tespye;* 
But trewely, the cause of my cominge 
Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. 
For trewely ye have as mery a stevene,^ 471 
As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene; 
Therwith ye han in musik more f elinge 
Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. 
My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!) 
And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, 476 
Han in mjni hous y-been, to my gret ese,* 
And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. 
But for men speke of singing, I wol saye. 
So mote I brouke^ wel myn eyen'® tweye^So 
Save yow, I herde never man so singe, 
As dide yoiu* fader in the morweninge; 
Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. 
And for to make his voys the more strong. 
He wolde so pejnie him,^^ that with both 

his yen*® 485 

He moste'^ winke, so loude he wdde 



cryen, 

1 declare. saand. 'heibs. 

* lecreU. • to spy o«t. ' voice. 

* have the use of. >* eyes. 

" take such pains. " needed to. 



And stonden on histiptoon*^ therwithal. 
And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. 
And eek he was of swich discrecioun. 
That ther nas no man in no regioun 490 
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. 
I have weel rad in daun Bumel the Asse, 
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok. 
For that a preestes sone yaf him a knok 
Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce, 
He made him for to lese" his benefyce. 496 
But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun 
Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun 
Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. 
Now singeth, sire, for seinte** charitee, 500 
Let see, conne ye your fader coimtre- 

fete?"*« 
This Chaimtecleer his winges gan to bete," 
As man that coude his tresoun nat espye, 
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. 

Alias! ye lordes, many a fals flatour^^sos 
Is in your courtes, and many a losen- 

geoiu",^" 
That 
Than he that soothfastnesse"" unto yow 

seith. 
Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; 
Beth^^ war,^ ye lordes, of hir trecherye.510 
This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his 

toos, 
Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen 

cloos. 
And gan to crowe loude for the nones; 
And daun Russel the fox sterte up at 



.19 



plesen yow wel more, bv my feith, 
I he that soothfastnesse^ unto yow 



ones 



23 



« before, 
'pleasure. 



And by the gargat^^ hente^ Chauntecleer, 
And on his bak toward the wode him 

beer,^ 516 

For yet ne was ther no man that him 

sewed.^ 
O destinee, that mayst nat ben eschewed!* 
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the 

bemes! 
Alias, his wyi ne roghte^ nat of dremes ! 520 
And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. 
O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,'® 
Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, 
And in thy service dide al his poweer. 
More for delyt, than world to multiplye, 
Why woldestow^^ suffre him on thy day to 

dye? 526 



»» tip-toes. 
M flatterer. 
«*waiy. 
••bore, 
"cared. 



14 lose. » holy. 
^•doDeiver. 
" at once. 
" followed. 
M delight. 



u imiute. " flap. 
» truth. " be. 

•« throat. » seized 
" avoided, 
ai wouldst thou. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



O Ganfred, dere mayster soverayn, 

That, whan thy worthy king Richard was 

slayn 
With shot, comple)aiedest his deth so sore, 
Why ne hadde I^ now thy sentence^ and 

thy lore,* 530 

The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? 
(For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) 
Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude 

pleyne^ 
For Chauntederes drede,* and for his 

pe)aie.* 
Certes, swich^ cry ne lamentadoiin 535 
Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioiin 
Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite^ 

swerd, 
Whan he hadde hent* king Priam by the 

herd, 
And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos), 
As maden alle Uie hennes in the clos,^^ 540 
Whan they had seyn of Chauntedeer the 

sighte. 
But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte, 
Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf , 
Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf , 
And that the Romayns hadde brend" 

Cartage. 545 

She waft so ful of torment and of rage, 
That wilfully into the f)nr she sterte,^^ 
And brende hir-selven with a stedfast 

herte. 
O wof ul hennes, nght so cryden ye, 
As, whan that Nero brende the dtee 550 
Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves, 
For that hu* housbondes losten alle hir 

lyves; 
Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. 
Now wol I tome to my tale agayn. 
This sely^* widwe, and eek hir doghtres 

two, 555 

Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo. 
And out at dores sterten thay anoon, 
And syen^^ the fox toward tie grove goon. 
And bar upon his bak the cok away; 559 
And cryden, " Out ! harrow! and weylaway ! 
Ha, ha, the fox!'' and after him they ran, 
And edc with staves many another man; 
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and 

Gerland, 
And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand; 



ihadlnot. 


•learning. 


•knowle 


4 lament. 


>fear. 


•grief. 


'such. 


■ "drawn. 


•seized. 


M enclosure. 


"burned. 


"leaped. 


"simple. 




"saw. 



Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray 

hogges, 56s 

So were they fered for^^ berking of the 



And shouting of the men and wimmen eke, 
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte 

breke. 
They yelleden as feendes doon^* in helle; 
The dokes cryden as^^ men wolde hem 

quelle;^ 570 

The gees for fere flowen over the trees; 
Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees; 
So hidous was the noyse, a! benedicitel 
Certes, he lakke. Straw, and his me)aiee,^* 
Ne maden^ never shoutes half so shrille, 
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille, 
As thilke day was maad upon the fox. 577 
Of bras thay broghten bemes,^* and of 

box,** 
Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and 

pouped,** 
And therwithal they shryked and they 

houped;*^ 580 

It semed as that heven sholde f alle. 
Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth 

alle! 
Lo, how fortime tumeth sodeinly 
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy! 
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak, 585 
In al his drede, im-to the fox he spak. 
And seyde, " sire, if that I were as ye, 
Yet sholde I seyn (as wis** god helpe me), 
* Tumeth agayn, ye proude dierles aUe! 
A verray pestilence up-on yow f alle ! 590 
Now am I come im-to this wodes syde, 
Maugree your heed,*^ the cok shal heer 

abyde; 
I wol hun ete in feith, and that anon.' " 
The fox answerde, "in fdth, it shal be 

don,"— 
And:ss lie spak that word, al sodeinly 595 
This cok brak*^ from his mouth deliverly ,** 
And heighe*® up-on a tree he fleigh anon. 
And wkm the fox saugh that he was 

y-gon, 
"Alias!" quod he, "O Chauntedeer, alias! 
I have to yow," quod he, "y-doon trespas, 
In-as-mudie as I maked yow af erd, 601 
Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the 

yerd; 

" frightened by. ^do. "as if. nkffl. *• company. 

* did; ikot make. '^ trumpets. ^ box-wood. 
" puffed. ** wbocmed. *» surely. 

* m spite of your bead; in spite of all you can do. 

^ broke. * nimbly. * high. 



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But, sire, I dide it in no wikke^ entente; 
C(Mn dcain, and I shal telle yow what I 

mente. 
I shal seye sooth to yow, god help me so." 
"Nay than," quod he, " I shrewe* us bothe 

two, 606 

And first I shrewe my-self , bothe blood and 

bones, 
If thou bigyle me of ter than ones. 
Thou shalt namore, thurgh thy flaterye 
Do me to' singe and winke with myn 

yg. 610 

For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, 
Al wilfully, god lat hun never thee ! "^ 
"Nay," quod the fox, "but god yeve^ him 

mesdiaimce,® 
That is so imdiscreet of govemaunce/ 
That iangleth^ whan he sholde holde his 

pees." 615 

Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees,* 
And nedigent, and truste on flaterye. 
But ye that holden this tale a folye,^ 
As <rf a fox, or of a cok and hen, 
Taketh the moralitee, good men. 620 

For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is, 
To*' our doctryne" it is y-write, y-wis. 
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stUle. 

Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille, 
As sdth my lord, so make us alle good men ; 
And bringe us to hb heighe blisse. Amen. 



THE 



PARDONER'S TALE 



/ 



Heere bigynneth the Pardoners Tale 

In Flaundres whylom was a companye 
Of yonge folk, that haunteden** folye, 136 
As ryot, hasard," stewes,*** and tavemes, 
Wher-as, with harpes, lutes, and gitemes,^® 
They daunce and pleye at dees bothe day 

and night. 
And ete also and drinken over hir might, 
Thur^ which they doon the devel 

sacrifyse 141 

With-in that develes temple, in cursed 

wyse, 
By superfluitee abhominable; 
ffir othes been so gret and so dampnable, 
TTiat it is grisly for to here hem swere : 14s 
Our blissed lordes body they to-tere;" 



iwicked. 
*inre. 



•badhick. ' self -coiitioL ^prattles. 
•ifllyUiiiig. "for. 

u practised. i« gambliii^. 

"guttan. " tear in pieces. 



Hem thoughte^^ lewes rente him noght 

ynough; 
And ech of hem at otheres sinne lough. 
And right anon than comen tombesteres^* 
Fetjrs** and smale, and yonge fruytesteres,^^ 
Singers with harpes [eek, and] wafereres,^ 
Whiche been the verray develes officeres 
To kindle and blowe the fyr of [luxxirye], 
That is annexed un-to glotonye; 
The holy writ take I to my witnesse, 1 5 5 
That luxurie is in wyn and dronkenesse. 



Herodes (who so wel the stories soughte) 
Whan he of wyn was replet at his f este, 161 
Ryght at his owene table he yaf his heste^' 
To sleen the Baptist John ful giltelees. 

Senek*^ seith eek a good word doutelees; 
He seith, he can no difference finde 165 
Bitwix a man that is out of his minde 
And a man which that is dronkelewe,*^ 
But that woodnesse,^ 3rfallen in a shrewe,^ 
Persevereth lenger than doth dronken- 
esse. 
O glotonye, ful of cursednesse, 1 70 

O cause first of our confusioun, 
O original of our dampnadoun. 
Til Crist had boght us with his blood 

agayn! 
Lo, how dere, shortly for to sayn, 
Aboght^ was thilke cursed vileinye ; 1 75 
Corrupt was al this world for glotonye! 

Adam our fader, and his wyf also, 
Fro Paradjrs to labour and to wo 
Were driven for that vyce, it is no drede;^ 
For whyl that Adam fasted, as I rede, 1 80 
He was in Paradjrs; and whan that he 
Eet of the fruyt defended^ on the tree. 
Anon he was out-cast to wo and peyne. 
O glotonye, on thee wel oghte us pleyne!** 
O, wiste a man how many maladyes 185 
Folwen of excesse and of glotonyes, 
He wolde been the more mesurable^ 
Of his diete, sittinge at his table. 
Alias! the shorte throte, the tendre mouth, 
Maketh that, Est and West, and North 
and South, 190 

In erthe, in eir, in water men to-swinke*^ 
To gete a glotoim deyntee mete and 
drinke! 



>s it seemed to them. 

"fruit sellers. 

M Seneca. 

^ wretch. • bou^t. 

<i complain. 



» dandnc girls, 'graceful. 
** confecuoners. ** command. 
** a drunkard. >* madness. 
** without doubt. ** forbidden. 
** labor hard. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Of this matere, O Paul, wel canstow trete, 
"Mete un-to wombe,^ and wombe eek 

un-to mete, 
Shal god destroyen bothe," as Paulus 

seith. 195 

Alias! a foul thing is it, by my feith, 
To seye this word, and fouler is the dede, 
Whan man so drinketh of the whyte and 

rede, 

That of his throte he maketh his privee, 

Thurgh thilke cursed superfluitee. 200 

The apostel weping seith ful pitously, 

"Ther walken many of whiche yow told 

have I, 
I seye it now weping with pitous voys, 
That they been enemys of Cristes croys,^ 
Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe^ is her 

god." «os 



How gret labour and cost is thee to 

fynde!* 
Thise cokes, how they stampe, and 

streyne,* and grinde, 210 

And tumen substaunce in-to accident. 
To f ulfiJle al thy likerous^ talent !• 
Out of the harde bones knokke they 
The mary,^ for they caste noght a-wey 
That may go thurgh the golet softe and 

swote,-* 215 

Of spicerye, of leef , and bark, and rote* 
Shal been his sauce ymaked by delyt, 
To make him yet a newer appetyt. 
But certes, he that haunteth swich 

delyces^^ 
Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces. 
A [ciirsed] thing is wyn, and dronken- 

esse 221 

Is ful of stiyving^^ and of wrecchednesse. 
O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, 
Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace. 
And thureh thy dronke nose semeth the 

soun" 22s 

As though thou seydest ay "Sampsoun, 

Sampsoun," 
And yet, god wot, Sampsoun drank never 

no wyn. 
Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; 
Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest 

cure;" 
For dronkenesse is verray sepulture 230 



> belly. * cro66. * maintain. 

* dainty. * appetite. ^ marrow. 

* root. ^ pleuures. " strife. 
^ care for honoraI>le reputation. 



« labor, 
•sweetly. 



Of mannes wit and his discredoun. 
In whom that drinke hath dominacioun. 
He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. 
Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the 

rede, 
And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe,23s 
That is to selle in Fishstrete or in Chepe. 
This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly 
In othere wynes, growing faste by, 
Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee," 
That whan a man hath dronken draughtes 

three, 240 

And weneth** that he be at hoom in Chepe, 
He is in Spayne, right at the toime of 

Lepe, 
Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; 
And thanne wol he seye, "Sampsoim, 

Sampsoun." 
But herkneth, lordings, o word, I yow 

preye, 245 

That alle the sovereyn actes, dar I seye. 
Of victories in the olde testament, 
Thurgh verray^* god, that is omnipotent, 
Were doon in abstinence and in preyere; 
Loketh the Bible, and ther ye may it lere. 
Loke, Attila, the grete conquerour, 251 
Deyde^^ in his sleep, with shame and dis- 
honour, 
Bledinge ay at his nose in dronkenesse; 
A capitayn shoulde live in sobemesse. 
And over al this, avyseth yow^^ right wel 255 
What was comaunded un-to Lamuel — 
Nat Samuel, but Lamuel, seye I — 
Redeth the Bible, and finde it expresly 
Of wyn-yeving^ to hem that han lustyse; 
Namore of this, for it may wel suflFyse. 260 
And now that I have spoke of glotonye. 
Now wol I yow defenden* hasardrye.^^ 
Hasard is verray moder of lesinges,^ 
And of deceite, and cursed forsweringes,** 
Blaspheme of Crist, manslaughtre, and 

wast" also 265 

Of cateP and of tyme; and forthermo. 
It is repreve** and contrarie of honour 
For to ben holde^ a commune hasardour. 
And ever the hyer he is of estaat. 
The more is he holden desolaat.^ 
If that a prince useth hasardrye, 
In alle govemaunce and policye 
He is, as by commune opinoun, 
Yholde the lasse in reputacioun. 



270 



i*confu«ng fumes. 

" died. •• consider. 

ti gambling. ^ lies. 

» wealth. * a reproach. 



" thinks. u the true. 

» giving. * forbid. 

»* perjury. «* waste. 
'^ known as. 



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Stilbon, that was a wys embassadour,275 
Was sent to Corinthe, in ful greet honour, 
Fro Laddomie, to make hir alliaunce. 
And whan he cam, him happede, par 

chaunce, 
That aUe the grettest that were of that 

lond, 
Pleyinge atte hasard he hem fond. 280 

For which, as sone as it mighte be, 
He stal^ him hoom^ agayn to his contree, 
And seyde, "Ther wol I nat lese^ my 

name; 
Ne I wd nat take on me so greet defame,* 
Yow for to allye un-to none hasardours. 285 
Sendeth othere wyse embassadours; 
For, by my trouthe, me were lever^ dye. 
Than I yow sholde to hasardours allye. 
For ye tJiat been so glorious in honours 
Shul nat allyen yow with hasardours 290 
As by my ^, ne as by my tretee." 
This wyse philosophie thus seyde he. 

Loke eei that to the king Demetrius 
The king of Parthes, as the book seith 

us, 
Sente him a paire of dees** of gold in scorn. 
For he hadde used hasard ther-bif om ; 296 
For which he heeld his glorie or his renoun 
At no value or reputacioim. 
Lc^es may fynden other maner pley 
Honeste ynough to dryve the day awey. 300 
Now wol I speke of othes false and grete 
A word or two, as olde bokes trete. 
Gret swering is a thing abhominable. 
And fals swering is yet more reprevable. 
The heighe god forbad swering at al, 305 
Witnesse on Mathew; but in special 
Of swering seith the holy leremye, 
"Thou shalt seye sooth* thyn othes, and 

nat lye. 
And swere in dome,^ and eek in right- 

wisnesse;" 
But 3rdel swering is a cursednesse. 310 

Bihold and see, that in the firste table 
Of heighe goddes hestes^ honiu^ble. 
How that the seconde heste of him is 

this— 
"Tak nat my name in ydeP or amis." 
Lo, rather he forbedeth swich swering 315 
Than homicyde or many a cursed thing; 
I seye that, as by ordre, thus it stondeth; 
This knowen, that^® his hestes under- 

stondeth. 



'returaed. 
•dke. 



> lose. > dislutaor. « I would rather. 

* truthfully. ' judgment. 

t in vain. ** thcwe who. 



How that the second heste of god is that. 
And forther over, I wol thee telle al plat,^^ 
That vengeance shal nat parten^^ from his 

hous, 321 

That of his othes is to outrageous. 
"By goddes precious herte, and by his 

nayles, 
And by the blode of Crist, that it is in 

Hayles, 
Seven is my chaunce, and thyn is dnk?^ 

and treye^" 325 

By goddes armes, if thou f alsly pleye. 
This dagger shaJ thurgh-out thyn herte 

go"- 
This fruyt cometh of the bicched^^ bones 

two, 
Forswering, ire, falsnesse, homicyde. 
Now, for the love of Crist that for us dyde, 
Leveth your othes, bothe grete and smale; 
But, sirs, now wol I telle forth my tale. 332 

Thise ryotoures three, of whidie I telle, * 
Longe erst er pryme** rong of any belle, 
Were set hem in a taveme for to drinke; 335 
And as they satte, they herde a belle clinke 
Bifom a cors, was caried to his grave; 
That oon of hem gan caUen to his knave, 
" Go bet,"^^ quod he, "and axe redily. 
What cors is this that passeth heer forby; 
And look that thou reporte his name 

wel." 341 

"Sh-," quod this boy, "it nedeth 

neveradel.^* 
It was me told, er ye cam heer, two houres; 
He was, pardee, an old felawe^* of youres; 
And sodeynly he was ysla)ai to-night, 345 
For-dronke,^ as he sat on his bench 

upright; 
Ther cam a privee theef, men clep)eth^^ 

Deeth, 
That in this contree al the peple sleeth. 
And with his spere he smoot his herte 

atwo, 349 

And wente his wey with-outen wordes mo. 
He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence: 
And, maister, er ye come in his presence. 
Me thinketh that it were necessarie 
For to be war of swich an adversarie : 
Beth redy for to mete him evermore. 355 
Thus taughte me my dame, I sey namore." 
" By seinte Marie," seyde this tavemer, 
"TTie child seith sooth,^ for he hath slayn 

this yeer, 

"plainly, "depart, "five. "three. "cursed. 
M nine o'clock A. Af . " quickly. » there is no need of it. 
>* companion. * dead drunk. *i name. ^ truth. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



/; 



Henne^ over a myle, with-in a greet village. 
Both man and womman, child and hyne,^ 

and page. 360 

I trowe his habitacioun be there; 
To been avysed^ greet wisdom it were, 
Er that he dide a man a dishonour." 
|." Ye, goddes armes," quod this ryotour, 

Is it swich peril with him for to mete? 365 
I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete, 
I make avow to goddes digne^ hemes! 
Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones;^ 
Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other, 
And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, 370 
And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth; 
He shal be slayn, which that so many 

sleeth, 
By goddes dignitee, er it be night." 
Togidres han thise three her trouthes 

plight, 
To live and dyen ech of hem for other, 375 
As though he were his owene yboren* 

brother. 
And up they sterte al dronken, in this rage. 
Arid forth they goon towardes that vill^. 
Of which the tavemer had spoke bifom, 
And many a grisly 00th than han they 

sworn, ' 380 

And Cristes blessed body they to-rente — 
"Deeth shal be deed, if that they may him 

hente."^ 
Whan they han goon nat fully half a 

myle. 
Right as they wolde han troden over a 

style, 
An old man and a povre with hem mette. 
This olde man f ul mekely hem grette, 386 
And seyde thus, "now, lordes, god yow 

see!"« 
The proudest of thise ryotoures three 
Answerde agayn, "what? carl,® with sory 

grace,^** 
Why artow^^ al f orwrapped" save thy face? 
Why lyvestow so longe m so greet age? "391 
lliis olde man gan loke^' in his visage. 
And seyde thus, "for I ne can nat finde 
A man, though that I walked in-to Inde, 
Neither in citee nor in no village, 395 

That wolde chaimge his youthe for myn 

age; 
And therfore moot^* I han myn age stiUe, 
As longe time as it is goddes wille. 



■hence. 'servant. 'forewarned. < honorable. 

* of one mind. * bom. ' seize. 

* protect. *charl. >> bad luck to you. 

u art thou. " wrapped up. " looked. ^* must. 



Ne deeth, alias! ne wol nat han my lyf ; 
Thus walke I, lyk a restelees cait3rf , 400 
And on the groimd, which is my modres 

gate, 
I knokke with my staf , bothe erly and late, 
And seye, leve^* moder, leet me in! 
Lo, how I vanish, fle^, and blood, and 

skin! 
Alias! whan shul my bones been at reste? 
Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my 
. cheste, 406 

That in my chambre longe tjrme hath be, 
Ye! for an he)n« dowt^* to wrappe me!' 
But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, 
For which ful pale and welked^'^ is my 

face. 410 

But, sirs, to yow it is no curteisye 
To speken to an old man vileinye, 
But^ he trespasse in worde, or elles in 

dede. 
In holy writ ye may your-self wel rede, 414 
'Agayns^® an old man, hoor upon his heed. 
Ye sholde aryse,' wherfor I yeve yow reed,^ 
Ne dooth un-to an old man noon harm 

now, 
Namore than ye wolde men dide to yow 
In age, if that ye so longe abyde; 
And god be with yow, wher^ ye go*^ or 

ryde. 420 

I moot go thider as I have to go." 
"Nay, olde cherl, by god, thou shalt nat 

so," 
Seyde this other hasardour anon, 
"Thou partest nat so lightly, by seint 

lohn! 
Thou spak right now of thilke traitour 

Deeth, 425 

That in this contree alle our frendes sleeth. 
Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his 

aspye,^ 
Tel wher he is, or thou shalt it abye,^ 
By god, and by the holy sacrament! 
For soothly thou art oon of his assent,** 430 
To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef ! " 
"Now, sirs," quod he, "if that yow be so 

leef» 
To finde Deeth, tume up this croked wey. 
For in that grove I lafte him, by my fey. 
Under a tree, and ther he wol abyde; 435 
Nat f or^ your boost® he wol him no-thing 

hyde. 



»dear. "haircloth. 
*• before. * advice. 
«» ^y. ** rue. 

" on account of. 



"withered. nunlesa. 

ti whether. » walk. 

» conspiracy. • eager. 



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\jULMxr 






rigfit 



23 



#^ 



See ye that 00k? rig&t ther ye shul him 

fiiKle. 
God save yow, that boghte aga)ai man- 

kinde, 
And yow amende!" — thus seyde this olde 

man. 
And everich of thise ryotoures ran, 440 
Til he cam to that tree, and ther they 

founde 
Of florins fyne of golde ycoyned romide 
Wei ny an eighte^ busdiels, as hem 

thoughte. 
No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte, 
But edi of hem so glad was of that sighte, 
For that the florins been so faire and 

brighte, 446 

That doun they sette hem by this precious 

hord. 
The worste of hem he spak the firste word. 
Brethren," quod he, "tak kepe* what 

I seye; 
y wit is greet, though that I bourde^ 

and jJeye. 450 

This tresor hath fortime im-to us )dven. 
In mirthe and lolitee our lyf to liven. 
And lightly as it comth, so wol we spende. 
Ey! goddes precious dignitee! who wende* 
To-day, that we sholde han so faire a 

grace? 455 

But mighte this gold be caried fro this 

place 
Hoom to myn hous, or elles im-to youres — 
For wel ye woot that al thk gold is oures — 
Than were we in heigh felicitee. 
But trewely, by daye it may nat be; 460 
Men wolde seyn that we were theves 

stronge, 
And for our owene tresor doon us honge.* 
This tresor moste ycaried be by nighte 
As wysly and as slyly as it mighte. 464 
Wherfore I rede that cut among us aUe 
Be drawe, and lat se wher the cut wol falle; 
And he that hath the cut with herte blythe 
Shal renne to the toune, and that ful 

swythe,* 
And bringe us breed and wyn ful prively. 
And two of us shul kepen subtilly 470 
This tresor wel; and, if he wol nat tarie, 
Whan it is night, we wd this tresor carie 
By oon assent, wher-as us thinketh^ best." 
That oon of hem the cut broughte in his 

fest,» 



And bad hem drawe, and loke wher it 

wol falle; 475 

And it fil on the youngest of hem alle; 
And forth toward the toim he wente anon. 
And al-so sone as that he was gon. 
That oon of hem spak thus im*to that 

other: 
"Thou knowest wel thou art my swome 

brother, 480 

Thy profit wol I telle thee anon. 
Thou woost wel that oiu* felawe is agon; 
And heer is gold, and that ful greet plentee, 
That shal departed been among us three. 
But natheles, if I can shape it so 4S5 

That it departed were among us two, 
Hadde I nat doon a frendes torn to thee? " 
That other answerde, "I noot® how that 

maybe; 
He woot^** how that the gold is with us 

• tweye; 
What shal we doon, what shal we to him 

seye? " 490 

"Shal it be conseil?"" seyde the firste 

shrewe,^^ 
"And I shal tellen thee, in wordes fewe, 
What we shal doon, and bringe it wel 

aboute." 
"I graimte," quod that other, "out of 

doute. 
That, by my trouthe, I wol thee nat 



biwreye 



"18 



495 



'eight 

* have us hanged. 



2 note of. 
•quickly. 



» jest. « thought. 

7 k seems best. • fist. 



"Now," quod the firste, "thou woost 

wel we be tweye. 
And two of us shul strenger be than oon. 
Look whan that he is set, and right anoon 
Arys, as though thou.woldest with him 

pleye; 
And I shal ryve him thurgh the sydes 

tweye 500 

Whyl that thou strogelest with him as in 

game. 
And with thy dagger look thou do the 

same; , 
And than shal al this gold departed be. 
My dere freend, bitwixen me and thee; 
Than may we bothe our lustes al f ulfille,505 
And pleye at dees right at our owene 

wille." 
And thus acorded" been thise shrewes 

tweye 
To sleen the thridde, as ye han herd me 

seye. 



• know not. 
>* scoundrel. 



1* knows. 
»« betray. 



II a secret. 
i« agreed. 



Digitized by 



Googh 



24 



THE END OP THE MIDDLE AGES 



This yongest, which that wente un-to 

the toun, 
Ful ofte in herte he rolleth up and doun 510 
The beautee of thise florins newe and 

brighte. 
"O lord!" quod he, "if so were that I 

mighte 
Have al this tresor to my-self allone, 
Ther is no man that liveth under the 

trone^ 
Of god, that sholde live so mery as I! " 515 
And atte laste the feend, our enemy, 
Putte in his thought that he shold poyson 

beye,^ 
With which he mighte sleen his felawes 

tweye; 
For why* the feend fond him in swich 

lyvinge, 
That he had leve^ him to sorwe bringe, 520 
For this was outrely^ his fui entente 
To sleen hem bothe, and never to repente. 
And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he 

tarie, 
Into the toun, un-to a pothecarie, 
And preyed him, that he him wolde 

selle 525 

Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes 

quelle;* 
And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe/ 
That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde 

yslawe, 
And fayn he wolde wreke* him, if he 

mighte. 
On vermin, that destroyed him by nighte. 
The pothecarie answerde, "and thou 

shalt have-^^4w>^*^ 531 

A thing that, aj^ god my soule save. 
In al this world ther nis no creature. 
That ete or dronke hath of this confiture* 
Noght but the mountance*® of a com of 

whete, 535 

That he ne shal his lyf anon forlete;^^ 
Ye, sterve^^ he shal, and that in lasse whyle 
Than thou wolt goon a paas^* nat but a 

myle; 
This poyson is so strong and violent." 
This cursed man hath in his bond 

yhent" 540 

This poyson in a box, and sith he ran 
In-to the nexte strete, un-to a man. 
And borwed of him large hotels three; 
And in the two his poyson poured he; 

■buy. 'because, ^penniasbn. * entirely, 
ige. * mixture, 
footpace. 



* throne. 

• kill. » yard. • avenge. 
" lote. " die.- >* at a fool 



!• amount. 
>« seized. 



The thridde he kepte dene for his drinke. 
For all the night he shoop him^ for to 
swinke^* 546 

In caryirige of the gold ^gLflt^^ftiMPte^u 
And whan this ryotour, tSiA-s^l^g^i^^ 
Had filled with wyn his grete hotels three. 
To his felawes agayn repaireth he. 550 

What nedeth it to sermone*^ of it more? 
For right as they had cast his deeth bifore, 
Right so they han him slayn, and that 

anon. 
And whan that this was doon, thus spak 

that oon, 
"Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us 

merie, 555 

And afterward we wol his body berie." 
And with that word it happed him, par 

cas,^* 
To take the hotel ther the poyson was. 
And drank, and yaf his felawe drinke 

also. 
For which anon they storven^ bothe two. 
But, certes, I suppose that Avicen 561 
Wroot never in no canon,^ ne in no fen,*® 
Mo^^ wonder^ signes of empoisoning 
Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir 

ending. 
Thus end^ been thise homicydes two, 565 
And eek the false empoysoner also. 

O cursed sinne, ful of ciu^sednesse! 
O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! 
O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye ! 
Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye 
And othes grete, of usage^ and of pryde 1571 
Alias! mankynde, how may it bityde, 
That to thy creatour which that thee 

wroghte. 
And with his precious herte-blood thee 

boghte, u/t^vJbiAJl 

Thou art so fals and soomkin^, alias ! 575 
Now, goode men, god forgeve yow your 

trespas. 
And ware yow^ fro the sinne of avaryce. 
Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce,** 
So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges. 
Or elles silver broches, spon^ ringer. 580 
Boweth your heed imder this holy buUe! 
Cometh up, ye wyves, oftreth of your 

woUe!^ 
Your name I entre heer in myrolle anon; 
In-to the blisse of hevene shviTSe^n ; 

"Dlanned. "labor. "speak. "by chance. 

'• aied. *• See notes. " more. » wonderful, 

s* habit. "keep you. "cure. "wool. 



Digitized by 



QoogY<s: 



CHAUCER 



25 



/A 



I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, 585 
Yow that wol offre, as dene and eek as 

deer 
As ye were bom; and, lo, sirs, thus I 
_ predie. ^^AXf>*i^^<^i-*^ 

And lesu Crist, that is our soules jeohfit- 
. Sd grauntCLyow his pardon to receyve; 
/mpot that is best; I wol yow nat deGeyve.590 
y y- ^-Ait sirs, o word forgat I in my tale; 
/ /Ihavereliksandpardoninmymale,^ 
V ^ As faire as any man in Engelond, 
l^ Whidie were me yeven by the popes 
ti^i bond. 

p^ If any of yow wol, of devodoun, 595 

QfFren, and ban myn absoludoun, 
Cometh forth anon, and kneleth beer 

adoun, 
And mekely receyveth my pardoun : 
Or dies, taketh pardon as ye wende, 
Al newe and fresh, at e;(5rjr^tounes ende, 
So that ye ofifren alwey n^^eana newe 601 
Nobles and i)ens, which.that be gode^and 

trew^.' 
It is an honour to everidi that is beer. 
That ye mowe have a sujQ|sant pardoneer 
TasspDle?-yow, in con tree as ye ryde, 605 
Fcm: av^tures whiph that may bityde. 
Peraventure ther may falle oon pr two 
Doim of his hors, and breke his nekke 

atwo. 
Look whidi a seuretee is it to yow alle 
That^m in your felaweship yfalle, 610 
Tli^may assoille yow, both more* and 

lasse,* 
Whan that the soide shal fro the body 



I rede^ that pur host heer shal biginne, 
For he is most envoluped in sinne. 614 

Com forth, sir hoste, and Q£fre first anon, 
And thou shalrkisse the reliks everichon,* 
Ye, for a grote ! unbokel anon thy purs. 



BALADE DE BON CONSEYL 

Fie fro the prees,^ and dwelle with soth- 

fastnesse;^ 
SufiFyce unto diy good, though hit be smal ; 
For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikel- 

nesse,* 
Frees hath envye, and wele^^ blent'^ overal; 
Savour" no more than thee bihove shal ; 5 

ivalkt. s to absolve, 'high. «low. 

*advite. •each one. 'the crowd. •truth. 

* oaoertJUB^. ** wealth. ' ^ blinds. " have relish for. 



Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst 

rede;^* 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse, 
In trust of hir that tumeth as a bal; 
Gret reste^^ stant^*^ in litel besinesse, 10 
And eek be war to spome^* age)ai an al; 
Str3r\re noght, as doth the crokke with 

the wal. 
Daimte^^ thyself, that daimtest otheres 

dede; 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

That thee is sent, receyve in buxunmesse,i5 
The vn-astling for this world axeth^* a fal. 
Her nis non hom, her nis but wildemesse; 
Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out 

of thy stal! 
Know thy countree; lok up, thank God of 

al; 
Hold the hye-way, and lat thy gost^* thee 

lede! 20 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

Envoy 

Therefore, thou Vache, leve^ thyn old 

wrecchednesse; 
Unto the world leve now to be thral; 
Crye Him mercy that of His by goodnesse 
Made thee of noght, and in especial 35 

Draw unto Him, and pray in general 
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich 

mede;^^ 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO 
HIS EMPTY PURSE 

To you, my purse, and to non other wight" 
Complejme I, for ye be my lady dere! 
I am so sory, now that ye be light; 
For certes, but^* ye maie me hevy chere,^* 
Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere; 5 
For whiche un-to your mercy thus I crye: 
Beth^ hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye I 

Now voucheth sauf this day, or* hit be 

night, 
That I of you the blisful soun may here. 
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, 10 



I* advise. >* peace. 

" subdue. " asks. 

" reward. ** person. 
»bc. 



» resides. >«kick. 
>» spirit. » cease, 

s* unless. '* appearance, 
•before. 



Digitized by 



Googl( 



26 



THE END OP THE MIDDLE AGES 



That of yelownesse hadde never pere. 
Ye be my lyf , ye be mjoi hertes stere,^ 
Quene of comiort and of good companye: 
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! 

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, 15 
And saveour, as doun* in this worlde here, 
Out of this toime help me through yoiu* 

might. 
Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere; 
For I am shave as nye^ as any frere.* 
But yit I pray un-to your curtesye : 20 

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! 

Lenvoy de Chaucer 

conquerour of Brutes Albioun! 
Which that by lyne and free eleccioun 
Ben^ verray king, this song to you I sende; 
And ye, that mowen* al myn harm 

amende, 25 

Have mynde up-on my supplicacioim! 

ANONYMOUS 
PIERS THE PLOWMAN 

Prom the Prologue 

In a somer sesim * whon sof te was the 
Sonne, 

1 schop^ me in-to a schroud* ' a scheep* 

as I were; 
In habite of an hermite * unholy of werkes, 
Wende^** I wyde in this world ' wondres to 

here. 
Bote on a May momynge * on Malveme 

hulles^^ 5 

Me bi-fel^* a ferly'^'of fairy, ^^ me thoughte. 

I was wery, f orwandred,^* * and went me 

to reste 
Under a brod banke • bi a bourne** syde, 
And as I lay and leonede*^ * and lokede on 

the watres, 
I slumberde in a slepyng ' hit sownede** so 

murie.^ 10 

Thenne gon** I meeten^* * a mervelous 

swevene,^^ 
That I was in a wildemesse * wuste^^ I 

never where; 
And as I beheold into the est ' an heigh^ 

to the Sonne, 

> guide. ' down. * close. < friar. * art. 



• have power to. 

* shepherd. 



7 clothed. * sarment. 

»»went. "hflls. 

" wonder. ^* enchantment. 

I with wandering. >* brook. >' leaned. 

•• sounded. »• merry. * did. 

*i dream. " dream. 

** knew. ^ on high. 



I sauh^ a tour on a toft^ * trielich*' 

ymaked;® 
A deop dale bineothe * a dongeon ther-inne. 
With deop dich and derk ' and dredful 

of siht.** 16 

A f eir f eld f ul of fdk * fond I ther bitwene. 
Of alle maner of men ' the mene* and the 

riche, 
Worchinge** and wandringe ' as the world 

asketh.^* 
Simune putten hem^ to the plow * and 

pleiden'^ ful selde;*^ 20 

In settyng** and in sowyng * swonken*^ 

ful luuxle. 
And wonnen that theos^ wasturs'* * in 

glotonye distruen.**^ 
And sunmie putten hem to pruide^* • ap- 

parayld^ hem ther-af ter. 
In continaimce^' of clothinge ' comen dis- 

gised. 
To preyere^ and to penaimce • putten 

hem monye,^^ 25 

For love of ur** lorde * lyveden^ ful streite. 
In hope for to have ' hevenriche^ blisse; 
As ancres^' and hermytes ' that holdeth 

hem^ in heore^^ celles, 
Coveyte not in cimtre*^ • to cairen^ aboute, 
For non likerous^^ lyflode" * heore licam** 

to plese. 30 

And sunmie chosen chaffare*^ • to cheeven^ 

the bettre. 
As hit semeth to owre siht * that suche 

men thryveth; 
And smnme murthes^* to maken ' as mun- 

strals cunne,^ 
And get gold with here gle*^ ' riltles I trowe. 
Bote japers** and jangders,^ • ludas chil- 
dren, 35 
Founden*^ hem fantasyes** * and fooles 

hem maaden. 
And habbeth wit at heor wille** * to 

worchen®^ gif hem luste; 
That^ Poul precheth of hem * I dar not 

preoven^ heere; 



s* saw. *• cleared space. 
» made. *• sight. 
SI woridng. *> requires. 
*« played. ** seldom. 
» labored. » these. 

• destroy. " pride. 
4> outward appearance. 
** many. *• our. - .•, 
«• happiness of the kingdom of heaven. 
« nuns. *" keep themselves. ** their. 
M wander. " luxurious. 
»' trade. •• prosper. 
«> know how. 
••buffoons. •< feigned. 
•• at command. 

• what. 



"choicely. 

••poor. 

»• gave themselves. 

••planting. 

••wasters. 

"clothed. 



« lived 



••country. 

-diet. ••body. 

••amusements. 

•» glee. •« fools. 

••tricks. 
•^ work if it pleased them. 
•• prove, explain. 



Digitized by 



Googl( 



PIERS THE PLOWMAN 



27 



Qui loquitur turpiloquium ' is Ludferes 

hyne. 
Bidders^ and beggers * faste aboute eoden,^ 
Til heor bagges and heor belies " weren 

bretful ycrammed;* 41 

Fe3meden hem* for heore foode * foughten 

atte* ale; 
In glotonye, God wot, * gon heo* to 

bedde, 
And ryseth up with ribaudye^ * this rober- 

des* knaves; 
Sleep and sleuthe ' suweth* hem evere. 45 
Pilgrimes and palmers • plihten^® hem 

togederes 
For to seche^^ Seint Jame ' and seintes at 

Roome; 
Wenten forth in heore wey • with mony 

wyse tales. 
And hadden leve to lyen * al heore lyf af tir. 



I fond there freres ' all the foure ordres, 55 
Prechinge the peple * for profyt of heore 

wombes,^* 
Glosynge^' the Gospel * as hem^* good 

liketh," 
For covetyse^* of copes ' construeth^* hit 

iUe; 
For monye*^ of this maistres * mowen^ 

dothen hem at lyking,^ 
For moneye^ and heore mardiaundie*^ • 

meeten oft togedere. 60 



Ther prediede a pardoner • as** he a 

prest were, 65 

And brought forthe a bulle * with bis- 

schopes sdes. 
And seide that himself mighte * asoylen*^ 

hem alle 
Of falsnesse and fastinge * and of vowes 

y-broken. 
The lewede** men leved*^ him wel * and 

lyked his wordes, 
And comen up knelynge * and cusseden** 

his bulle; 70 

He bondiede*' hem with his brevet*® * and 

blered heore dyen,** 

'benan. ^went. * crammed. « shammed. 

• at the • tbor. ? ribaldry. 

• theK robber. • follow. » plighted. 
» aetk. » bellies. >« interpreting. 

**a»k pleased them. " covetousness. * constrxie. 

^ many. »• may. >• as they please. 

» money. " merchandise. «* as if . « shrive. 
MipKirant. "believed. m kissed. 

" banged. *■ letter of indulgence. *• eyes. 



And rauhte^ with his ragemon^^ * ringes 

and brodies. 
Thus ye giveth oure'* gold * glotonye to 

helpen, 
And leveth hit to losels^ ' that ledierie 

haunten.** 
Weore the bissdiop y-blessed * and worth 

bothe his eres,** 75 

His seel shulde not be sent ' to deceyve 

the peple. 
Ac^ hit is not bi^ the bissdiop * that 

the boye predieth; 
Bote^^ the parisdi prest and he * parten 

the selver 
That the poraille^ of the parisdi * sdiold 

have yif thd nere.'® 

ANONYMOUS 
NOAH'S FLOOD 

THE WATERLEAOERS AND DRAWERS 
OF DEE 

First God, sitting in some high place, or in 
clouds, if it can be done, speaks to Noah, 
standing with aU his family outside the 
ark. 

God. I, God, that all the world have 

wrought. 
Heaven and earth, and all of nought, 
I see my people in deed and thought 

Are f oillly set in sin. 
My spirit shall not remain in any man 5 
That through fleshly liking k my fone,^ 
But till six score years be gone. 

To look if they will blynne.^^ 

Man that I made I will destroy, 

Beast, man, and fowl that fly, 10 

For on earth they do me annoy, 

The folk that are thereon; 
It harms me so hurtf ully. 
The malice now that does multiply. 
That sore it grieveth me inwardly 15 

That ever I made man. 

Therefore, Noah, my servant free, 
That righteous man art, as I see, 
A ship soon thou shalt make thee 
Of trees dry and light ; 20 

» reached, got. « bull. " your. 

»» rascab. ** practise. >• ears. 

«• all the fault oC. " but. 

** poor peof^. * if it were not for them. 



Digitized by 



Googl( 



28 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES V 



Little chambers therein do thou make, 
And binding pitch also do thou take : 
Within and without do thou not slake^ 
To annoint it with all thy might. 

Tliree hundred cubits it shall be long, 25 
And fifty of breadth, to make it strong, 
Of height fifty, the measure do thou 
fonge:^ 

Thus measure it about. 
One window work by thy wit, 
One cubit of length and breadth make it ; 30 
Upon the side a door shall sit, 

For to come in and out. 

Eating places do thou make also, 

Three roofed chambers, one or two, 

For with water I think to flow* 35 

Man that I did make; 
Destroyed all the world shall be, 
Save thou, thy wife, thy sons three, 
And all their wives also with thee. 

Shall saved be for their sake. 40 

Noah. Ah, Lord, I thank thee loud and 

still, 
That to me art in such will, 
And sparest me and my house to spill,^ 

As now I soothly find; 
Thy bidding, Lord, I shall fulfil, - 45 

And never naore thee grieve nor griU,^ 
That such grace hast sent me till, 

Among all mankind. 

Have done, you men and women all ! 
Help, for aught that may befall, 50 

To make this ship, chamber and hall, 

As God hath bidden us do. 
Shem. Father, I am already bowne:* 
An axe I have, by my crown. 
As sharp as any in all this town, 55 

For to go thereto. 

Ham. I have a hatchet wonder keen 
To bite well, as may be seen ; 
A better ground, as I ween, 

Is not in all this town. 60 

Jafhet. And I can well make a pin, 
And with this hammer knock it in ; 
Go and work without more din. 

And I am ready bowne. 



1 be not slack. 
« destroy. 



stake. 
*vex. 



•flood, 
'prepared. 



Noah's Wife. And we shall bring timber 
too, 65 

For we may nothing else do: 
Women be weak to undergo 

Any great travail. 
Shem's Wife. Here is a good hackstock,^ 
On this you may hew and knock; 70 

Shall none be i(Ue in this flock, 

Nor now may no man fail. 

Ham's Wife. And I will go to gather 

slich* 
The ship for to clean and pitch: 
Annointed it must be every stitch,' 75 

Board, tree and pin. 
Jafhet's Wife. And I will gather chips 

here 
To make a fire for you in fere,?** 
And for to dight^^ your dinner 

Against you come in. 80 

Then they make signs as though they were 
working wUh various implements, 

NoAH. Now in the name of God I will 

begin 
To make the ship that we shall go in. 
That we be ready for to swim 

At the coming of the flood: 
These boards I join here together 85 

To keep us safe from the weather. 
That we may row both hither and thither, 

And safe be from this flood. 



Of this tree will I make the mast, 
Tied with cables that will last, 
With a sailyard for each blast. 

And each thing in their kind; 
With topcastle and bowsprit, 
With cords and ropes I have all meet 
To sail forth at the next weete:^^ 

This ship is at an end. 



90 



95 



Then Noah and all his family again make 
signs of working with various imple- 
ments. 

Wife, in this castle we shall be kept; 
My children and thou I would in leapt. 
Noah's Wife. In faith, Noah, I had as 
lief thou slept. 
For all thy frankish fare, 100 



' chon>ing-block. 
Wall together. 



•pitch. 
> prepare. 



•stick. 

« wet weather. 



Digitized by 



Googl( 



NOAH'S FLOOD 



29 



I will not do after thy rede.^ 
Noah. Good wife, do now as I thee bid. 
Noah's Wefe. By Christ! not ere I see 
more need, 
Though thou stand all the day and stare. 

Noah. Lord, that women be crabbed aye, 
And never are meek, that dare I say; 106 
This is well seen by me today 

In witness of you each one. 
Good wife, let be aU this bere^ 
That thou makest in this place here, no 
For all they ween thou art master — 

And so thou art, by St. John ! 

God. Noah, take thou thy company, 

And in the ship hie that you be, 

For none so righteous man to me 115 

Is now on ^rth living. 
Of dean beasts do thou with thee take 
Seven and seven, ere thou slake. 
He and she, make to make,' 

Quickly in do thou bring. 1 30 



Of beasts unclean, two and two, 
Male and female, without mo;^ 
Of dean fowls seven also. 

The he and she together; 
Of fowb undean, two and no more, 
As I of beasts said before. 
That shall be saved through my lore. 

Against I send the weadier. 



"5 



Of all meats that must be eaten 
Into the ship look there be getten, 
For that no way may be forgetten. 

And do all this bydene,* 
To sustain man and beast therein. 
Aye till this water cease and blynne. 
Tliis wcHrld is filled full of sin. 

And that is now well seen. 



130 



13s 



Seven da3rs be yet coming, 

You shall have space them in to bring; 

After that is my liking 

Mankind for to annoy : 140 

Forty days and forty nights 
Rain AaU fall for their unrights. 
And what I have made through my 
mights, 

Now think I to destroy. 



*noise. 



'mate. 
^qukUy. 



NoAH. Lord, at your bidding I am bayne;* 
Since none other your grace will gain, 146 
It will I fulfil fain, 

For gradous I thee find. 
A hundred winters and twenty 
This ship making tarried have I, 150 

If through amendment any mercy 

Would fall unto mankind. 

Have done, you men and women all I 

Hie you, lest this water fall. 

That each beast were in his stall, 155 

And into the ship brought I 
Of dean beasts seven shaU be, 
Of unclean two, this God bade me. 
This flood is nigh, well may we see; 

Therefore tarry you not. 160 

Then Noah shall enter the ark, and his 
family shall exhibit and name all the 
animals depicted on sheets of parch- 
menty and after each one has spoken his 
part, ke shall go into the ark, except 
Noah's wife. The animals depicted 
ought to correspond to the descriptions; 
and thus lei the first son begin, 

Shem. Sir, here are lions, leopards in, 
Horses, mares, oxen, and swine. 
Goats, calves, sheep, and kine, 

Here sitting thou mayst see. 
Ham. Camels, asses, men may find, 165 
Buck, doe, hart, and hind. 
And beasts of all manner of kind 

Here be, as thinks me. 

Japhet. Take here cats, and dogs too, 
Otter, fox, fulmart^ also, 1 70 

Hares hopping gaily can go. 

Have cowle here for to eat. 
Noah's Wife. And here are bears, wolves 

set. 
Apes, owls, marmoset, 
Weasels, squirrels, and ferret ; 1 75 

Here they eat their meat. 

Shem's Wife. Yet more beasts are in this 

house: 
Here cats make it full crowse,' 
Here a rat, here a mouse, 
They stand nigh together. 180 

•ready. Tikonk. *JoUy. 



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Ham's Wife. And here are fowls, less and 

more: 
Herons, cranes, and bittour,^ 
Swans, peacocks; and them before 
Meat for this weather. 

Japhet's Wife. Here are cocks, kites, 
crows, 185 

Rooks, ravens, many rows; 
Ducks, curlews: whoever knows 

Each one m his kind? 
And here are doves, ducks, drakes. 
Redshanks, running through the lakes; 190 
And each fowl that language makes 

In this ship men may find. 

Noah. Wife, come in I why standest thou 

here? 
Thou art ever froward, that dare I swear. 
Come in, on God's half !^ time it were, 195 

For fear lest that we drown. 
Noah's Wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail. 
And row forth with evil hail! . 
For without any fail 

I will not out of this town. 200 

Unless I have my gossips every one 
One foot further I will not gone;' 
They shall not drown, by St. John! 

If I may save their life! 
They loved me full well, by Christ! 205 
Unless thou wilt let them in thy chest, 
Row forth, Noah, whither thou list. 

And get thee a new wife. 

Noah. Shem, son, lo! thy mother is 

wraw:^ 
Forsooth, such another I do not know! 210 
Shem. Father, I shall fetch her in, I 
trow. 

Without any fail. 
Mother, my father after thee sent. 
And bids thee into yonder ship wend. 
Look up and see the wind, 21 5 

For we be ready to safl. 

Noah's Wife. Son, go again to him and 

say 
I will not come therein today. 
Noah. Come in, wife, in twenty devils' 

way! 
Or else stand there without. 220 



> bittern. 

« go— an infinitive. 



* for God's sake. 
4 angry. 



Ham. Shall we all fetch her in? 

Noah. Yea, sons, in Christ's blessing 

and mine! 
I would you hied you betime. 
For of this flood I am in doubt^ 



The Good Gossips. [They sing.] 
The flood comes in full fleeting fast, 
On every side it spreadeth full far; 
For fear of drowning I am aghast. 
Good gossip, let us draw near. 
And let us drink ere we depart, 
For oftentimes we have done so; 
For at a draught thou drink'st a quart, 
And so will I do, ere I go. 



225 



230 



Japhet. Mother, we pray you altogether. 
For we are here, yoiu* own children, 
Come into the ship for fear of the weather, 

For his love that you bought 236 

Noah's Wife. That will I not for all your 

caU, 
Unless I have my goss^)s all. 
Shem. In faith, mother, yet you shall. 

Whether you will or not! 240 

[Then she will go.] 

Noah. Welcome, wife, into this boat! 
Noah's Wife. And have thou that for 
thy mote!* 

[She deals Noah a blow.] 
Noah. Aha, marry, this is hot! 

It is good to be still. 
Ah, children, methinks my boat removes! 
Our tarrying here hugely me grieves; 246 
Over the land the water spreads — 

God do as he will! 



Ah, great God that art so good. 
He that works not thy will is wood^. 
Now ^1 this world is in a flood, 

As I see well in sight; 
This window I will diut anon. 
And into my chamber will I gone, 
Till this water, so great one, 

Be slakM tlu-ough thy might. 



250 



25s 



Then let Noah shut the window of the arky 
and let them, remaining within for a 
short time, sing the psalm '^Save me, 
O God;'' then let Noah open the win- 
dow and look around. 



»fear. 



•chatter. 



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31 



Now forty days are fully gone. 

Send a raven I will anon, 

To see if anywhere, earth, tree, or stone, 

Be dry in anv place; 260 

And if this fowl come not again, 
It is a sign, sooth to sayne,^ 
That dry it is on hill or plain, 

And God hath done some grace. 

Then Ui him send out the raven, and taking 
a dove in his hands, let him speak. 

Ah, Lord, wherever this raven be, 265 

Somewhere is dry, well I see. 
But yet a dove, by my loyalty. 

After I will send. 
Thou wilt turn again to me, 

♦ ♦♦♦** 

For of all fowls that may fly, 270 

Thou art most meek and hend.^ 

Then he shaU put forth the dove, and there 
shall be on the ship another dove bearing 
an olive branch in her mouth, which 
someone shall let down from the mast 
by a cord into NoaVs hand, and 
(rfterwards let Noah speak. 

Ah, Lord, blessed be thou aye, 
That me hast comforted thus today! 
By this sight I may well say 

This flood begins to cease: 275 

My sweet dove to me brought has 
A branch of olive from some place; 
This betokeneth God has done us some 
grace, 

And is a sign of peace. 



Ah, Lord, honored may thou be! 

All earth dries now, I see. 

But yet till thou conmiandest me. 

Hence will I not hie. 
All this water is away; 
Therefore as soon as I may. 
Sacrifice I shall do in fay' 

To thee devoutly. 

boD. Noah, take thy wife anon, 
!\nd thy children every one; 
Out of the ship thou shalt gone 
And they all with thee; 



280 



285 



»t»y. 



> gentle. 



290 



MaHh. 



Beasts and all that can fly 
Out anon they shall hie. 
On earth to grow and multiply; 
I will that it so be. 



295 



Noah. Lord, I thank thee, through thy 

might. 
Thy bidding shall be done in hight,* 
And as fast as I may dight 

I will do thee honor, 
And to thee offer sacrifice. 300 

Therefore comes in aU wise. 
For of these beasts that be his 

Offer I will this store. . 

Then coming out of the ark with aU his 
family Noah shall take his animals 
and fowls and make an offering, and 
sacrifice. 

Lord God in majesty. 

That such grace hast granted me 305 

Where all was lost, safe to be. 

Therefore now I am bowne, 
My wife, my children, my company. 
With sacrifice to honor thee. 
With beasts, fowls, as thou mayst see, 310 

Which I offer here right soon. 

God. Noah, to me thou art full able,* 

And thy sacrifice acceptable. 

For I have found thee true and stable; 

On thee must I now mind.* 315 

Curse earth will I no more • 

For man's sin that grieves me sore. 
For of youth man full yore 

Has been inclined to sin. 

You shall now grow and multiply, 320 
And earth again you shall edify; 
Each beast and fowl that may fly 

Shall be afraid of you; 
And fish in sea that may flytte^ 
Shall sustain you, I you behite;* 325 

To eat of them do not let,* 

That clean be you may know. 

Whereas you have eaten before 
Grass and roots since you were bom, 
Of clean beasts, less and more, 330 

I give you leave to eat; 



« haste. 
7 swim. 



'pleasing. 
* promise. 



• think. 

• hcsiute. 



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Save blood and flesh both in f ere^ 
Of wrong dead carrion that is here: 
Eat not of that in no manner, 
For that aye shall you let.^ 33s 

Manslaughter also you shall flee, 
For that is not pleasant to me. 
That sheds blood, he or she, 

Anjrwhere amongst mankind, 
That blood foully shed shall be, ' 340 
And vengeance have that men shall see. 
Therefore beware now all ye, 

You fall not in that sin. 

A foreword' now with thee I make, 

And all thy seed for thy sake, 345 

From such vengeance for to slake. 

For now I have my will ; 
Here I promise thee a hest:* 
That man, woman, fowl nor beast 
With water, while the world shall last, 350 

I will no more spill.*^ 

My bow between you and me 

In the firmament shall be. 

For very token that you may see 

That such vengeance shall cease ; 355 
That man nor woman shall never more 
Be wasted by water, as before; 
But for sin, that grieveth me sore, 

Therefore this vengeance was. 

Where clouds in the welkin been* 360 

That same bow shall be seen. 
In token that my wrath and teen^ 

Shall never thus wreaked be; 
The string is turned toward you. 
And toward me is bent the bow, 365 

That such weather shall never show. 

And this promise I thee. 

My blessing now I give thee here. 

To thee, Noah, my servant dear. 

For vengeance shall no more appear. 370 

And now, farewell, my darling dear. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH 
POPULAR BALLADS 

EDWARD 

I. "Why dois your brand sae drap wi 
bluid, 

Edward, Edward. 

^ together. * leave akme. * covenant. 

4 assurance. 'destroy. 'be. 'anger. 



Why dois your brand sae drap wi 
bluid. 
And why sae sad gang yee O?" 
"01 hae killed my hauke sae guid, 
Mither, mither, 
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, 
And I had nae mair bot* hee O." 

2. "Your haukis bluid was nevir sae raid, 

Edward, Edward, 
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae raid, 

My deir son I tell thee O." 
"0 1 hae killed my reid-roan steid, 

MiUier, mither, 
' O I hae killed my reid-roan steid. 
That erst was sae fair and frie O." 

3. "Your steid was auld, and ye hae got 

mair, 

Edward, Edward, 
Your steid was auld, and ye hae got 
mair, 
Sum other dul^ ye drie^ O." 
"01 hae killed my fadir deir, 

Mither, mither, 
O I hae killed my fadir deir, 
Alas, and wae is mee O ! " 

4. "And whatten penance wul ye drie for 

that, 

Edward, Edward, 
And whatten penance will ye drie for 
that? 
My deir son, now tell me O." 
" He set my feit in yonder boat, 

Mither, mither. 
He set my f dt in yonder boat. 
And lie fare ovir the sea O." 

5. "And what wul ye doe wi your towirs 

and your ha, 

Edward, Edward? 
And what wul ye doe wi your towirs 
and your ha. 
That were sae fair to see O?" ( 

"lie let thame stand tul they doun fa^r 
Mither, mither. 



He let thame stand tul they down fa, 
For here nevir mair maun** I bee O. 



i 



6. "And what wul ye leive to your bairns' 
and your wife, 

Edward, Edward? 

•but. •grief. »• suffer. "must. 



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THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



33 



And what wul ye leive to your bairns 
and your wife, 
Whan ye gang ovir the sea O?" 
"The warldis room, late them beg 
thrae^ life, 

Mither, mither, 
The warldis room, late them beg thrae 
life, 
For thame nevir mair wul I see O." 

7. "And what wul ye leive to your ain 
mither deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And what wul ye leive to your ain 
mither deir? 
My deir son, now tell me O." 
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, 

Mither, mither, 
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, 
Sic counseils ye gave to me O." 



KEMP OWYNE 

1. Her mother died when she was young. 

Which gave her cause to make great 
moan; 
Her father married the warst woman 
That ever lived in Christendom. 

2. She servM her with foot and hand, 

In every thing that she could dee,^ 
Till once, in an unlucky time. 
She threw her in ower Craigy's sea. 

3. Says, "Lie you there, dove Isabel, 

And all my sorrows lie with thee; 
Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea. 

And borrow^ you with kisses three 
Let all the warld do what they will. 

Oh borrowed shall you never bel" 

4. Her breath grew Strang, her hair grew 

lang, 
And twisted thrice about the tree. 
And all the people, far and near. 
Thought that a savage beast was 
she. 

5- These news did come to Kemp Owyne, 
Where he lived, far beyond the sea; 
He hasted him to Craigy's sea. 
And on the savage beast lookd he. 

"do. 



6. Her breath was Strang, her hair was 

lang. 
And twisted was about the tree. 
And with a swing she came about: 
"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 

with me. 

7. "Here is a royal belt," she cried, 

" That I have foimd in the green sea; 
And while your body it is on. 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I vow my belt your death shall be." 

8. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. 

The royal bdt he brought him wi; 

Her breath was Strang, her hair was 

lang. 

And twisted twice about the tree. 

And with a swing she came about: 

"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 

with me. 

9. "Here is a royal ring," she said, 

"That I have found in the green sea; 
And while your finger it is on, 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I s:wear my ring your death shall be." 

ID. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. 

The royal ring he brought him wi; 
Her breath was Strang, her hair was 
lang. 
And twisted ance about the tree. 
And with a swing she came about: 
"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 
with me. 

1 1. " Here is a royal brand," she said, 

"That I have foimd in the green sea; 
And while your body it is on. 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I swear my brand your death shall 
be." 

12. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. 

The royal brand he brought him wi; 
Her breath was sweet, her hair grew 
short. 

And twisted nane about the tree, 
And smilingly she came about. 

As fair a woman as fair could be. 



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SIR PATRICK SPENS 

1. The king sits in Dumferling toune, 

Drinking the blude-reid wine: 
"O whar will I get guid sailor, 
To sail this schip of mine? " 

2. Up and spak an eldem knicht, 

Sat at the kings richt kne: 
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, 
That sails upon the se." 

3. The king )ias yn^tteix a tyraid letter, 

An3 ^ignd ft wi his, hpid, , 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 
Was walking on Uie i^nd. 

4. The first line that Sir Patrick red, 

A loud lauch lauched he; 
The next line that Sir Patrick red. 
The teir blinded his ee. 

5. "O wha is this has don this deid. 

This ill deid don to me. 
To send me out this time o* the yeir, 
To sail upon the se! 

6. " Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men 

all, 
Our guid schip sails the morne:" 
"O say na sae, my master deir. 
For I feir a deadlie storme. 

7. "Late, late yestreen I saw the new 

moone, 
Wi the auld moone in hir arme, 
And I feir, I feir, my deir master. 
That we will cimi to harme.'* 

8. O our Scots nobles wer richt laith 

To weet their cork-heild schoone; 
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, 
Thair hats they swam aboone.^ 

9. O lang, lang may their ladies sit, 

Wi thair fans into their hand. 
Or eir^ they se Sir Patrick Spence 
Cum sailing to the land. 

10. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
Wi thair gold kems in their hair. 
Waiting for thair ain deir lords. 
For they'll se thame na mair. 



» above. 



s before. 



II. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, 
It's fiftie fadom deip, 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 
Wi the Scots lords at his f eit. 



THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL 

1. There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 

And a wealthy wife was she; 
She had three stout and stalwart sons. 
And sent them oer the sea. 

2. They hadna been a week from her, 

A week but barely ane. 
When word came to the carline* wife 
That her three sons were gane. 

3. They hadna been a week from her, 

A week but barely three. 
When word came to the carlin wife 
That her sons she'd never see. 

4. " I wish the wind may never cease. 

Nor fashes^ in the flood. 
Till my three sons come hame to me. 
In earthly flesh and blood." 

5. It fell about the Martinmass, 

When nights are lang and mirk,^ 

The carlin wife's three sons came hame. 

And their hats were o the birk.* 

6. It neither grew in syke^ nor ditch. 

Nor yet in ony sheugh,* 
But at the gates o Paradise, 

That birk grew fair eneugh. 
♦ ♦♦♦♦« 

7. "Blow up the fire, my maidens, 

Bring water from the well; 
For a' my house shall feast this night. 
Since my three sons are well." 

8. And she has made to them a bed. 

She's made it large and wide. 
And she's taen her mantle her about 
Sat down at the bed-side. 



Up then crew the red, red cock. 
And up and crew the gray; 

The eldest to the youngest said, 
" 'Tis time we were away." 

< storms. *dark. * birch. ' trench, ■furrow. 



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35 



10. The cock he hadna craw*d but once, 

And clappd his wings at 2l\ 
When the youngest to the eldest said, 
"Brother, we must awa. 

11. "The cock doth craw, the day doth 

daw. 
The channerin^ worm doth chide; 
Gin^ we be mist out o our place, 
A sair pain we maun bide. 

12. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! 

Fareweel to bam and byre!' 
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass 
TTiat kindles my mother's fire!" 



ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GIS- 
BORNE 

1. When shawes^ beene sheene,^ and 

shradds^ full fayre, 
And leeves both large and longe, 
Itt is merry, walking in the fayre 

fforrest, 
To heare the small birds songe. 

2. The woodweele^ sang, and wold not 

cease, 
Amongst the leaves a lyne.-^ 
And it is by two wight* yeomen. 
By deare God, that I meane. 

3. "Me thought they did mee beate 

and binde. 
And tooke my bowe mee froe; 
if I bee Robin alive in this lande, 
I'le be wrocken^^ on both them 
towe." 

4. "Sweavens" are swift, master," quoth 

John, 
"As the wind that blowes ore a hill; 
Ffor if itt be never soe lowde this 

night, 
To-morrow it may be still." 

5. "Buske^^ yee, bowne^^ yee, my merry 

men all, 
Ffor John shall goe with mee; 
For lie goe seeke yond wight yeomen 
In greenwood where the^^ bee." 



liB^iatkot. 


«if. «»Uble. 


•dudieto. 


• beautiful. • copses. 


'voodluk. 


■of Linn ("a stock ballad locality"). 


*itiinfar. 


!• avenged. » ' dreams. 


uoMkciady. 





6. The cast on their gowne of greene, 

A shooting gone are they, 
Untill they came to the merry green- 
wood, 
Where they had gladdest bee; 
There were they ware of [a] wight 
yeoman. 
His body leaned to a tree. 

7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his 

side. 
Had beene many a man's bane, 
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,^* 
Topp, and tayle, and majme. 

8. "Stand you still, master," quoth 

Litle John, 
"Under this trusty tree. 
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman. 
To know his meaning trulye." 

9. "A, John, by me thou setts noe store. 

And that's a ffarley^^ thinge; 

How of!t send I my men beffore, 

And tarry my-selfe behinde? 

10. "It is noe ciuming a knave to ken. 

And a man but heare him speake; 
And itt were not for bursting of my 
bowe, 
John, I wold thy head breake." 

11. But often words they breeden bale;^^ 

That parted Robin and John; 
John k gone to Bam[e]sdale, 
The gates^* he knowes eche one. 

1 2. And when hee came to Bamesdale, 

Great heavinesse there hee hadd; 
He ffound two of his f ellowes 
Were slaine both in a slade,^* 

13. And Scarlett a-ffoote flyinge was. 

Over stockes and stone. 
For the sheriffe with seven score men 
Fast after him is gone. 

14. "Yett one shoote lie shoote," sayes 

litle John, 
"With Crist his might and mayne; 
I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe 

fast 
To be both glad and flfaine." 

^bone-hide, "wonderful, "evil. "ways, "valley. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



15. John bent up a good .veiwe^ bow, 

And ffetteled^ him to shoote; 
The bow was made of a tender boughe, 
And fell downe to his foote. 

16. " Woe worth thee, wicked wood," sayd 

litle John, 
" That ere thou grew on a tree ! 
Ffor this day thou art my bale, 
My boote' when thou shold bee! " 

17. This shoote it was but looselye shott. 

The arrowe flew in vaine. 
And it mett one of the sheriff es men; 
Good William a Trent was slaine. 

18. It had beene better for William a 

Trent 
To hange upon a gallowe 
Then for to lye in the greenwoode, 
There slaine with an arrowe. 

19. And it is sayd, when men be mett. 

Six can doe more then three: 
And they have tane Litle John, 
And bound him ffast to a tree. 

20. ''Thou shalt be drawen by dale and 

downe," quoth the sheriffe, 
"And hanged hye on a hill; " 
"But thou may ffayle," quoth litle 
John, 
"IfittbeChrist'sownewiU." 

21. Let us leave talking of Litle John, 

For hee is bound fast to a tree, 
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood 
In the green woode where they bee. 

22. How these two yeomen together they 

mett, 
Under the leaves of lyne, 
To see what marchandise^ they made 
Even at that same time. 

23. "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth 

Sk Guy; 
" Good morrow, good ffellow," quoth 

hee; 
"Methinkes by this bow thou beares 

in thy hand, 
A good archer thou seems to bee." 

> yew. * nude ready. ' help. ' dealing. 



24. "I am wilfull of my way," quoth Sir 

Guye, 
"And of my morning tyde: " 
"I'le lead thee through the wood," 

quoth Robin, 
"Good ffeUow, He be thy guide." 

25. "I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guye, 

" Men call him Robin Hood; 
I had rather meet with him upon a day 
Than forty pound of golde." 

26. "If you tow mett, itt wold be seene 

whether were better 
Afore yee did part awaye; 
Let us some other pastime find. 
Good ffellow, I thee pray. 

27. "Let us some other masteryes make, 

And wee will walke in the woods 

even; 
Wee may chance meelt] with Robin 

Hoode 
Att some imsett Steven."^ 

28. They cutt them downe the sununer 

shroggs* 
Which grew both under a bryar. 
And sett them three score rood in 

twinn,^ 
To shoote the prickes full neare. 

29. "Leade on, good ffellow," sayd Sir 

Guye, 
"Lead on, I doe bidd thee:" 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin 

Hood, 
"The leader thou shalt bee." 

30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd, 

Did not shoote an inch the pricke 
ffroe; 
Guy was an archer good enoughe. 
But he cold neere shoote soe. 

31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott. 

He shott within the garlande; 
But Robin Hoode shott it better than 

hee. 
For he clove the good pricke- 

wande. 



* time not fixed. 



•rods. 



'apart. 



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37 



32. "Gods blessing on thy heart!'* sayes 

Guye, 
"Goode flfellow, thy shooting is 

goode; 
For an thy hart be as good as thy 

handsy 
Thou were better than Robin Hood. 

33. "Tell me thy name, good flfellow," 

quoth Guy, 
" Under the leaves of lyne: " 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth good 
Robin, 
"Till thou have told me thine." 

34. "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth 

Guye, 
"And I have done many a curst 

tume; 
And he that calles me by my right 

name, 
Calles me Guye of good Gysbome." 

35. "My dwelling is in the wood," sayes 

Robin; 
" By thee I set right nought; 
My name is Robin Hood of Barnes-' 

dale, 
A flfellow thou has long sought." 

36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor 

kin 
Might have seene a full fayre sight, 
To see how together these yeomen 

went, 
Wth blades both browne and 

bright; 

37. To have seene how these yeomen to- 

gether foug[ht] 
Two howers of a sunmier's day; 
Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood 
That ffettled^ them to flye away. 

38. Robin was reacheles on* a roote, 

And stimibled at that tyde. 
And Guy was quicke and nimble 
with-all. 
And hitt him ore the left side. 

39. "Ah, deere Lady!" sayd Robin 

Hoode, 
"Thou art both mother and may! * 
I thinke it was never mans destinye 
To dye before his day." 

* careless of. < maid. 



40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere, 

And soone leapt up againe, 
And thus he came with an awkwarde^ 
stroke; 
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne. 

41. He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre. 

And sticked itt on his bowes end: 

"Thou hast beene traytor all thy liflfe. 

Which thing must have an ende." 

42. Robin pulled forth an Lishkniflfe, 

And nicked Sir Guy in the flface, 
That hee was never on a woman borne 
Cold tell who Sir Guye was. 

43. Sales, "Lye there, lye there, good Sir 

Guye, 
And with me be not wrothe; 
If thou have had the worse stroakes at 
my hand. 
Thou shalt have the better cloathe." 

44. Robin did oflf his gowne of greene. 

Sir Guye hee did it throwe; 

And hee put on that capull-hyde 

That dadd him topp to toe. 

45. "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle 

home, 
And with me now I'le beare; 
For now I will goe to Bame[s]dale, 
To see how my men doe ffare." 

46. Robin sette Guyes home to his mouth, 

A lowd blast in it he did blow ; 
That beheard the sherLGfe of Notting- 
ham, 
As he leaned under a lowe.^ 

47. "Hearken! hearken! "sayd the sheriflfe, 

" I heard noe tydings but good; 
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 
blowe. 
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. 

48. "For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 

blow, 

Itt blowes soe well in tyde. 
For yonder comes that wighty yeo- 
man, 

Cladd in his capull-hyde. 

4 backhanded. •hffl. 



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49. "Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, 

Aske of mee what thou wilt have:" 
"I'le none of thy gold," sayes Robin 
Hood, 
"Nor I'le none of itt have. 

50. " But now I have slaine the master," 

he sayd, 
"Let me goe strike the knave; 
This is all the reward I aske. 
Nor noe other will I have." 

51. "Thou art a madman," said the 

shiriffe, 
"Thou sholdest have had a knights 

ffee; 
Seeing thy asking [hath] beene soe 

badd, 
Well granted it shall be." 

52. But Litle John heard his master 

speake. 
Well he knew that was his Steven;^ 
"Now shall I be loset," quoth Litle 

John, 
"With Christ's might in heaven." 

53. But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle 

John, 
Hee thought hee wold loose him 
belive;^ 
The sheriflFe and all his companye 
Fast after him did drive. 

54. "Stand abacke! stand abackel" sayd 

Robin; 
" Why draw you mee soe neere? 
Itt was never the use in our countrye 
One's shrift another shold heere." 

55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe. 

And losed John hand and ffoote, 
And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his 
hand. 
And bade it be his boote.' 

56. But John tooke Guyes bow in his 

hand — 
His arrowes were rawstye^ by the 

roote; 
The sherrifiFe saw Litle John draw a 

bow 
And Settle him to shoote. . 

Woke. 'quickly. *belp. < soiled. 



57. Towards his house in Nottingam 

He ffled ful fast away. 
And soe did all his companye. 
Not one behind did stay. 

58. But he cold neither soe fast goe. 

Nor away soe fast runn. 
But Litle John, with an arrow broade. 
Did cleave his heart in twinn. 

ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND 
BURIAL 

1. When Robin Hood and Little John 

Down a down a down a down 
Went oer yon bank of broom 

Said Robin Hood bold to Little 
John, 
"We have shot for many a pound." 

Hey, etc. 

2. "But I am not able to shoot one shot 

more. 
My broad arrows will not flee; 
But I have a cousin lives down below, 
Please God, she will bleed me." 

3. Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone, 

As fast as he can win; 
But before he came there, as we do 
hear. 
He was taken very ill. 

4. And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, 

He knockd all at the ring. 
But none was so ready as his cousin 
herself 
For to let bold Robin in. 

5. "Will you please to sit down, cousin 

Robin," she said, 
"And drink some beer with me? " 
"No, I will neither eat nor drink. 
Till I am blooded by thee." 

6. "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," 

she said, 
"Which you did never see. 
And if you please to walk therein. 
You blooded by me shall be." 

7. She took him by the Ifly-white hand, 

And led him to a private room. 
And there she blooded bold Robin 

Hood, 
While one drop of blood would run 

down. 



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8. She blooded him in a vein of the arm, 

And locked him up in the room; 
Then did he bleed all the live-long day, 
Until the next day at noon. 

9. He then bethought him of a casement 

there, 
Thinking for to get down; 
But was so weak he could not leap, 
He could not get him down. 

10. He then bethought him of his bugle- 

horn, 
Which hung low down to his knee; 
He set his horn imto his mouth. 
And blew out weak blasts three. 

11. Tlien Little John, when hearing him, 

As he sat imder a tree, 
"I fear my master is now near dead. 
He blows so wearily." 

1 2. Then Little John to fair ELirkly is gone. 

As fast as he can dree; 
But when he came to Kirkly-hall, 
He broke locks two or three: 

13. Until he came bold Robin to see. 

Then he fell on his knee; 
"A boon, a boon," cries Little John, 
"Master, I beg of thee." 

14. "What is that boon," said Robin 

Hood, 
"Little John, [thouj begs of me?" 
"It is to bum fair Kirkly-hall, 
And all their niumery." 

15. "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin 

Hood, 
"That boon I'll not grant thee; 
I never hurt woman in all my life. 
Nor men in woman's company. 

16. " I never hurt fair maid in all my time, 

Nor at mine end shall it be; 
But give me my bent bow in my hand. 

And a broad arrow I'll let flee, 
And where this arrow is taken up. 

There shall my grave digged be. 

17. "Lay me a green sod under my head, 

And another at my feet; 



And lay my bent bow by my side, 
Which was my music sweet; 

And make my grave of gravel and 
green. 
Which is most right and meet. 

18. "Let me have length and breadth 

enough, 
With a green sod imder my head; 
That they may say, when I am dead, 
Here Ues bold Robin Hood." 

19. These words they readily granted him, 

Which did bold Robin please: 
And there they buried bold Robin 
Hood, 
Within the fair ELirkleys. 

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 

1. The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, 

and avowe to God mayd he 
That he would himte in the mown- 
tayns 

off Chyviat within days thre, 
In the magger of ^ doughte Dogles, 

and all that ever with him be. 

2. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 

he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them 
away: 
"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti 
Doglas ajza}^!, 
"I wyll let^that hontyng yf that I 
may." 

3. Then the Perse owt off Banborowe 

cam, 
with him a myghtee meany,* 
With fifteen hondrith archares bold 
off blood and bone; 
the* wear chosen owt of shyars thre. 

4. This begane on a Monday at mom, 

in Cheviat the hillys so he;** 
The chylde may rue that ys unborn, 
it wos the more pitt6. 

5. The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, 

for to reas the dear; 
Bomen byckarte* uppone the bent^ 
with ther browd aros deare. 



»higl 



s binder. 
* bunted. 



•crowd, 
'field 



«tbey. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



6. Then the wyld^ thorowe the woodes 

went, 
on every syde shear;* 
Greahond^ thorowe the grevis' 
glent,* 
for to kyll thear dear. 

7. This b^ane in Ch)rviat the hyls 

abone,* 
yerly on a Monnjm-day; 
Be that* it drewe to the oware off 
none/ 
a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. 

8. The?bleweamort*upponethebent, 

the semblyde*" on sydis" shear; 
To the qujrrry then the Perse went, 
to se the bryttljmge^* off the deare. 

9. He sayd, "It was the Diiglas promys, 

this day to met me hear; 
But I wyste he wolde faylie, vera- 
ment;" 
a great oth the Perse swear. 

10. At the laste a squyar off Northomber- 

londe 
lokyde at his hand full ny; 
He was war a the doughetie Doglas 

conunjmge, 
with him a myghtte meany. 

11. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, 

yt was a myghtti sight to se; 
Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande, 
wear not in CristiantS. 

12. The wear twenti hondrith spear-men 

good, 
withoute any feale; 
The wear borne along be the watter a 
Twyde, 
yth^' bowndes of Tividale. 

13. "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," 

he sayd, 
"and to your boys** lock ye tayk 

good hede; 
For never sithe ye wear on your 

mothars borne 
had ye never so mickle nede." 

•deer > several. * groves. « darted. 'above. 

• by the time that. ' hour of noon. " they. 

* a blast of the horn annouDcins the deer's death. 
i«met. "hillsides, "butchenng. » in the. i«b«ws. 



14. The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, 

he rode alle his men befome; 
His armor gljrtteryde as dyd a g^ede;" 
a boldar bame** was never bom. 

15. "Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, 

"or whos men that ye be: 
Who gave youe leave to himte in this 
Chyviat chays, 
in the sp3rt of myn and of me." 

16. The first mane that ever him an 

answear mayd, 
yt was the good lord Pers6: 
"We wyll not tell the whoys men 
we ar," he says, 
"nor whos men that we be; 
But we wyll hoimte hear in this chays, 
in the sp3rt of thyne and of the. 

17. "The fattiste hartfis m all Chyviat 

we have kyld, and cast to carry 

them away." 
"Be my troth," sayd the doughetg 

Dogglas agay[n), 
" therfor the ton" of us shall de this 

day." 

18. Then sayd the doughty Doglas 

unto the lord Persg: 
"To kyll alle thes giltles men, 
alas, it wear great pittg! 

19. " But, Persg, thowe art a lord of lande, 

I am a yerle oJlyd within my contrg; 
Let all our men uppone a parti stande, 
and do the battell off the and of 
me. 

20. "Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," 

, sayd the lord Pers6, 
" who-so-ever ther-to says nay I 
Be my troth, doughttg Doglas," he 
says, 
" thow shalt never se that day, 

21. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar 

France, 
nor for no man of a woman bom. 
But, and fortune be my chance, 
I dar met him, on man for on." 



1* coal of fire. 



1* man. 



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22. Then bespayke a squyar off Northom- 

barlonde, 
Richard Wytharyngton was his 

nam: 
"It shall never be tx)ld in Sothe- 

Ynglonde," he says, 
"to Kyng Herry the Fourth for 

sham. 

23. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, 

I am a poor squyar of lande: 
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on 
a fylde, 
and stande my selffe and loocke on, 
But whylle I may my weppone welde, 
I wylle not [fayle] boUi hart and 
hande." 

24. That day, that day, that dredfull day! 

the first fit^ here I iynde; 
And youe wyll here any mor a the 
hount3mg a the Chyviat, 
yet )rs ther mor behynde. 

25. The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys 

yebent, 
ther hartes wer good yenoughe; 
The first off arros that the shote off, 
seven skore spear-men the sloughe.* 

26. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon 

the bent, 
a captayne good yenoughe, 
And that was sene verament, 
for he wrought hom both woo and 
wouche.* 

27. The Dogmas partyd his ost in thre, 

lyk a cheffe chef ten off pryde; 
With suar* spears off myghtte tre, 
the cum in on every syde: 

28. Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery 

gave many a wounde fulle wyde; 
many a doiighetg the garde* to dy, 
which ganyde them no pryde. 

29. The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, 

and pulde owt brandes that wer 
brighte; 
It was a hevy syght to se 
bryght swordes on basnites^ lyght. 



* divinoo of the atory, chapter. * slew. 



'harm. 
• helmets. 



30. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,'' 

many steme^* the strocke dond' 
streght; 
Many a freyke"* that was fulle f re, 
ther imdar foot dyd lyght. 

31. At last the Duglas and the Perse met, 

lyk to captayns of myght and of 
majme; 
The swapte*^ togethar tylle the both 
swat,^^ 
with swordes that wear of fyn 
myllan.^' 

32. Thes worths freckys for to fyght, 

ther-to the wear fulle fayne, 
Tylle the bloode owte off thear 
basnetes sprente 
as ever dyd heal^* or ra[y]n. 

33. "Yeldethe, Perse," sayde the Doglas, 

" and i feth I shalle the brynge 
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis 
of Jamy our Skottish kynge. 

34. "Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, 

I hight^* the hear this thinge; 
For the manfullyste man yet art 

thowe 
that ever I conqueryd in filde 

fighttynge." 

35. "Nay," sayd the lord Pers6, 

"I tolde it the befome. 
That I wolde never yeldyde be 
to no man of a woman bom." 

36. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, 

forthe off a myghttg wane;^ 
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas 
in at the brest-bane. 

37. Thorowe lyvar*^ and longes bathe^ 

the sharpe arrowe ys gane. 
That never after in all his lyffe-days 

he spayke mo wordes but ane: 
That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry 
men, whyllys ye may, 

for my lyff-days ben gan." 

38. The Persg leanyde on his brande, 

and sawe the Duglas de; 
He tooke the dede mane by the hande, 
and sayd, " Wo ys me for the! 



' gauntlet. * stern men. 
>■ smote. "sweated. 
^* bid. ** number. 



* down. 1* bold man. 

"Milan steel, ^hail. 
" liver. »• both. 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



39. "To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde 

have partyde with 
my landes for years thre, 
For a better man, of hart nare of 

hande, 
was nat in ail the north contre." 

40. Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, 

was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggom- 

byrry; 
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was 

dyght, 
he spendyd^ a spear, a trusti tre. 

41. He rod uppone a corsiare 

throughe a hondrith archery: 
He never stynttyde,^ nar never 
blane,' 
tylle he cam to the good lord Pers6. 

42. He set uppone the lorde Perse 

a dynte that was full soare; 
With a suar spear of a myghttg tre 
clean thorow the body he the Pers^ 
ber, 

43. A the tothar syde that a man myght se 

a large cloth-yard and mare: 
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in 
Cristiante 
then that day slan wear ther. 

44. An archar off Northomberlonde 

say* slean was the lord Perse; 
He bar a bende bowe in his hand, 
was made off trusti tre. 

45. An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, 

to the harde stele halyde^ he; 
A dynt that was both sad and soar 
he sat^on Ser Hewe the Monggom- 
bjrrry. 

46. The dynt yt was both sad and sar, 

that he of Monggomberry sete; 
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar 
with his hart-blood the wear wete. 

47. Ther was never a freake wone^ foot 

wolde fle, 
but still in stour* dyd stand, 
Heawyng on yche oUiar, whylle the 

myghte dre,* 
with many a balfuU brande. 

> placed in rest. 



* stopped. 

•drew. 

•fight. 



•hesitated. 
*shot. 
• hold out. 



48. This battell b^gane in Chyviat 

an owar befor the none, 
And when even-songe bell was rang, 
the battell was nat half done. 

49. The tocke ... on ethar hande*® 

be the lyght off the mone; 
Many hade no strenght for to stande, 
in Chyviat the hillys abon. 

50. Of fifteen hondrith archars of Yng- 

londe 
went away but seventi and thre; 
Of twenti hondrith spear-men of 

Skotlonde, 
but even five and fifti. 

51. But all wear-dayne Cheviat within; 

the hade no streng[thje to stand on 
hy; 
The chylde may rue that ys imbome, 
it was the mor pittS. 

52. Thear was slayne, withe the lord 

Persg, 
Sir Johan of Agerstone, 
Ser Rogar, the hmde" Hartly, 
Ser WyUyam, the bolde Hearone. 

53. Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, 

a knyghte of great renowen, 
Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, 
with dyntes wear beaten dowene. 

54. For Wetharryngton my harte was 

wo, 
that ever he slayne shulde be; 
For when both his leggis wear hewyne 

in to,*2 
yet he knyled and fought on hys ' 

kny. 

55. Ther was slayne, with the dougheti 

Duglas, 
Ser Hewe the Monggomb5rrry, 
Ser Davy Lwdale, that worths was, 
his sistars son was he. 

56. Ser Charts a Murre in that place, 

that never a foot wolde fle; 
Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, 
with the Doglas dyd he dey. 

1* The line is unintelligible. " courteous. " twa 



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43 



57. So on the morrowe the mayde them 

byears 
off birch and hasell so g[r]ay; 
Many wedous, with wepyne tears, 
cam to f ache ther mjJcys^ away. 

58. Tivydale may carpe* off care, 

Northombarlond may mayk great 

mon. 
For towe such captayns as slayne wear 

thear, 
on the March-parti* shall never be 

non. 

59. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, 

to Jamy the Skottisdie kynge, 
That dot^eti Duglas, lyff-tenant of 
the Marches, 
he lay slean Chyviot within. 

6a EBs handdfo dyd he weal^ and wryng, 
he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! 
Such an othar captayn Skotland 
within,'' 
he sayd, "ye-£eth shuld never be." 

61. Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, 

till the fourth Harry our k)mge, 
That lord Pers6, leyff-tenante of the 
Marchis, 
he lay slayne Chyviat within. 

62. "God have merd on his solle," sayde 

Kyng Harry, 
"good Lord, yf thy will it be! 
I have a hondnth captayns in Yng- 
IcMide,'' he sayd, 
"as good as ever was he: 
But, Persg, and I brook* my lyffe, 
thy deth well quyte shall be." 

63. As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, 

lyke a noble prince of renowen. 
For the deth of the lord Perse 
he dyde the battell of Hombyll- 
down; 

64. Wher syx and thritte Skottishe 

knyghtes 
on a day wear beaten down: 
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor 

bryght, 
over castille, towar, and town. 

s Ulk. * the border-lands, 

•enjoy. 



65. This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, 

that tear begane Uiis spum,^ 
Old men that knowen the grownde 
well yenoughe 
call it the battell of Otterbum. 

66. At Otterbum begane this spume 

uppone a Monnynday; 
Ther was the doughte Doglas slean, 
the Perse never went away. 

67. Ther was never a tym on the Marche- 

partes 
sen the Doglas and the Pers6 met. 
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude 
ronne not, 
as the reane^. doys in the stret. 

68. Jhesue Crist our balys? beteP 

and to the blys us bryngel 
Thus was the hoimtynge of the Chiv- 
yat: 
God sent us alle good endyingi 



BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL 

Hie upon Hielands 

And low upon Tay 
Bonnie George Campbell 

Rade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled 5 

And gallant rade he; 
Hame came his gude horse. 

But never cam he! 

Out cam his auld mither 

Greeting fu' sair,^** 10 

And out cam his bonnie bride 

Rivin**^ her hair. 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he; 
Toom^^ hame cam the saddle, 15 

But never cam he! 



"My meadow lies green, 

And my com is unshorn; 
My bam is to big,^' 

And my babie's unbom." 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he; 
Toom hame cam the saddle, 

But never cam he! 



20 



• This line b unmtelligible. 

• relieve. 

■'tearing. "empty. 



' rain. * misfi^tunes. 

» weeping sorely. 
" to be bunt 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



SIR THOMAS MALORY (1400?-1470) 
From LE MORTE DARTHUR 

PREFACE OF WILLIAM CAXTON 

After that I had accomplished and fin- 
ished divers histories, as well of contem- 
plation as of other historial and worldly 
acts of great conquerors and princes, and 
also certain books of ensamples and doc- 
trine, many noble and divers gentlemen of 
this realm of England came and demanded 
me many and ofttimes, wherefore that I 
have not do made and imprint the noble 
history of the Saint Greal and of the [lo 
most renowned Christian king, first and 
chief of the three best Chnstian, and 
worthy, king Arthur, which ought most 
to be remembered among us Englishmen 
tofore all other Christian kings; for it is 
notoriously known through the universal 
world that there be nine worthy and the 
best that ever were, that is to wit three 
Paynims, three Jews, and three Christian 
men. As for the Paynims they were [20 
tofore the Incarnation of Chnst, which 
were named, the first Hector of Troy, of 
whom the history is come, both in ballad 
and in prose; the second Alexander the 
Great, and the third Julius Caesar, Em- 
peror of Rome, of whom the histories be 
well known and had. And as for the three 
Jews, which also were tofore the incar- 
nation of our Lord, of whom the first was 
duke Joshua which brought the chil- [30 
dren of Israel into the land of behest, the 
second David king of Jerusalem, and the 
third Judas Maccabaeus. Of these three 
the Bible rehearseth all their noble his- 
tories and acts. And since the said incar- 
nation have been three noble Christian 
men stalled and admitted through the uni- 
versal world into the number of the nine 
best and worthy. Of whom was first the 
noble Arthur, whose noble acts I pur- [40 
pose to write in this present book here fol- 
lowing. The second was Charlemain, or 
Charles the Great, of whom the history is 
had in many places, both in French and 
in English. And the third and last was 
Godfrey of Boloine, of whose acts and life 
I made a book unto the excellent prince 
and king of noble memory, king Edward 



the Fourth. The said noble gentlemen in- 
stantly required me to imprint the his- [50 
tory of the said noble king and conqueror 
king Arthur, and of his knights, with the 
history of the Saint Greal, and of the 
death and ending of the said Arthur; af- 
firming that I ought rather to imprint his 
acts and noble feats, than of Godfrey of 
Boloine, or any of the other eight, con- 
sidering that he was a man bom within this 
realm, and king and emperor of the same; 
and that there be in French divers and [60 
many noble volumes of his acts, and also 
of his knights. To whom I answered, that 
divers men hold opinion that there was no 
such Arthur, and that all such books as 
been made of him be feigned and &bles, 
because that some chronides make of him 
no mention, nor remember him nothing, 
nor of his knights. Whereto they an- 
swered, and one in special said, that in 
him that should say or think that there [70 
was never such a king called Arthur, 
might well be aretted great folly and 
blindness. For he said that there were 
many evidences of the contrary. First 
ye may see his sepulchre in the monastery 
of Glastingbury. And also in Polickroni- 
coUy in the fifth book the sixth chapter, 
and in the seventh book the twenty-third 
chapter, where his body was buri^, and 
after found, and translated into the [80 
said monastery. Ye shall see also in the 
history of Bochas in his book De Casu 
Principum part of his noble acts, and also 
of his fall. Also Galfridus in his British 
book recounted! his life; and in divers 
places of England many remembrances be 
yet of him and shall remain perpetually, 
and also of his knights. First in the abbey 
of Westminster, at Saint Edward's shrine, 
remaineth the print of his seal in red [90 
wax closed in beryl, in which is written 
Patricius Arthurus, Britannie, GaUiey Ger- 
maniey Dacie, ImpercUor, Item in the 
castle of Dover ye may see Gawaine's 
skull and Cradok's mantle: at Winchester 
the Round Table: in other places Launce- 
lot's sword and many other things. Then 
all these things considered, there can no 
man reasonably gainsay but that there 
was a king of tins land named Arthur. [100 
For in all places, Christian and heathen, 
he is reputed and taken for one of the 



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45 



nine worthy, and the first of the three 
Christian men. And also he is more spoken 
of beyond the sea, more books made of 
his noble acts, than there be in England, 
as well in Dutch, Italian, Spanish, and 
Greekish, as in French. And yet of record 
remain in witness of him in Wales, in the 
town of Camelot, the great stones [no 
and the marvelous works of iron lying 
under the ground, and royal vaults, which 
divers now living have seen. Wherefore 
it is a marvel why he is no more renowned 
in his own country, save only it accordeth 
to the Word of God, which saith that no 
man is accepted for a prophet in his own 
cx>untry. 

Then all these things aforesaid alleged, 
I could not well deny but that there [120 
was such a noble king named Arthur, and 
reputed one of the nine worthy, and first 
and chief of the Christian men. And 
many noble volumes be made of him and 
of his noble knights in French, which I 
have seen and r^id beyond the sea, which 
be not had in our maternal tongue. But 
in Welsh be many and also in French, and 
some in English, but nowhere nigh all. 
Wherefore, such as have late been [130 
drawn out briefly into English I have after 
the simple conning that God hath sent to 
me, under the favor and correction of all 
noble lords and gentlemen, enprised to im- 
print a book of the noble histories of the 
said king Arthur, and of certain of his 
knights, after a cq>y unto me delivered, 
which o^y Sir Thomas Malorye did take 
out of certain books of French, and re- 
duced it into English. And I, accord- [140 
ing to my copy, have done set it in print, 
to the intent Umt noble men may see and 
learn the noble acts of chivalry, the gentle 
and virtuous deeds that some knights 
used in those days, by which they came 
to honor, and how they that were vicious 
woe punished and oft put to shame and 
rebuke; humbly beseeching all noble lords 
and ladies, with all other estates of what 
estate or degree they been of, that [150 
shall see and read in this said book and 
work, that they take the good and honest 
acts in their remembrance, and to follow 
the same. Wherein they shall find many 
joyous and pleasant histories, and noble 
and renowned acts of humanity, gentle- 



ness, and chivalry. For herein may be 
seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, 
friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship, 
cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and [160 
sin. Do after the good and leave the evil, 
and it shall bring you to good fame and 
renown. And for to pass the time this 
book ^hall be pleasant to read in; but for 
to give faith and belief that all is true that 
is contained herein, ye be at your liberty; 
but all is written for our doctrine, and 
for to beware that we fall not to vice nor 
sin, but to exercise and follow virtue, 
by the which we may come and at- [170 
tain to good fame and renown in this life, 
and after this short and transitory life to 
come unto everlasting bliss in heaven; 
the which He grant us that reigneth in 
heaven, the blessed Trinity. Amen. 

BOOK XXI 
Chapter IV 

HOW BY MISADVENTURE OF AN ADDER THE 
BATTLE BEGAN, WHERE MORDRED WAS 
SLAIN, AND ARTHUR HURT TO THE DEATH 

Then were they condescended that king 
Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet be- 
twixt both their hosts, and every each of 
them should bring fourteen persons. And 
they came with this word unto Arthur. 
Then said he, I am glad that this is done. 
And so he went into the field. And when 
Arthur should depart, he warned all his 
host that and they see any sword drawn. 
Look ye come on fiercely, and slay [10 
that traitor, Sir Mordred, for I in no wise 
trust him. In like wise Sir Mordred 
warned his host that. And ye see any 
^word drawn, look that ye come on fiercely, 
and so slay all that ever before you stand- 
eth: for in no wise I will not trust for this 
treaty, for I know well my father will be 
avenged upon me. And so they met as 
their pointment was, and so they were 
agreed and accorded thoroughly; and [20 
wine was fetched, and they drank. Right 
so came an adder out of a little heath 
bush, and it stung a knight on the foot. 
And when the kmght felt him stungen, 
he looked down and saw the adder, and 
then he drew his sword to slay the adder, 
and thought of none other harm. And 



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THE END OP THE MIDDLE AGES 



when the host on both parties saw that 
sword drawn, then they blew beames, 
trumpets, and horns, and shouted [30 
grimly. And so both hosts dressed them 
together. And king Arthur took his horse, 
and said, Alas, this unhappy day, and so 
rode to his party; and Sir Mordred in like 
wise. And never was there seen a more 
dolefuller battle in no Christian land. For 
there was but rushing and riding, foining 
and striking, and many a grim word was 
there spoken either to other, and many a 
deadly stroke. But ever king Arthur [40 
rode throughout the battle of Sir Mordred 
many times, and did full nobly as a noble 
king should, and at all times he fainted 
never. And Sir Mordred that day put him 
in devoir, and in great peril. And thus 
they fought all the long day, and never 
stinted, till the noble knights were laid to 
the cold ground, and ever they fought still, 
till it was near night, and by that time 
was there an hundred thousand laid [50 
dead upon the down. Then was Arthur 
wroth out of measure, when he saw his 
people so slain from him. 

Then the king looked about him, and 
then was he ware of all his host, and of 
all his good knights, were left no more on 
live but two knights, that was Sir Lucan 
the Butler, and his brother Sir Bedivere, 
and they were full sore wounded. Jesu 
mercy, said the king, where are all my [60 
noble knights becomen? Alas, that ever 
I should see this doleful day. For now, 
said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But 
would to God that I wist where were that 
traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all 
this mischief. Then was king Arthur ware 
where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword 
among a great heap of dead men. Now 
give me my spear, said Arthur unto Sir 
Lucan, for yonder I have espied the [70 
traitor that all this woe hath wrought. 
Sir, let him be, said Sir Lucan, for he is 
unhappy; and if ye pass this imhappy day, 
ye shall be right well revenged upon him. 
Good lord, remember ye of your night's 
dream, and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine 
told you this night, yet God of his great 
goodness hath preserved you hitherto. 
Therefore, for God's sake, my lord, leave 
off by this. For, blessed be God, ye [80 
have won the field, for here we be three on 



live, and with Sir Mordred is none on live. 
And if ye leave off now, this wicked day 
of destiny is past. Tide me death, betide 
me life, saith the king, now I see him 
yonder alone, he shall never escape mine 
hands, for at a better avail shall I never 
have him. God speed you wdl, said Sir 
Bedivere. 

Then the king gat his spear in both [90 
his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, 
crying. Traitor, now is thy death-day 
come. And when Sir Mordred heard Sir 
Arthur, he ran imtil him with his sword 
drawn in his hand. And then king Arthur 
smote Sir Mordred under the shield, 
with a foin of his spear throughout the 
body more than a fathom. And when 
Sir Mordred felt that he had his death's 
wound, he thrust himself, with the [100 
might that he had, up to the bur of king 
ArUiur's spear. And right so he smote 
his father Arthur with his sword holden in 
both his hands, on the side of the head, 
that the sword pierced the helmet and the 
brain-pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred 
fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble 
Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and 
there he swooned oft-times. And Sir 
Lucan the Butler, and Sir Bedivere, [no 
oft-times heaved him up, and so weakly 
they led him betwixt them both, to a little 
chapel not far from the sea side. And 
when the king was there, he thought him 
well eased. 

Then heard they people cry in the field. 
Now go, thou. Sir Lucan, said the king, 
and do me to wit what betokens that 
noise in the field. So Sir Lucan departed, 
for he was grievously woimded in [120 
many places. And so as he went, he saw 
and hearkened by the moonlight, how the 
pillers and robbers were come into the 
field to pill and to rob many a full noble 
knight of brooches and beads, of many 
a good ring, and of many a rich jewel; and 
who that were not d«id all out, there 
they slew them for their harness and their 
riches. When Sir Lucan understood this 
work, he came to the king as soon as [130 
he might, and told him all what he had 
heard and seen. Therefore by mine ad- 
vice, said Sir Lucan, it is best that we 
bring you to some town. I would it were 
so, said the king. 



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Chapter V 

HOW KING ARTHUR COMBiANDED TO CAST 
HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR INTO THE WATER, 
AND HOW HE WAS DELIVERED TO LADIES 
IN A BARGE 

But I may not stand, mine head works 
SO. Ah, Sir Launcelot, said king Arthur, 
this day have I sore missed thee. Alas, 
that ever I was against thee, for now have 
I my death, whereof Sir Gawaine me 
warned in my dream. Then Sir Lucan 
took up the king the one part, and Sir 
Bedivere the other part, and in the lifting 
the king swooned, and Sir Lucan fell in 
a swoon with the lift, that the part of [lo 
his bowels fell out of his body, and there- 
with the noble knight's heart brast. And 
when king Arthur came to himself again, 
he beheld Sir Lucan, how he lay foaming 
at the mouth, and p)art of his bowels lay 
at his fe^t. Alas, said the king, this is 
unto me a full heavy sight, to see this 
noble duke so die for my sake, for he would 
have holpen me that had more need of 
help than L Alas, he would not com- [20 
plain him, his heart was so set to help me. 
Now Jesu have mercy upon his soul. Then 
Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his 
brother. Leave this mourning and weep- 
ing, said the king, for all this wUl not avail 
me; for, wit thou well, and I might live 
m3rself the death of Sir Lucan would 
grieve me evermore; but my time hieth 
fast, said the king. Therefore, said 
Arthur,, take thou Excalibur, my good [30 
sword, and go with it to yonder water 
side, and when thou comest there, I 
charge thee throw my sword in that water, 
and come again, and tell me what thou 
there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your 
commandment shall be done, and lightly 
bring you word again. 

So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the 
way he beheld that noble sword, that the 
ponmiel and the haft were all of pre- [40 
dous stones; and then he said to himself. 
If I throw this rich sword in the water, 
thereof shall never come good, but harm 
and loss. And then Sir Bedivere hid 
Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as 
he might he came again imto the king, 
and s^ he had been at the water, and 
had thrown the sword into the water. 



What sawest thou there? said the king. 
Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves [50 
and winds. That is untruly said of thee, 
said the king; therefore go thou lightly 
again, and do my command, as thou art 
to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw 
it in. Then Sir Bedivere returned again, 
and took the sword in his hand; and then 
him thought sin and shame to throw away 
that noble sword; and so eft he hid the 
sword, and returned again, and told to 
the king that he had been at the [60 
water, and done his commandment. 
What saw thou there? said the king. Sir, 
he said, I saw nothing but the waters 
wap and the waves wan. Ah traitor, 
untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou 
betrayed me twice. Who would have 
wend that thou that hast been to me so 
lief and dear, and thou art named a noble 
knight, and would betray me for the rich- 
ness of the sword. But now go again [70 
lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me 
in great jeopardy of my Ufe, for I have 
taken cold. And but if thou do now as 
I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall 
slay thee with mine own hands, for thou 
wouldest for my rich sword see me dead. 
Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went 
to the sword, and lightly took it up, and 
went to the water side; and there he 
bound the girdle about the hilts, and [80 
then he threw the sword as far into die 
water as he might; and there came an arm 
and an hand above the water, and met 
it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice 
and brandished, and then vanished away 
the hand with the sword in the water. So 
Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and 
told him what he saw. Alas, said the 
king, help me hence, for I dread me I have 
tarried over long. Then Sir Bedivere [90 
took the king upon his back, and so went 
with him to that water side. And when 
they were at the water side, even fast by 
the bank hoved a little barge, with many 
fair ladies in it, and among them all was 
a queen, and all they had black hoods, and 
all they wept and shrieked when they saw 
king Ajthur. Now put me into the barge, 
said the king; and so he did softly. Ajnd 
there receivwl him three queens with [100 
great mourning, and so they set him 
down, and in one of their laps king Arthur 



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THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



laid his head. And then that queen said, 
Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so 
long from me? Alas, this wound on your 
head hath caught over-much cold. And 
so then they rowed from the land, and 
Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies go 
from him. Then Sir Bedivere cried, iUi, 
my lord Arthur, what shall become of [no 
me, now ye go from me, and leave me 
here alone among mine enemies? Com- 
fort thyself, said the king, and do as well 
as thou niayest, for in me is no trust for 
to trust in. For I will into the vale of 
Avilion to heal me of my grievous wound. 
And if thou hear never more of me, pray 
for my soul. But ever the queens and 
the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was 
pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedi- [120 
vere had lost the sight of the barge, he 
wept and wailed, and so took the forest, 
and so he went all that night, and in the 
morning he was ware betwixt two holts 
hoar, of a chapel and an hermitage. 

Chapter VI 

HOW SIR BEDIVERE FOUND HIM ON THE 
MORROW DEAD IN AN HERMITAGE, AND 
HOW HE ABODE THERE WITH THE HER- 
MIT 

Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither 
he went; and when he came into the 
chapel, he saw where lay an hermit grovel- 
ing on all four, there fast by a tomb was 
new graven. When the hermit saw Sir 
Bedivere he knew him weU, for he was 
but little before bishop of Canterbury, 
that Sir Mordred banished. Sir, said 
Sir Bedivere, what man is there interred 
that ye pray so fast for? Fair son, [10 
said the hermit, I wot not verily, but by 
deeming. But this night, at midnight, 
here came a number of ladies, and brought 
hither a dead corpse, and prayed me 
to bury him; and here they offered an 
hundred tapers, and gave me an hundred 
besants. Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that 
was my lord king Arthur, that here lieth 
buried in this chapel. Then Sir Bedivere 
swooned, and when he awoke he prayed [20 
the hermit he might abide with him still 
there, to live with fasting and prayers. 
For from hence will I never go, said Sir 
Bedivere, by my will, but all the days of 



my life here to pray for my lord Arthur. 
Ye are welcome to me, said the hermit, 
for I know ye better than ye ween that I 
do. Ye are the bold Bedivere, and the 
full noble duke Sir Lucan the Butler was 
your brother. Then Sir Bedivere told [30 
the hermit all as ye have heard tof ore. So 
there bode Sir Bedivere with the hermit 
that was tofore bishop of Canterbury, and 
there Sir Bedivere put upon him poor 
clothes,, and served iht hermit full lowly 
in fasting and in prayers. 

Thus of Arthur I find never more writ- 
ten in books that be authorized, nor more 
of the certainty of his death heard I 
never tell. [40 



Chapter Vn 

OF THE OPINION OF SOBiE MEN OF THE 
DEATH OF KING ARTHUR; AND HOW 
QUEEN GUENEVER MADE HER A NUN IN 
ALMESBURY 

Yet some men say in many parts of 
England that king Arthur is not dead, but 
had by the will of our Lord Jesu in an- 
other place. And men say that he shall 
come again, and he shall win the hxAy 
cross. I wUl not say it shall be so, but 
rather I will say, here in this world he 
changed his life. But many men say that 
there is written upon his tomb this verse: 
Hicjacet Arthurus^ Rex quondam, Rex- [10 
que fulurus. Thus leave I here Sir Bedi- 
vere with the hermit, that dwelled that 
time in a chap)el beside Glastonbury, 
and there was his hermitage. And so 
they lived in their prayers and fastings, 
and great abstinence. 

And when queen Guenever understood 
that king Arthur was slain, and all the 
noble kmghts. Sir Mordred and all the 
remnant, then the queen stole away, [20 
and five ladies with her, and so she went to 
Almesbury, and there she let make her- 
self a mm, and wore white clothes and 
black, and great penance she took, as ever 
did sinful lady in this land, and never 
creature could make her merry, but lived 
in fasting, prayers, and almsnleeds, that 
all manner of people marveled how vir- 
tuously she was changed. 



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THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



EDMUND SPENSER (16627-1699) 

THE FAERIE QUEENE 

A Letter of the Authojls, 

Expounding his whole intention in the 
course of this worke: which, for that it 
giveth great light to the reader, for the 
better understanding is hereunto an- 
nexed. 

To the Right Noble and Valorous 

Sir Walter Raleigh, Knight; 

Lord Wardein of the Stanneryes, and Her 
Maiesties Liefetenaunt of the County of 
Comewayll. 

Sir, knowing how doubtfully all alle- 
gories may be construed, and this booke 
of mine, which I have entituled the Faery 
Queeney being a continued allegory, or 
darke conceit, I haue thought good, as 
well for avoyding of gealous opinions and 
misconstructions, as also for your better 
light in reading thereof, (bdng so by you 
commanded,) to discover imto you the 
general intention and meaning, which [lo 
in the whole course thereof I have fash- 
ioned, without expressing of any p>articular 
purposes, or by accidents therein occa- 
sioned. The genendl end therefore of all 
the booke is to fashion a gentleman or 
noble person in vertuous and gentle dis- 
cipline: which for that I conceived shoulde 
be most plausible and pleasing, being 
coloured with an historicall fiction, the 
which the most part of men delight to [20 
read, rather for variety of matter then for 
profite of the ensample, I chose the his- 
torye of King Arthure, as most fitte for 
the excellency of his person, being made 
famous by many men's former workes, 
and also furthest from the daimger of 
envy, and suspition of present time. In 
which I have followed all the antique 
Poets historical!: first Homere, who in 
the Persons of Agamemnon and Ulys- [30 



ses hath ensampled a good govemour and 
a vertuous man, the one in his Ilias, the 
other in his Odysseis; then Virgil, whose 
like intention was to doe in the person of 
Aeneas; after him Ariosto comprised them 
both in his Orlando: and lately Tasso dis- 
severed them againe, and formed both 
parts in two persons, namely that part 
which they in Philosophy caU Ethice, or 
vertues of a private man, coloured in [40 
his Rinaldo; the other named Politice in 
his Godfredo. By ensample of which ex- 
cellente poets, I labour to pourtraict in 
Arthure, before he was king, the image of 
a brave knight, perfected in the twelve 
private morall vertues, as Aristotle hath 
devised; the which is the purpose of these 
first twelve bookes: which if I finde to be 
well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged 
to frame the other part of polUticke [50 
vertues in his person, after that hee came 
to be king. 

To some, I know, this methode will 
seeme displeasaimt, which had rather have 
good discipline delivered plainly in way of 
precepts, or sermoned at large, as they 
use, then thus clowdily enwrapped in 
AUegoricall devises. But such, me seeme, 
should be satisfide with the use of these 
dayes, seeing all things accoimted by [60 
their showes, and nothing esteemed of, 
that is not delightfull and pleasing to 
commime sence. For this cause is Xeno- 
phon preferred before Plato, for that the 
one, in the exquisite depth of his judge- 
ment, formed a commime welth, such as 
it should be; but the other in the p)erson 
of Cyrus, and the Persians, fashioned a 
govemement, such as might best be: so 
much more profitable and gratious is [70 
doctrine by ensample, then by rule. So 
haue I laboured to doe in the person of 
Arthure: whome I conceive, after his long 
education by Timon, to whom he was 
by Merlin delivered to be brought up, 
so soone as he was borne of the Lady 
Igrajoie, to have seene in a dream or 
vision the Faery Queene, with whose 



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THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



excellent beauty ravished, he awaking 
resolved to seeke her out; and so being [80 
by Merlin armed, and by Timon throughly 
instructed, he went to seeke her forth in 
Faerye land. In that Faery Queene I 
meane glory in my generall intention, but 
in my particular I conceive the most 
excellent and glorious person of our sover- 
aine the Queene, and her kingdome in 
Faery land. And yet, in some places els, 
I doe otherwise shadow her. For con- 
sidering she beareth two persons, the [90 
one of a most royall Queene or Empresse, 
the other of a most vertuous and beautiful! 
Lady, this latter part in some places I doe 
expresse in Belphoebe, fashioning her 
name according to your owne excellent 
conceipt of Cynthia, (Phoebe and Cynthia 
being both names of Diana.) So in the 
person of Prince Arthure I sette forth 
magnificence in particular, which vertue, 
for that (according to Artistotle and [100 
the rest) it is the perfection of all the rest, 
and conteineth in it them all, therefore 
in the whole course I mention the deedes 
of Arthure applyable to that vertue, which 
I write of in that booke. But of the xii. 
other vertues, I make xii. other knights 
the patrones, for the more variety of the 
history: of which these three bookes 
contajm three. The first of the knight 
of the Redcrosse, in whome I expresse [no 
holynes: The seconde of Sir Guyon, in 
whome I sette forth temperaimce: The 
third of Britomartis, a lady knight, in 
whome I picture chastity. But, because 
the beginning of the whole worke seemeth 
abrupte, and as depending upon other 
antecedents, it needs that ye know the 
occasion of these three knights' seuerall 
adventures. For the methode of a poet 
historical is not such, as of an his- [120 
toriographer. For an historiographer dis- 
courseth of affayres orderly as they were 
donne, accounting as well the times as 
the actions; but a poet thrusteth into the 
middest, even where it most concemeth 
him, and there recoursing to the thinges 
forepaste, and divining of thinges to come, 
maketh a pleasing analysis of all. 

The beginning therefore of my history, 
if it were to be told by an historiog- [130 
rapher, should be the twelfth booke, which 
is the last; where I devise that the Faery 



Queene kept her annuall feaste xii. dayes; 
uppon which xii. severall dayes, the occa- 
sions of the xii. severall adventures hapned, 
which, being imdertaken by xii. severall 
knights, are in these xii. books severally 
handled and discoursed. The first was 
this. In the beginning of the feast, there 
presented him selfe a tall clownishe [140 
younge man, who, falling before the Queene 
of Faeries, desired a boone (as the manner 
then was) which during that feast she 
might not refuse: whidi was that hee 
might have the atchievement of any ad- 
venture, which during that feaste should 
happen: that being graunted, he rested 
him on the fioore, unfitte through his rus- 
ticity for a better place. Soone after 
entred a faire ladye in mourning [150 
weedes, riding on a white asse, with a 
dwarf e behind her leading a warlike steed, 
that bore the armes of a knight, and his 
speare in the dwarfes hand. Shee, falling 
before the Queene of Faeries, complayned 
that her father and mother, an ancient 
king and queene, had bene by an huge 
dragon many years shut up in a brasen 
castle, who thence suffred them not to 
yssew; and therefore besought the [160 
Faery Queene to assygne her some one of 
her knights to take on him that explo3rt. 
Presently that clownish p)erson, upstart- 
ing, desired that adventure: whereat the 
Queene much wondering, and the lady 
much gainesaying, yet he earnestly im- 
portimed his desire. In the end the lady 
told him, that imlesse that armour whidi 
she brought, would serve him (that is, 
the armour of a Christian man sped- [170 
fied by Saint Paul, vi. Ephes.) that he 
could not succeed in that enterprise: which 
being forthwith put upon him, with dewe 
furnitures thereimto, he seemed the good- 
liest man in al that comp^any, and was 
well liked of the lady. And eftesoones 
taking on him knighthood, and moimting 
on that straunge courser, he went forth 
with her on that adventure: where be- 
ginneth the first booke, viz. [180 

A gentle knight was pricking on the 
plajme, etc. 

The second day there came in a palmer, 
bearing an infant with bloody hands, 
whose parents he complained to have 



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bene slayn by an enchaunteresse called 
Acrasia; and therefore craved of the 
Faery Queene, to appoint him some 
knight to performe that adventure; which 
bei^ assigned to Sir Guyon, he presently 
went forth with that same palmer: [190 
which is the beginning of the second booke, 
and the whole subject thereof. The third 
day there came in a groome, who com- 
plained before the Faery Queene, that a 
vile enchaunter, called Busirane, had in 
hand a most faire lady, called Amoretta, 
whom he kept in most grievous torment, 
because she would not yield him the 
pleasure of her body. Whereupon Sir 
Scudamour, the lover of that lady, [200 
presently tooke on him that adventure. 
But being unable to performe it by reason 
of the hard enchauntments, after long 
sorrow, in the end met with Britomartis, 
who succoiured him, and reskewed his 
loue. 

But by occasion hereof many other 
adventures are intermedled; but rather as 
accidents then intendments: as the love of 
Britcmiart, the overthrow of Marinell, [210 
the misery of Florimell, the vertuousness of 
Bdphoebe, the lasdviousnes of Hellenora, 
and many the like. 

Thus much. Sir, I have briefly overronne, 
to direct yoiu: imderstanding to the wel- 
head of the history, that from thence gath- 
ering the whole intention of the conceit 
ye may, as in a handfull, gripe al the dis- 
course, which otherwise may happily seeme 
tedious and confused. So, humbly [220 
craving the continuance of your honor- 
able favour towards me, and th' etemall 
establishment of your happines, I himibly 
take leave. 

23. January, 1589. 
. Yours most humbly affectionate, 
Ed. Spenser. 

Prom Book I, Canto I 

The patrone of true Holinesse 
Foule Errour doth defeate: 

Hypocrisie, him to entrappe, 
Doth to his home entreate. 

A gentle knight was pricking* on the plaine,*^ 
Ydadd in mightie armes and silver diielde,^ 

> ipurriiig, riding. 



Wherein old dints of deepe woimdes did 

remaine, ^^ . 

The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never 

wield: -^ 
His angry steede did chide his foming 

bitt, ^ 6 

As much disdayning to the curbe to 

)aeld:-^ 
Full joUy^ knight he seemd, and faire did 

§itt, ^ / ( I 

As one f9r knightly giusts* and fierce en- 

coimters fitt. c— 

n 

But on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, lo 
The deare remembrance of his dying 

Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge 

he wore. 
And dead as living ever him ador 'd : 
Upon his shield the like was also scored. 
For soveraine hope, which in his help)e he 

had: 15 

Right faithfull true he was in deede and 

word. 
But of his cheere^ did seeme too solenme 

sad; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was 

ydrad.^ 

m 

Upon a great advedture he was bond,* 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 20 
That greatest glorious queene of Faery 

Lond, 
To winne him worshipp)e, and her grace to 

have. 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did 

crave; 
And ever as he rode his hart did eame^ 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 25 
Upon his foe, and his new force to leame 
Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and 

steame. 

IV 

A lovely ladie rode him faire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white then snow. 
Yet she much whiter, but the same did 
hide 30 

Under a vele, that wimpled* was full low, 

* gallant. * jousts. 

♦ countenance, exprnsion of his face, » dreaded. 

• bound. ' yearn. • pleated. 



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THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



And over all a blacke stole shee did throw: 
As one that inly moumd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow: 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her in a line a milkewhite lambe 
she lad. 36 



So pure and innocent, as that same lambe. 
She was in life and every vertuous lore, 
And by descent from royall lynage came 
Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of 
yore 40 

Their scepters stretcht from east to west- 
erne shore. 
And all the world in their subjection held. 
Till that infemall feend with foule uprore 
Forwasted* all their land, and them expeld: 
Whom to avenge, she had this knight from 
far compeld.* 45 

VI 

Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they 

past. 
The day with cloudes was suddeine over- 
cast, so 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans^ lap so fast. 
That everie wight^ to shrowd* it did con- 
strain, • 
And this faire couple eke® to shroud them- 
selves were fain. 

vn 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 56 
That promist ayde the tempest to with- 
stand: 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers 

pride, 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did 

lude, 
Not perceable with power of any starr ; 60 
And all within were pathes and sdleies 

wide. 
With footing wome, and leading inward 

farr: 
Faire harboiu: that them seemes, so in they 
entred ar. 

1 utterly laid waste. 

* loved one's, L e. the earth's. 

» shelter. 'also. 



vra 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure for- 
ward led, 

Joying to heare the birdes sweete har- 
mony, 65 

Which, therein shrouded from the tempest 
dred, 

Seemed in their song to scome the crudl 
sky. 

Much can^ they praise the trees so 
straight and hy. 

The sayJnig^ pine, the cedar proud and 
taU, 

The vine-propp elme, the poplar never 
dry, 70 

The buildei* oake, sole king of forrests all, 

The aspine good for staves, the cypresse 
funerall, 

DC 

The laiu^U, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage, the fiire that weepeth 

still, 
The willow wome of forlome paramours,^® 
The eugh" obedient to the benders will, 76 
The birch for shaftes, the sallow for the 

miU, 
The mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter 

woimd. 
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, 
The fruitfull olive, and the platane" 

roimd, 80 

The carver holme,^* the maple seeldom 

inward sound. 



Led with delight, they thus beguile the 

way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; 
When, weening to retume whence they did 

stray, 
They cannot finde that path, which first 

was showne, 85 

But wander too and fro in waies un- 

knowne, 
Fvirthest from end then, when they neerest 

weene, 
That makes them doubt, their wits be not 

their owne: 
So many pathes, so many turnings seene. 
That which of them to take, in diverse 

doubt they been. 90 

' did. * used for ship timber. • used for buildiiig. 
"lovers, "yew. "plane. 

** a kind ol oak, used for wood carvings. 



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XI 

At last resolving forward still to fare, 
Till that some end they finde, or in or out, 
That path they take, that beaten seemd 

most bare, 
And like to lead the labyrinth about ;^ 
Which whien by tract^ they himted had 

throughout, 95 

At length it brought them to a hollowe 

cave, 
Amid the thickest woods. The champion 

stout 
Eftsoones^ dismounted from his courser 

brave. 
And to the dwarfe a while his needlesse 

spere he gave. 

xn 

"Be well aware," quoth then that ladie 
milde, 100 

^* Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash pro- 
voke: 

The danger hid, the place imknowne and 
wilde, 

Breedes dreadfull doubts: oft fire is with- 
out smoke. 

And perill without show:^ therefore your 
strdce. 

Sir knight, with-hold, till further tryall 
made." 105 

"Ah, ladie," sayd he, "shame were to re- 
voke 

The forward footing for an hidden shade: 

Vertue gives her selfe light, through 
darkenesse for to wade."* 



xra 

"Yea, but," quoth she, "the peril! of this 
place 

I better wot then you; though nowe too 
late no 

To wish you backe retume with foule dis- 
grace. 

Yet wisedome wames, whilest foot is in the 
gate,« 

To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 

This is the wanching wood,® this Errours 
den, 

A monster vile, whom God and man does 
hate: 115 

loot of. > trace. > forthwith. « walk, go. 

* WSJ. • wood of wandering. 



Therefore I read^ beware." "Fly, fly!" 

quoth then 
The fearefull dwarfe: "this is no pUce for 

living men." 

XIV 

But full of fire and greedy hardiment,* 
The youthfuU knight could not for ought 

be staide, 
But forth imto the darksom hole he went. 
And looked in: his glistring armor made 121 
A liUe glooming light, much like a shade, 
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide. 
But th' other Imlfe did womans shape re- 

taine, 125 

Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile 

disdaine.* 



xxvn 

His lady, seeing all that chaunst, from 

farre, 235 

Approcht in hast to greet his victorie, 
And saide, "Faire kaight, borne imder 

happie starre. 
Who see your vanquisht foes before you 

lye. 
Well worthie be you of that armory,^® 
Wherein ye have great glory wonne this 

day, 240 

And proov'd your strength on a strong eni- 

mie, 
Your first adventure: many such I pray, 
And henceforth ever wish that like succeed 

it may." 

xxvni 

Then mo\mted he upon his steede againe. 
And with the lady backward sought to 

wend; 245 

That path he kept which beaten was most 

plaine, 
Ne ever would to any by way bend, 
But still did follow one imto the end, 
The which at last out of the wood them 

brought. 
So forward on his way (with God to f rend) 
He passed forth, and new adventure 

sought: 251 

Long way he travelled, before he heard of 

ought 

* impetuous hardihood. 



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XXIX 

At length they chaimst to meet upon the 

way 
An aged sire, in long blacke weedes* 

yclad, 
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie 

gray, 255 

And by his belte his booke he hanging had; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly 

bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad, 
And all the way he prayed as he went, 260 
And often knockt his brest, as one that did 

repent. 

XXX 

He faire the knight saluted, touting^ low, 
Who faire him quited,^ as that courteous 

was; 
And after asked him, if he did know 
Of straimge adventures, which abroad did 

pas. 265 

"Ah! my dear sonne," quoth he, "how 

should, alas! 
Silly* old man, that lives in hidden cell. 
Bidding* his beades all day for his trespas, 
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? 
With holy father sits® not with such 

thinges to mellJ 270 

XXXI 

"But if of daimger, which hereby doth 

dwell. 
And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, 
Of a straimge man I can you tidings tell, 
That wasteth all his coimtrie farre and 

neare." 
"Of such," saide he, "I chiefly doe in- 

quere, 275 

And shall you well rewarde to shew the 

place. 
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth 

weare: 
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace. 
That such a cursed creature lives so long a 

si>ace." 

xxxn 

"Far hence," quoth he, "in wastfull wil- 

demesse, 280 

His dwelling is, by which no living wight 

1 clothes. » bowing. * requited. « simple. 

» telling, counting. • bents. ' meddle. 



May ever passe, but thorough great dis- 
tressed' 

"Now," saide the ladie, "draweth toward 
night. 

And well I wote, that of your later fight 

Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong,285 

But, wanting rest, will also want of might? 

The Sunne, that measures heaven all day 
long, 

At night doth baite* his steedes the ocean 
waves emong. 

xxxm 

"Then with the Sunne take, sir, your 

timely rest, 
And with new day new worke at once be- 
gin: 290 
Untroubled night, they say, gives coimsell 

best." 
"Right well, sir knight, ye have advised 

bin," 
Quoth Uien that aged man; "the way to 

win 
Is wisely to advise:* now day is spent; 
Therefore with me ye may take up your 

in 295 

For this same night." The knight was 

well content; 
So with that godly father to his home they 

went. 

xxxiv 

A litle lowly hermitage it was, 
Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side. 
Far from resort of people, that did pas 300 
In traveill to and froe: a litle wyde^® 
There was an holy chappell edifyde," 
Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say 
His holy thinges each mome and even- 

tyde: 
Thereby a christall streame did gently 

play, 305 

Which from a sacred foimtaine welled 

forth alway. 

XXXV 

Arrived there, the little house they fiU, 
Ne looke for entertainement, where none 

was: 
Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their 

wiU; 
The noblest mind the best contentment 

has. 310 



•feed. 

» a little way off. 



* take thought, consider, 
"buflt 



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With faire discourse the evening so they 
p>as: 

For that olde man of pleasing wordes had 
store, 

And well could file his tongue as smooth 
asglas: 

He told of saintes and popes, and ever- 
more 

He strowd an Ave-Mary after and be- 
fore. 315 

XXXVI 

The drouping night thus creepeth on them 

fast, 
And the sad humor* loading their eye 

liddes, 
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep 

them biddes: 
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he 

riddes:* 320 

Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe 

he findes, 
He to his studie goes, and there anuddes 
His magick bookes and artes of sundrie 

kindes. 
He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble 

sleepy minds. 

xxxvn 

Then choosing out few words most horri- 
ble, 325 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses 

frame; 
With which and other spelles like terrible, 
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly dame, 
And cursed heven, and spake reprochful 

shame 

Of highest God, the Lord of life and 

li^t: 330 

A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name 

Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead 

night. 
At which Cocytus quakes, and St)rx is put 
to flight. 

xxxvra 

And forth he cald out of deepe darknes 

dredd 
Legions of sprights, the which, like litle 

flyes 335 

Fluttring about his ever danmed hedd, 
Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 

* heavy moisture. * sends off. 



To aide his friendes, or fray^ his enimies: 
Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo. 
And fittest for to forge true-seeming 

lyes; 340 

The one of them he gave a message too. 
The other by him self e staide, other worke 

todoo. 

XXXDC 

He, making speedy way through spersed^ 

ayrt, 
And through the world of waters wide and 

deepe. 
To Morpheus house doth hastily re- 

paire. 34s 

Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe. 
And low, where dawning day doth never 

peepe. 
His dwdling is; there Tethys his wet bed 
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth 

steep)e 
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 350 
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle 

black doth spred. 

XL 

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast. 
The one faire fram'd of bumisht )rvory. 
The other all with silver overcast; 
And wakeful dogges before them f arre doe 

lye, 355 

Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
By them the sprite doth passe in quietly, 
And imto Morpheus comes, whom 

drowned deep)e 
In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he 

takes keepe.^ 360 

XLI 

And more to lulle him in his slimiber soft, 

A trickling streame from high rock tum- 
bling downe. 

And ever drizling raine upon the loft, 

Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like 
the sowne 

Of swarming bees, did cast him in a 
swowne: 365 

No other noyse, nor peoples troublous 
cryes. 

As still® are wont t'annoy the walled 
towne, , 



•frighten. 
*hced. 



•widely diffused, 
•ever. 



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THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet 

lyes, 
Wrapt in etemall silence farre from eni- 

myes. 

xm 
The messenger approching to him 

spake, 370 

But his waste wordes retoumd to him in 

vaine: 
So soimd he slept, that nought mought him 

awake. 
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with 

paine. 
Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe 
Shooke him so hard, that forced him to 

speake. 375 

As one then in a dreame, whose dryer 

braine 
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies 

weake, 
He mumbled soft, but would not all his 

silence breake. 

XLin 
The sprite then gan more boldly him to 

wake. 
And threatned unto him the dreaded 

name 380 

Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake, 
And, lifting up his lompish head, with 

blame 
Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
"Hether," quoth he, "me Archimago sent. 
He that the stubbome sprites can wisely 

tame; 385 

He bids thee to him send for his intent 
A fit false dreame. that can delude the 

sleep)ers sent."^ 

XLIV 

The god obayde, and calling forth straight 

way 
A diverse dreame out of his prison darke. 
Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 390 
His heavie head, devoide of careful carke;^ 
Whose sences all were straight benumbd 

and Starke. 
He, backe returning by the yvorie dore. 
Remounted up as Ught as dieareful larke, 
And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 
In hast imto his lord, where he him left 

afore. • 396 

****** 

'anxiety. 



From Canto HI 



Nought is there under heav'ns wide 

hoUownesse, 
That moves more deare compassion of 

mind. 
Then beautie brought t'unworthie wretch- 

ednesse 
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes 

urJdnd: 
I, whether lately through her* brightnes 

blynd, 5 

Or through alleageance and fast fealty, 
Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
Feele my hart p)erst with so great agony, 
When such I see, that all for pitty I could 

dy. 

n 

And now it is empassioned so deepe, 10 
For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 
That my frayle eies these lines with teares 

do steepe, 
To thinke how she through guyleful 

handeling. 
Though true as touch, though daughter of 

a king. 
Though faire as ever living wight was 

fayre, 15 

Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting. 
Is from her knight divorced in despayre, 
And her dew loves deryv'd^ to that vile 

witches shayre. 

m 

Yet she, most faithfull Ladie, all this while 
Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd, 20 

Far from all peoples preace,** as in exfle, 
In wildemesse and wastfuU deserts strayd, 
To seeke her knight; who, subtily betrayd 
Through that late vision which th' en- 

chaimter wrought, 
Had her abandond. She, of nought 

aflfrayd, 25 

Through woods and wastnes wide him 

daily sought; 
Yet wished tydinges none of him imto her 

brought. 

IV 

One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way, 
From her unhastie beast she did alight; 

* i. e. beauty's. < diverted. * press, crowd. 



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And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, 
In secrete shadow, far from all mens 
sight: 31 

From her iayre head her fillet she imdight, 
And layd her stole aside. Her angels face 
As the great eye of heaven shyned bright, 
And made a sunshine in the shady place ;35 
Did never mortall eye behold such heav- 
enly grace. 



It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage^ blood. 
Scone as the ro3rall virgin he did spy, 40 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
To have attonce devourd her tender corse f 
But to the pray when as he drew more 

ny, 
His bloody rage aswaged with remorse. 
And, with the sight amazd, forgat his 

furious forse. 45 

VI 

In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet. 
And lickt her lilly hands with fawning 

tong, 
As he her wronged innocence did weet.* 
how can beautie maister the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! 
Whose yielded pryde and proud submis- 
sion, SI 
Still dreading death, when she had marked 

long, 
Her hart gan melt in great compassion, 
And drizlmg teares did shed for pure affec- 
tion. 

vn 

"The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 55 
Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth 

abate. 
And mightie proud to humble weake does 

yield, 
For^tfull of the himgry rage, which late 
Him prickt, in pittie of my sjui estate: 
But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, 60 
How does he find in cruell hart to hate 
Her that him lov'd and ever most adord 
As the God of my life? why hath he me 

abhord?" 



■body. 



'know. 



vm 

Redoimding teares did choke th' end of her 

plaint. 
Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour 

wood; 65 

And sad to see her sorrowf ull constraint. 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; 
With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry 

mood. 
At last, in close hart shutting up her payne. 
Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood. 
And to her snowy palfrey got aga)aie, 71 
To seeke her strayed champion if she 

might attayne. 

DC 

The lyon would not leave her desolate. 
But with her went along, as a strong gard 
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mateys 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch 

and ward. 
And when she wakt, he wayted diligent, 
With humble service to her will prepard: 
From her fayre eyes he tooke conunande- 

ment, 80 

And ever by her lookes conceived her 

intent. 



Canto XI 

The knight with that old Dragon fights 

Two days incessantly: 
The third him overthrowes, and gayns 

Most glorious victory. 



High time now gan it wex for Una fayre, 
To thinke of those her captive i>arents 

deare. 
And their forwasted^ kingdom to repayre: 
Whereto whenas . they now approched 

neare. 
With hartie wordes her knight she gan to 

cheare, 5 

And in her modest maner thus bespake: 
" Deare knight, as deare as ever knight was 

deare, 
That all these sorrowes suffer for my sake. 
High heven behold the tedious toyle ye for 

me take! 

*raviged. 



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II 

" Now are we come unto my native soyle,io 
And to the place where all our perilles 

dwell; 
Here hauntes that feend, and does his 

dayly spoyle; 
Therefore henceforth bee at your keeping 

well, 
And ever ready for your foeman fell. 
The sp>arke of noble corage now awake, i s 
And strive your excellent selfe to excell: 
That shall ye evermore renowmed make 
Above all knights on earth, that batteill 

imdertake." 

m 

And pointing forth, "Lo! yonder is," 

(said she) 
"The brasen towre, in which my parents 

deare 20 

For dread of that huge feend emprisond 

be; 
Whom I from far see on the walles ap- 

peare. 
Whose sight my feeble soule doth greatly 

cheare: 
And on the top of all I do espye 
The watchman wayting tydings glad to 

heare; 25 

That, O my Parents! might I happily 
Unto you bring, to ease you of your 



misery! 



IV 



With that they heard a roaring hideous 

sownd. 
That all the ayre with terror filled wyde, 
And seemd imeath^ to shake the stedfast 

ground. 30 

Eftsoones^ that dreadful dragon they 

espyde. 
Where stretcht he lay upon the sunny side 
Of a great hill, himselfe like a great hill. 
But all so soone as he from far descryde 
Those glistring armes, that heven with 

light did fill, 35 

He rousd himselife full blyth, and hastned 

them imtill. 



Then badd the knight his Lady yede* aloof. 
And to an hill herselfe withdraw asyde. 



1 almost. 



> shortly. 



»go. 



From whence she might behold that bat- 

tallies proof, 
And eke be safe from daunger far descryde: 
She him obayd, and turned a littie wyde^ 
Now, O thou sacred Muse! most leam«l 

dame, 
Fayre ympe^ of Phoebus and his aged 

bryde. 
The nourse of time and everiasting fame, 
That warlike handes ennoblest with im- 

mortall name; 



45 



VI 



O gentiy come into my feeble brest; 
Come gentiy, but not with that mightie 

rage. 
Wherewith the martiall troupes thou doest 

infest. 
And hartes of great heroes doest enrage, 
That nought tiieir kindled corage may 

aswage: 50 

Soone as thy dreadfuU trompe begins to 

sownd, 
The god of warre with his fiers equipage 
Thou doest awake, sleepe never he so 

sownd; 
And scared nations doest with horror 

Sterne astownd. 

vn 

Fayre goddesse, lay that furious fitt 

asyde, 55 

Till I of warres and bloody Mars doe sing, 
And Bryton fieldes with Sarazin blood 

bedyde, 
Twixt that great Faery Queene and 

Paynim King, 
That with their horror heven and earth 

did ring, 
A worke of labour long, and endlesse 

prayse: 60 

But now a while lett downe that haughtie 

string. 
And to my tunes thy second tenor rayse, 
That I this man of God his godly armes 

may blaze. 

vm 

By this the dreadful Beast drew nigh to 

hand, 
Halfe flying and halfe footing in his haste, 

«child. 



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59 



That with his largenesse measured much 

land, 66 

And made wide shadow under his huge 

waste, 
As mountaine doth the valley overcaste. 
^>proching nigh, he reared high afore 
His body monstrous, horrible, and vaste,7o 
Which, to increase his wondrous greatnes 

more, 
Was swoln with wrath and poyson, and 

with bloody gore. 

DC 

And over all with brasen scales was armd, 
Like plated cote of Steele, so couched 

neare 
That nought mote perce; ne might his 

corse* bee harmd 75 

With dint of swerd, nor push of pointed 

Which as an eagle, seeing pray appeare, 
His aery plumes doth rouze, full rudely 

dight,* 
So shaked he, that horror was to heare: 
For as the dashing of an armor bright, 80 
Such noyse his rouzed scales did send imto 

the knight. 



His flaggy winges, when forth he did dis- 
play, 

Were like two sayles, in which the hollow 
wynd 

Is gathered full, and worketh speedy 
way: 

And eke the pennes,' that did his pineons 
bypd, 8s 

Were like majme-yardes with flying can- 
vas lynd. 

With which whenas him list the ayre to 
beat. 

And there by force unwonted passage 
fynd, 

TTie doudes before him fledd for terror 
great, 

And all the hevens stood still, amazed 

90 



with his threat. 



XI 

His huge long tayle, wownd up in hundred 

foldes, 
Docs over^red his long bras-scaly back, 

> body. ' arrayed. * quills. 



Whose wreathed boughtes* when ever he 

unfoldes, 
And thick entangled knots adown does 

slack, 
Bespotted as with shieldes of red and 

blacke, 95 

It sweepeth all the land behind him farre, 
And of three furlongs does but litle lacke; 
And at the point two stinges in fixed arre. 
Both deadly sharp, that sharpest stede 

exceeden farre. 

xn 

But stinges and sharpest stede did far 

exceed loo 

The sharpnesse of his cruel rending clawes: 
Dead was it sure, as sure as death in 

deed, 
What ever thing does touch his ravenous 

pawes. 
Or what within his reach he ever drawes. 
But his most hideous head my tongue 

to tell 105 

Does tremble; for his deepe devouring 

jawes 
Wyde gaped, like the griesly mouth of hell. 
Through which into his darke abysse all 

ravin fell. 

xra 

And, that more wondrous was, in either 

jaw 
Three ranckes of )nx)n teeth enraunged 

were, no 

In which yett trickling blood and gob- 
bets^ raw 
Of late devoured bodies did appeare. 
That sight thereof bredd cold congealed 

feare: 
Which to increase, and all atonce to kill, 
A doud of smoothering smoke and sul- 

phure seare® 115 

Out of his stinking gorge forth steemed 

still, 
That all the ayre about with smoke and 

stench did fill. 

XIV 

His blazing eyes, like two bright shining 
shieldes, 

Did bume with wrath, and sparkled liv- 
ing fyre; 

* cofls. * pieces. * searing. 



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THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



As two broad beacons, sett in open fieldes, 
Send forth their flames far off to every 
shyre, 121 

And warning give that enimies conspyre 
With fire and sword the region to invade: 
So flamed his eyne with rage and rancor- 
ous yre; 
But far within, as in a hollow glade, 125 
Those glaring lampes were sett that made 
a dreadf ull shade. 

XV 

So dreadfully he towardes him did pas, 
Forelifting up a-loft his speckled brest. 
And often boimding on the brused gras, 
As for great joyance of his newcome 

guest. 130 

Eftsoones he gan advaimce his haughty 

crest, 
As chauffed* bore his bristles doth up- 

. reare; 
And shoke his scales to battaile ready 

drest, 
That made the Redcrosse Knight nigh 

quake for feare. 
As bidding bold defyaimce to his foeman 

neare. 135 

XVI 

The knight gan fayrely couch his steady 

speare. 
And fiersely ran at him with rigorous 

might: 
The pointed Steele, arriving rudely theare,^ 
His harder hyde would nether perce nor 

bight. 
But, glaimdng by, foorth passed forward 

right. 140 

Yet sore amoved with so puissaunt push, 
The wrathfull beast about him turned 

light. 
And him so rudely, passing by, did brush 
With his long tayle, that horse and man to 

ground did rush. 

xvn 
Both horse and man up lightly rose 

againe, 14s 

And fresh encounter towardes him addrest; 
But th' ydle stroke yet backe recoyld in 

vaine, 
And foimd no place his deadly point to 

rest. 



langiy. 



'there. 



Exceeding rage enflam'd the furious beast, 
To be avenged of so great despight; 150 
For never felt his imperceable* brest 
So wondrous force from hand of living 

wight; 
Yet had he proved the powre of many a 

puissant knight. 

xvm 

Then, with his waving wings displayed 

wyde, 
Himselfe up high he lifted from the 

ground, 155 

And with strong flight did forcibly divyde 
The )aelding ayre, which nigh too feeble 

foimd 
Her flitting parts, and element unsoimd, 
To beare so great a weight: he, cutting 

way 
With his broad sayles, about him soared 

round; 160 

At last, low stouping with imweldy sway, 
Snatcht up both horse and man, to beare 

them quite away. 

XDC 

Long he them bore above the subject 

plaine, 
So far as ewghen^ bow a shaft may send, 
Till struggling strong did him at last con- 

straine 165 

To let them downe before his flightes end: 
As hagard hauke, presuming to contend 
With hardy fowle, above his hable might, 
His wearie pounces^ all in vaine doth 

sp)end 
To trusse® the pray too heavy for his 

flight; 170 

Which, comming down to ground, does 

free it selfe by fight. 

XX 

He so disseized of his gryping grosse, 
The knight his thrillant^ speare againe 

assayd 
In his bras-plated body to embosse. 
And three mens strength unto the stroake 

helayd; 175 

Wherewith the stiffe beame quaked, as 

affrayd,* 



* impenetrable, 
•bold. 



«yew. 
' piercing. 



» efforts, struggles, 
•terrified. 



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6i 



And glaundng from his scaly necke did 

glyde 
Qose under his left wing, then broad dis- 

I^yd: 
The perdng Steele there wrought a wound 

full wyde, 
That with the imcouth^ smart the monster 

lowdly cryde. i8o 

XXI 

He cryde, as raging seas are wont to rore 
When wintry storme his wrathful wreck 

does threat; 
The rolling biUowes beate the ragged 

shore, 
As they the earth would shoulder from 

her seat; 
And greedy gulfe does gape, as he would 

eat 185 

His neighbour element in his revenge: 
Then gin the blustring brethren boldly 

threat 
To move the world from off his stedfast 

henge,* 
And bo3rstrous battaile make, each other 

to avenge. 

xxn 

The steely head stuck fast still in his 

flesh, 190 

Till with his cruell clawes he snatcht the 

wood. 
And quite a sunder broke. Forth flowed 

fresh 
A gushing river of blacke gory blood, 
That drowned all the land whereon he 

stood: 
The streame thereof would drive a water- 
mill. 195 
Trebly augmented was his furious mood 
Wth bitter sence of his deepe rooted Ul, 
That flames of fire he threw forth from 
his large nosethril.' 

xxm 

His hideous tayle then hurled he about. 
And therewith all enwrapt the nimble 

thyes 200 

Of his froth-fomy steed, whose courage 

stout 
Striving to loose the knott that fast him 

tyes, 



bikce: bat heie meaning btm, or foundation. 



Himselfe in streighter bandes too rash 

implyes,* 
That to the ground he is perforce con- 

stra)aid 
To throw his ryder; who can quickly ryse 
From off the earth, with durty blood dis- 

tayndf^ 206 

For that reprochfull fall right fowly he 

disdaynd. 

xxiv 

And fercely tooke his trenchand blade in 

hand. 
With which he stroke so furious and so fell. 
That nothing seemd the puissaimce could 

withstand: 210 

Upon his crest the hardned yron fell; 
But his more hardned crest was armd so 

well. 
That deeper dint therein it would not 

make; 
Yet so extremely did the buffe him quell, 
That from thenceforth he shimd the like 

to take, 215 

But, when he saw them come, he did 

them still forsake. 

xxv 

The knight was wroth to see his stroke 

beguyld. 
And smot againe with more outrageous 

might; 
But backe againe the sparcling Steele re- 

coyld. 
And left not any marke where it did 

light, 220 

As if in adamant rocke it had beene 

pight.® 
The beast, impatient of his smarting 

wound. 
And of so fierce and forcible despight,^ 
Thought with his winges to stye^ above 

the groimd; 
But his late wounded wing unserviceable 

found. 225 

xxvi 

Then, full of griefe and anguish vehement. 
He lowdly brayd, that lUte was never 

heard; 
And from his wide devouring oven sent 
A flake of fire, that, flashing in his beard. 
Him all amazd, and almost made afeard: 

« involves. » soiled. * struck. ^ anger. *rite. 



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The scorching flame sore swinged^ all his 
face, 231 

And through his armour all his body seard, 
That he could not endure so cruell cace, 
But thought his armes to leave, and hel- 
met to unlace. 

xxvn 

Not that great champion of the antique 

world, 235 

Whom famous poetes verse so much doth 

vaimt, 
And hath for twelve huge labours high 

extold, 
So many furies and sharpe fits did haunt, 
When him the poysoned garment did en- 

chaunt. 
When centaures blood and bloody verses 

charmd, 240 

As did this knight twelve thousand 

dolours daimt, 
Whom fyrie Steele now burnt, that erst 

him armd; 
That erst him goodly armd, now most of 

all him harmd. 

xxvm 

Fa)ait, wearie, sore, emboyled,* grieved, 

brent,' 
With heat, toyle, wounds, armes, smart, 
and inward fire, 245 

That never man such mischiefes did tor- 
ment; 
Death better were, death did he oft desire. 
But death will never come when needes re- 
quire. 
Whom so dismayd when that his foe be- 
held. 
He cast* to suffer him no more respire,* 250 
But gan his sturdy steme* about to weld. 
And him so strongly stroke, that to the 
ground him feld. 

XXIX 

It fortuned (as fayre it then befell,) 
Behynd his backe, unweeting, where he 

stood. 
Of aundent time there was a springing 

well, 255 

From which fast trickled forth a sUver 

flood. 



> singed. 
< planned. 



> boiled. 
»breaUie. 



* burned, 
•tail. 



Full of great vertues, and for med'dne 

good. 
Whylome, before that cursed dragon got 
That happy land, and all with innocent 

blood 
Defyld those sacred waves, it rightly 

hot^ 260 

The Well of Life, ne yet his? vertues had 

forgot. 

XXX 

For imto life the dead it could restore. 
And guilt of sinfull crimes cleane wash 

away; 
Those that with sicknesse were infected 

sore 
It could recure ; and aged long decay 265 
Renew, as one were borne tihat very day. 
Both Silo this, and Jordan, did excell. 
And th' English Bath, and eke the German 

Span; 
Ne can Cephise, nor Hebrus, match this 

well: 
Into the same the knight back over- 

throwen fell. 270 

XXXI 

Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steepe 
His fierie face in billowes of the west, 
And his faint steedes watred in ocean 

deepe. 
Whiles from their joumall labours they 

did rest. 
When that infemall monster, having kest' 
His wearie foe into that living well, 276 
Gan high advaunce his broad discoloured 

brest 
Above his wonted pitch, with countenance 

feU, 
And clapt his yron wings, as victor he did 

dweU. 

xxxn 

Which when his pensive lady saw from 

farre, 280 

Great woe and sorrow did her soule assay,'® 
As weening that the sad end of the warre, 
And gan to highest CSrod entirely pray 
That feared chaimce from her to tume 

away: 
With folded hands, and knees full lowly 

bent, 285 

All night shee watcht, ne once adowne 

would lay 



'was called. 



•its. 



•cast. 



*aflUct 



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63 



Her dainty limbs in her sad dreriment, 
But pra3dng still did wake, and waking did 
lament. 

xxxra 

The morrow next gan earely to appeare, 
That Titan rose tanmne his daily race;29o 
But earely, ere the morrow next gan reare 
Out of the sea faire Titans deawy face, 
Up rose the gentle virgin from her place, 
And looked all about, if she might spy 
Her loved knight to move his manly pace: 
For she had great doubt of his safety, 296 
Since late she saw him fall before his 



enuny. 



XXXIV 



At last she saw where he upstarted brave 
Out of the well, wherein he drenched lay: 
As eagle, fresh out of the ocean wave, 300 
Where he hath lef te his plumes all hory 

gray, 
And deckt himselfe with fethers youthly 

gay, 
Like eyas hauke up mounts imto the 

skies, 
His newly-budded pineons to assay. 
And marveiles at himselfe stil as he flies: 
So new this new-borne knight to battell 

new did rise. 306 

XXXV 

Whom when the danmed feend so fresh 

did spy 
No wonder if he wondred at the sight. 
And doubted whether his late enimy 
It were, or other new supplied knight. 310 
He now, to prove his late-renewed might. 
High brandishing his bright deaw-buming 

blade. 
Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite, 
That to the scull a 3rawning woimd it 

made: 
The deadly dint his dulled sences all dis- 

maid. 315 

XXXVI 

I wote* not whether the revenging Steele 
Were hardned with that holy water dew 
Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele, 
Or his baptized hands now greater grew, 
Or other secret vertue did ensew ; 320 

Els never could the force of fleshly arme, 
Ne molten mettall, in his blood embrew;^ 

s stain itaell. 



For till that stownd^ could never wight 

him harme 
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor 

mighty charme. 

xxxvn 

The cruell woimd enraged him so sore, 325 
That loud he yelled for exceeding paine; 
As himdred ramping lions seemd to rore. 
Whom ravenous himger did thereto con- 

straine: 
Then gan he tosse aloft his stretched 

traine. 
And therewith scourge the buxome* aire 

so sore, 330 

That to his force to jdelden it was fainq; 
Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand 

afore, 
That high trees overthrew, and rocks in 

peeces tore. 

xxxvin 

The same advauncing high above his 

head. 
With sharpe intended^ sting so rude him 

smott,* 335 

That to the earth him drove, as stricken 

dead; 
Ne living wight would have him life be- 

hott: 
The mortall sting his angry needle shott 
Quite through his shield, and in his 

shoulder seasd,^ 
Where fast it stucke, ne would thereout be 

gott: 340 

The griefe thereof him wondrous sore 

diseasd, 
Ne might his rancling paine with patience 

be appeasd. 

XXXIX 

But yet, more mindfull of his honour 

deare 
Then of the grievous smart which him did 

wring. 
From loathed soile he can him lightly 

reare, 34s 

And strove to loose the far infixed sting: 
Which when in vaine he tryde with strug- 

geling. 



s moment. 
* smote. 



« yielding. 



* outstretched. 
' fastened. 



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THE EUZABETHAN AGE 



Inflam'd with wrath, his raging blade he 

hefte,^ 
And strooke so strongly, that the knotty 

string 
Of his huge taile he quite a sender ciefte; 
Five joints thereof he hewd, and but the 

stump him lefte. 351 

XL 

Hart cannot thinke what outrage and 

what cries, 
With fowle enfouldred* smoake and flash- 
ing fire. 
The hell-bred beast threw forth unto the 
skies, 354 

That all was covered with darknesse dire: 
Then, fraught' with rancour and en- 
gorged yre. 
He cast^at once him to avenge for all. 
And, gathering up himself e out of the mire 
With his uneven wings, did fiercely fall 
Upon his sunne-bright shield, and grypt it 
fast withall. 360 

xu 

Much was the man encombred with his 

hold, 
In feare to lose his weapon in his paw, 
Ne wist^ yett how his talaunts* to un- 
fold; 
Nor harder was from Cerberus greedy jaw 
To plucke a bone, then from his cruell 
claw 365 

To reave by strength the griped gage 

away: 
Thrise he assayd it from his foote to draw, 
And thrise in vaine to draw it did assay; 
It booted nought to thinke to robbe him 
of his pray. 

XLn 

Tho,^ when he saw no power might pre- 
vaile, 370 

His trusty sword he cald to his last aid, 
Wherewith he fiersly did his foe assaile. 
And double blowes about him stoutly laid. 
That glaundng fire out of the yron plaid, 
As sparkles from the andvile use to fly, 375 
When heavy hammers on the wedge are 

swaid; 
Therewith at last he f orst him to imty 
One of his grasping feete, him to defend 
thereby. 

> raised. * black as a thunderbolt. « filled. 

< planned. 'knew. • talons. 'then. 



xLin 

The other foote, fast fixed on his shield, 
Whenas no strength nor stroks mote* 

him constraine 380 

To loose, ne yet the warlike pledge to 

jdeld. 
He smott thereat with all his might and 

maine, 
That nought so wondrous puissaunce 

might sustaine: 
Upon the joint the lucky Steele did light, 
And made such way that hewd it quite 

in twaine; 385 

The paw yett missed not his minisht^ 

might. 
But hong still on the shield, as it at first 

was pight."^ 

XLIV 

For griefe thereof and divelish despight,^^ 
From his infemall foumace forth he 

threw 
Huge flames, that dinuned all the hevens 

light, 390 

Enrold in duskish smoke and brimstone 

blew; 
As burning Aetna from his boyling stew" 
Doth beldi out flames, and rockes in 

peeces broke. 
And ragged ribs of mountaines molten 

new, 
Enwrapt in coleblacke clowds and filthy 

smoke, 395 

That al the land with stench, and heven 

with horror choke. 

XLV 

The heate whereof, and harmefull pes- 
tilence. 
So sore him noyd," that forst him to re- 
tire 
A little backeward for his best defence. 
To save his body from the scorching 
fire, 400 

Which he from hellish entrailes did ex- 
pire. 
It chaunst, (Etemall God that chaunce 

did guide) 
As he recoiled backeward, in the mire 
His nigh foreweried" feeble feet did slide. 
And downe he fell, with dread of shame 
sore terrifide. 405 

* might. * diminiibed. ** placed. 

" anger. " hotroom. 

** annoyed. >« wearied out. 



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SPENSER 



65 



XLVI 

There grew a goodly tree him faire beside, 
Loaden with fruit and apples rosy redd, 
As they in pure vermilion had been dide, 
Whereof great vertues over all^ were 

redd;* 
For happy Ufe to all which thereon fedd,4io 
And Ufe eke everlasting did befall: 
Great God it planted in that blessed 

stedd* 
With his Almighty hand, and did it call 
The Tree of Life, the crime of our first 

fathers fall. 

XLvn 

In all the world like was not to be fownd, 
Save in that soile, where all good things 

did grow, 416 

And freely sprong out of the fruitfull 

grownd, 
As incorrupted Nature did them sow. 
Till that dredd dragon all did overthrow. 
Another like faire tree eke grew thereby ,420 
Whereof whoso did eat, ef tsoones did know 
Both good and ill: O moumfull memory! 
That tree through one mans fault hath 

doen* us all to dy. 

XLvm 

From that first tree forth flowd, as from 

a well, 
A trickling streame of balme, most so- 

veraine 425 

And dainty deare, which on the ground 

stiU feU, 
And overflowed all the fertile plaine. 
As it had deawed bene with timely raine: 
Life and long health that gracious oint- 
ment gave, 
And deadly woimds could heale, and 

reare againe 430 

The sencdesse corse appointed for the 

grave. 
Into that same he fell, which did from 

death him save. 

xux 

For nigh thereto the ever danmed beast 
Durst not approch, for he was deadly 

made. 
And al that life preserved did detest; 435 
Yet he it oft adventur'd to invade. 

* told. > place. « caused. 



By this the drouping day-light gan to fade, 
And yield his rowme^ to sad succeeding 

night, 
Who with her sable mantle gan to shade 
The face of earth, and wayes of living 

wight, 440 

And high her burning torch set up in 

heaven bright. 



When gentle Una saw the second fall 

Of her deare knight, who, weary of long 

fight 
And faint through losse of blood, moov'd 

not at all. 
But lay, as in a dreame of deepe delight, 445 
Besmeard with pretious balme, whose 

vertuous? might 
Did heale his woundes, and scorching 

heat alay, 
Againe she stricken was with sore affright, 
And for his saf etie gan devoutly pray. 
And watch the noyous^ night, and wait 

for joyous day. 450 

u 

The joyous day gan early to appeare; 
And fayre Aurora from the deawy bed 
Of aged Tithone gan herselfe to reare 
With rosy cheekes, for shame as blushing 

red: 
Her golden locks for hast were loosely 

shed 455 

About her eares, when Una her did marke 
Clymbe to her charet, all with flowers 

spred. 
From heven high to chace the chearelesse 

darke; 
With mery note her lowd salutes the 

moimting larke. 

Ln 

Then freshly up arose the doughty 

knight, 460 

All healed of his hurts and woundes wide, 

And did himself e to battaile ready dight,*® 

Whose early foe awaiting him beside 

To have devourd, so soone as day he spyde. 

When now he saw himselfe so freshly 

reare, 465 

As if late fight had nought him damni- 

fyde, 

* place. * efficacious. ' grievous. > make ready. 



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TEE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



He woxe' dism^d, and gan his fate to 

feare; 
Nathlesse with wonted rage he him ad- 

vaunced neare. 



Lm 

And in his first encounter, gaping wyde, 
He thought attonce* him to have swal- 

lowd quight, 470 

And rusht upon him with outragious 

pryde; 
Who him rencountring fierce, as hauke in 

flight, 
Perforce rebutted backe. The weapon 

bright, 
Taking advantage of his open jaw, 
Ran through h^ mouth with so impor- 

time* might, 475 

That deepe emperst* his darksom hollow 

maw. 
And, back retyrd,* his life blood forth with 

all did draw. 
« 

uv 

So downe he fell, and forth his life did 

breath, 
That vanisht into smoke and cloudes 

swift; 
si) downe he fell, that th* earth him under- 
neath 480 
Did grone, as feeble so great load to 

lift; 
So downe he fell, as an huge rocky clift. 
Whose false foundadon waves have washt 

away, 
With dreadfull poyse* is from the mayne- 

land rif t,7 
And, rolling downe, great Neptune doth 

dismay; 48s 

So downe he fell, and like an heaped 

moimtaine lay. 

LV 

The knight him selfe even trembled at 

his fall. 
So huge and horrible a masse it seemd; 
And his deare Lady, that beheld it all. 
Durst not approch for dread which she 

misdeemd; 490 

But yet at last, whenas the direfull feend 

> grew. « at oBoe. « impetuous. 

* pierced. * withdrawn. 

• force. ' broken. 



She saw not stirre, off-shaking vaine af- 
fright 

She nigher drew, and saw that joyous 
end: 

Then God she praysd, and thankt her 
faithfull knight. 

That had atchievde so great a conquest 
by his might. 495 



PROTHALAMION 

Calme was the day, and through the trem- 
bling ayre 
Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly 

play, 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster 

fayre: 
When I, whom sullein care, s 

Through discontent of my long fruitlesse 

stay 
In princes court, and expectation vayne 
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, 
Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my 

brayne, 
Walkt forth to ease my payne 10 

Along the shoare of silver streaming 

Themmes; 
Whose rutty® bancke, the which his river 

hemmes, 
Was paynted all with variable flowers, 
And all the meades adomd with daintie 

gemmes, 
Fit to decke maydens bowres, i $ 

And crowne their paramours, 
Against the brydale day, which is not 

long:* 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, 
A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy, 20 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks all loose \in- 

tyde, 
As each had bene a bryde: 
And each one had a little wicker basket. 
Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously, 25 
In* which they gathered flowers to fill their 

flasket; 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously'^ 
The tender stalkes on hye. 

■rooty. •distant >• deftly. 



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Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, 
They gathered some; the violet pallid 

blew, 30 

The little dazie, that at evening closes, 
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew. 
With store of vermeil roses. 
To decke their bridegromes posies 
Against the brydale day, which was not 

long: 35 

Sweete Thenmies, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

With that I saw two swaimes of goodly 

hewe 
Come softly swinmiing downe along the 

lee;^ 
Two fairer birds I yet did never see : 
The snow which doth the top of Pindus 

strew 40 

Did never whiter shew. 
Nor Jove himself e, when he a swan would 

be 
For love of Leda, whiter did appear : 
Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. 
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing 

neare: 45 

So pmdy white they were, 
That even the gentle streame, the which 

them bare, 
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his bil- 

lowes spare 
To wet their silken feathers, least they 

might 
So^e their f ayre plumes with water not so 

fayre, 50 

And marre their beauties bright, 
That shone as heavens light. 
Against their brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Thenmies, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

Eftsoones the n3rmphes, which now had 

flowers their fill, 55 

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood. 
As they came floating on the christal flood ; 
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed 

stiU, 
Their wondring eyes to fill. 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so 

fajrre, 60 

Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did 

deeme 

iftratm. 



Them heavenly borne, or to be that same 

payre 
Which through the skie draw Venus silver 

teeme; 
For sure they did not seeme 
To be begot of any earthly seede, 65 

But rather angels or of angels breede: 
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they 

say. 
In sweetest season, when each flower and 

weede 
The earth did fresh aray; 
So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 

Even as their brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Thenmies, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets 

drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the 

field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours 

yeild, 75 

All which upon those goodly birds they 

threw, 
And all the waves did strew. 
That like old Peneus waters they did 

seeme, 
When downe along by pleasant Tempes 

shore, 
Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly 

they streeme, 80 

That they appeare, through lillies plen- 
teous store, 
like a brydes chamber flore. 
Two of those nymphes, meane while, two 

garlands bound 
Of freshest flowres which in that mead 

they foimd. 
The which presenting all in trim array, 85 
Their snowie foreheads therewithal! they 

crownd, 
Whil'st one did sing this lay. 
Prepared against that day, 
Against their brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 90 

"Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire orna- 
ment. 

And heavens glorie, whom this happie 
hower 



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Doth leade unto your lovers blissfuil 

bower, 
Joy may you have and gentle hearts con- 
tent 
Of your loves couplement: 95 

And let falre Venus, that is Queene of 

Love, 
With her heart-quelling sonne upon you 

smile, 
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to 

remove 
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie 

guile 
For ever to assoile. 100 

Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts 

accord, 
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord; 
And let your bed with pleasures chast 

abound, 
That fruitfull issue may to you afford, 
Which may your foes confound, 105 

And make your joyes redound. 
Upon your brydale day, which is not long: 
Sweete Themmes, run softlie, till I end 

my song." 

So ended she; and all the rest around 

To her redoubled that her undersong, no 

Which said, their bridale daye should not 

be long. 
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour 

ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birdes did passe 

along, 
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde 

low, IIS 

As he would speake, but that he lackt a 
tong, 

Yeat did by signes his glad affection show, 

Making his streaflie run slow. 

And all the foule which in his flood did 
dwell 

Gan flock about these twaine, that did ex- 
cell 120 

The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend^ 

The lesser starres. So they, enranged well. 

Did on those two attend. 

And their best service lend, 

Against their wedding day, which was not 
long: I2S 

Sweete Themmes, run softly, till I end 
my song. 



At length they all to mery London came, 
To mery London, my most k)mdly nurse, 
That to me gave this lifes first native 

sourse: 
Though from another place I take my 

name, 130 

An house of aundent fame. 
There when they came, whereas those 

bricky towres. 
The which on Themmes brode aged backe 

doe ryde. 
Where now the studioxis lawyers have their 

bowers, 
There whylome wont the Templer Knights 

to byde, 135 

Till they decayd through pride: 
Next whereunto there standes a stately 

place, 
Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly 

grace 
Of that great lord which therein wont to 

dwell, 
Whose want too well now feeles my 

freendles case: 140 

But ah! here fits not well 
Olde woes, but joyes to tell, 
Against the bridale daye, which is not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, nmne softly, till I end 

my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble 

peer, 14s 

Great Englands glory arid the worlds wide 

wonder. 
Whose dreadfull name late through all 

Spaine did thunder. 
And Hercules two pillors standing neere 
Did make to quake and feare. 
Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie, 
That fillest England with thy triumphes' 

fame, 151 

Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. 
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne 

name 
That promiseth the same: 
That through thy prowesse and victorious 

armes 155 

Thy country may be freed from forraine 

harmes; 
And great Elisaes glorious name may 

ring 
Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide 

alarmes. 



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Which some brave Muse may sing 
To ages following, 160 

Upon the brydale day, which is not long: 
Sweete Thenmies, runne softly, till I 
end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord 

issuing, 
Like radiant Hesper when his golden 

hayre 
In th* ocean billows he hath bathed fayre. 
Descended to the rivers open vewing, 166 
With a great traine ensuing. 
Above tixe rest were goodly to bee seene 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and 

feature. 
Beseeming well the bower of anie queene, 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of na- 
ture, 171 
Fit for so goodly stature: 
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in 

sight. 
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens 

bright. 
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side, 
Received those two faire brides, their loves 

delight, 176 

Which, at th' appointed tyde. 
Each one did make his bryde. 
Against their brydale day, which is not 

long: 
Sweete Thenunes, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 180 

ELIZABETHAN SONNETEERS 

SIR THOMAS WTATT (1608?-1642) 

THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS 
STATE TO A SHIP IN PERILOUS 
STORM TOSSED ON THE SEA 

My galley, charged with f orgetf ulness. 
Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights 

doth pass, 
Tween rock and rock; and eke mine 

enemy, alas. 
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; 
And every oar, a thought in readmess, s 
As though that death were light in such a 

case; 
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace 
Of forced sighs and trusty fearf ulness; 



A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, 

Hath done the wearied cords great hin- 
derance; 10 

WreathM with error and eke with igno- 
rance. 

The stars be hid that led me to this pain; 
Drowned is Reason, that should me 

comfort; 
And I remain, despairing of the port. 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF 
SURREY (1617?-1647) 

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, WHERE- 
IN EACH THING RENEWS, SAVE 
ONLY THE LOVER 

The soote^ season that bud and bloom 

forth brings. 
With green hath clad the hill and eke the 

vale; 
The nightingale with feathers new she 

sings; 
The turtle to her make* hath told her tale: 
Smnmer is come, for every spray now 

springs; 5 

The hart hath himg his old head on the 

pale; 
The bu(± in brake his winter coat he 

flings; 
The fishes flete' with new repaired scale; 
The adder all her slough away she slings; 
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings.^ u 
Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale: 
And thus I see among these pleasant 

things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow 

springs! 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1664-1686) 
From ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 



Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love 

to show. 
That she, dear she, might take some 

pleasure of my pain, — 

1 sweet. ' mate, 

•float. 



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Pleasure might cause her read, reading 
might make her know, 

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace 
obtain, — 

I sought fit words to paint the blackest 
face of woe, S 

Studying inventions fine, her wits to enter- 
tain, 

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence 
would flow 

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my 
sunburned brain. 

But words came halting forth, wanting 
Invention's stay; 

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame 
Study's blows; lo 

And others* feet stUl seemed but strangers 
in my way. 

Thus, great with child to speak, and help- 
less in my throes, 
Biting my truant pen, beating myself 

for spite; 
"Fool," said my Muse to me, " look in 
thy heart, and write!" 

XXXI 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou 

climb'st the skies! 
How silently, and with how wan a 

face! 
What, may it be that even in heavenly 

place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted 

eyes S 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's 

case; 
I read it in thy looks: thy languished 

grace 
To me, that feel the like, thy state de- 
scries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell 

me 
Is constant love deemed there but want of 

wit? lo 

Are beauties there as proud as here they 

be? 
Do they above love to be' loved, and 

yet 
Those lovers scorn whom that love 

doth possess? 
Do they call virtue there ungrateful- 
ness? 



XXXIX 

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of 
peace. 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of 
woe, 

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re- 
lease, 

Th' indifferent judge between the high and 
low; 

With shield of proof shield me from out 
the prease^ s 

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth 
throw: 

make in me those dvil wars to cease; 

1 wOl good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 

bed, 
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of 

light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head : 1 1 

And if these things, as being thine in 

right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shall 

in me. 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image 

see. 

XLI 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance 
Guided so well that I obtained the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English 

eyes 
And of some sent from that sweet enemy 

France; 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship 

advance, s 

Town folks my strength; a daintier judge 

applies 
His praise to sleight which from good use 

doth rise; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; 
Others, because of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in 

this, lo 

Think Nature me a man-at-arms did 

make. 
How far they shot awry! the true cause 

is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly 

face 
Sent forth the beams which made so 

fair my race. 

1 press, throng. 



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EDMUND SPENSER (1662?>1699) 
From AMORETTI 

XXIV 

When I behold that beauty's wonderment, 
And rare perfection of each goodly part, 
Of nature's skill the only complement, 
I honor and admire the Maker's art. 
But when I feel the bitter, baleful smart s 
Which her fair eyes unwares do work in 

me, 
That death out of their shiny beams do 

dart, 
I think that I a new Pandora see: 
Whom all the gods in coimcil did agree 
Into this sinful world from heaven to send, 
That she to wicked men a scourge should 

be, II 

For all their faults with which they did 

o£fend. 
But since ye are my scourge, I will 

intreat 
That for my faults ye will me gently 

beat. 

XXXIV 

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide 
By conduct of some star doth make her 

way, 
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty 

guide. 
Out of her course doth wander far astray; 
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright 

ray 5 

Me to direct, with clouds is overcast. 
Do wander now in darkness and dismay, 
Through hidden perils round about me 

placed. 
Yet h<^ I well, that when this storm is 

past, 

My Helic^, the lodestar of my life, 10 

Will shine again, and look on me at last. 

With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief; 

Till then I wander careful, comiort- 

less. 
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness. 

Lxm 

After long storms and tempests' sad assay. 
Which hardly I endurfed heretofore. 
In dread of death, and dangerous dis- 
may, 



With which my silly bark was tossM sore, 
I do at length descry the happy shore, 5 
In which I hope ere long for to arrive: 
Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught 

with store 
Of all that dear and dainty is alive. 
Most happy he that can at last achieve 
The joyous safety of so sweet a rest; 10 
Whose least delight suflBiceth to deprive 
Remembrance of all pains which him op- 
pressed. 
All pains are nothing in respect of this, 
All sorrows short that gain eternal 
bliss. 

LXX 

Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty 

king, 
In whose coat-armor richly are displayed 
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do 

spring. 
In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; 
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,s 
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; 
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, 
Unless she do him by the forelock take; 
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make 
To wait on Love amongst his lovely 

crew; 10 

Where everyone that misseth then her 

make^ 
Shall be by him amerced^ with penance 

due. 
Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst 

it is prime; 
For none can call again the passfed 

time. 

LXXV 

One day I wrote her name upon the 

strand, 
But came the waves and washfed it away; 
Again I wrote it with a second hand, 
But came the tide and made my pains 

his prey. 
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain 
assay 5 

A mortal thing so to immortalize: 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 
And eke my name be wipM out like- 
wise." 
"Not 'so," quoth I, "let baser things 
devise 

*nttte. \ 



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To die in dust, but you shall live by 

fame: 10 

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 

And in the heavens write your glorious 

name. 

Where, whenas death shall all the world 

subdue, 
Our love shall live, and later life 
renew." 

LXXDC 

Men call you fair, and you do credit it. 
For that yourself ye dally such do see; 
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 
And virtuoiis mind, is much more praised 

of me: 
For all the rest, however fair it be, 5 

Shall turn to nought and lose that glorious 

hue; 
But only that is permanent and free 
From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue. 
That is true beauty; that doth argue you 
To be divine, and bom of heavenly seed; 10 
Derivoi from that fair Spirit from whom 

all true 
And perfect beauty did at first proceed: 
He only fair, and what he fair hath 

made; 
All other fair, like flowers, untimely 

fade. 

SAMUEL DANIEL (1662-1619) 

CARE-CHARMER SLEEP 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable 

Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness bom: 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light; 
With dark forgetting of my care, return! 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreci of my ill-adventured 
youth: 6 

Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn. 
Without tfie torment of the night's im- 

truth. 
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model forth the passions of the morrow; 
Never let rising sun approve you liars, 1 1 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in 

vain; 
And never wake to feel the day's dis- 
dain. 



MICHAEL DR/IYTON (166S-1681) 
SINCE THERE'S NO HELP 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and 

part! 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of 

me; 
And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my 

heart. 
That thus so cleanly I my^lf can free. 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our 

vows; 5 

And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of ovx brows, 
That we one jot of former love retain. 
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest 

breath. 
When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless 

lies; 10 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 

death. 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have 

given him over. 
From death to life thou might'st him 

yet recover! 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1664-1616) 

xvin 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shsJce the darling buds of 

May, 
And svmmier's lease hath all too short a 

date; 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven 

shines, 5 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed; 
And every fair^ from fair sometime de- 
clines. 
By chance or nature's changing course un- 

trimmed; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou 

ow'st;^ 10 

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in 

his shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: 

1 beauty. 



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So long as men can breathe or eyes can 



see. 



So long lives this and this gives life to 
thee. 



XXIX 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless 

cries, 
And look upon myself and ciurse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in 

hope, 5 

Featured like him, like him with friends 



Desiring this man's art and that man's 

so^. 
With what I most enjoy contented least; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 

spismg. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my 

state, lo 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings h3mms at heaven's 

gate; 
For thy sweet love remembered such 

wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state 

with kings. 

XXX 

When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste: 
Then can I drown an eye, imused to flow, $ 
For predous friends hid in death's date- 
less night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since can- 
celled woe, 
And moan the expense^ of many a vanished 

sight: 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er lo 
The sad account of fore-bemoanM moan. 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear 

friend, 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 



xxxm 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen * 
Flatter the^mountain-tops with sovereign 

eye, '^- 
Kissing with golden face the meadows 

green, ^^ 
Gildmg pale streams with heavenly al- 
chemy, '^' 
Anon permit the basest" clouds to ride ' s 
With ugly rack^ on his celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing imseen to west with this disgrace: 
Even so my sun c«ie early mom did shine 
With all-triumphant splendor on my 

brow; lo 

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; 
The region' cloud hath masked him from 

me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit dis- 

daineth; 
Suns of the world may stain, when 

heaven's sim staineth. 

LXIV 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand de- 
faced 
Tiie rich proud cost of outworn buried age; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down- 
razed, 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain s 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the watery main. 
Increasing store with loss and loss with 

store; 
When I have seen such interchange of 

state, 
Or state itself confounded to decay; lo 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate. 
That Time wUl come and take my love 
away. 
This thought is as a death, which can- 
not choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to 
lose. 

LXV 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor 

boundless sea. 
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power. 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a 

plea. 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 

* broken masses of flying cloud. ' of the upper air. 



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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold 
out S 

Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring 
days, 

When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time de- 
cays? 

O fearful meditation! where, alack, 

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest 
lie hid? lo 

Or what strong hand can hold his swift 
foot back? 

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
O, none, iinless this miracle have might, 
That in black ink my love may still shine 
bright. 

LXVI 

Tired with all these, for restful death I 

cry: 
As, to behold desert a beggar bom. 
And needy nothing trinmied in jollity, 
And purest faith unhappUy forsworn. 
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, s 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced. 
And strength by limping sway disablM, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, ' 
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, lo 
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,^ 
And captive good attending captain ill. 

Tired with all these, from these would I 
be gone. 

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 

LXXI 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to 

dwell: 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not s 
The hand that writ it; for I love you so 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be 

forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you 

woe. 
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with 
clay, lo 

Do not so much as my poor name re- 
hearse, 
But let your love even with my life decay, 

« folly. 



Lest the wise world should look into 

your moan 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 

Lxxm 

That time of year thou mayst in me be- 
hold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do 
hang 

Upon those boughs which shake against 
the cold. 

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang. 

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day s 

As after sunset fadeth in the west; 

Which by and by black night doth take 
away. 

Death's second self, that seals up all in 
rest. 

In me thou see'st the glowing of such 
fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, i o 

As the death-bed whereon it must ex- 
pire. 

Consumed with that which it was nour- 
ished by. 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy 

love more strong. 
To love that well which thou must leave 
ere long. 

xcvin 

From you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied* April dressed in all his 

trim 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped 

with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet 

smell s 

Of different flowers in odor and in hue 
Could make me any sunmier's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where 

they grew; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of de- 
light, II 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you 

away. 
As with your shadow, I with these did 

play. 

* gorgeously vari^ated. 



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cvi 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights; 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's 
best, 5 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have ex- 
pressed 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this GUI time, all you prefiguring ; lo 
And, for they looked but with divining 

eyes. 
They had not skill enough your worth to 
sing: 
For we, which now behold these present 

days. 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues 
to praise. 

cxvi 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove: 
O, no ! it is an ever-fixM mark 5 

That looks on tempests and is never 

shaken; 
It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 
Whose worth's luiknown, although his 

height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips 

and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and 

wedcs, II 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

CXLVI 

Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth. 
Thrall to these rebel powers that thee 

array, 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer 

dearth. 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,s 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? 



Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's 

loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;io 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more: 
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds 

on men. 
And Death once dead, there's no more 
dying then. 

ELIZABETHAN SONG WRITERS. 

ANONYMOUS 

BACK AND SIDE GO BARE, GO 
BARE 

Back and side go bare, go bare. 
Both hand and foot go cold; 

But, belly, God send thee good ale 
enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 

I cannot eat but little meat, $ 

My stomach is not good; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothing a-cold; lo 

I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side, etc. 

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast. 

And a crab^ laid in the fire; 15 

A little bread shall do me stead. 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if it would, 
I am so wrapt and throughly lapt 20 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side, etc. 

And Tib my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek, 
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 25 

The tears run down her cheek; 
Then doth she trowF to me the bowl 

Even as a maltworm' should, 
And saith, " Sweetheart, I have take my 
part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 30 

Back and side, etc. 

> apple. ' pass. * a tippler. 



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Now let them drink till they nod and 
wink, 
Even as good fellows should do; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to. 35 

And all poor souls that have scoured^ bowls, 

Or have them lustUy trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 
Whether they be yoimg or old. 
Back and side, go bare, go bare, 40 

Both hand and foot go cold; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale 
enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 



SIR EDWARD DYER (1660?-1607) 
MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS 

My mind to me a kingdom is, 
Such present joys therein I find 

That it excels all other bliss 
That earth affords or grows by kind: 

Though much I want which most would 
have, 5 

Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store, 

No force to win the victory. 
No wily wit to salve a sore. 

No shape to feed a loving eye; 10 

To none of these I jdeld as thrall: 
For why? My mind doth serve for all. 

I see how plenty [surfeits] oft. 
And hasty clunbers soon do fall; 

I see that those which are aloft 15 

Mishap doth threaten most of all; 

They get with toil, they keep with fear: 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content to live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may suffice; 20 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave;2s 
I Uttle have, and seek no more. 

They are but poor, though much they 
have. 
And I am rich with little store: 

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; 

They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. 30 

' emptied. 



I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grudge not at another's pain; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still remain: 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; 35 

I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, 
Their wisdom by their rage of will; 

Their treasure is their only trust; 
A cloakM craft their store of skill: 40 

But all the pleasure that I find 

Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 

My conscience clear my chief defence; 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 45 

Nor by deceit to breed offence: 
Thus do I live; thus will I die; 
Would all did so as well as I! 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1664-1686) 
LOVE IS DEAD 

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows 
be spread; 
For Love is dead: 
All Love is dead, infected 

With plague of deep disdain: 

Worth, as nought worth, rejected, s 

And Faith fair scorn doth gain. 
From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female franzie,* 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 10 

Weep, neighbors, weep; do you not hear it 
said 
That Love is dead? 
His death-bed, peacock's folly; 

His winding-sheet is shame; 

His will, false-seeming holy; 15 

His sole exec'tor, blame. 

From so ungrateful fancy. 
From such a female franzie. 
From them that use men thus. 
Good Lord, deliver us! 20 

Let dirge be simg, and trentals rightly read, 
For Love is dead; 

Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
My mistress' marble heart; 

Which epitaph containeth, as 



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'Her eyes were once his dart." 
From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female f ranzie, 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us I 



30 



Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred; 
Love is not dead; 
Love is not dead, but sleepeth 

In her unmatchM mind. 

Where she his counsel keepeth, 35 

Till due deserts she find. 

Therefore from so vile fancy. 

To call such wit a franzie. 

Who Love can temper thus. 

Good Lord, deliver us! 40 



JOHN LTLT (1664?-1606) 

CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

Cupid and my Campaspe placed 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows; 

Loses them too; then down he throws 5 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple. of his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win. 10 

At last he set* her both his eyes; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 



SPRING'S WELCOME 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 
O 'tis the ravished nightingale. 
" Jug» jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries. 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? s 
None but the lark so shrill and dear; 
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, 
The mom not waking till she sings. 
Hark, hark, with what a pretty diroat 
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note; 10 
Hark how the jdly cuckoos sing. 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring; 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring! 



GSORGS PBBLS (1668?-1697?) 

CUPID'S CURSE 

(Enone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair. 
As fair as any may be; 
The fairest diepherd on our 
green, 
A love for any lady. 
Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,s 
As fair as any may be; 
Thy love is fair for thee alone. 
And for no other lady. 
(En. My love is fair, my love is gay. 

As fresh as bin* the flowers in 
May, 10 

And of my love my roimdelay. 
My merry, merry roimdelay. 
Concludes with Cupid's curse, — 
"They that do change old love for 
new. 
Pray gods they change for worse! " 15 
Ambo simxjl.' They that do change, etc. 
(En. Fair and fair, etc. 
Par. Fair and fair, etc. 

Thy love is fair, etc. 
(En. My love can pipe, my love can 
sing, 20 

My love can* many a pretty thing, 
And of his lovely praises ring 
My merry, merry roundela3rs. 

Amen to Cupid's curse, — 
"They that do change," etc. 25 

Par. They that do change, etc 
Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. 



ROBBRT GRESNE (1660?-1692) 
SWEET ARE THE THOUGHTS 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con- 
tent; 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent; 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
frown: 

Such sweet content, such minds, such 
sleep, such bliss, 5 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

* are. * Both together. * knows how to do. 



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The homely house that harbors quiet rest; 
The cottage that affords no pride nor 

care; 
The mean that 'grees with country music 

best; 
The sweet consort^ of mirth and music's 

fare; lo 

Obscurfed life sets down a type of bliss: 
A mind content both crown and kingdom 

is. 



SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 
Mother's wag, pretty boy. 
Father's sorrow, father's joy; 
When thy father first did see 5 
Such a boy by him and me, 
He was glad, I was woe; 
Fortune changed made him so. 
When he left his pretty boy. 
Last his sorrow, first has joy. 10 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee. 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 
Streaming tears that never stint. 
Like pearl drops from a flint. 
Fell by course from his eyes, 15 
That one another's place supplies; 
Thus he grieved in every part. 
Tears of blood fell from his heart, 
When he left his pretty boy. 
Father's sorrow, father's joy. 20 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 

When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 
The wanton smiled, father wept. 
Mother cried, baby leapt; 
More he crowed, more he cried, 25 
Nature could not sorrow hide: 
He must go, he must kiss 
Child and mother, baby bless. 
For he left his pretty boy, 
Father's sorrow, father's joy. 30 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my 
knee, 

When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

ibarmooy. 



THOBCAS LODGE (1668?-16aff) 
ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL 

Love in my bosom like a bee 

Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me. 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, s 
His bed amidst my tender breast; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 

Ah, wanton, will ye? 

And if I sleep, then percheth he, 10 

With pretty flight. 
And makes his pUlow of my knee, 

The livelong night 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if so I sing; 15 

He lends me every lovely thing; 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. 

Whist,* wanton, still ye I 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence, ao 

And bind you, when you long to pJay, 

For your offence. 
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a jrin. 25 
Alas! what hereby shall I win 

If he gainsay me? 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy, 30 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee. 
And let thy bower my bosom be; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. 
O Cupid, so thou pity me, 35 

Spare not, but play thee! 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
(1664-1698) 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO 
HIS LOVE 

Come live with me and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 
Woods, or steepy moimtains, yields. 



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And we will sit upon the rocks, 5 

Seebg the shq>herds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, lo 

A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embrddered all with leaves of .m)ntle: 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from oiur pretty lambs we pull; 
Fair linM slippers for the cold, 15 

With buckles of the piu-est gold; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs; 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come live with me and be my love. 20 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy ddights each May morning; 
If these delights thy mind may move. 
Then live with me and be my love. 



THOliAS NASH (1667-1601) 

LITANY IN TIME OF PLAGUE 

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss, 
This world uncertain is: 
Fond* are life's lustful joys, 
Death proves them all but toys. 
None from his darts can fly; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, hiave mercy on us! 

Rich men, trust not in wealth, 
Gdd cannot buy you health; 
Physic himself must fade; 1 

All things to end are made; 
The plague full swift goes by; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 



Beauty is but a flower. 
Which wrinkles will devom:: 
Bri^tness falls from the air; 
Queens have died yoxmg and fair; 
Dust hath dosed Helen's eye; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

ifooUab. 



15 



Strength stoops unto the grave; 
Worms feed on Hector brave; 
Swords may not fight with fate; 
Earth still holds ope her gate; 25 
Come, come, the bells do cry; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

Wit with his wantonness, 
Tasteth death's bitterness; 30 

Hell's executioner 
Hath no ears for to hear 
What vain art can reply; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 35 

Haste therefore each d^ee 
To welcome destiny: 
Heaven is our heritage, 
Earth but a player's stage; 
Mount we imto the sky; 40 

I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1662?-1618) 
HIS PILGRIMAGE 

Give me my scallop-shell^ of quiet. 
My staff of faith to walk upon. 

My scrip of joy, immortal diet. 
My bottle of salvation, 

My gown of glory, hope's true gage;' 5 

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer; 

No other balm will there be given; 
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer, 

Travelleth towards the land of heaven, 
Over the silver mountains, n 

Where spring the nectar foimtains. 
There will I kiss 
The bowl of bliss; 
And drink mine everlasting fill 15 

Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before; 
But, after, it will thirst no more. 

Then by that happy blissful day 
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 20 

That have cast off their rags of day. 
And walk apparelled fresh like me. 

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I'll take them first, 

To quench their thirst 
And taste of nectar suckets* 25 

At those dear wells 

Where sweetness dwells, 
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 

And when our bottles and all we 
Are filled with immortality, 30 

Then the blessM paths we'll travel, 
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 

From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall. 
Where no corrupted voices brawl ; 36 

No conscience molten into gold; 
No forged accuser bought or sold; 
No cause deferred, no vain-spent jour- 
ney, 
For there Christ is the King's Attorney, 40 
Who pleads for all, without degrees. 
And he hath angels but no fees. 

And when the grand twelve million jury 
Of our sins, with direful fury, 
Against our souls black verdicts give, 45 
Christ pleads his death; and then we live. 

Be Thou my speaker, taintless Pleader! 
Unblotted Lawyer! true Proceeder! 
Thou giv'st salvation, even for alms, 
Not with a bribM lawyer's palms. 50 

And this is mine eternal plea 
To Him that made heaven and earth and 

sea: 
That, since my flesh must die so soon. 
And want a head to dine next noon. 
Just at the stroke, when my veins start 

and spread, 55 

Set on my soul an everlasting head! 

Then am I ready, like a palmer fit. 
To tread those blest paths, which before I 
writ. 



THE CONCLUSION 

Even such is time, that takes in trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 

And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Who in the dark and silent grave, 

» sweets. 



When we have wandered all our ways, 5 
Shuts up the story of our days: 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 



ROBBRT SOUTHWBLL (1661?-1696) 

THE BURNING BABE 

As I in hoary winter's night stood shiver- 
ing in the snow, 
Surprised I was with sudden heat which 

made my heart to glow; 
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what 

fire was near, 
A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in 

the air appear. 
Who, scorchM with excessive heat, such 

floods of tears did shed, 5 

As though his floods should quench his 

flames which with his tears were fed; 
"Alas!" quoth he, "but newly bom in 

fiery heats I fiy, 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or 

feel my fire but I! 
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel, 

wounding thorns; 
Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the 

ashes, shai^ie and scorns; 10 

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy 

blows the coals; 
The metal in this furnace wrought are 

men's defilM souls; 
For which, as now on fire I am to work 

them to their good. 
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in 

my blood." 
With this he vanished out of sight, and 

swiftly shnmk away, 15 

And straight I callM imto mind that it 

was Christmas-day. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1664-1616) 

SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 

From Love's Labor's Lost 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall. 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 



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When blood k nipped and ways be foul , 5 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whit, to-who, 

A merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel^ the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 10 
And coughing drowns the parson's 

saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs^ hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 15 

Tu-whit, to-who, 

A merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

From Two Gentlemen of Verona 

Who is Silvia? what is she, 
That all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; 
The heaven such grace did lend her, 

That she might admirM be. 5 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness, 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 10 

Then to Silvia let us sing 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling; 
To her let us garlands bring. 15 

Prom A Midsummer Night's Dream 

Over hill, over dale. 

Thorough bush, thorough brier. 

Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere, 5 

Swifter than the moon's sphere; 

And I serve the fairy Queen, 

To dew her wbs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 

In their gold coats spots you see: 10 

Those be rubies, fairy favors, 

In those freckles live their savors. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 



*oool by stirring. 



> apples. 



From The Merchant of Venice 

Tell me where is fancy^ bred. 
Or in the heart or in the head? 
How begot, how nourishM? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engendered in the eyes, 
With gazing fed; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring fancy's knell; 

I'll begin it, — Ding-dong, bell. 

Ding, dong, bell. 



From As You Like It 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats, 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come Mther! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 



^5 



Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 5 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green 

holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
mere folly: 
Then, heigh ho, the holly! 
This life is most jolly. 10 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! 
That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot; 

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Though thou the waters warp,^ 
Thy sting is not so sharp 15 

As friend remembered not. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh hoi etc. 



It was a lover and his lass 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That o'er the green corn-field did pass 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring 
time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;5 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 

Between the acres of the rye. 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 
These pretty country folks would lie, 

In spring time, etc. 10 

This carol they began that hour, 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

How that life was but a flower 
In spring time, etc. 

And therefore take the present time, 15 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

For love is crownfed with the prime 
In spring time, etc. 

From Twelfth Night 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear, your true love's coming. 

That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting. 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 5 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty; 10 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

From Measure for Measure 

Take, O, take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were forsworn; 

And those eyes, tiie break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the mom: 

But my kisses bring again, bring again; 5 

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in 



vam. 



^transform. 



From Antony and Cleopatra 

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
Plimipy Bacchus with pink e)aie!* 
In thy vats our cares be drowned, 
With thy grapes our hairs be crownedl 
Cup us, till the world go round, 5 

Cup us, till the worid go round! 

From Cymbeline 

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds at water at those springs 

On chaliced* flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin s 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise! 
Arise, arise! 



Fear no more the beat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 

Golden lads and girb all must, 5 

As chinmey-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great; 

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 

To thee the reed is as the oak: 10 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thimder-stone;* 

Fear not slander, censure rash; 15 

Thou hast finished joy and moan: 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee! 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 20 

Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 

Nothing ill come near thee! 
Quiet consunmiation have; 
And renownfed be thy grave! 

From The Tempest 
Ariel's Songs 

Come imto these yellow sands. 

And then take hands; 
Curtsied when you have, and kissed 

The wild waves whist,^ 

* eyes. ' cup-sh&ped. « thunderbolt. 



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Foot it featly^ here and there, 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
Hark, hark I 

Bow-wow. 
The watch-dogs bark: 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 



Full fathom five thy father lies: 
Of his bones are coral made; 

Those are pearls that were his ey^; 
Nothing of him that doth fade 

But doth siiffer a sea-change 5 

Into something rich and strange. 

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 

Ding-dong! 

Hark! now I hear them, — ^Ding-dong, 
beU! 



Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 

In a cowslip's bell I Ue; 

There I couch when owls do cry; 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After svunmer merrily. 5 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 

ANGNTMOUS 

HEY NONNY NO! 

Hey nonny no! 
Men are fools that wish to die! 
Is't not fine to dance and sing 
When the bells of death do ring? 
Is't not fine to swim in wine, 5 

And turn upon the toe. 
And sing hey nonny no. 
When the winds blow and the seas flow? 

Hey nonny no! 

THOMAS CAMPION (1667-1680) 

OF CORINNA'S SINGING 

When to her lute Corinna sings. 
Her voice revives the leaden strings, 
And doth in highest notes appear 
As any challenged echo dear; 

1 neatly. 



But when she doth of mourning speak, 5 

E'en with her sighs the strings do break. 

And as her lute doth live or die. 

Led by her passion, so must I : 

For when of pleasure she doth sing. 

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring; 10 

But if she doth of sorrow speak. 

E'en from my heart the strings do break. 

WHEN THOU MUST HOME 

When thou must home to shades of under- 
ground. 
And there arrived, a new admirM guest. 
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee 

round. 
White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, 
To hear the stories of thy finished love 5 
From that smooth tongue whose music 
hell can move; 

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting de- 
lights. 

Of masques and revels which sweet youth 
did make. 

Of journeys and great challenges of 
knights. 

And all these triumphs for thy beauty's 
sake; 10 

When thou hast told these honors done to 
thee. 

Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder 
me. 

COME, CHEERFUL DAY 

Come, cheerful day, part of my life to 
me; 
For while thou view'st me with thy 
fading light. 
Part of my life doth still depart with thee, 
And I still onward haste to my last 
night. 
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly : 5 
So every day we live a day we die. 

But O ye nights, ordained for barren 
rest. 
How are my days deprived of life in you 
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest. 
By feignfed death life sweetly to re- 
new! 10 
Part of my life in that, you life deny: 
So every day we live, a day we die. 



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NOW WINTER NIGHTS ENLARGE 

Now winter nights enlarge 

The number of their hours; 

And clouds their storms discharge 

Upon the airy towers. 

Let now the chinmeys blaze, 5 

And cups overflow with wine, 

Let well-tuned words amaze 

With harmony divine. 

Now yellow waxen lights 

Shall wait on honey love; 10 

While youthful revels, masques, and 

courtly sights. 
Sleep's leaden spells remove. 

This time doth well dispense 

With lovers* long discourse; 

Much speech hath some defence, 15 

Though beauty no remorse. 

All do not all things well: 

Some measures comely tread, 

Some knotted riddles tell. 

Some poems smoothly read. 20 

The summer hath his joys, 

And winter his delights; 

Though love and all his pleasures are but 

toys. 
They diorten tedious nights. 



CHERRY-RIPE 

There is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white lilies grow; 
A heavenly paradise is that place. 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: 
There cherries grow, which none may 
buy 5 

Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 

Which when her lovely laughter shows, 9 

They look like rosebuds filled with snow ; 

Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy 

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 15 
All that attempt, with eye or hand, 
Those sacred cherries to come nigh 
Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 



CHANCE AND CHANGE 

What if a day, or a month, or a year, 
Crown thy delights, with a thousand 
sweet contentings? 

Cannot a chance of a night or an hour 
Cross thy desires with as many sad tor- 
men tings? 
Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, 5 

Are but blossoms dying; 
Wanton pleasure, doting love, 

Are but shadows flying; 
All our jo)rs are but toys, 

Idle thoughts deceiving; 10 

None have power of an hour 

In their life's bereaving. 

Earth's but a point to the world, and a 
man 
Is but a point to the worid's compared 
centre; 14 

Shall then a point of a point be so vain 
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure? 
All is hazard that we have. 

There is nothing biding; 
Days of pleasure are like streams 

Through fair meadows gliding. 20 

Weal and woe, Time doth go. 

Time is never turning: 
Secret fates guide our states. 

Both in mirth and mourning. 



THOBCAS DEKKER (1672?-p. 1688) 

O SWEET CONTENT 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
bers? 

O sweet content! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

O punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 

To add to golden numbers golden nimi- 

bers? 6 

O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 

Honest labor bears a lovely face. 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crispM* 
spring? II 

O sweet content! 



^rippling. 



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Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in 
thine own tears? 
O punishment! 
Then he that patiently want's burden 
bears 15 

No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con- 
tent! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labor bears a lovely face. 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny 
nonny! 

LULLABY 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise; 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry. 
And I will sing a lullaby: 
Rock them, r<x:k them, lullaby. s 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; 

You are care, and care must keep you; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry. 

And I will sing a lullaby: 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 10 

BUCHABL DRAYTON (1668-1681) 

AGINCOURT 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance,^ 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the main, 5 

At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort. 

Furnished in warlike sort, 10 

Marcheth towards Agincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing, day by day, 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 15 

Wth all his power. 

Which,* in his height of pride. 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 
To the King sending; 20 

> laiie. s the French genenl. 



Which* he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet with an angry smile. 
Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then: 
"Though they to one be ten 

Be not amazM! 
Yet have we well begun: 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raisM. 

"And for myself," quoth he, 
"This my full rest* shall be: 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell. 
Under our swords they fell; 

No less our skill is. 
Than when our grandsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies.'* 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward* led; 
With the main,* Henry sped 

Amongst his henchmen: 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there! 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen! 

They now to fight are gone: 
Armor on armor shone; 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear, was wonder; 
That,^ with the cries they make. 
The very earth did shake; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 



25 



30 



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40 



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SO 



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60 



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* the command to send a nuisom. 

* advance guard. * main host. 



* resolution. 
7 so that. 



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Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts. 
But, playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw. 
And forth their bilbows drew. 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy: 
Arms were from shoulders sent. 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went: 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding,^ 

As to overwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent,^ 
And many a cruel dent 

BruisM his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good. 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother, 
Clarence, in steel so bright; 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that f luious fight 

Scarce such another. 



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75 



80 



85 



90 



95 



Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray; 



105 



>stiike. 



>beH>rinkkd. 



Which fame did not delay 
To England to carry. 

O when shall English men 

With such acts fill a pen? 

Or England breed again 
Such a King Harry? 



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BEN JONSON (1678?'1637) 

HYMN TO DIANA 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair. 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair 
State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 5 

Goddess excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose; 
C3mthia's shining orb was made 
Heaven to clear when day did dose: 10 
Bless us then with wishM sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 
Give unto the flying hart 15 

Space to breathe, how short soever: 
Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
Goddess excellently bright. 



SONG TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise s 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I woidd not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee 10 

As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me; 14 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 



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THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth! 
E^ach that draws is a swan or a dove. 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty $ 

Unto her beauty; 
And enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to nm by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 10 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth! 

Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 1 5 
Than words that soothe her; 
And from her arched brows such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 20 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touched it? 

Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 
Before the soil hath smutched it? 

Have you felt the wool o' the beaver? 25 
Or swan's down ever? 

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? 
OrthenardM'thefire? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 

O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! 30 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, 
MASTER WnXL^M SHAKESPEARE 

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy 

name. 
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 
While I confess thy wntings to be such 
As neither man nor muse can praise too 

much. 
lis true, and all men's suffrage. But 

these wa)rs 5 

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
For silliest ignorance on these may light. 
Which, when it soimds at best, but echoes 

right; 

1 spikenard. 



Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad- 
vance 
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by 

chance; 10 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. 
And think to ruin, where it seemed to 

raise. 
These are, as some infamous bawd or 

whore 
Should praise a matron. What could hurt 

her more? 
But thou art proof against them, and, in- 
deed, 15 
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age. 
The applause, deUght, the wonder of our 

stage. 
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee 

by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 
A little further, to niake thee a room: 
Thou art a monument without a tomb. 
And art alive still while thy book doth 

live. 
And we have wits to read and praise to 

give. 
That I not mix thee so my brain excuses — 
I mean with great, but disproportioned 

Muses; 26 

For if I thought my judgment were of 

years, 
I should conmiit^ thee surely with thy 

peers. 
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly out- 
shine. 
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty 

line. 30 

And though thou hadst small Latin and 

less Greek, 
From thence to honor thee, I would not 

seek 
For names, but call forth thundering 

iEschylus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread. 
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were 

on, 
Leave thee alone for the comparison 
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty 

Rome 
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes 

come. 40 



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Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to 

show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
He was not of an age, but for all time! 
And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 46 
Nature herself was proud of his designs 
And joyed to wear the dressing of his Unes, 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit: 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 51 
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not 

please, 
But antiquated and deserted lie. 
As they were not of Nature's family. 
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 55 
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part : 
For though the poet's matter nature be, 
His art doth give the fashion; and that he^ 
Who casts^ to write a living line must 

sweat, 
(Such as thine are) and strike the second 

heat 60 

Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same 
(And himself with it) that he thinks to 

frame. 
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; 
For a good poet's made, as well as bom. 
And such wert thou; look how the father's 

face 65 

Lives in his issue, even so the race 
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners 

brightly shines 
In his well turned and true filW lines. 
In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were 
To see thee in our waters yet appear. 
And make those flights upon the banks of 

Thames, 
That so did take* Eliza^ and our James ! 
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75 
Advanced, and made a constellation there! 
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with 

rage 
Or influence chide or cheer the drooping 

stage. 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 

moiuned like night. 
And despairs day, but for thy volume's 

light. 



'captivate. 



'plans. 



' polished. 

• Queen Elizabeth. 



From A PINDARIC ODE 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make men better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three himdred 

year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: 
A lily of a day 5 

Is fairer far in May; 
Although it fall and die that night. 
It was the i^ant and flower of ^ht 
In small proportions we just beauties see, 
And in short measures life may perfect 
be. 10 



AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY 

Weep with me all you that read 

This little story; 
And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
Twas a child that so did thrive ^ 5 

In grace and feature. 
As heaven and nature seemed to strive 

Which owned the creature. 
Years he numbered scarce thirteen 

When fates turned cruel, 10 

Yet three filled zodiacs® had he been 

The stage's jewel; 
And did act, what now we moan. 

Old men so duly. 
As, sooth, the Parcae^ thought him 
one, 15 

He played so truly. 
So, by error, to his fate 

They all consented. 
But viewing him since, alas, too late! 

They have repented; 20 

And have sought, to give new birth. 

In baths to steep him; 
But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 



JOHN DONNE (1678-1681) 
GO AND CATCH A FALLING STAR 

Go and catch a falling star. 
Get with child a mandrake root. 

Tell me where all past years are, 
Or who cleft the Devil's foot; 

« yean. ' the Fates. 



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Teach me to hear mermaids singing, 5 
Or to keep oflF envy's stinging, 

And find 

What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st bom to strange sights, 10 

Things invisible go see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights 

Till Age snow white hairs on thee; 
Thou, when thou retum'st, wilt tell me 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 15 
And swear 
No where 
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find'st one, let me know; 

Such a pilgrimage were sweet. 20 

Yet do not; I would not go, 

Though at next door we might meet. 
Though she were true when you met her, 
And last till you write your letter, 

Yet she 25 

Waibe 
False, ere I come, to two or three. 



LOVE'S DEITY 

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost 
Who died before the god of love was 
bom. 
I cannot think that he who then loved 
most 
Siuik so low as to love one which did 
scom. 
But since this god produced a destiny, 5 
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, 
I must love her that loves not me. 

Sure, they which made him god, meant not 
so much. 
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. 
But when an even flame two hearts did 
touch, 10 

His office was indulgently to fit 
Actives to passives. Correspondency 
Only his subject was; it cannot be 
Love, till I love her who loves me. 

But every modem god will now extend 15 
His vast prerogative as far as Jove: 

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, 
All is the purlieu of the god of love. 



O! were we wakened by this tyranny 
To ungod this child again, it could not 
be so 

I should love her who loves not me. 

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, 
As though I felt the worst that love 
could do? 
Love may make me leave loving, or might 
try 
A deeper plague, to make her love me 
too; 25 

Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to 

see. 
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that 
niust be, 
If she whom I love should love me. 



SWEETEST LOVE, I DO NOT GO 

Sweetest love, I do not go 

For weariness of thee, 
Nor in hope the world can show 

A fitter love for me; 

But since that I 5 

At the last must part, 'tis best 
Thus to use myself in jest. 

By feignM deaths to die. 

Yesternight the sun went hence, 
And yet is here today; 10 

He hath no desire nor sense, 
Nor half so short a way; 
Then fear not me. 

But believe that I shall make 

Speedier journeys, since I take 15 

More wings and spurs than he. 

O how feeble is man's power, 

That, if good fortune fall. 
Cannot add another hour. 

Nor a lost hour recall; 20 

But come bad chance. 
And we join to it our strength. 
And we teach it art and length. 

Itself o'er us to advance. 

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind. 
But sigh'st my soul away; 26 

When thou weep'st, unkindly kind. 
My life's blood doth decay: 
It cannot be 



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That thou lovest me as thou say'st, 
If in thine my life thou waste, 
That art the best of me. 

Let not thy divining heart 

Forethink me any ill; 
Destiny may take thy part 

And may thy fears fulfil. 
But think that we 
Are but turned aside to sleep: 
They who one another keep 

AUve, ne'er parted be. 



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40 



DEATH 

Death, be not proud, though some have 
called thee 

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 

For those whom thou think'st thou dost 
overthrow 

Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou 
kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pic- 
ture be, 5 

Much pleasure, then from thee much more 
must flow; 

And soonest our best men with thee do 

go- 
Rest of their bones and souls'* delivery! 
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and 

desperate men. 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness 

dwell, 10 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as 

well. 
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st 

thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And death shall be no more: Death, thou 

shalt diet 



FRANCIS BSAUMONT (1684-1616) 

EVEN SUCH IS MAN 

Like to the falling of a star. 

Or as the flights of eagles are. 

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 

Or silver drops of morning dew, 

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 5 

Or bubbles which on water stood: 



Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in and paid to night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies. 
The spring intombed in autumn lies; ic 
The dew's dried up, the star is shot. 
The flight is past, and man forgot 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Mortality, behold and fear! 

What a change of flesh is here! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones; 

Here they lie had realms and lands, 5 

Who now want strength to stir their hands; 

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust 

They preach, "In greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royal'st seed 10 

That the earth did e'er suck in 

Since the first man died for sin; 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

"Though gods they were, as men they 

died." 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 15 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. 
Here's a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 



JOHN FLETCHER (1679-1626) 

SWEETEST MELANCHOLY 

Hence, all you vain delights. 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see't, 5 

But only melancholy; 

O sweetest melancholy! 

Welcome, folded arms and fixM eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, i o 
A tongue chained up without a sound. 
Fountain heads and pathless groves. 
Places which pale Passion loves; 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls. 



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A midnight bell, a parting groan, 1 6 

These are the sounds we feed upon. 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 

valley; 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely 
melancholy. 

CARE-CHARMING SLEEP 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all 

woes. 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud 
In gentie showers; give nothing that is 

loud 
Or painful to his slimibers ; easy, sweet, 5 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; 
Into this prince gentiy, oh, gentiy slide, 
And kiss him into slimibers like a bride. 10 

SONG TO BACCHUS 

God Lyaeus, ever young. 
Ever honored, ever simg, 
Stained with blood of lusty grapes. 
In a thousand lusty shap>es. 
Dance upon the mazer's^ brim, 5 
In the crimson liquor swim; 
From thy plenteous hand divine 
Let a river run with wine; 
God of youth, let this day here 
Enter neither care nor fear! 10 

JOHN WEBSTER (1680?-1626?) 

A DIRGE 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren. 
Since o'er shady groves they hover. 
And with leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
Call unto his funeral dole 5 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole. 
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him 

warm, 
And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain 

no harm; 
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to 

men, 9 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

*cup't. 



HARK, NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL 

Hark, now everything is still, 

The screech-owl and the whisUer* shrill, 

Call upon our dame doud, 

And bid her quickly don her shroud. 

Much you had of land and rent, — s 

Yoiu: length in clay's now competent; 

A long war disturbed your mind, — 

Here your perfect peace is signed. 

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? 

Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 10 

Their life a general mist of error. 

Their death a hideous storm of terror. 

Strew your hair with powders sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet, 

And — the foul fiend more to check — 15 

A crucifix let bless your neck. 

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; 

End your groan, and come away. 

WILLIAM BROWNE (1691-1648?) 

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable herse' 
Lies the subject of all verse: 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: 
Death, ere thou hast slain another 
Fair and leam'd and good as she. 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

ELIZABETHAN PROSE 

SIR THOMAS NORTH (1585?-1601?) 

THE DEATH OF CJESAR 

Prom THE LIFE OF JULIUS C^SAR 

The Romans inclining to Caesar's pros- 
perity, and taking the bit in the mouth, 
supposing that to be ruled by one man 
alone, it would be a good mean for them 
to take breath a little, after so many 
troubles and miseries as they had abidden 
in these civil wars, they chose him per- 
petual Dictator. This was a plain tyr- 
anny: for to this absolute power of Dic- 
tator they added this, never to be [10 
afraid to be deposed. Cicero propounded 
before the Senate that they should give 



* plover. 



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him such honors as were meet for a 
man; howbeit others afterwards added to, 
honors beyond all reason. For, men 
striving who should most honor him, they 
made him hateful and troublesome to 
themselves that most favored him, by 
reason of the unmeasurable greatness and 
honors which they gave him. There- [20 
upon it is reported that even they that 
most hated hun were no less favorers and 
furtherers of his honors than they that 
most flattered him; because they might 
have greater occasions to rise, and t£at 
it might appear they had just cause and 
color to attempt that they did against 
him. 

And now for himself, after he had 
ended his dvil wars he did so honor- [30 
ably behave himself that there was no 
fault to be found in him; and therefore, 
methinks, amongst other honors they 
gave him, he rightly deserved this, that 
they shoidd build iJm a temple of clem- 
ency, to thank him for his courtesy he had 
used unto them in his victory. For he 
pardoned many of them that had borne 
arms against him, and, fiuthermore, did 
prefer some of them to honor and [40 
office in the conmionwealth: as, amongst 
others, Cassius and Brutus, both the which 
were made Praetors. And where Pom- 
pey's images had been thrown down, he 
caused them to be set up again; whereupon 
Cicero said then, That Caesar setting up 
Pompey's images again, he made his own 
to stand the surer. And when some of 
his friends did counsel him to have a 
guard for the safety of his person, and [50 
some also did offer themselves to serve 
him, he would never consent to it, but 
said. It was better to die once, than always 
to be afraid of death. 



But his enemies that envied his great- 
ness did not stick to find fault withal. As 
Cicero the orator, when one said. Tomor- 
row the star Lyra will rise: Yea, said he, 
at the commandment of Caesar, as if men 
were compelled to say and think by [60 
Caesar's edict. But the chiefest cause that 
made him mortally hated was the covet- 
ous desire he had to be called king: which 
first gave the people just cause, and next 



his secret enemies honest color, to bear 
him ill-will. 



The people went straight unto Marcus 
Brutus, who from his father came <tf the 
first Brutus, and by his mother, of the 
house of the Servilians, a noble house {70 
as any was in Rome, and was also nephew 
and son-in-law of Marcus Cato. Not- 
withstanding, the great honors and favors 
Caesar showed unto him kept him back, 
that of himself alone he did not consfHre 
nor consent to dep)ose him of his kingdom. 
For Caesar did not only save his life after 
the battle of Pharsalia when Pompey fled, 
and did at his request also save many 
more of his friends beside, but further- [80 
more he put a marvellous confidence in 
him. For he had abready preferred him 
to the Praetorship for that year, and 
furthermore was appointed to be Consul 
the foiuth year after that, having through 
Caesar's friendship obtained it before 
Cassius, who likewise made suit for the 
same; and Caesar also, as it is reported, 
said in this contention. Indeed Cassius 
hath alleged best reason, but yet shall [go 
he not be chosen before Brutus. Some one 
day accusing Brutus while he practised 
this conspiracy, Caesar would not hear of 
it, but clapping his hand on his body, told 
them, Brutus will look for this skin: 
meaning thereby that Brutus for his 
virtue deserved to rule after him, but yet 
that for ambition's sake he would not 
show himself unthankful or dishonorable. 

Now they that desired change, and [100 
wished Brutus only their prince and gover- 
nor above all other, they durst not come 
to him themselves to tell him what they 
would have him to do, but in the night 
did cast sundry papers into the Praetor's 
seat where he gave audience, and the 
most of them to this effect: Thou sleepest, 
Brutus, and art not Brutus indeed. Cas- 
sius, finding Brutus' ambition stirred up 
the more by these ambitious bills, did [no 
prick him forward, and egg him on the 
more, for a private quarrel he had con- 
ceived against Caesar, the circumstance 
whereof we have set down more at large 
in Brutus' life. Caesar also had Cassius 
in great jealousy, and suspected him 



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much; whereiqx)!! he said on a time to his 
friends, What will Cassius do, think ye? 
I like not his pale looks. Another time 
when Caesar's friends complained im to [120 
him of Antonius and Dolabella, that they 
pretended some mischief towards him, he 
answered them again. As for those fat men 
and smooth-combed heads, quoth he, 
I never reckon of them; but these pale- 
visaged and carrion lean people, I fear 
them most; meaning Brutus and Cassius. 
Certainly, destiny may easier be fore- 
seen than avoided, considering the strange 
and wonderful signs that were said [130 
to be seen before Caesar's death. For 
touching the fires in the element, and 
spirits running up and down in the night, 
and also the solitary birds to be seen at 
noondays sitting in the great market- 
place, are not all these signs perhaps worth 
the noting, in such a wonderful chance as 
happened? But Strabo the Philosopher 
writeth that divers men were seen going 
up and down in fire; and fmthermore [140 
that there was a slave of the soldiers that 
did cast a marvellous burning flame out of 
his hand, insomuch as they that saw it 
thought he had been burnt, but when the 
fire was out it was foimd he had no hurt. 
Caesar self also doing sacrifice unto the 
gods, found that one of the beasts which 
was sacrificed had no heart; and that was 
a strange thing in nature, how a beast 
could live without a heart. Further- [150 
more, there was a certain soothsayer that 
had given Caesar warning long time afore, 
to take heed of the day of the Ides of 
March (which is the fifteenth of the 
month), for on that day he should be in 
great danger. That day being come, 
Caesar going unto the Senate-house, and 
speaking merrily unto the soothsayer, 
told him. The Ides of March be come; So 
be they, softly answered the sooth- [160 
sayer, but yet are they not past. And 
the very day before Caesar, supping with 
Marcus Lepidus, sealed certain letters as 
he was wont to do at the board; so talk 
falling out amongst them, reasoning what 
death was best, he, preventing their 
opinions, cried out aloud, Death unlooked 
for. Then going to bed the same night 
as his manner was, and lying with his 
wife Calpumia, all the windows and [170 



doors of his chamber flying open, the 
noise awoke him, and niade him afraid 
when he saw such light; but more when 
he heard his wife Calpumia, being fast 
asleep, weep and sigh, and put forth 
many fumbling, lamentable speeches. 
For she dreamed that Caesar was slain, 
and that she had him in her arms. Others 
also do deny that she had any such dream, 
as, amongst other, Titus Livius writ- [180 
eth that it was in this sort. The Senate 
having set upon the top of Caesar's house, 
for an ornament and setting forth of 
the same, a certain pinnacle, Calpumia 
dreamed that she saw it broken down, and 
that she thought she lamented and wept 
for it. Insomuch that Caesar rising in 
the morning, she prayed him if it were 
possible not to go out o>f the doors that 
day, but to adjourn the session of [190 
the Senate until another day. Thereby 
it seemed that Caesar likewise did fear 
and suspect somewhat, because his wife 
Calpumia imtil that time was never 
given to any fear or superstition; and 
then for that he saw her so troubled in 
mind with this dream she had. But much 
more afterwards, when the soothsayers, 
having sacrificed many beasts one after 
another, told him that none did like [200 
them; then he determined to send An- 
tonius to adjoum the session of the 
Senate. 



But in the meantime came Decius 
Brutus, sumamed Albinus, in whom 
Caesar put such confidence that in his last 
will and testament he had appointed him 
to be his next heir, and yet was of the 
conspiracy with Cassius and Brutus; he, 
fearing that if Caesar did adjoum the [210 
session that day the conspiracy would 
out, laughed the soothsayers to scorn 
and reproved Caesar, saying that he gave 
the Senate occasion to mislike with him, 
and that they might think he mocked 
them, considering that by his command* 
ment they were assembled, and that they 
were ready willingly to grant him all 
things, and to proclaim hun king of all 
the provinces of the empire of Rome [220 
out of Italy, and that he should wear his 
diadem in all other places both by sea 



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and land. And furthermore, that if any 
man should tell them from him they 
should depart for that present time, and 
return again when Calpumia should have 
better dreams, what would his enemies 
and ill-willers say, and how could they 
like of his friend's words? And who could 
persuade them otherwise but that [230 
they would think his dominion a slavery 
unto them and tyrannical in himself? 
And yet if it be so, said he, that you 
utterly mislike of this day, it is better 
that you go yourself in person, and, 
saluting the Senate, to dismiss them till 
another time. Therewithal he took Caesar 
by the hand and led him out of his house. 
Caesar was not gone far from his house 
but a bondman, a stranger, did what [240 
he could to speak with him; and when he 
saw he was put back by the great press 
and multitude of people that followed 
him, he went straight into his house and 
put himself into Calpumia's hands to 
be kept till Caesar came back again, telling 
her that he had great matters to impart 
imto him. And one Artemidorus alSo, 
bom in the Isle of Gnidos, a doctor of 
rhetoric in the Greek tongue, who by [250 
means of his profession was very familiar 
with certain of Brutus' confederates, and 
therefore knew the most part of all their 
practices against Caesar, came and brought 
him a little bill written with his own hand, 
of all that he meant to tell him. He, 
marking how Caesar received all the sup- 
plications that were offered him, and that 
he gave them straight to his men that 
were about him, pressed nearer to [260 
him, and said: Caesar, read this memorial 
to yourself, and that quickly, for they be 
matters of great weight, and touch you 
nearly. Caesar took it of him but could 
never read it, though he many times 
attempted it, for the number of people 
that (Ud salute him; but holding it still in 
his hand, keeping it to himself, went on 
withal into the Senate-house. Howbeit 
other are of opinion that it was some [270 
man else that gave him that memorial, 
and not Artemidorus, who did what he 
could all the way as he went to give it 
Caesar, but he was always repulsed by 
the people. For these things, they may 
seem to come by chance, but the place 



where the murder was prepared, ami 
where the Senate were assembled, and 
where also there stood up an image of 
Pompey dedicated by himself amongst [280 
other ornaments which he gave unto the 
theatre: all these were manifest proofs 
that it was the ordinance of some god 
that made this treason to be executed, 
specially in that very place. It is also 
reported that Cassius (although other- 
wise he did favor the doctrine of Epicurus), 
beholding the image of Pompey, before 
they entered into the action of their 
traitorous enterprise, he did softly [290 
call upon it to aid him. But the instant 
danger of the present time, taking away 
his former reason, did suddenly put him 
into a furious passion, and made him like 
a man half beside himself. 

Now Antonius, that was a faithful 
friend to Caesar, and a valiant man be- 
sides of his hands, Dedus Brutus Albinus 
entertained out of the Senate-house, 
having begun a long tale of set pur- [300 
pose. So Caesar coming into the house, 
all the Senate stood up on their feet to do 
him honor. Then part of Brutus' com- 
pany and confederates stood roimd about 
Caesar's chair, and part of them also came 
towards him, as though they made suit 
with MeteUus Cimber to call home his 
brother again from banishment; and thus 
prosecuting still their suit, they followed 
Caesar tiU he was set in his chair. [310 
Who, denying their petitions, and bdng 
offended with them one after another, 
because the more they were denied the 
more they pressed upon him, and were 
the eamester with him, Metellus, at 
length, taking his gown with both his 
hands, pulled it over his neck, which 
was the sign given the confederates to 
set upon hun. Then Casca behind him 
strake him in the neck with his sword; [320 
howbeit, the woimd was not great nor 
mortal, because it seemed the fear of 
such a devilish attempt did amaze him 
and take his strength from him, that he 
killed him not at the first blow. But 
Caesar turning straight unto him, caught 
hold of his sword and held it hard; and 
they both cried out, Caesar in Latin, O 
vile traitor Casca, what doest thou? And 
Casca in Greek to his brother. Brother, [330 



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help me. At the beginmng of this stir 
they that were present, not knowing of 
the conspiracy, were so amazed with the 
horrible sight they saw they had no power 
to fly, neither to help him, not so much 
as once to make any outcry. They on 
the other side that had conspired his death 
compassed him in on every side with their 
swords drawn in their hands, that Caesar 
turned him nowhere but he was [340 ' 
stricken at by some, and still had naked 
swords in his face, and was hacked and 
mangled among them as a wild beast 
taken of hunters. For it was agreed among 
them that every man should give him a 
wound, because all their parts should be in 
this murder; and then Brutus himself gave 
him one wound. Men report also that 
Caesar did still defend himself against 
the rest, running every way with his [350 
body; but when he saw Brutus, with his 
sword drawn in his hand, then he pulled 
his gown over his head and made no more 
resistance, and was driven, either casually 
or purposely, by the counsel of the con- 
spirators, against the base whereupon 
Pompey's image stood, which ran all of 
a gore-blood till he was slain. Thus it 
seemed that the image took just revenge 
of Pompey's enemy, being thrown b^o 
down on the ground at his feet, and yield- 
ing up his ghost there, for the number of 
wounds he had upon him. For it is re- 
ported that he had three-and-twenty 
wounds upon his body; and divers of the 
con^irators did hurt themselves, striking 
one body with so many blows. 

When Caesar was slain the Senate 
(though Brutus stood in the midst among 
them, as though he would have said [370 
somewhat touching this fact) presently 
ran out of the house, and fl3dng, filled all 
the dty with marveUous fear and tumult. 
Insomuch as some did shut-to their doors, 
others forsook their shops and ware- 
houses, and others ran to the place to see 
what the matter was; and others also, 
that had seen it, ran home to their houses 
again. But Antonius and Lepidus, which 
were two of Caesar's chiefest friends, [380 
secretly conveying themselves away, fled 
into odier men's houses and forsook their 
own. Brutus and his confederates on the 
other side, being yet hot with this murder 



they had committed, having their swords 
drawn in their hands, came all in a troop 
together out of the Senate and went into 
the market-place; not as men that made 
countenance to fly, but otherwise boldly 
holding up their heads like men of [390 
courage, and caUed to the people to defend 
their liberty, and stayed to speak with 
every great personage whom they met 
in their way. Of them, some followed 
this troop, and went amongst them as 
if they had been of the conspiracy, and 
falsely challenged part of the honor with 
them; amongst them was Caius Octavius 
and Lentulus Spinther. But both of them 
were afterwards put to death for their [400 
vain covetousness of honor by Antonius 
and Octavius Caesar the younger, and 
yet had no part of that honor for the 
which they were put to death, nor did 
any man believe that they were any of 
the confederates or of counsel with them. 
For they that did put them to death 
took revenge rather of the will they had 
to offend than of any fact they had com- 
mitted. [410 
The next morning Brutus and his con- 
federates came into the market-place to 
speak imto the people, who gave them 
such audience that it seemed they neither 
greatly reproved nor allowed the fact; for 
by their great silence they showed that 
they were sorry for Caesar's death, and 
also that they did reverence Brutus. 
Now the Senate granted general pardon 
for all that was past, and to pacify [420 
every man ordained besides that Caesar's 
funerals should be honored as a god, and 
established all things that he had done; 
and gave certain provinces also and con- 
venient honors unto Brutus and his con- 
federates, whereby every man thought 
all things were brought to good peace 
and quietness again. But when they 
had opened Caesar's testament and found 
a liberal legacy of money bequeathed [430 
unto every citizen of Rome, and that they 
saw his body (which was brought into 
the market-place) all bemangled with 
gashes of swords, then there was no order 
to keep the multitude and common people 
quiet, but they plucked up forms, tables 
and stools, and laid them all about the 
body, and setting them afire, burnt the 



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corpse. Then when the fire was well 
kindled, they took the firebrands and [440 
went unto their houses that had slain 
Caesar, to set them afire. Others also ran 
up and down the city to see if they could 
meet with any of them, to cut them in 
pieces; howbeit they could meet with 
never a man of them, because they had 
locked themselves up safely in their 
houses. There was one of Caesar's friends 
called Cinna, that had a marvellous strange 
and terrible dream the night be- [450 
fore. He dreamed that Caesar bade him 
to supper, and that he refused and would 
not go; then that Caesar took him by the 
hand and led him against his will. Now 
Cinna hearing at that time that they 
burnt Caesar's body in the market-place, 
notwithstanding that he feared his dream 
and had an ague on him besides, he 
went into the market-place to honor his 
funerals. When he came thither one of [460 
the mean sort asked him what his name 
was. He was straight called by his name. 
The first man told it to another, and that 
other imto another, so that it ran straight 
through them all, that he was one of them 
that murdered Caesar (for indeed one of 
the traitors to Caesar was also called 
Cinna, as himself); wherefore taking him 
for Cinna the murderer, they fell upon 
him with such fury that they presently [470 
despatched him in the market-place. This 
stir and fury made Brutus and Cassius 
more afraid than of all that was past, 
and therefore within few days after they 
departed out of Rome; and touching their 
doings afterwards, and what calamity they 
suffered till their deaths, we have written 
it at large in the life of Brutus. 

Caesar died at six-and-fif ty years of age, 
and Pompey also lived not passing [480 
four years more than he. So he reaped 
no other fruit of all his reign and dominion, 
which he had so vehemently desired all 
his life and piirsued with such extreme 
danger, but a vain name only, and a 
superficial glory that procured him the 
envy and hatred of his country. But his 
great prosperity and good fortune that 
favored him all his lifetime did con- 
tinue afterwards in the revenge of his [490 
death, pursuing the murderers both by 
sea and land till they had not left a man 



more to be executed of all them that were 
actors or counsellors in the conspiracy of 
his death. Furthermore, of all the chances 
that happen unto men upon the earth, 
that which came to Cassius above all 
other is most to be wondered at. For he 
being overcome in battle at the jour- 
ney of Philippi, slew himself with the [500 
^same sword with the which he strake 
Caesar. Again, of signs in the element, 
the great comet which seven nights to- 
gether was seen very bright after Caesar's 
death, the eighth night after was never 
seen more. Also the brightness of the 
sun was darkened, the whidi all that year 
through rose very pale and shined not out, 
whereby it gave but small heat; therefore 
the air, being very cloudy and dark [510 
by the weakness of the heat that could 
not come forth, did cause the earth to 
bring forth but raw and unripe fruit, 
which rotted before it could ripe. 

But above all, the ghost that appeared 
imto Brutus showed plainly that the 
gods were offended with the murder of 
Caesar. The vision was thus. Brutus being 
ready to pass over his army from the 
city of Abydos to the other coast lymg [520 
directly against it, slept every night (as 
his manner was) in his tent, and being 
yet awake, thinking of his affairs (for by 
report he was as careful a captain, and 
lived with as little sleep, as ever man did), 
he thought he heard a noise at his tent 
door, and looking toward the light of the 
lamp that waxed very dim, he saw a 
horrible vision of a man of wonderful 
greatness and dreadful look, which at [530 
the first made him marvellously afraid 
But when he saw that it did him no hurt, 
but stood by his bedside and said notlung, 
at length he asked him what he was. The 
image answered him: I am thy ill angel, 
Brutus, and thou shalt see me by the 
city of Philippi. Then Brutus replied 
again, and said: Well, I shall see thee 
then. Therewithal, the spirit presently 
vanished from him. After that time [540 
Brutus being in battle near unto the 
dty of Philippi, against Antonius and 
Octavius Caesar, at the first battle he wcm 
the victory, and overthrowing all them 
that withstood him, he drave them into 
young Caesar's camp, which he took. The 



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second battle being at hand, this spirit 
appeared again unto him, but spake never 
a word. Thereupon Brutus, knowing he 
should die, did put himself to all hazard [550 
in battle, but yet fighting could not be 
slain. So seeing his men put to flight and 
overthrown, he ran unto a little rock 
not far off, and there setting his sword's 
point to his breast, fell upon it and slew 
himself, but yet as it is reported, with the 
help of his friend that despatched him. 



JOHN LYLY (lft54?-1606) 

QUEEN ELIZABETH 

From EuPHUES and His England 

This queen being deceased, Elizabeth, 
being of the age of twenty-two years, of 
more beauty than honor, and yet of more 
honcMT than any earthly creature, was 
called from a prisoner to be a prince, from 
the castle to the crown, from the fear of 
losing her head, to be supreme head. 

Touching the beauty of this prince, her 
countenance, her personage, her majesty, 
I cannot think that it may be suffi- [10 
dently commended, when it cannot be 
too much marveled at; so that I am con- 
strained to say as Praxitiles did, when he 
began to paint Venus and her son, who 
doubted whether the world could afford 
colors good enough for two such fair faces, 
and I, whether our tongue can yield words 
to blaze that beauty, the perfection 
whereof none can imagine; which seeing 
it is so, I must do like Uiose that want [20 
a dear sight, who, being not able to dis- 
cern the sun in the sky, are enforced to 
behold it in the water. Zeuxis, having 
before him fifty fair virgins of Sparta 
whereby to draw one amiable Venus, said 
that fifty more fairer than those could not 
minister suffident beauty to show the 
goddess of beauty; therefore, being in 
despair dther by art to shadow her, or 
by imagination to comprehend her, he [30 
drew in a table a fair temple, the gates 
open, and Venus going in so as nothing 
could be percdved but her back, wherein 
he used such cunning that Apelles himself, 
seeing this work, wished that Venus would 



turn her face, sa3dng that if it were in all 
parts agreeable to the back, he would 
become apprentice to 2^uxis, and slave to 
Venus. In the like manner fareth it with 
me, for having all the ladies in Italy, [40 
more than fifty hundred, whereby to color 
Elizabeth, I must say with 2^uxis Uiat 
as many more will not suffice, and there- 
fore in as great an agony paint her court 
with her back towards you, for that I 
cannot by art portray her beauty, wherein, 
though I want the skill to do it as 2^uxis 
did, yet viewing it narrowly, and compar- 
ing it wisely, you all wUl say that if 
her face be answerable to her back, you [50 
will like my handicraft and become her 
handmaids. In the mean season, I leave 
you gazing until she turn her face, im- 
agining her to be such a one as nature 
framed, to that end that no art should 
imitate, wherein she hath proved herself, 
to be exquisite, and painters to be apes. 

This beautiful mold when I behdd to 
be indued with chastity, temperance, mild- 
ness, and all other good gifts of na- [60 
tiu-e (as hereafter shall appear), when I 
saw her to surpass all in beauty, and yet a 
virgin, to excel all in piety, and yet a 
prince, to be inferior to none in aU the 
lineaments of the body, and yet superior 
to every one in all gifts of the mind, I be- 
gan thus to pray, that as she hath lived 
forty years a virgin in great majesty, so 
she may live four score years a mother 
with great joy, that as with her we have [70 
long time had peace and plenty, so by 
her we may ever have quietness and 
abundance, wishing this even from the 
bottom of a heart that wisheth well to 
England, though feareth ill, that either 
the world may end before she die, or she 
live to see her children's children in the 
world; otherwise how tickle their state 
is that now triumph, upon what a twist 
they hang that now are in honor, [80 
they that live shall see, which I to think 
on, sigh! But God for his mercy's sake, 
Christ for his merit's sake, the Holy 
Ghost for his name's sake, grant to that 
realm comfort without any iU chance, and 
the prince they have without any other 
change, that the longer she liveth the 
sweeter she may smell, like the bird Ibis, 
that she may be triumphant in victories 



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like the palm tree, fruitful in her [90 
age like the vine, in all ages prosperous, to 
aU men gracious, in all places glorious, 
so that there be no end of her praise imtil 
the end of all flesh. 

Thus did I often talk with myself, and 
wish with mine whole soul. 

Why should I talk of her sharp wit, 
excellent wisdom, exquisite learning, and 
all other qualities of the mind, wherein she 
seemeth as far to excel those that have [loo 
been accounted singular, as the learned 
have surpassed those that have been 
thought simple. 

In questioning, not inferior to Nicaulia, 
the queen of Saba, that did put so many 
hard doubts to Solomon; equal to Nicos- 
trata in the Greek tongue, who was 
thought to give precepts for the better 
perfection; more learned in the Latin 
than Amalasunta; passing Aspasia in [no 
philosophy, who taught Pericles; exceed- 
ing in judgment Themistoclea, who in- 
structed Pythagoras. Add to these qual- 
ities, those that none of these had: the 
French tongue, the Spanish, the Italian, 
not mean in every one, but excellent in 
all; readier to correct escapes in those 
lahguages than to be controlled; fitter to 
teach others than learn of any; more able 
to add new rules than to err in the [120 
old; insomuch as there is no ambassador 
that Cometh into her court but she is will- 
ing and able both to imderstand his mes- 
sage and utter her mind; not like unto the 
kings of Assyria, who answer ambassadors 
by messengers, while they themselves 
either dally in sin or snort in sleep. Her 
godly zeal to learning, with her great 
skill, hath been so manifestly approved 
that I cannot tell whether she deserve [130 
more honor for her knowledge, or admira- 
tion for her courtesy, who in great pomp 
hath twice directed her progress unto the 
universities with no less joy to the stu- 
dents than glory to her state. Where, 
after long and solemn disputations in 
law, physic, and divinity, not as one 
wearied with scholars* argxunents, but 
wedded to their orations, when every 
one feared to offend in length, she [140 
in her own person, with no less praise to 
her Majesty than delight to her subjects, 
with a wise and learned conclusion, both 



gave them thanks, and put herself to 
pains. O noble pattern of a princely 
mind, not like to the kings of Persia, wlx) 
in their progresses did nothing else but 
cut sticks to drive away the time, nor 
like the delicate lives of the Sybarites, who 
would not admit any art to be exer- [150 
cised within their dty that might make 
the least noise. Her wit so sharp, that 
if I should repeat the apt answers, the 
subtle questions, the fine speeches, the 
pithy sentences, which on the sudden 
she hath uttered, they would rather breed 
admiration than credit But such are 
the gifts that the living God hath indued 
her withal, that look in what art or lan- 
guage, wit or learning, virtue or beauty [160 
any one hath particularly excelled most, 
she only hath generally exceeded every 
one in all, insomuch that there is nothing 
to be added that either man would wish 
in a woman, or God doth give to a crea- 
ture. 

I let pass her skill in music, her knowl- 
edge in all the other sciences, whenas I 
fear lest by my simplicity I should make 
them less than they are, in seeking to [170 
show how great they are, unless I were 
praising her in the gallery of Olympia, 
where giving forth one word, I might 
hear seven. 

But all these graces, although they be 
to be wondered at, yet her politic gov- 
ernment, her prudent counsel, her zeal to 
religion, her clemency to those that sub- 
mit, her stoutness to those that threaten, 
so far exceed all other virtues that [180 
they are more easy to be marveled at than 
imitated. 

Two and twenty years hath she bonje 
the sword with such justice, that neither 
offenders could complain of rigor, nor 
the innocent of wrong; yet so ten^)ered 
with mercy as malefactors have been 
sometimes pardoned upon hope of grace, 
and the injured requited to ease their 
grief, insomuch that in the whole [190 
course of her glorious reign, it could never 
be said that either the poor were oppressed 
without remedy, or the guilty repressed 
without cause, bearing this engraven in 
her noble heart, that justice without 
mercy were extreme injury, and pity 
without equity plain partiality, and that 



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it is as great tyranny not to mitigate 
lawSy as iniquity to break them. 

Her care for the flourishing of the [200 
Gospel hath well appeared, whenas neitiier 
the curses of the Pope (which are bless- 
ings to good people) nor the threatenings 
of kings (which are perilous to a prince) 
nor the persuasions of papists (which are 
honey to the mouth) could either fear 
her or allure her to violate the holy 
league contracted with Christ, or to 
maculate the blood of the ancient Lamb, 
which is Christ. But always constant [210 
in the true faith, she hath to the exceeding 
joy of her subjects, to the imspeakable 
comfort of her soul, to the great glory of 
God, established that religion the main- 
tenance whereof she rather seeketh to 
confirm by fortitude, than leave off for 
fear, knowing that there is nothing that 
smelleth sweeter to the Lord than a soimd 
^Hrit, which neither the hosts of the un- 
^xlly nor the horror of death can [220 
either remove or move. 

This Gospel with invincible courage, 
with rare constancy, with hot zeal, she 
hath maintained in her own coimtries 
without change, and defended against all 
kingdoms that sought change, insomuch 
that all nations round about her, threat- 
ening alteration, shaking swords, throw- 
ing fire, menacing famine, murder, de- 
struction, desolation, she only hath [230 
stood like a lamp on the top of a hill, not 
fearing the blasts of the sharp winds, but 
trusting in His providence that rideth 
upon the wings of the four winds. Next 
f olloweth the love she beareth to her sub- 
jects, who no less tendereth them than 
the apfde of her own eye, showing herself 
a mother to the afflicted, a physician to 
the sick, a sovereign and mild governess 
to all. [240 

Touching her magnanimity, her maj- 
esty, her estate royaJ, there was neither 
Alexander, nor Galba the Emperor, nor 
any, that might be compared with her. 

This is she that, resembling the noble 
queen ot Navarre, useth tHe marigold for 
her flower, which at the rising of the sun 
openeth her leaves, and at the setting 



shutteth them, referring all her actions 
and endeavors to him that ruleth the [250 
sun. This is that Caesar, that first bound 
the crocodile to the paim tree, bridling 
those that sought to rein her. This is that 
good pelican, that to feed her people 
spareth not to rend her own person. 
This is that mighty eagle, that hath 
thrown dust into the eyes of the hart 
that went about to work destruction to 
her subjects, into whose wings although 
the blind beetle would have crept, and [260 
so being carried into her nest, destroyed 
her young ones, yet hath she with the 
virtue of her feathers, consumed that fly 
in his own fraud. She hath exiled the 
swallow that sought to spoil the grass- 
hopper, and given bitter almonds to the 
ravenous wolves that endeavored to de- 
vour the silly lambs, burning even with 
the breath of her mouth like the princely 
stag, the serpents that were engen- [270 
dered by the breath of the huge elephant, 
so that now all her enemies are as whist as 
the bird Attagen, who never singeth any 
tune after she is taken, — nor they, being so 
overtaken. 

But whither do I wade, ladies, as one 
forgetting himself; thinking to sound the 
depth of her virtues with a few fathoms, 
when there is no bottom; for I know 
not how it Cometh to pass that, being [280 
in this labyrmth, I may sooner lose my- 
self than find the end. 

Behold, ladies, in this glass a queen, 
a woman, a virgin, in all gifts of the body, 
in all graces of the mind, in all perfection 
of either, so far to excel all men, that I 
know not whether I may think the place 
too bad for her to dwell among men. 

To talk of other things in that court 
were to bring eggs after apples, or [290 
after the setting out of the sun, to tell a 
tale of a shadow. 

But this I say, that all offices are looked 
to with great care, that virtue is em- 
braced of all, vice hated, religion daily 
increased, manners reformed, that whoso 
seeth the place there, will think it rather 
a church for divine service than a court 
for princes' delight. 



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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1654-1586) 
From THE DEFENCE OF POESY 

Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently 
in his Troilus and Criseyde; of whom, 
truly, I know not whether to marvel 
more, either that he in that misty time 
could see so clearly, or that we in this 
clear age walk so stumblingly after him. 
Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven 
in so reverend antiquity. I account the 
Mirror of Magistrates meetly furnished 
of beautiful parts; and in the Earl of [lo 
Surrey's lyrics many things tasting of 
a noble birth, and worthy of a noble 
mind. The Shepherd's Calendar hath 
much poetry in his eclogues, indeed worthy 
the reading, if I be not deceived. That 
same framing of his style to an old rustic 
language I dare not allow, since neither 
Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor 
Sannazzaro in Italian did afiFect it. Be- 
sides these, I do not remember to have [20 
seen but few (to speak boldly) printed, 
that have poetical sinews in them. For 
proof whereof, let but most of the verses 
be put in prose, and then ask the mean- 
ing, and it will be found that one verse 
did but beget another, without ordering 
at the first what shoidd be at the last; 
which becomes a confused mass of words, 
with a tinkling sound of rime, barely ac- 
companied with reason. [30 

Our tragedies and comedies not with- 
out cause cried out against, observing 
rules neither of honest civility nor of 
skilful poetry, excepting Gorboduc, — again 
I say of those that I have seen. Which 
notwithstanding as it is full of stately 
speeches and well-sounding phrases, diml>- 
ing to the height of Seneca's style, and as 
full of notable morality, which it doth 
most delightfully teach, and so obtain [40 
the very end of poesy; yet in truth it 
is very defections in the circumstances, 
which grieveth me, because it might not 
remain as an exact model of all tragedies. 
For it is faulty both in place and time, 
the two necessary companions of all cor- 
poral actions. For where the stage should 
always represent but one place, and the 
uttermost time presupposed in it should 



be, both by Aristotle's precept and [50 
common reason, but one day; there is 
both many days and many places inarti- 
fidally imagined. 

But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much 
more in all the rest? where you shall 
have Asia of the one side, and Afric of 
the othejr, and so many other under- 
kingdoms, that the player, when he 
Cometh in, must ever be^ with telling 
where he is, or else the tale will not be [60 
conceived. Now ye shall have three ladies 
walk to gather flowers, and then we must 
believe the stage to be- a garden. By and 
by we hear news of shipwreck in the same 
place, and then we are to blame if we 
accept it not for a rock. Upon the back 
of that comes out a hideous monster with 
fire and smoke, and then the miserable 
beholders are boimd to take it for a cave. 
While in the meantime two armies fly [70 
in, represented with four swords and 
bucklers, and then what hard heart will 
not receive it for a pitched field? 

Now of time they are much more lib- 
eral. For ordinary it is that two young 
princes fall in love; after many traverses 
she is got with child, delivered of a fair 
boy, he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in 
love, and is ready to get another child, — 
and all this in two hours' space; which [80 
how absurd it is in sense even sense may 
ima^e, and art hath taught, and aU 
ancient examples justified, and at this 
day the ordinary players in Italy will not 
err in. Yet will some bring in an example 
of Eunuchus in Terence, that containeth 
matter of two days, yet far short of 
twenty years. True it is, and so was it 
to be played in two days, and so fitted to 
the time it set forth. And though [po 
Plautus have in one place done amiss, let 
us hit with him, and not miss with him. 
But they will say. How then shall we set 
forth a story which containeth both 
many places and many times? And do 
they not know that a tragedy is tied to 
the laws of poesy, and not of history; 
not bound to follow the story, but hav- 
ing liberty either to feign a quite new 
matter, or to frame the history to [100 
the most tragical conveniency? Again, 
many things may be told which cannot be 
showed, — ^if they know the difference be- 



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twixt rqx)rting and representing. As 
for example I may speak, though I am 
here, of Peru, and in speech digress from 
that to the description of Calicut; but in 
action I cannot represent it without 
Pacolet's horse. And so was the manner 
the ancients took, by some NutUius [no 
to recount things done in former time or 
other place. 

Lastly, if they will represent a history, 
they must not, as Horace saith, be^ 
ab avo, but they must come to the prin- 
cipal point of that one action which they 
will represent. By example this will be 
best expressed. I have a story of young 
Polydorus, delivered for safety's sake, 
with great riches, by his father [120 
Priamus to Poljrnmestor, King of Thrsice, 
in the Trojan war time. He, after some 
years, hearing the overthrow of Priamus, 
for to make the treasure his own, mur- 
dereth the child; the body of the child is 
taken up by Hecuba; she, the same day, 
findeth a sleight to be revenged most 
cruelly of the t)rrant. Where now would 
one of otir tragedy-writers begin, but with 
the delivery of the child? Then should [130 
he safl over into Thrace, and so spend I 
know not how many years, and travel 
numbers of places. But where doth 
Euripides? Even with the finding of the 
body, leaving the rest to be told by the 
spirit of Polydorus. This needs no further 
to be enlarged; the dullest wit may con- 
cave it. 

But, besides these gross absurdities, 
how all their plays be neither right [140 
tragedies nor right comedies, mingling 
kir^ and clowns, not because the matter 
so carrieth it, but thrust in clowns by 
head and shoulders to play a part in 
majestical matters, with neither decency 
nor discretion; so as neither the admira- 
tion and conmiiseration, nor the right 
spc^ulness, is by their mongrel tragi- 
comedy obtained. I know Apuleius did 
somewhat so, but that is a thing re- [150 
counted with space of time, not repre- 
sented in one moment: and I know the 
ancients have one or two examples of 
tragi-comedies, as Plautus hath Amphi- 
trio. But, if we mark them well, we shall 
find that they never, or very daintily, 
match hornpipes and funerals. So falleth 



it out that, having indeed no right comedy 
in that comical part of our tragedy, we 
have nothing but scurrility, unworthy [160 
of any chaste ears, or some extreme show 
of doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud 
laughter, and nothing else; where the 
whole tract of a comedy should be full 
of delight, as the tragedy should be still 
maintained in a well-raised admiration. 



But I have lavished out too many 
words of this play-matter. I do it, be- 
cause as they are excelling parts of poesy, 
so is there none so much used in Eng- [170 
land, and none can be more pitifully 
abused; which, like an unmannerly 
daughter, showing a bad education, caus- 
eth her mother Poesy's honesty to be 
called in question. 

Other sorts of poetry almost have we 
none, but that lyrical kind of songs and 
sonnets, which, the Lord if he gave us so 
good minds, how well it might be em- 
ployed, and with how heavenly fruits, [180 
botii private and public, in singing the 
praises of the immortal beauty, the im- 
mortal goodness of that God who giveth 
us hands to write, and wits to conceive; 
of which we might well want words, but 
never matter; of which we could turn our 
eyes to nothing, but we should ever have 
new-budding occasions. 

But truly, many of such writings as 
come under the banner of imresistible [190 
love, if I were a mistress would never 
persuade me they were in love; so coldly 
they apply fiery speeches, as men that 
had rather read lovers' writings, and so 
caught up certain swelling phrases — ^which 
hang together like a man which once told 
me the wind was at northwest and by 
south, because he would be sure to name 
winds enough — than that in truth they 
feel those passions, which easily, as I [200 
think, may be bewrayed by that same 
fordbleness, or energia (as the Greeks 
call it), of the writer. But let this be a 
sufficient, though short note, that we 
miss the right use of the material point 
of poesy. 

* * * * * * 

But what! methinks I deserve to be 
pounded for stra3dng from poetry to ora- 



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WBJ^ ELIZABETHAN AGE 



tory. But both have such an aflinity in 
this wordish consideration, that I [210 
think this digression will make my mean- 
ing receive the fuller imderstanding: which 
is not to take upon me to teach poets how 
they should do, but only, finding myself 
sick among the rest, to show some one or 
two spots of the common infection grown 
among the most part of writers; that, ac- 
knowledging ourselves somewhat awry, 
we may bend to the right use both of 
matter and manner: whereto our Ian- [220 
guage giveth us great occasion, being, 
indeed, capable of any excellent exercising 
of it. 

I know some will say it is a mingled 
language. And why not so much the 
better, taking the b€»t of both the other? 
Another will say it wanteth grammar. 
Nay, truly, it hath that praise that it 
wanteth not grammar. For grammar it 
might have, but it needs it not; being [230 
so easy in itself, and so void of those 
cumbersome differences of cases, genders, 
moods, and tenses, which, I think, was a 
piece of the Tower of Babylon's curse, 
that a man should be put to school to 
learn his mother-tongue. But for the 
uttering sweetly and properly the con- 
ceits of the mind, which is the end of 
speech, that hath it equally with any 
other tongue in the world; and is par- [240 
ticularly happy in compositions of two 
or three words together, near the Greek, 
far beyond the Latin, — which is one of 
the greatest beauties can be in a language. 

Now of versifying there are two sorts, 
the one ancient, the other modem. The 
ancient marked the quantity of each 
syllable, and according to that, framed 
has verse; the modem observing only 
number, with some regard of the ac- [250 
cent, the chief life of it standeth in that 
like sounding of the words, which we call 
rime. Whether of these be the more ex- 
cellent, would bear many speeches; the 
ancient no doubt more fit for music, both 
words and tune observing quantity; and 
more fit lively to express divers passions, 
by the low and lofty sound of the well- 
weighed syllable. The latter likewise 
with his rime striketh a certain music [260 
to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth de- 
light, though by another way, it obtaineth 



the same purpose; there being in either, 
sweetness, and wanting in neither, maj- 
esty. Truly the English, before any 
other vulgar language I know, is fit for 
both sorts. For, for the ancient, the 
Italian is so full of vowels that it must 
ever be cumbered with elisions; the 
Dutch so, of the other side, with con- [270 
sonants, that they cannot yield the sweet 
sliding fit for a verse. The French, in 
his whole language, hath not one word 
that hath his accent in the last syllable 
saving two, called antepenultima, and 
little more hath the Spanish; and there- 
fore very gracelessly may they use dactyls. 
The English is subject to none of these 
defects. 

Now for rime, though we do not [280 
observe quantity, yet we observe the ac- 
cent very precisely, which other languages 
either cannot do, or will not do so ab- 
solutely. That caesura, or breathing- 
place in the midst of the verse, neither 
Italian nor Spanish have, the French and 
we never almost fail of. Lastly, even the 
very rime itself the Italian cannot put in 
the last syllable, by the French named the 
masculine rime, but still in the next [290 
to the last, which the French call the fe- 
male, or the next before that, which the 
Italians term sdrucciola. The example of 
the former is btumo, suono; of the sdrucdola 
is femina, semina. The French, of the 
other side, hath both the male, as bon, 
son, and the female, as plaise, taise; but 
the sdrucciola he hath not. Where the 
English hath all three, as due, true; 
father, rather; motion, potion; with [300 
much more which might be said, but that 
I find already the trifiingness of this 
discourse is much too much enlarged. 

So that since the ever praiseworthy 
poesy is full of virtue-breeding delight- 
fulness, and void of no gift that ought to 
be in the noble name of learning; since 
the blames laid against it are either false 
or feeble; since the cause why it is not 
esteemed in England is the fault of [310 
poet-apes, not poets; since, lastly, our 
tongue is most fit to honor poesy, and to 
be honored by poesy; I conjure you all 
that have had the evil luck to read this 
ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name 
of the Nine Muses, no more to scorn the 



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sacred mysteries of poesy; no more to 
laugh at the name of poets, as though they 
were next inheritors to fools; no more to 
jest at the reverend title of a rimer; but [320 
to bdieve, . . . with me, that there are 
many mysteries contained in poetry which 
of purpose were written darkly, lest by 
prolane wits it should be abused; to be- 
lieve, with Landin, that they are so be- 
loved of the gods that whatsoever they 
write proceeds of a divine fury; lastly, to 
believe themselves, when they tell you 
they will make you immortal by their 
verses. [330 

Thus doing, your name shall flourish in 
the i^inters' shops. Thus doing, you 
shall be of kin to many a poetical preface. 
Thus doing, you shall be most fair, most 
rich, most wise, most all: you shall dwell 
up(Hi superlatives. Thus doing, though 
you be Libertine poire mUuSy you shall 
suddenly grow Herculea proles ^ 

Si quid mea cormina possunt. 

Thus ddng, your soul shall be placed [340 
with Dante's Beatrice or Virgil's Anchises. 
But if (fie of such a but!) you be bom 
so near the dull-making cataract of Nilus, 
that you cannot hear the planet-like 
music of poetry; if you have so earth- 
creeping a mind, that it cannot lift itself 
up to look to the sky of poetry, or rather, 
l^ a certain rustical disdain, will become 
sudi a mome as to be a Momus of po- 
etry ; then, though I will not wish imto [350 
you the ass's ears of Midas, nor to be 
driven by a poet's verses, as Bubonax 
was, to hang himself; nor to be rimed to 
death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet 
thus much curse I must send you in the 
behalf of all poets: that while you live 
you live in love, and never get favor 
for lacking skill of a sonnet; and when 
you die, your memory die from the earth 
far want of an epitaph. [360 

Sm WALTER RALEIGH (166S?-1618) 

THE LAST FIGHT OF THE REVENGE 

Because the rumors are diversely spread, 
as well in England as in the low countries 
and elsewhere, of this late encounter be- 
tween her Majesty's ships and the Armada 



of Spain; and that the Spaniards, accord- 
ing to their usual manner, fill the world 
with their vain-glorious vaimts, making 
great appearance of victories, when on 
the contrary themselves are most com- 
monly and shamefully beaten and dis- [10 
honored, thereby hoping to possess the 
ignorant midtitude by anticipating and 
forenmning false reports: it is agreeable 
with all good reason (for manifestation of 
the truth, to overcome falsehood and 
untruth), that the beginning, continu- 
ance, and success of this late honorable 
encounter of Sir Richard Grenville, and 
other her Majesty's captains, with the 
Armada of Spain, should be truly set [20 
down and published without partiality or 
false imaginations. And it is no marvel 
that the Spaniards shoidd seek by false 
and slanderous pamphlets, advisos, and 
letters, to cover their own loss, and to 
derogate from others their due honors 
(especially in this fight, being performed 
far off), seeing they were not ashamed in 
the year 1588, when they purposed the 
invasion of this land, to publish in [30 
sundry languages, in print, great victories 
(in words) wWch they pieced to have 
obtained against this realm, and spread 
the same in a most false sort over all 
parts of France, Italy, and elsewhere. . . . 

The Lord Thomas Howard, with six 
of her Majesty's ships, six victuallers of 
London, the bark Roleigh, and two or 
three pinnaces, riding at anchor near unto 
Flores, one of the westerly islands of [40 
the Azores, the last of August in the after- 
noon, had intelligence by one Captain 
Middleton, of the approach of the Spanish 
Armada. Which Middleton, being in a 
very good sailer, had kept them company 
three days before, of good purpose both 
to discover their forces the more, as also 
to give advice to my Lord Thomas of their 
approach. 

He had no sooner delivered the news [50 
but the fleet was in sight. Many of our 
ships' companies were on shore in the 
island, some providing ballast for their 
ships, others filling of water and refresh- 
ing themselves from the land with such 
thin gs as they could either for money 
or by force recover. By reason whereof 
our ships being all pestered, and rummag- 



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ing, every thing out of order, very light 
for want of ballast. And that which [60 
was most to our disadvantage, the one 
half part of the men of every ship sick and 
utterly unserviceable. For in the Revenge 
there were ninety diseased; in the Bona- 
venture^ not so many in health as could 
handle her mainsail. For had not twenty 
men been taken out of a bark of Sir 
George Gary's, his being commanded to 
be simk, and those appointed to her, she 
had hardly ever recovered England. [70 
The rest, for the most part, were in little 
better state. 

The names of her Majesty's ships were 
these, as followeth: the Defiance, which 
was Admiral; the Revenge, Vice Admiral; 
the Bonaventure, conmianded by Captain 
Crosse; the Lion, by George Fenner; the 
Foresight, by Thomas Vavisour; and the 
Crane, by Duffield. The Foresight and 
the Crane being but small ships only; [80 
the other were of middle size. The rest, 
besides the bark Raleigh, commanded by 
Captain Thin, were victuallers, and of 
small force or none. 

The Spanish fleet, having shrouded 
their approach by reason of the island, 
were now so soon at hand as our ships had 
scarce time to weigh their anchors, but 
some of them were driven to let slip their 
cables and set sail. Sir Richard Gren- [90 
ville was the last weighed, to recover the 
men that were upon the island, which other- 
wise had been lost. The Lord Thomas 
with the rest very hardly recovered the 
wind, which Sir Richard Grenville not 
being able to do, was persuaded by the 
master and others to cut his mainsaO and 
cast about, and to trust to the sailing of 
his ship: for the squadron of Seville were 
on his weather bow. But Sir Richard [100 
utterly refused to turn from the enemy, 
alleging that he would rather choose to 
die, than to dishonor himself, his country, 
and her Majesty's ship; persuading his 
company that he would pass through the 
two squadrons in despite of them, and 
enforce those of Seville to give him way. 
Which he performed upon divers of the 
foremost, who, as the mariners term it, 
sprang their luff, and fell under the [no 
lee of the Revenge, But the other course 
had been the better, and might right well 



have been answered in so great an im- 
possibility of prevailing. Notwithstand- 
ing out of the greatness of his mind he 
could not be persuaded. 

In the meanwhile, as he attended those 
which were nearest him, the great San 
Philip, being in the wind of him, and 
coming towards him, becalmed his [120 
sails in such sort as the ship could neither 
way nor feel the helm: so huge and high 
carged was the Spanish ship, being of a 
thousand and five hundred tons; who 
after laid the Revenge aboard. When he 
was thus bereft of h^ sails, the ships that 
were under his lee, luffing up, also laid 
him aboard; of which the next was the 
admiral of the Biscayans, a very mighty 
and puissant ship commanded by [130 
Brittan Dona. The said Philip carried 
three tier of ordinance on a side, and 
eleven pieces in every tier. She shot eight 
forthright out of her chase, besides those 
of her stem ports. 

After the Revenge was entangled with 
this Philip, four other boarded her, two 
on her larboard, and two on her starboard. 
The fight thus beginning at three of the 
clock in the afternoon continued very [140 
terrible all that evening. But the great 
San Philip, having received the lower 
tier of the Revenge, discharged with cross- 
barshot, shifted herself with all diligence 
from her sides, utterly misliking her first 
entertainment. Some say that the ship 
foimdered, but we cannot report it for 
truth, unless we were assured. 
• The Spanish ships were filled with com- 
panies of soldiers, in some two hun- [150 
dred besides the mariners, in some five, 
in others eight hundred. In ours there 
were none at all besides the mariners, but 
the servants of the commanders and some 
few voluntary gentlemen only. After 
many interchanged volleys of great or- 
dinance and small shot, the Spaniards 
deliberated to enter the Revenge, and made 
divers attempts, hoping to force her by 
the multitudes of their armed soldiers [160 
and musketeers, but were still repulsed 
again and again, and at all times beaten 
back into their own ships or into the seas. 
In the beginning of the fight, the George 
Noble of London, having received some 
shot through her by the armados, fell 



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under the lee of the Revenge^ and asked 
Sir Richard what he would command him, 
being but one of the victuallers and of 
small fcM'ce. Sir Richard bade him [170 
save himsdf , and leave him to his for- 
tune. 

After the fight had thus without inter- 
mission continued while the day lasted 
and some hours of the night, many of our 
men were slain and hurt, and one of the 
great galleons of the Armada and the Ad- 
miral of the Hulks both simk, and in 
many other of the Spanish ships great 
slaughter was made. Some write that [180 
Sir Richard was very dangerously hurt 
aknost in the beginning of the fight, 
and lay speechless for a time ere he re- 
covered. But two of the Revengers own 
company brought home in a ship of Lime 
from the islands, examined by some of 
the Lords and others, affirmed that he 
was never so wounded as that he forsook 
the \xpga deck, till an hour before mid- 
night; and then being shot into the [190 
body with a musket, as he was a-dressing 
was again shot into the head, and withal 
his surgeon wounded to death. This 
agreeth also with an examination, taken 
by Sir Francis Godolphin, of four other 
mariners of the same ship being returned, 
which examination the said Sir Francis 
sent unto master William Killigrew, of 
her Majesty's Privy Chamber. 

But to return to the fight, the Span- [200 
i^ ships which attempted to board the 
Reoenge^ as they were wounded and beaten 
off, so sdways others came in their places, 
she having never less than two mighty 
galleons by her sides and aboard her. So 
that ere the morning, from three of the 
dock the day before there had fifteen 
sev^al armados assailed her; and all so 
ill approved their entertainment, as they 
were by the break of day far more will- [210 
ing to hearken to a composition than has- 
tily to make any more assaults or entries. 
But as the day increased, so our men de- 
creased; and as the light grew more and 
more, by so much more grew our discom- 
forts. For none appeared in sight but 
enemies, saving one small ship called the 
PUgrim, commanded by Jacob Whiddon, 
who hovered all night to see the success; 
but in the morning, bearing with the [220 



Revenge, was hunted like a hare among 
many ravenous hoimds, but escaped. 

All the powder of the Revenge to the 
last barrel was now spent, all her pikes 
broken, forty of her best men slain, and 
the most part of the rest hurt. In the 
beginning of the fight she had but one 
hundred free from sickness, and fourscore 
and ten sick, laid in hold upon the ballast. 
A small troop to man such a ship, [230 
and a weak garrison to resist so mighty 
an army! By those hundred all was sus- 
tained, the volleys, boardings, and enter- 
ings of fifteen slups of war, besides those 
which beat her at large. On the contrary 
the Spanish were always supplied witi 
soldiers brought from every squadron, 
all manner of arms, and powder at will. 
Unto ours there remained no comfort 
at all, no hope, no supply either of [240 
ships, men, or weapons; the masts all 
beaten overboard, all her tackle cut asun- 
der, her upper work altogether razed; and, 
in effect, evened she was with the water, 
but the very foundation or bottom of a 
ship, nothing being left overhead either 
for flight or defence. 

Sir Richard finding himself in this dis- 
tress, and imable any longer to make re- 
sistance,— having endured in this fif- [250 
teen hours' fight the assault of fifteen sev- 
eral armados, all by turns aboard him, 
and by estimation eight hundred shot of 
great artillery, besides many assaults and 
entries, and that himself and the ship 
must needs be possessed by the enemy, 
who were now cast in a ring round about 
him, the Revenge not able to move one way 
or other but as she was moved by the 
waves and billow of the sea, — com- [260 
manded the master gimner, whom he knew 
to be a most resolute man, to split and sink 
the ship, that thereby nothing might re- 
main of glory or victory to the Spaniards, 
seeing in so many hours' fight, and with 
so great a navy, they were not able to 
take her, having had fifteen hours' time, 
fifteen thousand men, and fifty and three 
sail of men-of-war to perform it withal; 
and persuaded the company, or as [270 
many as he could induce, to yield them- 
selves imto God, and to the mercy of none 
else, but, as they had, like valiant resolute 
men, repulsed so many enemies, they 



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should not now shorten the honor of their 
nation by prolonging their own lives for a 
few hours or a few days. 

The master gunner readily conde- 
scended, and divers others. But the Cap- 
tain and the Master were of another [280 
opinion and besought Sir Richard to 
have care of them, alleging that the 
Spaniard would be as ready to entertain 
a composition as they were willing to offer 
the same, and that there being divers 
sufficient and valiant men yet living, and 
whose wounds were not mortal, they 
might do their country and prince ac- 
ceptable service hereafter. And (that 
where Sit Richard had alleged that [290 
the Spaniards should never glory to have 
taken one ship of her Majesty's, seeing 
that they had so long and so nota- 
bly defended themselves) they answered 
that the ship had six foot of water in 
hold, three shot under water which were 
so weakly stopped as, with the first work- 
ing of the sea, she must needs sink, and was 
besides so crushed and bruised as she could 
never be removed out of the place. [300 

And as the matter was thus in dispute, 
and Sir Richard refusing to hearken to 
any of those reasons, the Master of the 
Revenge (while the Captain won imto 
him the greater party) was convoyed 
aboard the General Don Alfonso Bassan, 
Who finding none over hasty to enter the 
Revenge again, doubting lest Sir Richard 
would have blown them up and himself, 
and perceiving by the report of the [310 
Master of the Revenge his dangerous dis- 
position, yielded that all their lives should 
be saved, the company sent for England, 
and the better sort to pay such reasonable 
ransom as their estate would bear, and 
in the mean season to be free from galley 
or imprisonment. To this he so much 
the rather condescended, as well, as I have 
said, for fear of further loss and mischief 
to themselves, as also for the desire he [320 
had to recover Sir Richard GrenvUle; 
whom for his notable valor he seemed 
greatly to honor and admire. 

When this answer was returned, and 
that safety of life was promised, the com- 
mon sort being now at the end of their 
peril, the most drew back from Sir Richard 
and the gunner, being no hard matter to 



dissuade men from death to life. The 
master gunner finding himself and Sir [330 
Richard thus prevented and mastered by 
the greater number, would have slain 
himself with a sword had he not been by 
force withheld and locked into his cabin. 
Then the General sent many boats aboard 
the Revenge, and divers of our men, fearing 
Sir Riclwxd's disposition, stole away 
aboard the General and other ships. Sir 
Richard, thus overmatched, was sent 
unto by Alfonso Bassan to remove [340 
out of the Revenge, the ship being nuur- 
vellous imsavory, filled with blood and 
bodies of dead and wounded men like a 
slaughter-house. Sir Richard answered 
that he might do with his body what he 
list, for he esteemed it not; and as he was 
carried out of the ship he swooned, and 
reviving again, desired the company to 
pray for him. The General used Sir 
Richard with all humanity, and left [350 
nothing unattempted that tended to his 
recovery, highly conmiending his valor 
and worthiness, and greatly bewailed the 
danger wherein he was, being unto them 
a rare spectacle, and a resolution seldom 
approved, to see one ship turn toward so 
many enemies, to endure the charge and 
boarding of so many huge armados, and 
to resist and repel the assaults and entries 
of so many soldiers. All which, and [360 
more, is confirmed by a Spanish captain 
of the same Armada, and a present actor 
in the fight, who, being severed from the 
rest in a storm, was by the Lion, of Lon- 
don, a small ship, taken, and is now pris- 
oner in London. 

The General Commander of the Armada 
was Don Alfonso Bassan, brother to the 
Marquis of Santa Cruce. The Admiral 
of the Biscayan squadron was Britan [370 
Dona; of the squadron of Seville, Marquis 
of Arumburch. The Hulks and Fly-boats 
were conmianded by Luis Cutino. There 
were slain and drowned in this fight well 
near two thousand of the enemies, and 
two e^)ecial Commanders, Don Luis de 
Sant John, and Don George de Pnmaria de 
Malaga, as the Spanish Captain conf esseth, 
besides divers others of special account, 
whereof as yet report is not made. [380 

The Admiral of the Hulks and the 
Ascension of Seville were both sunk by 



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the side of the Revenge; one other re- 
covered the road of Saint Michaels, and 
sunk also there; a fourth ran herself with 
the shore to save her men. Sir Richard 
died, as it is said, the second or third day 
aboard the General, and was by them 
greatly bewailed. What became of his 
body, whether it was buried in the sea [390 
or on the land, we know not: the com- 
fort that remaineth to his friends is, that 
he hath ended his life honorably in respect 
of the reputation won to his nation and 
country, and of the same to his posterity, 
and that, being dead, he hath not out- 
lived his own honor. . . . 

A few days after the fight was ended, 
and the English prisoners dispersed into 
the Spanish and Indian ships, there [400 
arose so great a storm from the west and 
northwest that all the fleet was dispersed, 
as wdl the Indian fleet which were then 
come unto them, as the rest of the Armada 
which attended their arrival. Of which, 
fourteen sail, together with the Revenge 
(and in her two hundred Spaniards), were 
cast away upon the isle of St. Michaels. 
So it pleased them to honor the burial of 
that renowned ship the Revenge, not [410 
suffering her to perish alone, for the great 
honor ^e achieved in her lifetime. . . . 

To OHiclude, it hath ever to this day 
pleased God to prosper and defend her 
Majesty, to bresik the purposes of ma- 
licious enemies, of forsworn traitors, and 
of unjust practises and invasions. She 
hath ever been honored of the worthiest 
kings, served by faithful subjects, and shall 
by the favor of God resist, repel, and [420 
confound all whatsoever attempts against 
hersacredpersonorkingdom. Inthemean- 
time, let the Spaniard and traitor vaimt of 
their success; and we, her true and obedient 
vassak, guided by the shining light of her 
virtues, shall always love her, serve her, 
and obey her to the end of our lives. 



A 



FRANCIS bacon! (156]!-1626) 

From THE ESSAYS 

Essay I.— OF TRUTH 

Whal is truth? said jesting Pilate, and 
would not stay for an answer. Certainly 
there be' that delight in giddiness, and 



count it a bondage to fix a belief; affect- 
ing free-will in thinking, as well as in 
acting. And though the sects of philos- 
ophers of that kind be gone, yet there 
remain certain discoursing wits which 
are of the same veins, though there be 
not so much blood in them as was in [10 
those of the ancients. But it is not only 
the difficulty and labor which men take 
in finding out of truth, nor again that 
when it is found it imposeth upon men's 
thoughts, that doth bring lies in favor; 
but a natural though corrupt love of the 
lie itself. On^e of the later school of the 
Grecians examineth the matter, and is at 
a stand to think what should be in it, 
that men should love lies, where [20 
neither they make for pleasure, as with 
poets, nor for advantage, as with the 
merchant, but for the lie's sake. But I 
cannot tell: this same truth is a naked and 
open day-light, that doth not show the 
masks and miunmeries and triumphs of 
the world, half so stately and daintily as 
candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come 
to the price of a pearl, tlmt showeth best 
by day; but it will not rise to the price [30 
of a diamond or carbimcle, that showeth 
best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie 
doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man 
doubt, that if there were taken out of 
men's minds vain opinions, flattering 
hopes, false valuations, imaginations as 
one would, and the like, but it would 
leave the minds of a number of men poor 
shrunken things, full of melancholy and 
indisposition, and unpleasing to them- [40 
selves? One of the Fathers, in great 
severity, called poesy vinum dcemanumj 
because it fiileth the imagination, and yet 
it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it 
is not the lie that passeth through the 
mind, but the lie that sinketh in and 
settleth in it, that doth the hurt, such as 
we spake of before. But howsoever these 
things are thus in men's depraved judg- 
ments and affections, yet truth, which [50 
only doth judge itself, teacheth that the 
inquiry of truth, which is the love-making 
or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, 
which is the presence of it, and the belief 
of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is 
the sovereign good of human nature. The 
first creature of God, in the works of the 



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days, was the light of the sense; the last 
was the light of reason; and his sabbath 
work, ever since, is the illumination of [60 
his Spirit. First he breathed light upon 
the face of the matter or chaos; then he 
breathed' light into the face of man; and 
still he breatheth and inspireth light into 
the face of his chosen. The poet that 
beautified the sect that was otherwise 
inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently 
well: It is a pleasure to stand upon the 
shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea: a 
pleasure to stand in the window of a [70 
castle, and to see a battle and the adventures 
thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable 
to the standing upon the vantage ground 
of Truth (a hill not to be conmianded, and 
where the air is always clear and serene), 
and to see the errors, and wanderings, and 
mists, and tempests, in the vale bdow: so 
always that this prospect be with pity, 
and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, 
it is heaven upon earfii, to have a man's [80 
mind move in charity, rest in providence, 
and turn upon the poles of trutib. 

To pass from theological and philosoph- 
ical truth, to the truth of dvil business: 
it will be acknowledged, even by those 
that practise it not, t^t clear and round 
dealing is the honor of man's nature; and 
that mixture of falsehood is like alloy in 
coin of gold and silver; which may miake 
the metal work the better, but it em- [90 
baseth it. For these winding and crooked 
courses are the goings of the serpent; 
which goeth basely upon the belly, and 
not upon the feet. There is no vice that 
doth so cover a man with shame as to be 
found false and perfidious. And therefore 
Montaigne saith prettily, when he in- 
quired the reason, why the word of the 
lie should be such a disgrace and such 
an odious charge? Saith he, // it be [100 
weU weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as 
much to say as that he is brave towards God 
and a coward towards men. For a lie faces 
God, and shrinks from man. Surely the 
wickedness of falsehood and breach of 
faith cannot possibly be so highly ex- 
pressed, as in that it shall be the last peal 
to. call the judgments of God upon the 
generations of men; it being foretold, 
that when Christ cometh, he shall not [no 
find faith upon the earth. 



Essay v.— OF ADVERSITY 

It was an high speech of Seneca (aittr 
the manner of the Stoics): That the good 
things which belong to prosperity are to be 
wished; but the good things that belong to 
adversity are to be admired. Bona rerum 
secundarum optabilia, adversarum mira- 
bilia. Certainly if miracles be the com- 
mand over nature, they appear most in 
adversity. It is yet a higher speech of 
his than the other (much too high for [10 
a heathen): It is true greatness to have in 
one the frailty of a man, and the security 
of a God. Vere magnum, habere fragilita- 
tem hominis, securitatem Dei. This would 
have done better in poesy, where tranr 
scendences are more allowed. And the 
poets indeed have been busy with it; for 
it is in eflfect the thing which is figured in 
that strange fiction of the ancient poets, 
which seemeth not to be without mys- [20 
tery; nay, and to have some approach to 
the state of a Christian: that Hercules, 
when he went to unbind Prometheus (by 
whom human nature is represented), 
sailed the length of the great ocean in an 
earthen pot or pitcher: lively describing 
Christian resolution, that saileth in the 
frail bark of the flesh through the waves 
of the world. But to speak in a mean. 
The virtue of prosperity is temperance; [30 
the virtue of adversity is fortitude, which 
in morals is the more heroical virtue. 
Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Tes- 
tament; adversity is the blessing of the 
New, which carrieth the greater benedic- 
tion, and the clearer revelation of God's 
favor. Yet even in the Old Testament, 
if you listen to David's harp, you shall 
hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; 
and the pencU of the Holy Ghost hath [40 
labored more in describing the afflictions 
of Job than the felicities of Salomon. 
Prosperity is not without many fears and 
distastes; and adversity is not without 
comforts and hopes. We see in needle- 
works and embroideries, it is more pleas- 
ing to have a lively work upon a sad and 
solemn ground, than to have a dark and 
melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: 
judge therefore of the pleasure of the [50 
heart by the pleasure of the eye. Cer- 
tainly virtue is like precious odors, most 



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fragrant when they are incensed or crushed: 
for prosperity doth best discover vice; but 
adversity doth best discover virtue. 



Essay VH.— OF MARRIAGE AND 
SINGLE LIFE 

He that hath wife and children hath 
given hostages to fortune; for they are 
impediments to great enterprises, either 
of virtue or mischief. Certainly tie best 
works, and of greatest merit for the pub- 
lic, have proceeded from the immarried 
or childless men, which both in affection 
and means have married and endowed 
the public. Yet it were great reason that 
those that have children should have [10 
greatest care of futiu'e times; unto which 
they know they must transmit their dear- 
est pledges. Some there are, who though 
they lead a single life, yet their thoughts 
do end with themselves, and accoimt 
future times impertinences. Nay, there 
are some other that account wife and 
children but as bills of charges. Nay 
more, there are some foolish rich covetous 
men that take a pride in having no [20 
children, because they may be thought so 
much the richer. For perhaps they have 
heard some talk. Such an one is a great 
rich man, and another except to it, Yea, 
but he hath a great charge of children; as 
if it were an abatement to his riches. But 
the most ordinary cause of a single life 
is liberty; especially in certain self -pleasing 
and humorous minds, which are so sensi- 
ble of every restraint, as they will go [30 
near to think their gmiles and garters to 
be bonds and shackles. Unmarried men 
are best friends, best masters, best serv- 
ants; but not always best subjects; for 
they are Ught to run away; and almost all 
fugitives are of that condition. A single 
life doth well with churchmen, for charity 
will hardly water the ground where it 
must first fill a pool. It is indifferent for 
judges and magistrates, for if they be [40 
fadle and corrupt, you shall have a serv- 
ant five times worse than a wife. For 
soldiers, I find the generals conunonly in 
their hortatives put men in mind of dieir 
wives and children; and I think the de- 
^)ising of marriage amongst the Turks 



maketh the vulgar soldier more base. 
Certainly wife and children are a kind of 
discipline of humanity; and single men, 
though they be many times more [50 
charitable, because their means are less 
exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are 
more cruel and hard-hearted (good to 
make severe inquisitors), because their 
tenderness is not so oft called upon. Grave 
natiu-es, led by custom, and therefore 
constant, are commonly loving husbands; 
as was said of Ulysses, Vetulam suam 
prtEttUit immortalitati. Chaste women 
are often proud and froward, as pre- [60 
suming upon the merit of their chastity. 
It is one of the best bonds both of chastity 
and obedience in the wife, if she think 
her husband wise; which she will never 
do if she find him jealous. Wives are 
yoimg men's mistresses; companions for 
middle age; and old men's nurses. So 
as a man may have a quarrel to marry 
when he will. But yet he was reputed one 
of the wise men, that made answer to [70 
the question, when a man should marry? — 
A young man not yet, an elder man not at 
all. It is often seen that bad husbands 
have very good wives; whether it be that 
it raiseth the price of their husband's 
kindness when it comes; or that the 
wives take a pride in their patience. But 
this never fails, if the bad husbands were 
of their own choosing, against their 
friends' consent; for then they will be [80 
siure to make good their own folly. 



Essay XI.-OF GREAT PLACE 

Men in great places are thrice servants: 
servants of the sovereign or state; serv- 
ants of fame; and servants of business. 
So as they have no freedom, neither in 
their persons, nor in their actions, nor in 
their times. It is a strange desire, to seek 
power and to lose liberty; or to seek power 
over others and to lose power over a man's 
self. The rising unto place is laborious, 
and by pains men come to greater [10 
p)ains; and it is sometimes base, and by 
indignities men come to dignities. The 
standing is slippery; and the regress is 
either a downfall, or at least an eclipse, 
which is a melancholy thing. Cum non 



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THE EUZABETHAN AGE 



sis quifueris, non esse cur velis vivere. Nay, 
retire men cannot when they would; 
neither will they when it were reason; 
but are impatient of privateness, even in 
age and sickness, which require the [20 
shadow: like old townsmen, that will be 
still sitting at their street door, though 
thereby they offer age to scorn. Cer- 
tainly, great persons had need to borrow 
other men's opinions, to think themselves 
happy; for if they judge by their own 
feeling, they cannot find it: but if they 
think with themselves what other men 
think of them, and that other men would 
fain be as they are, then they are [30 
happy as it were by report, when perhaps 
they find the contrary within. For they 
are the first that find their own griefs, 
though they be the last that find their 
own faults. Certainly, men in great for- 
times are strangers to themselves, and 
while they are in the puzzle of business 
they have no time to tend their health, 
either of body or mind. lUi mors gravis 
incubaty qui notus nimis omnibus , ignotus [40 
moriiur sibi. In place there is Ucence to 
do good and evil; whereof the latter is a 
curse: for in evil the best condition is not 
to will, the second not to can. But power 
to do good is the true and lawful end of 
aspiring. For good thoughts (though 
God accept them) yet towards men are 
little better than good dreams, except 
they be put in act ; and that cannot be with- 
out power and place, as the vantage [50 
and commanding groimd. Merit and 
good works is the end of man's motion; 
and conscience of the same is the accom- 
plishment of man's rest. For if a man 
can be partaker of God's theatre, he shall 
likewise be j)artaker of God's rest. Et 
conversus DeuSy ut aspiceret opera qua 
fecerufU manus sucb, vidU quod omnia essent 
bona nimis; and then the Sabbath. In the 
discharge of thy place, set before thee [60 
the best examples; for imitation is a globe 
of precepts. And after a time set before 
thee thme own example; and examine 
thyself strictly, whether thou didst not 
best at first. Neglect not also the ex- 
amples of those that have carried them- 
selves ill in the same place; not to set 
off thyself by taxing their memory, but 
to direct thyself wlu^t to avoid. Reform, 



therefore, without bravery or scandal of [70 
former times and persons; but yet set it 
down to thyself as well to create good 
precedents as to follow them. Reduce 
things to the first institution, and observe 
wherein and how they have degenerate; 
but yet ask coimsel of both times; of the 
ancient time, what is best; and of the 
latter time, what is fittest. Seek to make 
thy covu^e regular, that men may know 
beforehand what they may expect; but [80 
be not too positive and peremptory; and 
express thyself well when thou digressest 
from thy rule. Preserve the right of thy 
place, but stir not questions of jurisdic- 
tion: and rather assume thy right in 
silence and de facto, than voice it with 
claims and challenges. Preserve like- 
wise the rights of inferior places; and 
think it more honor to direct in chief than 
to be busy in all. Embrace and invite [90 
helps and advices touching the execution 
of thy place; and do not drive away 
such as bring thee information as meddlers, 
but accept of them in good part. The 
vices of authority are chiefly four: delays, 
corruption, roughness, and facility. For 
delays: give easy access; keep times ap- 
pointed; go through with that which is 
in hand; and interlace not business but of 
necessity. For corruption : do not only [100 
bind thine own hands or thy servants' 
hands from taking, but bind the hands of 
suitors also from offering. For int^rity 
used doth the one; but integrity prof^sed, 
and with a manifest detestation of bribery, 
doth the other. And avoid not only the 
fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is 
foimd variable, and changeth manifestly 
without manifest cause, giveth suspicion 
of corruption. Therefore always when (no 
thou changest thine opinion or course, 
profess it plainly and declare it, together 
with the reasons that move thee to change; 
and do not think to steal it. A servant 
or a favorite, if he be inward, and no 
other apparent cause of esteem, is com- 
monly thought but a by-way to close 
corruption. For roughness, it is a need- 
less cause of discontent: severity breedeth 
fear, but roughness breedeth hate. [130 
Even reproofs from authority ought to be 
grave, and not taunting. As for facility, 
it is worse than bribery. For bribes come 



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but now and then; but if importunity 
or idle respects lead a man, he shall never 
be without. As Salomon saith: To respect 
persons is not good; for such a man will 
transgress for a piece of bread. It is most 
true that was anciently spoken, A place 
showeth the man: and it showeth some to [130 
the better, and some to the worse. Om- 
nium consensu capax imperii, nisi im- 
perassetf saith Tacitus of Galba; but of 
Ve^)asian he saith, Solus imperantium 
Vespasianus muiatus in melius: though 
the one was meant of suflSciency, the 
other of manners and affection. It is an 
assiured sign of a worthy and generous 
^irit, whom honor amends. For honor is, 
OT should be, the place of virtue; and [140 
as in nature things move violently to their 
place, and calmly in their place; so virtue 
in ambition is violent, in authority settled 
and calm. All rising to great place is by 
a winding stair; and if t^ere be factions, 
it b good to side a man's self whilst he is 
in the rising, and to balance himself 
when he is placed. Use the memory of 
thy predecessor fairly and tenderly; for 
if thou dost not, it is a debt will sure [150 
be paid when thou art gone. If thou have 
colleagues, respect them, and rather call 
them when they look not for it, than ex- 
clude them when they have reason to 
look to be called. Be not too sensible or 
too remembering of thy place in con- 
versation and private answers to suitors; 
but let it rather be said, When he sits in 
place he is another man. 

Essay XXHI.— OF WISDOM FOR A 
MAN'S SELF 

An ant is a wise creatiu'e for itself, but 
it is a shrewd thing in an orchard or gar- 
den. And certainly men that are great 
lovers of themselves waste the public. 
Divide with reason between self-love and 
society; and be so true to tiiyself as thou 
be not false to others, speaally to thy 
king and country. It is a poor centre of 
a man's actions, himself. It is right 
earth. For that only stands fast upon [10 
his own centre; whereas all things that 
have affinity with the heavens move upon 
the centre of another, which they benefit. 
The referring of ail to a man's self is more 



tolerable in a sovereign prince; because 
themselves are not only themselves, but 
their good and evil is at the peril of the 
public fortune. But it is a desperate evil 
in a servant to a prince, or a citizen in a 
republic. For whatsoever affairs pass [20 
such a man's hands, he crooketh them to 
his own ends; which must needs be often 
eccentric to the ends of his master or state. 
Therefore let princes, or states, choose 
such servants as have not this mark; 
except they mean their service should be 
made but the accessory. That which 
maketh the effect more pernicious is that 
all proportion is lost. It were dispro- 
portion enough for the servant's good [30 
to be preferred before the master's; but 
yet it is a greater extreme, when a little 
good of the servant shall carry things 
against a great good of the master's. And 
yet that is the case of bad officers, treas- 
urers, ambassadors, generals, and other 
false and corrupt servants; which set a 
bias upon their bowl, of their own petty 
ends and envies, to the overthrow of their 
master's great and important affairs. [40 
And for the most part, the good such serv- 
ants receive is after the model of their 
own fortime; but the hurt they sell for 
that good is jJter the model of their 
master's fortune. And certainly it is the 
natiwe of extreme self-lovers, as they will 
set an house on fire, and it were but to 
roast their eggs; and yet these men many 
times hold credit with their masters, be- 
cause their study is but to please them [50 
and profit themselves; and for either re- 
spect they will abandon the good of their 
affairs. 

Wisdom for a man's self is, in many 
branches thereof, a depraved thing. It 
is the wisdom of rats, that will be sure to 
leave a house somewhat before it fall. It 
is the wisdom of the fox, that thrusts out 
the badger, who digged and made room 
for him. It is the wisdom of croco- [60 
diles, that shed tears when they woiild 
devour. But that which is specially to 
be noted is, that those which (as Cicero 
says of Pompey) are sui amantes sine 
rivaliy are many times unfortimate. And 
whereas they have all their time sacrificed 
to themselves, they become in the end 
themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy 



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of fortune, whose wings they thought by 
their self-wisdom to have pinioned. [70 

Essay XLU.— OF YOUTH AND AGE 

A man that is young in years may be 
old in hours, if he have lost no time. But 
that happeneth rarely. Generally, youth 
is like the first cogitations, not so wise 
as the second. For there is a youth in 
thoughts as well as in ages. And yet the 
invention of yoimg men is more lively 
than that of the old; and imaginations 
stream into their minds better, and, as it 
were, more divinely. Natures that [10 
have much heat, and great and violent 
desires and perturbations, are not ripe 
for action till they have passed the merid- 
ian of their years: as it was with Julius 
Caesar, and Septimius Severus. Of the 
latter of whom it is said, Juventutem egU 
erroribus, imo furoribus, plenam. And 
yet he was the ablest emperor, almost, 
of all the list. But reposed natures may 
do well in youth. As it is seen in Au- [20 
gustus Caesar, Cosmus, Duke of Florence, 
Gaston de Foix, and others. On the other 
side, heat and vivacity in age is an excel- 
lent composition for business. Young 
men are fitter to invent than to judge; 
fitter for execution than for counsel; and 
fitter for new projects than for settled 
business. For the experience of age, in 
things that fall within the compass of it, 
directeth them; but in new things, [30 
abuseth them. The errors of young men 
are the ruin of business; but the errors of 
aged men amoimt but to this, that more 
might have been done, or sooner. Young 
men, in the conduct and manage of ac- 
tions, embrace more than they can hold; 
stir more than they can quiet; fly to the 
end, without consideration of the means 
and degrees; pursue some few principles 
which they have chanced upon ab- [40 
surdly; care not to innovate, which draws 
unknown inconveniences; use extreme 
remedies at first; and, that which doubleth 
all errors, will not acknowledge or retract 
them; like an unready horse, that will 
neither stop nor turn. Men of age object 
too much, consult too long, adventure 
too little, rep)ent too soon, and seldom 
drive business home to the full period. 



but content themselves with a medioc- [5c 
rity of success. Certainly, it is good to 
compoimd employments of both; for that 
will be good for the present, because the 
virtues of either age may correct the de- 
fects of both; and good for succession, 
that young men may be learners, while 
men in age are actors; and, lastly, good 
for extern accidents, because audiority 
followeth old men, and favor and pq[)u- 
larity youth. But for the moral part, [60 
perhaps youth will have the pre-eminence, 
as age hath for the politic. A certain 
rabbin, upon the text, Your young men 
shall see visions, and your old men shall 
dream dreams, inferreth that young men 
are admitted nearer to God than old, 
because vision is a dearer revelation than 
a dream. And certainly, the more a man 
drinketh of the world, the more it in- 
toxicateth; and age doth profit rather [70 
in the powers of imderstanding, than in 
the virtues of the will and affections. 
There be some have an over-early ripeness 
in their years, which fadeth betimes. 
These are, first, such as have brittle wits, 
the edge whereof is soon turned; such as 
was Hermogenes the rhetorician, whose 
books are exceeding subtile, who after- 
wards waxed stupid. A second sort is of 
those that have some natural disposi- [80 
tions which have better grace in youth 
than in age; such as is a fluent and luxuri- 
ant speech, which becomes youth well, 
but not age: so Tully saith of Hortensius, 
Idem manebat, neque idem docebat. The 
third is of such as take too high a strain 
at the first, and are magnanimous more 
than tract of years can uphold. As was 
Scipio Africanus, of whom Livy saith in 
effect, Ultima primis cedebant. [90 

Essay XLVI.— OF GARDENS 

God Almighty first planted a garden. 
And indeed it is the purest of human 
pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment 
to the spirits of man; without which, 
buildings and palaces are but gross handi- 
works: and a man shall ever see that when 
ages grow to civility and elegancy, men 
come to build stately sooner than to 
garden finely; as if gardening were the 
greater perfection. I do hold it, in the [10 



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royal ordering of gardens, there ought to 
be gardens for all the months in the year; 
in which, severally, things of beauty may 
be then in season. For December and 
January and the latter part of November, 
you must take such things as are green 
all winter: holly, ivy, bays, juniper, 
cypress-trees, yew, pine-apple-trees, fir- 
trees, rosemary, lavender, periwinkle, — 
the white, the purple, and the blue, — [20 
germander, flags, orange-trees, lemon- 
trees, and myrtles, if they be stoved, and 
sweet marjoram, warm set. There fol- 
loweth, for the latter part of January and 
February, the mezereon-tree, which then 
blossoms, crocus vemus, both the yellow 
and the gray, primroses, anemones, the 
early tulippa, hyacinthus orientalis, cha- 
mairis, fritillaria. For March, there come 
violets, specially the single blue, which [30 
are the earliest, the yellow daffodil, the 
daisy, the almond-tree in blossom, the 
peach-tree in blossom, the cornelian-tree 
in blossom, sweet briar. In April follow 
the double white violet, the wall-flower, 
the stock-gilljrflower, the cowslip, flower- 
delices and lilies of all natures, rosemary 
flowers, the tulippa, the double peony, 
the pale daffodil, the French honeysuckle, 
the cherry-tree in blossom, the dam^ [40 
masin and plum-trees in blossom, the 
white-thorn in leaf, the lilac-tree. In 
May and June come pinks of all sorts, 
specially the blush pink, roses of all kinds, 
except the musk, which comes later, 
honeysuckles, strawberries, bugloss, col- 
umbine, the French marygold, flos Afri- 
canus, cherry-tree in fruit, ribes, figs in 
fruit, rasps, vine flowers, lavender in 
flowers, the sweet satyrian, with the [50 
white flower, herba muscaria, lilium con- 
vallium, the apple-tree in blossom. In 
July come gilljrflowers of all varieties, 
musk-roses, tiie lime-tree in blossom, early 
pears and plums in fruit, ginnitings, 
quadlins. In August come plums of all 
sorts in fruit, pears, apricocks, barberries, 
filberts, musk-melons, monks-hoods of 
all colors. In September come grapes, 
apples, poppies of all colors, peaches, [60 
mdocotones, nectarines, cornelians, war- 
dens, quinces. In October and the be- 
ginning of November come services, 
medlars, bullises, roses cut or removed to 



come late, hollyhocks, and such like. 
These particulars are for the climate of 
London; but my meaning is perceived, 
that you may have ver perpetuum, as the 
place affords. 

And because the breath of flowers is [70 
far sweeter in the air (where it comes and 
goes, like the warbling of music) than in 
the hand, therefore nothing is more fit 
for that delight, than to know what be the 
flowers and plants that do best perfume 
the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast 
flowers of their smells, so that you may 
walk by a whole row of them, and find 
nothing of their sweetness; yea, though 
it be in a morning's dew. Bays like- [80 
wise yield no smell as they grow. Rose- 
mary little; nor sweet marjoram. That 
which above all others yields the sweetest 
smell in the air, is the violet; specially 
the white double violet, which comes twice 
a year, about the middle of April, and 
about Bartholomewtide. Next to that 
is the musk-rose. Then the strawberry- 
leaves dying, which [yield] a most ex- 
cellent cordwJ smell. Then the flower [90 
of the vines; it is a little dust, like the 
dust of a bent, which grows upon the 
cluster in the first coming forth. Then 
sweet briar. Then wall-flowers, which 
are very delightful to be set imder a parlor 
or lower chamber window. Then pinks 
and gillyflowers, specially the matted 
pink and clove gillyflower. Then the 
flowers of the lime-tree. Then the honey- 
suckles, so they be somewhat afar [100 
off. Of bean flowers I speak not, because 
they are field flowers. But those which 
perfume the air most delightfully, not 
passed by as the rest, but being trodden 
upon and crushed, are three: that is, 
bumet, wild thyme, and water-mints. 
Therefore you are to set whole alleys of 
them, to have the pleasure when you 
walk or tread. 



-For foimtains, they are a great [no 
beauty and refreshment; but pools mar 
all, and make the garden unwholesome 
and full of flies and frogs. Fountains I 
intend to be of two natures: the one, 
that sprinkleth or spouteth water; the 
other, a fair receipt of water, of some 



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thirty or forty foot square, but without 
fish, or slime, or mud. For the first, the 
ornaments of images gilt, or of marble, 
which are in use, do well : but the main [120 
matter is, so to convey the water, as it 
never stay, either in the bowls or in the 
cistern; that the water be never by rest 
discolored, green or red or the like, or 
gather any mossiness or putrefaction. 
Besides that, it is to be cleansed every 
day by the hand. Also some steps up to 
it, and some fine pavement about it, doth 
well. As for the other kind of fountain, 
which we may call a bathing pool, it [130 
may admit much curiosity and beauty, 
wherewith we will not trouble ourselves: 
as, that the bottom be finely paved, and 
with images; the sides likewise; and withal 
embellished with colored glass, and such 
things of lustre; encompassed also with 
fine rails of low statues. But the main 
point is the same which we mentioned in 
the former kind of fountain; which is, 
that the water be in perpetual motion, [140 
fed by a water higher than the pool, and 
delivered into it by fair spouts, and then 
discharged away under ground, by some 
equality of bores, that it stay little. And 
for fine devices, of arching water without 
spilling, and making it rise in several 
forms (of feathers, drinking glasses, 
canopies, and the like), they be pretty 
things to look on, but nothing to health 
and sweetness. [150 



Essay L.— OF STUDIES 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, 
and for ability. Their chief use for de- 
light is in privateness and retiring; for 
ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, 
is in the judgment and disposition of 
business. For expert men can execute, 
and perhaps judge of particulars, one by 
one; but the general coimsels, and the 
plots and marshalling of affairs, come 
best from those that are learned. To [10 
spend too much time in studies is sloth; 
to use them too much for ornament is 
affectation; to make judgment wholly by 
their rules is the humor of a scholar. They 
perfect nature, and are perfected by ex- 
perience; for natural abilities are like 



natural plants, that need pruning by 
study; and studies themselves do give 
forth directions too much at large, except 
they be bounded in by experience. [20 
Craifty men contenm studies; simple men 
admire them; and wise men use them: 
for they teach not their own use; but 
that is a wisdom without them and above 
them, won by observation. Read not to 
contradict and confute; nor to believe 
and take for granted; nor to find talk and 
discourse; but to weigh and consider. 
Some books are to be tasted, others to 
be swallowed, and some few to be [30 
chewed and digested: that is, some boc^ 
are to be read only in parts; others to be 
read, but not curiously; and some few 
to be read wholly, and with diligence and 
attention. Some books also may be read 
by deputy, and extracts made of them 
by others; but that would be only in the 
less important arguments, and the meaner 
sort of books; else distilled books are like 
common distilled waters, flashy things. [40 
iReading maketh a full man; conference 
a ready man; and writing an exact man. 
And therefore, if a man write little, he 
had need have a great memory; if he con- 
fer little, he had need have a present wit; 
and if he read little, he had need have 
much cunning, to seem to know that he 
doth not. Histories make men wise; 
poets witty; the mathematics subtile; 
natural philosophy deep; moral, grave; [50 
logic and rhetoric able to contend. Abeunt 
siudia in mares. Nay, there is no stond 
or impediment in the wit, but may be 
wrought out by fit studies: like as diseases 
of the body may have appropriate exer- 
cises. Bowling is good for the stone and 
reins; shooting for the lungs and breast; 
gentle walking for the stomach; riding 
for the head; and the like. So if a man's 
wit be wandering, let him study the [60 
mathematics; for in demonstrations, if 
his wit be called away never so little, he 
must begin again: if his wit be not apt to 
distinguish or find differences, let him 
study the schoolmen; for they are cymini 
sectores: if he be not apt to beat over mat- 
ters, and to call up one thing to prove 
and illustrate another, let him study the 
lawyers' cases: so every defect of the mind 
may have a special receipt. [70 



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CAROLINE SONG WRITERS 

GEORGE WITHER (1688-1667) 

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die, because a woman's fair? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day, S 

Or the flow'ry meads in May, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be? 

Should my heart be grieved or pined, 

'Cause I see a woman kind? lo 

Or a well disposM nature 

JoinM with a lovely feature? 

Be she meeker, kinder than 

Turtle dove, or pelican. 
If she be not so to me, iS 

What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her well deserving known, 
Make me quite forget mine own? 20 

Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of best, 
If she be not such to me. 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 25 

Shall I play the fool and die? 

Those that bear a noble mind. 

Where they want of riches find, 

Think, "What, with them, they would 

do 
That, without them, dare to woo! " 30 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I though great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair! 



If she love me (this believe!) 35 

I will die, ere she shall grieve; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn, and let her go; 

For if she be not for me. 

What care I for whom she be? 40 



THOMAS CAREW (1698P-1639?) 

ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE 
BESTOWS 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your b^uty's orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 5 

The golden atoms of the day, 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hau:. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past; 10 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night, 
For in your eyes they sit, and there is 
FixM become as in Aeir sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 

The phoenix builds her spicy nest; > 

For unto you at last she flies. 

And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20 



HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires; 
As old Time makes these decay, 5 
So his flames must waste away. 



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But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires; lo 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 

My resolved heart to return; 
I have searched thy soul within 15 

And find naught but pride and scorn; 
I have learned thy arts, and now 
Can disdain as much as thou. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642) 
CONSTANCY 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together! 

And am like to love three more. 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings 5 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 
Is due at all to me: 10 

Love with me had made no stays, 
Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she. 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 15 

A dozen dozen in her place. 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND 
LOVER? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale? 5 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prithee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do 't? 

Prithee, why so mute? 10 



Quit, quit for shame! This will not move, 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her: 

The devil take her! 15 



RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1668) 

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE 
WARS 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nimnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 5 

The first foe in the field; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore; 10 

I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor more. 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfinM wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 5 

And fettered to her eye, 
The gods that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups nm swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 10 

Our careless heads with roses boimd. 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep is 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed^ linnets, I 
With shriller throat shall sing 

The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 
And glories of my king; ao 

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When I shall voice aloud how good 
He is, how great should be, 

Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 
Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 25 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage; 
D I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 30 

Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



JAMES SHIRLEY (1696-1666) 

A DIRGE 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings: 

Sceptre and crown 5 

Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where Uiey kill ; 10 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
Tliey tame but one another still: 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 16 

The garlands wither on your brow; 

Then boast no more voiu: mighty deeds; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See where the victor- victim bleeds: 20 
Yoiu" heads must come 
To the cold tomb; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smdl sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



ROBERT HERRICK (1691-1674) 

THE ARGUMENT OF fflS BOOK 

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and 

bowers, 
Of April, May, of June and July-flowers; 



I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, 

wakes. 
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal 

cakes; 
I write of youth, of love, and have access 5 
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness; 
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece. 
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris; 
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write 
How roses first came red and lilies white; 
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing n 
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy Kmg; 
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) 
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all. 



UPON THE LOSS OF HIS 
MISTRESSES 

I have lost, and lately, these 

Many dainty mistresses: 

Stately Julia, prime of all; 

Sapho next, a princip)al; 

Smooth Anthea, for a skin 5 

White and heaven-like crystalline; 

Sweet Electra, and the choice 

Myrha, for the lute and voice. 

Next, Corinna, for her wit. 

And the graceful use of it; 10 

With Penlla: all are gone. 

Only Herrick's left alone. 

For to number sorrow by 

Their departures hence, and die. 



CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming 
mom 

Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colors through the air: 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 5 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 

Each flower has wept and bowed toward 
the east 

Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; 
Nay! not so much as out of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said 10 
And sung their thankful hynms, 'tis sin. 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, 

Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in 
May. 



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Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen 15 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh 
and green. 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or hair: 
Fear not; the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you: 20 

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
Against you come, some orient pearls im- 
wept; 
Come and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 
And Titan^ on the eastern hill 25 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief 

in praying: 
Few beads^ are best when once we go a- 
Ma3dng. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, 

mark 
How each field turns a street, each street 
a park 30 

Made green and trimmed with trees; 

see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch: each porch, each door ere 

this 
An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of white-thorn, neatly inter- 
wove; 35 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields and we not see't? 
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May: 40 
And sin no more, as we have done, by 

staying; 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Majring. 

There's not a budding bay or girl this day 

But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 45 

Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cakes and 

cream 
Before that we have left to dream: 
And some have wept, and wooed, and 

plighted troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off 
sloth: so 

Many a green-gown has been given; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even: 



1 the sun. 



' prayers. 



Many a glance too has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament; 
Many*a jest told of the keys betraying 55 
This night, and locks picked, yet we're 
not a-Maying. 

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; 

And take the harmless folly of the time. 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 60 

Our life is short, and our days run 
As fast away as does the sim; 

And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, 

Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 
So when or you or I are made 6$ 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 
All love, all liking, all delight 
Lies drowned widi us in endless night. 

Then while time serves, and we are but 
decaying. 

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a- 
Maying. 70 



TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH 
OF TIME 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 

Old Tune is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 5 

The higher he's a-getting. 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer; 10 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use yoiu* time. 
And while ye may, go marry; 

For, having lost but once your prime, 15 
You may forever tarry. 



HOW ROSES CAME RED 

Roses at first were white. 
Till they could not agree, 

Whether my Sapho's breast 
Or they more white should be. 



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But being vanquished quite, 5 

A blush their cheeks bespread; 

Sidce which, believe the rest. 
The roses first came red. 

TO DAFFODILS 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained Im noon. 

Stay, stay, 5 

Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 10 

We have short time to stay as you; 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay. 
As you, or anything. 

We die 15 

As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew. 
Ne'er to be found again. 20 

NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The footing stars attend thee; 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 5 

No \Wll-o'-th'-Wisp mis-light thee. 
Nor snake nor slow- worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way. 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; n 

What though the moon does slimiber? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 15 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus, to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 

TTiy silvery feet 
My soul I'll pom- into thee. 20 



UPON JULL\'S CLOTHES 



Whenas in silks my Julia goes. 

Then, then, methmks, how sweetly flows 

The Uquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see 
That brave vibration, each way free, s 
Oh, how that glittering taketh me! 



AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON 

Ah, Ben! 

Say how or when 

Shall we, thy guests. 

Meet at those lyric feasts, 

Made at the Sun, 5 

The Dog, the Triple Tun; 

Where we such clusters had. 

As made us nobly wild, not mad? 

And yet each verse of thine 

Out-did the meat out-did the frolic wine. 



My Ben! 

Or come again. 

Or send to us 

Thy wit's great overplus; 

But teach us yet 

Wisely to husband it, 

Lest we that talent spend; 

And having once brought to an end 

That precious stock, the store 

Of such a wit the world should have 



15 



no 



more. 



GRACE FOR A CHILD 

Here, a little child, I stand, 
Heaving up my either hand: 
Cold as paddocks though they be, 
Here I lift them up to thee. 
For a benison to fall 
On oiu- meat, and on us all. Amen. 



TO KEEP A TRUE LENT 

Is this a fast, to keep 
The larder lean. 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep? 



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Is it to quit the dish s 


My lines and life are free; free as the road, 


Of flesh, yet still 


Loose as the wind, as large as store.* 5 


To mi 


ShaU I be still in suit? * 


The platter high with fish? 


Have I no harvest but a thorn 




To let me blood, and not restore 


Is it to fast an hour. 


What I have lost with cordial* fruit? 


Or ragg'd to go, lo 


Sure there was wine 10 


Or show 


Before my sighs did dry it; there was 


A downcast look, and sour? 


com 




Before my tears did drown it; 


No; 'tis a fast, to dole 


Is the year only lost to me? 


Thy sheaf of wheat 


Have I no bays to crown it. 


And meat 15 


No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, 15 


Unto the hungry soul. 


AJl wasted? 




Not so, my heart; but there is fruit. 


It is to fast from strife, 


And thou hast hands. 


From old debate, 


Recover all thy sigh-blown age 


And hate; 


On double pleasures; leave thy cold dis- 


To circumcise thy life. 20 


pute 20 




Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, 


To show a heart grief -rent; 


Thy rope of sands 


To starve thy sin. 


Which petty thoughts have made, and 


Not bin; 


made to thee 


And that's to keep thy Lent. 


Good cable, to enforce and draw, 




And be thy law, 25 




While thou didst wink' and wouldst not 


GBGRGB HERBERT (1598-1633) 


see. 


VIRTUE 


Away! take heed! 




I will abroad. 


Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 


Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy 


The bridal of the earth and sky, 


fears: 


The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 


He that forbears 30 


For thou must die. 


To suit and serve his need 




Deserves his load." 


Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 5 


But as I raved, and grew more fierce and 


Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 


wild 


Thy root is ever in its grave. 


At every word. 


And thou must die. 


Methought I heard one railing, "Child! " 




And I replied, " My Lord! '' 36 


Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses. 




A box where sweets comj)acted lie, 10 




My music shows ye have your doses, 


THE QUIP 


And all must die. 






The merry World did on a day 


Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 


With his train-bands and mates agree 


Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 


To meet together where I lay, 


But though the whole world turn to coal,i5 


And all in sport to jeer at me. 


Then chiefly lives. 






First Beauty crept into a rose, s 
Which when I plucked not, "Sir," said 
she. 


THE COLLAR 


I struck the board, and cried, "No more; 


"Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" 


I will abroad!. 


But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 


What! shall I ever sigh and pine? 


1 plenty. < revivifying. * shut the eyn. 



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Then Money came, and chinking stiU, 
"What tune is this, poor man? " said he; 

" I heard in music you had skill ; " n 

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Then came brave Glory puffing by 
In silks that whistled, who but he! 

He scarce allowed me half an eye; 15 

But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Then came quick Wit and Conversation, 
And he would needs a comfort be, 

And, to be short, make an oration: 
But TTiou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 20 

Yet when the hour of Thy design 
To answer these fine things shall come. 

Speak not at large; say, I am Thine, 
And then they have their answer home. 



THE PULLEY 

When God at first made man. 
Having a glass of blessings standing by; 
"Let us," said He, "pour on him all we 
can: 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed 
lie, 
Contract into a span." 5 

So Strength first made a way; 
Then Beauty flowed; then Wisdom, Honor, 
Pleasing. 
When almost all was out, God made a 
stay. 
Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure, 
Rest in the bottom lay. 10 

"For if I should," said He, 
" Bestow this jewel also on My creature. 
He would adore My gifts instead of 
Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Na- 
ture; 
So both should losers be. 15 

"Yet let him keep the rest. 
But keep them with repining restless- 
ness; 
Let him be rich and weary, that at 
least. 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
May toss him to My breast." 20 



RICHARD CRASHAW (1618?-^1649) 

IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR 
LORD GOD 

a hymn sx7ng as by the shepherds 

Chorus 

Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
Hath met Love's noon in Natiu-e's night; 
Come, lift we up oiu* loftier song 
And wake the sun that lies too long. 

To all our world of well-stolen joy 5 
He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, 

While we found out heaven's fairer eye 
And kissed the cradle of our King. 

Tell him he rises now too late 
To show us aught worth looking at. 10 

Tell him we now can show him more 
Than he e'er showed to mortal sight, 

Than he himself e'er saw before, 
Which to be seen needs not his light. 

Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been 
Tell him, Th)nrsis, what th' hast seen. 16 

Tityrus. Gloomy night embraced the 

place 
Where the noble Infant lay. 
The Babe looked up and showed His 
face; 
In spite of darkness, it was day. 20 

It was Thy day, Sweet! and did rise 
Not from the east, but from Thine eyes. 

Chorus. It was Thy day, Sweet, etc. 

Thyrsis. Winter chid aloud, and sent 
The angry North to wage his wars; 25 

The North forgot his fierce intent. 
And left perfumes instead of scars. 

By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers. 
Where he meant frost he scattered flowers. 



Cho. By those sweet eyes, etc. 



30 



Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 
Yoimg dawn of our eternal Day; 

We saw Thine eyes break from their east 
And chase the trembling shades away. 

We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, 35 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. 



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Tit. Poor world, said I, what wilt thou 

do 
To entertain this starry Stranger? 

Is this the best thou canst bestow — 
A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? 40 
Contend, the powers of heaven and 
earth, 
To fit a bed for this huge birth! 

Cho. Contend, the powers, etc. 

Thyr. Proud world, said I, cease your 

contest. 
And let the mighty Babe alone; 45 

The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest. 
Love's architecture is his own; 
The Babe whose birth embraves this 
mom. 
Made His own bed e'er He was bom. 



Cho. The Babe whose, etc. 



50 



Tit. I saw the curled drops, soft and slow. 
Come hovering o'er the place's head, 

Offering their whitest sheets of snow 
To furnish the fair Infant's bed. 

Forbear, said I; be not too bold; 55 
Yoiu: fleece is white, but 'tis too cold. 

Cho. Forbear, said I, etc. 

Thyr. I saw the obsequious seraphim 
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, 

For well they now can spare their wing 
Since Heaven itself lies here below. 61 

Well done, said I; but are you sure 
Yoiu* down so warm, will pass for pure? 

Cho. Well done, said I, etc. 

Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seek 65 
Where to repose His royal head; 

See, see how soon His new-bloomed 
cheek 
'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! 

Sweet choice, said we; no way but so 
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. 70 

Cho. Sweet choice, said we, etc. 

Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 
Bright dawn of our etemal Day; 
We saw Thine eyes break from their 
east 



And chase the trembling shades away. 75 

We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet Light 

Cho. We saw Thee, etc. 

Full Chorus 

Welcome, aU wonders in one sight! 
Eternity shut in a span! 80 

Summer in winter! day in night! 
Heaven in earth! and God in man! 
Great little one, whose all-embracing 
birth 
lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to 
earth! 

Welcome, though nor to gold nor silk, 85 
To more than Caesar's birthright is; 

Two sister-seas of virgin-milk 
With many a rarely-tempered kiss, 

That breathes at once both maid and 
mother. 
Warms in the one, cools in the other. 90 

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips 
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; 

She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips 
That in their buds yet blushing Ue; 

She 'gainst those mother-diamonds tries 
The points of her young eagle's eyes. 96 

Welcome, though not to those gay flies 
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, 

Slippery souls in smiling eyes — 
But to poor shepherds, homespim things, 

Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit, 
to be loi 

Well read in their simplicity. 

Yet, when yoimg April's husband 
showers 
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed. 

We'll bring the first-bom of her flowers 

To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head 106 

To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love 

must keep 

The shepherds, more than they the sheep. 

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King 
Of simple graces and sweet loves, no 

Each of us his lamb will bring. 
Each his pair of silver doves; 

Till bumt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes, 
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! 



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HENRT VAUGHAN (1622-1696) 

THE RETREAT 

Happy those early days, when I 

Shined in my angel-infancy; 

Before I understood this place 

Appointed for my second race, 

Or taught my soul to fancy ought 5 

But a white, celestial thought; 

When yet I had not walked above 

A mile or two from my first love, 

And looking back — at that short space — 

Could see a glimpse of His bright face; 10 

When on some gilded cloud or flower 

My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 

And in those weaker glories spy 

Some shadows of eternity; 

Before I taught my tongue to wound 15 

My conscience with a sinful sound, 

Or had the black art to dispense, 

A several sin to every sense. 

But felt through all this fleshly dress 

Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20 

O how I long to travel back, 
And tread again that ancient track! 
That I might once more reach that plain. 
Where first I left my glorious train; 
From whence the enlightened spirit sees 25 
That shady dty of palm trees. 
But ah! my soul with too much stay 
Is dnmk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward motion love. 
But I by backward steps would move; 30 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 



. PEACE 

My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars, 
Where stands a wingfed sentry 

All skilful in the wars. 
There, above noise and danger, $ 

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, 
And one bom in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files. 
He is thy gracious friend, 

And— <) my soul, awake! — 10 

Did in pure love descend 

To die here for thy sake. 



If thou canst get but thither. 

There grows the flower of peace. 
The rose that can not wither, 15 

Thy fortress and thy ease. 
Leave then thy foolish ranges, 

For none can thee secure 
But one who never changes. 

Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 20 



THE WORLD 

I saw Eternity the other night. 

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 

All calm, as it was bright; 
And roimd beneath it. Time, in hours, 
days, years, 
Driv'n by the spheres 5 

Like a vast shadow moved; in which the 
world 
And all her train were hurled. 
The doting lover in his quaintest strain 

Did there complain; 
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his 
flights, 10 

Wit's four delights. 
With gloves and knots, the silly snares of 
pleasure; 
Yet his dear treasure. 
All scattered lay, while he his eyes did 
pour 
Upon a flower. 15 

The darksome statesman, hung with 

weights and woe. 
Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so 
slow. 
He did not stay nor go; 
Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, 
scowl 
Upon his soul, 20 

And clouds of cr3dng witnesses without 

Pursued him with one shout; 
Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be 
foimd, 
Worked under groimd. 
Where he did clutch his prey. But one 
did see 25 

That policy: 
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries 

Were gnats and flies; 
It rained about him blood and tears, but he 
Drank them as free. 30 



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The fearful miser on a heap of rust 
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce 
trust 
His own hands with the dust, 
Yet would not place one piece above, but 
lives 
In fear of thieves. 35 

Thousands there were as frantic as him- 
self, 
And hugged each one his pelf; 
The downright epicure placed heaven in 
sense, 
And scorned pretence; 
While others, slippJed into a wide ex- 
cess, 40 
Said little less; 
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares en- 
slave. 
Who think them brave; 
And poor, despisfed Truth sat counting by 
Their victory. . 45 

Yet some, who all this while did weep and 

sing, 
And sing and weep, soared up into the 
ring; 
But most would use no wing. 
O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night 
Before true light! 50 

To live in grots and caves, and hate the 
day 
Because it shows the way. 
The way, which from this dead and dark 
abode 
Leads up to God; 
A way where you might tread the sim, and 
be 55 

More bright than he! 
But, as I did their madness so discuss. 

One whispered thus: 
"This ring the Bridegroom did for none 
provide 
But for his bride." 60 



EDMUND WALLER (160^1687) 

ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this has done. 



It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass, and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; 10 
Give me but what this ribband bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round! 



GO, LOVELY ROSE! 

Go, lovely rose! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she knows. 

When I resemble her to thee. 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. s 

Tell her that's young, 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide, 

Thou must have imcommended died. 10 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired; 

Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 15 

Then die! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee; 

How small a part of time they share 

That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20 



ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678) 

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROM 
WELL'S RETURN FROM IRE- 
LAND 

The forward youth that would appear 
Must now forsake his muses dear, 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing: 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 
And oil the unused armor's rust, 

Removing from the wall 

The corselet of the hall. 



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So restless Cromwell would not cease 

In the in^orious arts of peace, 10 

But through adventurous war 

UrgM his active star; 

And, like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed, 

Did thorough his own side 15 

His fiery way divide; 

For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy, 

And with such to inclose, 

Is more than to oppose. 20 

Then burning through the air he went. 
And palaces and temples rent; 

And Caesar's head at last 

Did through his laurels blast. 

'TIS madness to resist or blame 25 

The face of angry heaven's flame; 

And if we would speak true. 

Much to the man is due, 

Who from his private gardens, where 

He lived reservM and austere, 30 

As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot,^ 

Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great work of Time, 

And cast 3ie kingdoms old, 35 

Into another mould. 

Though Justice against Fate complain. 
And plead the andent rights in vain; 

But those do hold or break. 

As men are strong or weak. 40 

Nature, that hateth emptiness. 
Allows of penetration less. 

And therefore must make room 

Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war, 45 

Where his were not the deepest scar? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art; 

Where, twining subtle fears with hope. 
He wove a net of such a scope 50 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Caresbrooke's narrow case, 

* a kind of pev. 



That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 

While round the armed bands 55 

Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon that memorable scene. 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try; 60 

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpless right. 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

This was that memorable hour, 65 

Which first assured the forcfed power; 

So, when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun, 

Did fright the architects to nm; 70 

And yet in that the state 

Foresaw its happy fate. 

And now the Irish are ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed; 
So much one man can do, 75 

That does both act and know. 

They can aflSnn his praises best, 
And have, though overcome, confessed 

How good he is, how just. 

And fit for highest trust; 80 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the republic's hand, 

How fit he is to sway. 

That can so well obey! 

He to the Commons' feet presents 85 

A kingdom for his first year's rents; 

And, what he may, forbears 

His fame, to make it theirs; 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt. 

To lay them at the public's skirt: 90 

So when the falcon high 

Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having killed, no more doth search. 
But on the next green bough to perch; 

Where, when he first does lure, 95 

The ffiJconer has her sure. 



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What may not then our isle presume, 
WhUe victory his crest does plume? 

What may not others fear, 

If thus he crowns each year? loo 

As Caesar, he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy a Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 

Shall climacteric be. 

The Pict* no shelter now shall find 105 
Within his parti-colored mind. 

But, from this valor sad,* 

Shrink underneath the plaid; 

Happy if in the tufted brake 

The English hunter him mistake, no 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and Fortime's son, 
March imdefatigably on; 

And for the least effect, 115 

Still keep the sword erect; 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night, 

The same arts that did gain 

A power, must it maintain. 120 

ABRAHAM COWLET (1618-1667) 

THE CHANGE 

Love in her simny eyes does basking play; 
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her 
hair; 
Love does on both her lips forever stray, 
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses 
there. 
In all her outward parts Love's always 
seen; 5 

But oh ! he never went within ! 

Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, 
abide: 
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride. 
So the earth's face trees, herbs, and 
flowers do dress. 
But with other beauties numberless ; 10 
But at the center darkness is, and hell. 
There wicked spirits, and there the 
danrned, dwell. 

1 Scot. ' resolute. 



With me, alas, quite contrary it fares: 
Darkness and Death lies in my waking 
eyes; 
Despair and Paleness in my face ap- 
pears, IS 
And Grief and Fear, Love's greatest 
enemies. 
But, like the Persian tyrant, Love within 
Keeps his proud court, and ne'er is seen. 

Oh take my heart, and by that means 
you'll prove 
Within, too, stored enough of Love ; 20 
Give me but yours, I'll by that change so 
thrive 
That Love in all my parts shall live. 
So powerful is this change it render can 
My outside woman, and your inside, 
man. 



THE WISH 

Well then! I now do plainly see 
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. 
The very honey of all earthly joy 
Does of all meats the soonest cloy; 

And they, methinks, deserve my pity 5 
Who for it can endure the stings, 
The crowd and buzz and murmurings. 

Of this great hive, the dty. 

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave 
May I a small house and large garden 
have, 10 

And a few friends, and many books, both 

true. 
Both wise, and both delightful tool 

And since love ne'er will from me flee, 
A mistress moderately fair, 
And good as guardian angels are, 15 

Only beloved, and loving me. 

O foimtains! when in you shall I 
Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, 

. espy? 
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be 

made 
The happy tenant of your shade? 20 

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's 
flood: 
Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, 
Where all the riches lie that she 
Has coined and stamped for good. 



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Pride and ambition here 25 

Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; 
Here naught but winds can hurtful mur- 
murs scatter, 
And naught but Echo flatter. 

The gods, when they descended, hither 
From heaven did always choose their way: 
And therefore we may boldly say 31 

That 'tis the way, too, thither. 

How happy here should I 
And one dear She live, and embracing die! 
She who is all the world, and can exclude 
In deserts solitude. 36 

I should have then this only fear: 
Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
Should hither throng to live like me, 

And so make a city here. 40 



THE SWALLOW 

Foolish Prater, what do'st thou 
So early at my window do 
With thy timeless serenade? 
Well 't had been had Tereus made 
Thee as dimib as Philomel: 5 

There his knife had done but well. 
In thy undiscovered nest 
Thou dost all the winter rest. 
And dreamest o'er thy smnmer joys, 
Free from the stormy season's noise : 10 
Free from th' iQ thou'st done to me; 
Who disturbs, or seeks out thee? 
Had'st thou all the charming notes 
Of the wood's poetic throats. 
All thy art coidd never pay 15 

What thou'st ta'en from me away; 
Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away 
A dream out of my arms to-day, 
A dream that ne'er must equalled be 
By all that waking eyes may see. 20 

Thou this damage to repair. 
Nothing half so sweet or fair, 
Nothing half so good can'st bring. 
Though men say, "Thou bring'st the 
spring?" 

THE THIEF 

Thdu robbest my dajrs of business and 
delights. 
Of sleep thou robbest my nights; 



Ah, lovely thief, what wilt thou do? 
What, rob me of Heaven too? 
Thou even my prayers dost steal from 
me, 5 

And I, with wild idolatry. 
Begin to God, and end them all to thee. 

Is it a sin to love, that it should thus 
Like an ill conscience, torture us? 
Whate'er I do, where e'er I go, 10 
(None guiltless e'er was haimted so) 
StiQ, stSl, methinks thy face I view. 
And still thy shape does me pursue, 

As if not you me, but I had murdered you. 

From books I strive some remedy to take, 
But thy name all the letters make; 16 
Whate'er 'tis writ, I find that there, 
Like points and commas everywhere. 
Me blest for this let no man hold; 
For I, as Midas did of old, 20 

Perish by turning everything to gold. 

What do I seek, alas, or why do I 
Attempt in vain from thee to fly? 
For making thee my deity 
I give thee then ubiquity. 25 

My pains resemble hell in this: 
The divine presence there too is, 

But to torment men, not to give them 
bliss. 



CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF 
DORSET (1688-1706) 

SONG 

To all you ladies now at land 

We men at sea indite; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write: 
The Muses now, and Neptune too, j 

We must implore to write to you — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

For though the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain, 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind 10 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we. 
Roll up and down our ships at sea — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 



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Then if we write not by each post, 15 

Think not we are unkind; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind: 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way, 
The tide shall bring them twice a day — 20 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

The King with wonder and surprise 
Will swear the seas grow bold, 

Because the tides will higher rise 
Than e'er they did of old; 25 

But let him know it is our tears 

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 30 

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. 

And quit their fort at Goree; 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts be- 
hind?— 
With a fa, la, la, la, -la! 35 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be you to us but kind; 
Let Dutchmen vapor,^ Spaniards curse. 

No sorrow we shall find; 
Tis then no matter how things go, 40 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe — 
Withafa, la, la, la, la! 

To pass our tedious hours away 

We throw a merry main. 
Or else at serious ombre^ play; 45 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue? 
We were undone when we left you — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

But now our fears tempestuous grow 50 

And cast our hopes away, 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play. 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan — 55 
Withafa, la, la, la, la! 

When any mournful tune you hear 

That dies in every note. 
As if it sighed with each man's care 

For being so remote, 60 

* a game of cards. 



Think then how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were played— 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

In justice you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress, . 65 

When we for hopes of honor lose 

Our certain happiness: 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 70 

And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears. 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears: 
Let's hear of no inconstancy — 75 

We have too much of that at sea — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

CAROLINE PROSE 

SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1606-1682) 

From HYDRIOTAPHIA or 
URN BURL\L 

Now since these dead bones have 
already outlasted the living ones of Me- 
thusaleh, and, in a yard imder ground 
and their walls of clay, outworn all the 
strong and specious buildings above it; 
and quietly rested under the drums and 
tramplings of three conquests: what 
prince can promise such diutumity imto 
his relics, or might not gladly say, 

Sic ego componi versus in ossa vditn? [10 

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and 
hath an art to make dust of all things, 
hath yet spared these minor monimients. 
In vain we hope to be known by open 
and visible conservatories, when to be 
unknown was the means of their continua- 
tion, and obscurity their protection. If 
they died by violent hands, and were 
thrust into their urns, these bones be- 
come considerable, and some old [20 
philosophers would honor them, whose 
souls tiiey conceived most pure, which 
were thus snatched from their bodies, 
and to retain a stronger propension unto 
them; whereas they weariedly left a lan- 
guishing corpse, and with faint desires of 



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reunion. If they fell by long and aged de- 
cay, yet wrapped up in the bundle of time, 
they fall into indistinction, and make but 
one blot with infants. If we begin to [30 
die when we live, and long life be but a 
prolongation of death, our life is a sad 
composition; we Uve with death, and 
die not in a moment How many pulses 
made iq> the life of Methuselah, were 
work for Archimedes: common counters 
sum up the life of Moses his man. Our 
days become considerable, like petty 
sums, by minute accumulations; where 
numerous fractions make up but small [40 
round numbers; and our da)rs of a span 
long, make not one little finger. 

H the nearness of our last necessity 
brought a nearer conformity into it, there 
were a happiness in hoary hairs, and no 
calamity in half-senses. But the long 
habit of living indisposeth us for dying; 
when avarice makes us the sport of death, 
when even David grew politicly cruel, 
and Solomon could hardly be said to [50 
be the wisest of men. But many are too 
early old, and before the date of age. 
Adversity stretcheth our days, misery 
makes Alcmena's nights, and time hath no 
wings unto it But the most tedious 
being is that which can imwish itself, 
content to be nothing, or never to have 
been, which was beyond the malcontent 
of Job, who cursed not the day of his life, 
but his nativity; content to have so [60 
far been, as to have title to future being, 
although he had lived here but in an 
hidden state of life, and as it were an 
aborticm. 

What song the Sirens sang, or what 
name Achilles assimied when he hid 
himself among women, though puzzling 
questions, are not beyond all conjecture. 
What time the persons of these ossuaries 
entered the famous nations of the [70 
dead, and slept with princes and coun- 
sellors, might admit a wide solution. But 
who were the proprietaries of these bones, 
or what bodies these ashes made up, were 
a question above antiquarism; not to be 
resolved by man, nor easily perhaps by 
^)irits, except we consult the provincial 
guardians, or tutelary observators. Had 
they made as good provision for their 
names as they have done for their [80 



relics, they had not so grossly erred in the 
art of perpetuation. But to subsist in 
bones, and be but pyramidally extant, is a 
fallacy in duration. Vain ashes, which, 
in the oblivion of names, persons, times 
and sexes, have foimd imto themselves 
a fruitless continuation, and only arise 
unto late posterity as emblems of mortal 
vanities, antidotes against pride, vain- 
glory, and madding vices! Pagan vain- [90 
glories, which thought the world might 
last forever, had encouragement for am- 
bition; and finding no Atropos unto the 
inMnortality of their names, were never 
damped with the necessity of oblivion. 
Even old ambitions had the advantage of 
ours in the attempts of their vain-glories, 
who acting early, and before the probable 
meridian of time, have by this time found 
great accomplishment of their de- [100 
signs, whereby the ancient heroes have 
already out-lasted their monuments and 
mechanical preservations. But in this 
latter scene of time we cannot expect such 
miunmies imto our memories, when ambi- 
tion may fear the prophecy of Elias; and 
Charles the Fifth can never hope to live 
within two Methuselahs of Hector. 

And therefore restless inquietude for 
the diuturnity of our memories imto [no 
present considerations seems a vanity al- 
most out of date, and superannuated 
piece of folly. We cannot hope to live 
so long in our names as some have done 
in their persons. One face of Janus holds 
no proportion to the other. *Tis too late 
to be ambitious. The great mutations of 
the world are acted, or time may be too 
short for our designs. To extend our mem- 
ories by monuments, whose death we [120 
daily pray for, and whose duration we 
cannot hope without injury to our ex- 
pectations in the advent of the last day, 
were a contradiction to our beliefs. We, 
whose generations are ordained in this 
setting part of time, are providentially 
taken ofif from such imaginations; and, 
being necessitated to eye the remaining 
particle of futurity, are naturally con- 
stituted imto thoughts of the next [130 
world, and cannot excusably decline the 
consideration of that duration which 
maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all 
that's past a moment. 



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Circles and right lines limit and dose 
all bodies, and the mortal right-lined 
circle must conclude and shut up all. 
There is no antidote against the opium 
of time, which temporally considereth all 
things: our fathers find their graves [140 
in our short memories, and sadly tell us 
how we may be buried in our survivors. 
Grave-stones tell truth scarce forty years. 
Generations pass while some trees- stand, 
and old families last not three oaks. To 
be read by bare inscriptions, like many 
in Gruter, to hope for eternity by enig- 
matical epithets or first letters of our 
names, to be studied by antiquaries who 
we were, and have new names given [150 
us like many of the mmnmies, are cold 
consolations unto the students of per- 
petuity, even by everlasting languages. 

To be content that times to come 
should only know there was such a man, 
not caring whether they knew more of 
him, was a frigid ambition in Cardan, 
disparaging his horoscopal inclination 
and judgment of himself. Who cares 
to subsist like Hippocrates' patients, [160 
or Achilles' horses in Homer, imder naked 
nominations, without deserts and noble 
acts, which are the balsam of our mem- 
ories, the etUdeckia and soul of our sub- 
sistences? To be nameless in worthy 
deeds exceeds an infamous history. The 
Canaanitish woman lives more happily 
without a name, than Herodias with one. 
And who had not rather have been the 
good thief, than Pilate? [170 

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly 
scattereth her poppy, and deals with the 
memory of men without distinction to 
merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity 
the founder of the pyramids? Herostra- 
tus lives that burnt the temple of Diana; 
he is almost lost that built it. Time hath 
spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse, 
confounded that of himself. In vain we 
compute our felicities by the advan- [180 
tage of our good names, since bad have 
equal diurations; and Thersites is like to 
live as long as Agamenmon. Who knows 
whether the best of men be known, or 
whether there be not more remarkable 
persons forgot, than any that stand re- 
membered in the known accoimt of time? 
Without the favor of the everlasting 



register the first man had been as un- 
known as the last, and Methuselah's [190 
long life had been his only chronicle. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater 
part must be content to be as though they 
had not been, to be found in the r^;ister 
of God, not in the record of man. Twenty- 
seven names make up the first story be- 
fore the flood, and the recorded names 
ever since contain not one living century. 
The nimiber of the dead long exceeded 
all that shall live. The night of time [300 
far suipasseth the day, and who knows 
when was the equinox? Every horn- 
adds unto that current arithmetic, which 
scarce stands one moment. And since 
death must be the Lucina of life, and 
even pagans could doubt whether thus 
to live were to die; since our longest s\m 
sets at right descensions, and makes but 
winter arches, and therefore it cannot be 
long before we lie down in darkness, [210 
and have our light in ashes; since the 
brother of death daily haunts us with 
dying mementos, and time, that grows 
old in itself, bids us hope no long duration: 
diutumity is a dream and folly of ex- 
pectation. 

Darkness and light divide the course 
of time, and oblivion shares with memoiy 
a great part even of our living beings; we 
slightly remember our felicities, and [220 
the smartest strokes of affiction leave 
but short smart upon us. Sense endiu-eth 
no extremities, and sorrows destroy us 
or themselves. To weep into stones are 
fables. Afflictions induce callosities; mis- 
eries are slippery, or fall like snow upon 
us, which notwithstanding is no unhappy 
stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to 
come, and forgetful of evils past, is a 
merciful provision in nature, whereby [230 
we digest the mixture of our few and evil 
days, and our delivered senses not relaps- 
ing into cutting remembrances, oiu* sor- 
rows are not kept raw by the edge of 
repetitions. A great part of antiquity 
contented their hopes of subsistency with 
a transmigration of their souls, — a good 
way to continue their memories; while 
having the advantage of plural succes- 
sions, they could hot but act some- [240 
thing remarkable in such variety of bdngs, 
and enjoying the fame of their passed 



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selves, make accumulation of glory unto 
their last durations. Others, rather than 
be lost in the imcomfortable night of 
nothing, were content to recede into the 
common being, and make one particle of 
the public soul of all things, which was 
no more than to return into their unknown 
and divine original again. Egyp- [250 
tian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, con- 
triving their bodies in sweet consistencies 
to attend the return of their souls. But 
all was vanity, feeding the wind, and 
folly. The Egyptian mummies, which 
Cambjrses or time hath spared, avarice 
now consumeth. Mummy is become mer- 
chandise, Mizraim cures woimds, and 
Pharaoh is sold for balsams. 

In vain do individuals hope for im- [260 
mortality, or any patent from oblivion, 
m preservations below the moon; men 
have been deceived even in their flat- 
teries above the sim, and studied conceits 
to perpetuate their names in heaven. 
The various cosmography of that part 
hath already varied the names of con- 
trived constellations; Nimrod is lost in 
Orion, and Osiris in the dog-star. While 
we look for incorruption in the heav- [270 
ens, we find they are but like the earth; 
durable in their main bodies, alterable in 
their parts: whereof, beside comets and 
new stars, perspectives b^n to tell tales; 
and the spots that wander about the sun, 
with Phathon's favor, would make dear 
conviction. 

There is nothing strictly inunortal 
but immortality. Whatever hath no be- 
ginning may be confident of no end — [280 
which is the peculiar of that necessary 
essence that cannot destroy itself — and 
the highest strain of omnipotency, to be 
so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer 
even from the power of itself. All others 
have a dependent being and within the 
reach of destruction. But the suflSdency 
of Christian immortality frustrates all 
earthly glory, and the quality of either 
state after death makes a folly of post- [290 
humous memory. God, who can only 
-destroy our souls, and hath assured our 
resurrection, dther of our bodies or names 
hath directly promised no duration. 
Wherein there is so much of chance, that 
the boldest expectants have found im- 



happy frustration; and to hold long sub- 
sistence, seems but a scape in oblivion. 
But man is a noble animal, splendid 
in ashes, and pompous in the grave, [300 
solemnizing nativities and deaths with 
equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of 
bravery in the infamy of los nature. 

Life is a pure flame, and we live by an 
invisible sim within us. A small fire 
sufliceth for life; great flames seemed 
too little after deaUi, while men vainly 
affected precious pyres, and to bum 
like Sardanapalus. But the wisdom of 
funeral laws found the folly of prodigal [310 
blazes, and reduced undoing fires imto 
the nde of sober obsequies, wherein few 
could be so mean as not to provide wood, 
pitch, a mourner, and an urn. 

Five languages secured not the epitaph 
of Gordianus. The man of God lives 
longer without a tomb than any by one, 
invisibly interred by angels, and adjudged 
to obscurity, though not without some 
marks directing human discovery. [320 
Enoch and Ellas, without dther tomb or 
burial, in an anomalous state of being, are 
the great examples of perpetuity in their 
long and living memory, in strict account 
being still on this side death, and having 
a late part yet to act upon this stage of 
earth. If in the decretory term of the 
world we shall not all die, but be changed, 
according to recdved translation, the 
last day will make but few graves; [330 
at least quick resurrections will antic- 
ipate lasting sepultures. Some graves 
will be openwi before they be quite closed, 
and Lazarus be no wonder, when many 
that feared to die shall groan that they 
can die but once. The dismal state is 
the second and living death, when life 
puts despair on the damned; when men 
shall wish the coverings of moiyitains, 
not of moniunents, and annihilations [340 
shall be courted. 

While some have studied moniunents, 
others have studiously declined them, and 
some have been so vainly boisterous that 
they durst not acknowledge their graves; 
wherein Alaricus seems most subtle, who 
had a river turned to hide his bones at 
the bottom. Even Sylla, that thought 
himsdf safe in his urn, could not prevent 
revenging tongues, and stones thrown [350 



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at his monument. Happy are they whom 
privacy makes innocent, who deal so 
with men in this world, that they are not 
afraid to meet them in the next; who, 
when they die, make no commotion among 
the dead, and are not touched with that 
poetical taimt of Isaiah. 



To subsist in lasting monuments, to 
live in their productions, to exist in tiieir 
names and predicament of chimeras, [360 
was large satisfaction unto old expecta- 
tions, and made one part of their Elysiums. 
But all this is nothing in the metaphysics 
of true belief. To live indeed, k to be 
again ourselves, which being not only 
an hope, but an evidence in noble be^ 
lievers, 'tis all one to lie in St. Innocent's 
churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt. 
Ready to be anything, in the ecstasy 
of being ever, and as content with [370 
six foot as the moles of Adrianus. 



THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661) 

THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER 

From The Holy State 

There is scarce any profession in the 
commonwealth more necessary, which is 
so slightly performed. The reasons 
whereof I conceive to be these: First, 
young scholars make this calling their 
refuge; yea, perchance before they have 
taken any d^ree in the university, com- 
mence schoolmasters in the country, as if 
nothing else were required to set up this 
profession, but only a rod and a [10 
ferula. Secondly, others, who are able, 
use it only as a passage to better prefer- 
ment, to patch the rents in their present 
fortune till they can provide a new one, 
and betake themselves to some more 
gainful calling. Thirdly, they are dis- 
heartened from doing their best with the 
miserable reward which in some places 
they receive, being masters to their chil- 
dren and slaves to their parents. [20 
Fourthly, being grown rich, they grow 
negligent, and scorn to touch the sdiool 
but by the proxy of an usher. But see 



how well our schoolmaster behaves him- 
self. 

His genius inclines him with delight 
to his profession. Some men' had as lief 
be schoolboys as schoolmasters, to be 
tied to the school, as Cooper's "Dic- 
tionary" and Scapula's "Lexicon" [30 
are chained to the desk therein; and 
though great scholars^ and skilful in other 
arts, are bunglers m this: but God of His 
goodness hath fitted several men for 
several caUings, that the necessity of 
Church and State in all conditions may 
be provided for. So that he who beholds 
the fabric thereof may say, "Ged hewed 
out this stone, and appointed it to lie in. 
this very place, for it would fit none [40 
other so well, and here it doth most ex- 
cellent." And thus God mouldeth some 
for a schoolmaster's life, imdertaking it 
with desire and delight, and discharging 
it with dexterity and happy success. 

He studieth his scholars' natures as 
carefully as they their books, and ranks 
their dispositions into several forms. And 
though it may seem difficult for him in a 
great school to descend to all par- [50 
ticulars, yet experienced schoolmasters 
may quickly make a grammar of boys' 
natiu-es, and reduce them all, saving some 
few exceptions, to these general rules: 

1. Hiose that are ingenious and indus- 
trious. The conjimction of two such 
planets in a youth presages much good 
unto him. To such a lad a frown may be 
a whipping, and a whipping a death; yea, 
where their master whips them once, [ao 
shame whips them all the week after. 
Such natiu-es he useth with all gentleness. 

2. Those that are ingenious and idle. 
These think, with the hare in the fable, 
that running with snails (so they count 
the rest of their schoolfellows) they shall 
come soon enough to the post, though 
sleeping a good while before their starting. 
Oh, a good rod would finely take them 
napping! [70 

3. Those that are dull and diligent* 
Wines, the stronger they be, the more 
lees they have when they are new. Many 
bojrs are muddy-headed till they be clari- 
fied with age, and such afterwards prove 
the best. Bristol diamonds are both 
bright and squared and pointed by nature. 



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and yet are soft and worthless; whereas, 
orient ones in India are rough and rugged 
naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull [80 
natures of youth acquit themselves after- 
wards the jewels of the country, and 
therefore their dullness at first is to be 
borne with, if they be diligent. That 
schoolmaster deserves to be beaten him- 
self who beats nature in a boy for a fault. 
And I question whether all the whipping 
in the world can make their parts, which 
are naturally sluggish, rise one minute 
before the hour nature hath appointed. [90 

4. Those that are invincibly dull, and 
negligent also. Correction may reform 
the latter, not amend the former. All 
the whetting in the world can never set a 
razor's edge on that which hath no steel 
in it Such bo)^ he consigneth over to 
other professions. Shipwrights and boat- 
makers will choose those crooked pieces 
of timber which other carpenters refuse. 
Those may make excellent merchants [100 
and mechanics who will not serve for 
scholars. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in 
his teaching; not leading them rather in 
a circle than forwards. He minces his 
precepts for children to swallow, hanging 
clogs on the niinbleness of his own soul, 
that his scholars may go along with him. 

He is, and will be known to be, an ab- 
solute monarch in his school. If [no 
cockering mothers proflfer him money to 
purchase their sons an exemption from his 
rod (to live as it were in a peculiar, out 
of their master's jurisdiction), with dis- 
dain he refuseth it, and scorns the late 
custom in some places of commuting 
whipping into money, and ransoming boys 
from the rod at a set price. If he hath a 
stubborn youth, correction-proof, he de- 
baseth not his authority by contesting [120 
with him, but fairly, if he can, puts him 
away before his obstinacy hath infected 
others. 

He is moderate in inflicting deserved 
correction. Many a schoolmaster better 
answereth the name muBorpCptf^ than 
•tu&iywyog, rather tearing his scholars' 
flesh with whipping than giving them 
good education. No wonder if his scholars 
hate the Muses, being presented unto [130 
them in the shapes of fiends and furies. 



Junius complains de insolerUi carnificina 
of his schoolmaster, by whom conscinde- 
batur flagris sepUes aut ociies in dies sin- 
gulos. Yea, hear the lamentable verses of 
poor Tusser in his own life: 

"From Paul's I went, to Eton sent. 
To learn straightwa}^ the Latin phrase. 
Where fifty-three stripes given to me 

At once I had. [140 

"For fault but small, or none at all, 
It came to pass thus beat I was; 
See Udall, see the mercy of thee 

To me, poor lad." 

Such an Orbilius mars more scholars 
than he makes: their tyranny hath caused 
many tongues to stammer, which spake 
plain by nature, and whose stuttering at 
first was nothing else but fears quavering 
on their speech at their master's [150 
presence; and whose mauling them about 
their heads hath dulled those who, in 
quickness, exceeded their master. 

He makes his school free to him who 
sues to him in forma pauperis. And surely 
learning is the greatest alms that can be 
given. But he is a beast who, because the 
poor scholar cannot pay him his wages, 
pays the scholar in his whipping. Rather 
are diligent lads to be encouraged [160 
with all excitements to learning. This 
minds me of what I have heard concerning 
Mr. Bust, that worthy late schoolmaster 
of Eton, who would never suffer any 
wandering begging scholar (such as justly 
the statute hath ranked in the forefront 
of rogues) to come into his school, but 
would thrust him out with earnestness 
(however privately charitable imto him), 
lest his schoolbo)^ should be dis- [170 
heartened from their books by seeing some 
scholars, after their studying in the uni- 
versity, preferred to beggary. 

He spoils not a good school to make 
thereof a bad college, therein to teach his 
scholars logic. For, besides that logic 
may have an action of trespass against 
grammar for encroaching on her liberties, 
syllogisms are solecisms taught in the 
school, and oftentimes they are forced [180 
afterwards in the university to unlearn 
the fumbling skill they had before. 



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Out of his school he is no whit pedan- 
tical in carriage or discourse; contenting 
himself to be rich in Latin, though he 
doth not jingle with it in every company 
wherein he comes. 

To conclude, let this amongst other 
motives make schoolmasters careful in 
their place, that the eminendes of [190 
their scholars have conmiended the mem- 
ories of their schoolmasters to posterity, 
who otherwise in obscurity had altogether 
been forgotten. Who had ever heard of 
R. Bond, in Lancashire, but for the breed- 
ing of learned Ascllam, his scholar, or of 
Hartgrave, in Burnley school, in the same 
coimty, but because he was the first did 
teach worthy Dr. Whitaker? Nor do I 
honor the memory of Mulcaster for [200 
anything so much as for his scholar, Uiat 
gulf of learning. Bishop Andrews. This 
made the Athenians, the day before the 
great feast of Theseus, their foimder, to 
sacrifice a ram to the memory of Conidas, 
his schoolmaster, that first instructed him. 



THE LIFE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH 
From The Holy State 

We intermeddle not with her descrip- 
tion, as she was a sovereign prince, too 
high for our pen, and performed by others 
already, though not by any done so fully 
but that still room is left for the en- 
deavors of posterity to add thereunto. 
We consider her only as she was a worthy 
lady, her private virtues rendering her to 
the imitation, and her public to the ad- 
miration, of all. [10 

Her royal birth by her father's side 
doth comparatively make her mother- 
descent seem low, which otherwise, con- 
sidered in itself, was very noble and 
honorable. As for the birndle of scan- 
dalous aspersions by some cast on her 
birth, they are best to be buried without 
once opening of them. For as the rascal 
will presimie to miscall the best lord, when 
far enough out of his hearing, so slan- [20 
derous tongues think they may nm riot 
in railing on any, when once got out of 
the distance of time and readi of con- 



futation. But majesty, which dieth not, 
will not suffer itself to be so abused, seeing 
the best assurance which living princes 
have that their memories shall be honor- 
ably continued is foimded (next to their 
own deserts) in the maintaining of the 
unstained reputation of their pred- [30 
ecessors. Yea, Divine Justice seems herein 
to be a compurgator of the parents 
of Queen Elizabeth, in that Nicholas 
Sanders, a Popish priest, the first raiser of 
these wicked reports, was accidentally 
famished as he roved up and down in 
Ireland; either because it was just he 
should be starved that formerly surfeited 
with lying, or because that island, out of a 
natural antipathy against poisonous [40 
creatures, would not lend life to so venom- 
ous a slanderer. 

Under the reign of her father, and 
brother King Edward VI (who commonly 
called her Ins "sister Temperance"), she 
lived in a princely fashion. But the case 
was altered with her when her sister Mary 
came to the crown, who ever looked upon 
her with a jealous and ffowning face, 
chiefly because of the difference be- [50 
tween them in religion. For though 
Queen Mary is said of herself not so much 
as to have barked, yet she* had under her 
those who did more than bite; and rather 
her religion than disposition was guilty in 
countenancing their cruelty by her au- 
thority. 

This antipathy against her sister Eliza- 
beth was increased with the remembrance 
how Catherine dowager, Queen Mary's [60 
mother, was justled out of the bed of 
Henry VIII by Anna Bole)m, mother to 
Queen Elizabeth; so that these two sisters 
were bom, as I may say, not only in 
several, but opposite, horizons, so that the 
elevation and bright appearing of the one 
inferred the necessary obscurity and de- 
pression of the other; and still Queen 
Mary was troubled with this fit of the 
mother^ which incensed her against [70 
this her half-sister. To which two grand 
causes of exposition this third may also 
be added, because not so generally known, 
though in itself of lesser consequence: 
Queen Mary had released Edward Cour- 
tenay. Earl of Devonshire, out of the 
Tower, where long he had been detained 



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prisoner, a gentleman of a beautiful 
body, sweet nature, and royal descent; 
intending him, as it was generally [80 
conceived, to be a husband for herself. 
For when the said earl petitioned the 
queen for leave to travel, she advised him 
rather to marry, insuring him that no 
lady in the land, how high soever, would 
refuse him for a husband; and urging him 
to make his choice where he pleased, she 
pomted herself out unto him as plainly 
as might stand with the modesty of a 
maid and majesty of a queen. Here- [90 
upon the young earl — ^whether because 
that his long durance had some influence 
on his brain, or that naturally his face was 
better than his head, or out of some 
jMivate fancy and affection to the Lady 
Elizabeth, or out of loyal bashfulness, 
not presuming to climb higher, but ex- 
pecting to be called up — ^is said to have 
requested the queen for leave to marry 
her sister Elizabeth, unhappy that [100 
his choice either went so high or no higher. 
For who could have spoken worse treason 
against Mary, (though not against the 
queen), than to prefer her sister before 
her? And she, innocent lady, did after- 
wards dearly pay the score of this earl's 
indiscretion. 

For these reasons Lady Elizabeth was 
dosely kept and narrowly sifted all her 
sister's reign. Sir Henry Bedingfield, [no 
her keeper, using more severity towards 
her thaii his place required, yea, more 
than a good man should — or a wise man 
would — have done. No doubt the least 
tripping of her foot should have cost her 
the losing of her head, if they could have 
caught her to be privy to any conspiracies. 

TTiis lady as well deserved the title of 
''Elizabeth the Confessor" as ever Ed- 
ward, her ancient predecessor, did. [120 
Mr. Ascham was a good schoolmaster to 
her, but affliction was a better; so that it 
is hard to say whether she was more 
loj^y in having a crown so soon, or in 
having it no sooner, till affliction had first 
laid in her a low — and therefore sure — 
foundation of humility for highness to be 
afterwards built thereupon. 

We bring her now from the cross to the 
crown, and come we now to describe [130 
the rare endowments of her mind; when, 



behold, her virtues almost stifle my pen, 
they crowd in so fast upon it. 

She was an excellent scholar, imder- 
standing the Greek, and perfectly speak- 
ing the Latin: witness her extempore 
speech in answer to the Polish ambassador, 
and another at Cambridge, El si fcsmin- 
alis iste metis pudor (for so it began), 
elegantly making the word fasmifuilis; [140 
and well might she mint one new word 
who did refine so much new gold and 
silver. Good skill she had in the French 
and Italian, using interpreters not for 
need, but state. She was a good poet in 
English, and fluently made verses. In 
her time of persecution, when a Popish 
priest pressed her very hardly to declare 
her opinion concerning the presence of 
Christ in the sacrament, she truly and [150 
warily presented her judgment in these 
verses: 

" Twas God the Word that spake it, 
He took the bread and brake it; 
And what the Word did make it, 
That I believe, and take it." 

And though perchance some may say, 
"This was but the best of shifts and the 
worst of answers, because the distinct 
manner of the presence must be be- [160 
lieved," yet none can deny it to have been 
a wise return to an adversary who lay at 
wait for all advantages. Nor was her 
poetic vein less happy in Latin. When, 
a little before the Spanish invasion in 
eighty-eight, the Spanish ambassador, 
after a larger representation of his mas- 
ter's demands, had summed up the effect 
thereof in a tetrastich, she instantly in 
one verse rejoined her answer. We [170 
will presume to English both, though con- 
fessing the Latin loseth lustre by the 
translation. 

Te veto ne pergas bello defendere Belgas; 
Qum Dracus eripuU nunc restUuantur opor- 

tet; 
Quas pater evertitjubeo te condere cellas; 
Religio Papmfac restUuatur ad unguent, 

"These to you are our commands: 
Send no help to the Netherlands; 
Of the treasure took by Drake, [180 
Restitution you must make; 



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And those abbeys build anew, 
Which your father overthrew; 
If for any peace you hope, 
In all points restore the Pope." 

THE queen's extempore RETURN 

Ad GrcKos, bone rex, fient mandata, 
Calendas. 

"Worthy King, know this your will 
At latter Lammas we'll fulfil." 

Her piety to God was exemplary: none 
more constant or devout in private [i(jo 
prayers; very attentive also at sermons, 
wherein she was better affected with 
soundness of matter than quaintness of 
expression. She could not well digest 
the affected over-elegancy of such as 
prayed for her by the title of "Defendress 
of the Faith," and not the "Defender," 
it being no false construction to apply a 
masculine word to so heroic a spirit. She 
was very devout in returning thanks [200 
to God for her constant and, continual 
preservations: for one traitor's stab was 
scarce put by before another took aim at 
her. But as if the poisons of treason by 
custom were turned natural to her, by 
God's protection they did her no harm. 
In any design of consequence she loved to 
be long and well advised; but where 
her resolutions once seized, she would 
never let go her hold, according to her [210 
motto. Semper eadem. 

By her temperance she improved that 
stock, of health which natiu-e bestowed on 
her, using little wine and less physic. Her 
continence from pleasures was admirable, 
and she the paragon of spotless chastity, 
whatever some Popish priests (who count 
all virginity hid under a nim's veil) have 
feigned to the contrary. The best is, their 
words are no slander whose words [220 
are all slander, so given to railing that 
they must be dumb if they do not blas- 
pheme magistrates. One Jesuit made 
this false anagram on her name Elizabeth, 
Jesabel: false both in matter and manner. 
For allow it the abatement of H, (as all 
anagrams must sue in chancery for moder- 
ate favor), yet was it both unequal 
and ominous that T, a solid letter, should 
be omitted — ^the presage of the gallows [230 



whereon this anagrammatist was after- 
wards justly executed. Yea, let the testi- 
mony of Pope Sixtus V himself be believed, 
who professed that amongst all the princes 
in Christendom he found but two who were 
worthy to bear command, had they not 
been stained with heresy: namely, Henry 
IV, King of France, and Elizabeth, Queen 
of England. And we may presume that 
the Pope, if commending his enemy, is (240 
therein infallible. 

We come to her death, the discourse 
whereof was more welcome to her from 
the mouth of her private confessor than 
from a public preacher; and she loved 
rather to tell herself than to be told of 
her mortality, because the open mention 
thereof made, as she conceived, her sub- 
jects divide their loyalty betwixt the pres- 
ent and the future prince. We need [250 
look into no other cause of her sickness 
than old age, being seventy years old 
(David's age) , to which no king of England 
since the Conquest did attain. Her 
weakness was increased by her removal 
from London to Richmond in a cold 
winter day, sharp enough to pierce 
through those who were armed with 
health and youth. Also melancholy (the 
worst natural parasite — whosoever [260 
feeds him shall never be rid of his company) 
much afflicted her, being given over to 
sadness and silence. 

Then prepared she herself for another 
world, being more constant in prayer and 
pious exercises than ever before. Yet 
spake she very little to any, sighing out 
more than she said, and making still 
music to God in her heart. And as the 
red rose, though outwardly not so fra- [270 
grant, is inwardly far more cordial than the 
damask, being more thrifty of its sweet- 
ness and reserving it in itself, so the reli- 
gion of this dying queen was most turned 
inward, in soliloquies betwixt God and 
her own soul, though she wanted not 
outward expressions thereof. When her 
speech failed her, she spake with her 
heart, tears, eyes, hands,, and other signs, 
so commending herself to God, the [280 
best Interpreter, who understands what his 
saints desire to say. Thus died Queen 
Elizabeth: whilst living, the first maid on 
earth, and when dead, the second in 



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heaven. Surely the kingdom had died 
with their queen had not the fainting 
spirits thereof been refreshed by the 
coming-in of gracious KJng James. 

She was of person, tall; of hair and 
complexion, fair, well-favored, but [290 
high-nosed; of limbs and feature, neat; of 
a stately and majestic deportment. She 
had a piercing eye, wherewith she used to 
touch what mettle strangers were made 
of who came into her presence. But as 
she counted it a pleasant conquest with 
her majestic look to dash strangers out 
of countenance, so she was merciful in 
pursuing those whom she overcame; and 
afterwards would cherish and comfort [300 
them with her smiles, if perceiving to- 
wardliness and an ingenuous modesty in 
them. She much affected rich and costly 
apparel; and if ever jewels had just cause 
to be proud, it was with her wearing them. 



IZAAK WALTON (169S-1688) 

From THE COMPLETE ANGLER 

Chapter IV 

OBSERVATIONS OF THE NATURE AND BREED- 
ING OF THE TROUT, AND HOW TO FISH 
FORHm. 

PiscATOR- The trout is a fish highly 
valued, both in this and foreign nations. 
He may be justly said, as the old poet 
said of wine, and we English say of veni- 
son, to be a generous fish: a fish that is so 
like the buck that he also has his seasons; 
for it is observed that he comes in and 
goes out of season with the stag and buck. 
Gesner sa)rs his name is of a German off- 
spring, and says he is a fish that [10 
feeds dean and purely, in the swiftest 
streams, and on the hardest gravel; and 
that he may justly contend with all fresh- 
water fish, as the mullet may with all sea- 
fish, for precedency and daintiness of 
taste; and that being in right season, the 
most dainty palates have allowed prec- 
edency to him. 

And before I go farther in my dis- 
course, let me tell you, that you are to [20 
observe, that as there be some barren 



does that are good in siunmer, so there 
be some barren trouts that are good in 
winter; but there are not many that are 
so, for usually they be in their perfection 
in the month of May, and decline with 
the buck. Now you are to take notice 
that in several countries, as in Germany 
and in other parts, compared to oiu^, 
fish do differ much in their bigness [30 
and shape, and other ways, and so do 
trouts: it is well known that in the Lake 
Leman, the Lake of Geneva, there are 
trouts taken of three cubits long, as is 
afiSirmed by Gesner, a writer of good 
credit; and Mercator says the trouts that 
are taken in the Lake of Geneva are a 
great part of the merchandise of that 
famous dty. And you are further to 
know that there be certain waters that [40 
breed trouts remarkable both for their 
niunber and smallness. I know a little 
brook in Kent that breeds them to a 
nmnber incredible, and you may take 
them twenty or forty in an hour, but 
none greater than about the size of a 
gudgeon. There are also in divers rivers, 
espSdally that relate to or be near to 
the sea, as Winchester, or the Thames 
about Windsor, a little trout called a [50 
samlet or skegger trout, in both which 
places I have caught twenty or forty at 
a standing, that will bite as fast and as 
freely as minnows: these be by some 
taken to be young salmons; but in those 
waters they never grow to be bigger than 
a herring. 

There is also in Kent, near to Canter- 
bury, a trout called there a Fordidge trout, 
a trout that bears the name of the [60 
town where it is usually caught, that 
is accounted the rarest of fish: many of 
them near the bigness of salmon, but 
known by their (Merent color; and in 
their best season they cut very white; 
and none of these have been known to 
be caught with an angle, unless it were 
one that was caught by Sir George Hast- 
ings, an excellent angler, and now with 
God: and he hath told me, he thought [70 
that trout bit not for hunger but wanton- 
ness; and it is rather to be believed, be- 
cause both he then, and many others 
before him, have been curious to search 
into their bellies, what the food was by 



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which they lived, and have found out 
nothing by which they might satisfy 
their curiosity. 

Concerning which you are to take 
notice that it is reported by good au- [80 
thors that grasshoppers and some fish 
have no mouths, but are nourished and 
take breath by the porousness of their 
gills, man knows not how: and thb may 
be believed, if we consider that when the 
raven hath hatched her ^gs, she takes 
no furtlier care, but leaves her young 
ones to the care of the God of natiu-e, 
who is said, in the Psalms, "to feed the 
yoimg ravens that call upon him." [90 
And they be kept alive and fed by a 
dew, or worms that breed in their nests, 
or some other ways that we mortals know 
not. And this may be believed of the 
Fordidge trout, which, as it is said of the 
stork t^t "he knows his season," so he 
knows his times, I think almost his day 
of coming into that river out of the sea, 
where he lives, and, it is like, feeds, nine 
months of the year, and fasts three [100 
in the river of Fordidge. And you are to 
note, that those townsmen are very punc- 
tual in observing the time of beginning 
to fish for them, and boast mudi that 
their river affords a trout that exceeds 
all others. And just so does Sussex boast 
of several fish: as namely, a Shelsey 
cockle, a Chichester lobster, an Arundel 
mullet, and an Amerly trout. 

And now for some confirmation of [no 
the Fordidge trout: you are to know tJiat 
this trout is thought to eat nothing in 
the fresh water; and it may be the better 
believed, because it is wdl known that 
swallows, and bats, and wagtaUs, which 
are called half-year birds, and not seen 
to fly in England for six months in the 
year, but about Michaelmas leave us for 
a hotter climate, yet some of them that 
have been left beldnd their fellows, [120 
have been found, many thousands at a 
time, in hollow trees, or day caves, where 
they have been observed to live and sleep 
out the whole winter without meat. And 
so Albertus observes, that there is one 
kind of frog that hath her mouth naturally 
shut up about the end of August, and 
that she lives so all the winter; and 
though it be strange to some, yet it is 



known to too many among us to be [130 
doubted. 

And so much for these Fordidge trouts, 
which never afford an angler sport, but 
either live their time of being in the fresh 
water, by their meat formerly got in the 
sea, not imlike the swallow or frog, or 
by the virtue of the fresh water only; or, 
as the birds of Paradise and the chameleon 
are said to live by the sim and the air. 

There is also in Northiunberland a [140 
trout called a bull trout, of a much greater 
length and bigness than any in the south- 
em parts. And there are, in many rivCTS 
that relate to the sea, sahnon trouts, as 
much different from others, both in shape 
and in their spots, as we see sheep in some 
coimtries differ one from another in 
their shape and bigness, and in the fine- 
ness of their wool. And certainly, as 
some pastures breed larger sheep, so do [150 
some rivers, by reason of the grotmd over 
which they nm, breed larger trouts. 

Now the next thing that I will conmiend 
to your consideration is that the trout 
is of a more sudden growth than other 
fish. Concerning wfaldi, you are also to 
take notice that he lives not so long as 
the perch and divers other fishes do, as 
Sir Francis Bacon hath observed in his 
History of Life and Death. [1 60 

And next you are to take notice that 
he is not like the crocodile, which if he 
lives never so long, yet always thrives 
till his death: but 'tis not so with the 
trout; for after he is come to his full 
growth, he declines in his body, and 
keeps his bigness or thrives only in his 
head till his death. And you are to 
know that he wiU about, espeoally before, 
the time of his spawning, get almost [170 
miraculously through weirs and flood- 
gates against the stream; even through 
such high and swift places as is almost 
incredible. Next, that the trout usually 
spawns about October or November, but 
in some rivers a little sooner or later; 
which is the more observable, because 
most other fish spawn in the ^ring or 
summer, when the sun hath warmed both 
the earth and the water, and made [180 
it fit for generation. And you are to note, 
that he continues many months out of 
season; for it may be observed of the 



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trout, that he is like the buck or the ox, 
that will not be fat in many months, 
though he go in the very same pastures 
that horses do, which will be fat in one 
month; and so you may observe that 
most other fishes recover strength, and 
grow sooner fat and in season, than [190 
the trout doth. 



Now you are to know that it is ob- 
served that usually the best trouts are 
either red or yellow; though some, as 
the Fordidge trout, be white and yet 
good; but that is not usual: and jt is a 
note observable, that the female trout 
hath usually a less head and a deeper 
body than the male trout, and is usually 
the better meat. And note that a hog- [200 
back and a little head, to either trout, 
salmon, or any other fish, is a sign that 
that fish is in season. 

But yet you are to note that as you see 
some wiUows or palm-trees bud and 
blossom sooner than others do, so some 
trouts be, in rivers, sooner in season; and 
as some hollies or oaks are longer be- 
fore they cast their leaves, so are some 
trouts, in rivers, longer before they go [210 
out of season. 

And you are to note that there are 
several kinds of trouts; but these several 
kinds are not considered but by very few 
men; for they go imder the general name 
of trouts, just as pigeons do in most 
places; though it is certain there are 
tame and wild pigeons; and of the 
tame, there be helmets, and runts, and 
carriers, and cropers, and indeed too [220 
many to name. Nay, the Royal Society 
have found and published lately that 
there be thirty and three kinds of spiders; 
and yet all, for aught I know, go under 
that one general name of spider. And 
it is so with many kinds of fish, and of 
trouts especially, which differ in their 
bigness, and shape, and spots, and color. 
The great Kentish hens may be an in- 
stance, compared to other hens. And, [230 
doubtless, Uiere is a kind of small trout, 
which will never thrive to be big, that 
breeds very many more than others do, 
that be of a larger size; which you may 
rather believe if you consider that the 



little wren and titmouse will have twenty 
young ones at a time, when usually the 
noble hawk or the musical thrassel or 
blackbird exceed not four or five. 

And now you shall see me try my [240 
skill to catch a trout; and at my next 
walking, either this evening or to-morrow 
morning, I will give you direction how you 
yoiu-self shall fish for him. 

Venator. Trust me, master, I see 
now it is a harder matter to catch a trout 
than a chub; for I have put on patience 
and followed you these two hours, and 
not seen a fish stir, neither at your minnow 
nor yom: worm. [250 

PiscATOR. Well, scholar, you must en- 
dure worse luck some time, or you will 
never make a good angler. But what 
say you now? There is a trout now, and 
a good one too, if I can but hold him; and 
two or three turns more will tire him. 
Now you see he lies still, and the sleight 
is to land him: reach me that landing-net. 
So, sir, now he is mine own. What say 
you now? is not this worth all my [260 
labor and your patience? 

Venator. On my word, master, this 
is a gallant trout: what shall we do with 
him? 

PiscATOR. Marry, e'en eat him to 
supper: we'll go to my hostess, from 
whence we came; she told me, as I was 
going out of door, that my brother Peter, a 
good angler and a cheerful companion, had 
sent word that he would lodge there [270 
to-night, and bring a friend with him. My 
hostess has two bads, and I know you and 
I may have the best; we'll rejoice with 
my brother Peter and his friend, tell 
tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, 
or find some harmless sport to con- 
tent us, and pass away a little time with- 
out offense to God or man. 

Venator. A match, good master; let's 
go to that house, for the linen looks [280 
white and smells of lavender, and I long to 
lie in a pair of sheets that smell so. Let's 
be going, good master, for I am himgry 
again with fishing. 

PiscATOR. Nay, stay a little, good 
scholar. I caught my last trout with a 
worm; now I will put on a minnow, and 
try a quarter of an hour, about yonder 
trees for another; and so walk towards 



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our lodging. Look you, scholar, there- [290 
about we shall have a bite presently or 
not at all. Have with you, sir! o' my 
word I have hold of him. Oh! it is a 
great logger-headed chub; come, hang 
him upon that willow twig, and let's be 
going. But turn out of the way a 
Uttle, good scholar, towards yonder high 
honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and 
sing, whilst this shower falls so gently 
upon the teeming earth, and gives yet [300 
a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that 
adorn these verdant meadows. 

Look! imder that broad beech-tree I 
sat down, when I was last this way a- 
fishing. And the birds in the adjoin- 
ing grove seemed to have a friendly con- 
tention with an echo, whose dead voice 
seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to 
the brow of that primrose hill. There 
I sat viewing the silver streams glide [310 
silently towards their center, the tem- 
pestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed by 
rugged roots and pebble-stones, which 
broke their waves, and turned them 
into foam. And sometimes I beguiled 
time by viewing the harmless lambs; 
some leaping securely in the cool shade, 
whilst others sported themselves in the 
cheerful sun; and saw others craving com- 
fort from the swollen udders of their [320 
bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and 
other sights had so fully possessed my 
soul with content, that I thought, as the 
poet hath happily expressed it, 

" I was for that time lifted above earth, 
And possessed joys not promised in my 
birth." 

As I left this place, and entered into 
the next field, a second pleasure enter- 
tained me; 'twas a handsome milkmaid, 
that had not yet attained so much age [330 
and wisdom as to load her mind with any 
fears of many things that will never be, 
as too many men too often do; but she 
cast away all care, and sung like a 
nightingale. Her voice was good, and the 
ditty fitted for it: it was that smooth song 
which was made by Kit Marlow, now at 
least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid's 
mother simg an answer to it, which was 
made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his [340 



younger days. They were old-fashioned 
poetry, but choicely good; I think mudi 
better than the strong lines that are now 
in fashion in this critical age. Look 
yonder! on my word, yonder they Both 
be a-milking again. I will give her the 
chub, and persuade them to sing those 
two songs to us. 

God speed you, good woman! I have 
been a-fishing, and am going to Bleak [350 
Hall to my bed; and having caught more 
fish than will sup myself and my friend, I 
will bestow this upon you and your 
daughter, for I use to sell none. 

Milk- Woman. Marry, God requite you, 
sir, and we'll eat it cheerfully; and if you 
come this way a-fishing two months 
hence, a grace of God! I'll give you a 
syUabub of new verjuice in a new-made 
hay-cock for it. And my Maudlin shall [360 
sing you one of her best ballads; for she 
and I both love all anglers, they be such 
honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean- 
time will you drink a draft of red cow's 
milk? You shall have it freely. 

PiscATOR. No, I thank you; but, I 
pray, do us a courtesy that shall stand 
you and your daughter in nothing, and 
yet we will think ourselves still something 
in your debt; it is but to sing us a song [370 
that was sung by your daughter when I 
last passed over this meadow, about eight 
or nine days since. 

Milk-Woman. What song was it, I 
pray? Was it "Come, shepherds, deck 
your heads"? or, "As at noon Dulcina 
rested"? or, "Phillida flouts me"? or, 
"Chevy Chase"? or, "Johnny Arm- 
strong" ? or, "Troy Town"? 

PiscATOR. No, it is none of those; it [380 
is a song that your daughter sung the first 
part, and you sung the answer to it. 

Milk- Woman. Oh, I know it now. 
I learned it the first part in my golden 
age, when I was about the age of my 
poor daughter; and the latte;- part, which 
indeed fits me best now, but two or three 
years ago, when the cares of the world 
began to take hold of me: but you shaU, 
God willing, hear them both, and sung [390 
as well as we can, for we both love anglers. 
Come, Maudlin, sing the first port to 
the gentlemen, with a merry heart; and 
I'll sing the second when you have done. 



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THE MILBLMAID'S SONG 

Come, live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That vaUeys, groves, or hills, or field. 
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield; 

Where we will sit upon the rocks. 
And see the shepherds feed our flocks, [400 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And then a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Slippers lined choicely for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold; [410 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds; 
With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come, live with me, and be my love. 

Thy sUver dishes for my meat. 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
For thy delight, each May morning. [420 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 

Venator. Trust me, master, it is a 
choice song, and sweetly simg by honest 
Maudlin. I now see it was not without 
cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did 
so often wish herself a milkmaid all the 
month of May, because they are not 
troubled with fears and cares, but sing 
sweetly all th^ day, and sleep securely [430 
all the night; and without doubt, hon- 
est, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. 
rU bestow Sir Thomas Overbiuy's milk- 
maid's wish upon her, "That she may die 
in the spring, and being dead, may have 
good store of flowers stuck roimd about 
her winding-sheet." 



THE MILKMAm'S MOTHER'S ANSWER 

K all the world and love were yoimg, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move [440 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
And age complains of care to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wa)rward winter reckoning yields. 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, [451 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten; 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds. 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs. 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 



What should we talk of dainties, then, 
Of better meat than's fit for men? 
These are but vain: that's only good [460 
Which God hath blest, and sent for food. 

But could youth last, and love still breed; 
Had joys no date, nor age no need; 
Then those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



PiscATOR. Well simg, good woman; I 
thank you. I'll give you another dish 
of fish one of these days, and then beg 
another song of you. Come, scholar! let 
Maudlin alone; do not you offer to [470 
spoil her voice. Look! yonder comes mine 
hostess, to call us to supper. How now? 
Is my brother Peter come? 

Hostess. Yes, and a friend with him; 
they are both glad to hear that you are 
in these parts, and long to see you; and 
long to be at supper, for they be very 
hungry. 



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From Chapter VIII 

If this direction to catch a pike do you 
no good, yet I am certain this direction 
how to roast him when he is caught is 
choicely good, for I have tried it; and it 
is somewhat the better for not being com- 
mon. But with my direction you must 
take this caution, that your pike must 
not be a small one; that is, it must be 
more than half a yard, and should be 
bigger. [lo 

First open your pike at the gills, and 
if need be cut also a little slit towards the 
belly. Out of these take his guts, and keep 
his liver, which you are to shred very 
small with thyme, sweet marjoram, and 
winter-savory. To these put some pickled 
oysters, and some anchovies, two or three, 
(both these last whole, for the anchovies 
will melt, and the oysters should not). 
To these you must add also a poimd [20 
of sweet butter, which you are to mix with 
the herbs that are shred ; and let them all be 
well salted (if the pike be more than a yard 
long, then you may put into these herbs 
more than a pound; or if he be less, then 
less butter will suffice). These being thus 
mixed, with a blade or two of mace, must 
be put into the pike's belly, and then his 
belly sewed up. Then you are to thrust 
the spit through his mouth out at his [30 
tail; and then take foiu", or five, or six 
split sticks or very thin laths, and a con- 
venient quantity of tape or filetting. 
These laths are to be tied round about the 
pike's body, from his head to his tail, and 
the tape tied somewhat thick to prevent 
his breaking or falling off from the spit. 
Let him be roasted very leisurely, and 
often basted with claret wine and an- 
chovies and butter mixed together, and [40 
also with what moisture falls from hirfi 
into the pan. When you have roasted 
him sufficiently you are to hold under 
him, when you unwind or cut the tape 
that ties him, such a dish as you purpose 
to eat him out of; and let him fall into it 
with the sauce that is roasted in his belly; 
and by this means the pike will be kept 
imbroken and complete. Then to the 
sauce which was within him, and also [50 
that sauce in the pan, you are to add a 
fit quantity of the best butter, and to 



squeeze the juice of three or four oranges. 
Lastly, you may either put into the pike 
with the oysters two doves of garlic, and 
take it whole out when the pike is cut 
off the spit; or, to give the sauce a haut 
goidy let the dish into which you let the 
pike fall be rubbed with it; the using or not 
using of this garlic is left to your dis- [60 
cretion. 



JEREMY TAYLOR (1618-1667) 

From HOLY DYING 

It is a mighty change that is made by 
the death of every person, and it is visible 
to us who are sdive. Reckon but from 
the sprightfulness of youth and the fair 
cheeks and full eyes of childhood, from 
the vigorousness and strong flexure of 
the joints of five-and-twenty, to the 
hoUowness and dead paleness, to the 
loathsomeness and horror of a three days' 
burial, and we shall perceive the [10 
distance to be very great and very strange. 
But so have I seen a rose newly spring- 
ing from the clefts of its hood, and at 
first it was fair as the morning, and full 
with the dew of heaven as a lamb's fleece; 
but when a ruder breath had forced open 
its virgin modesty and dismantled its too 
youthful and unripe retirements, it began 
to put on darkness and to decline to soft- 
ness and the symptoms of a sickly [20 
age: it bowed the head and broke its 
stalk, and at night, having lost some of 
its leaves and all its beauty, it fell into 
the portion of weeds and outworn faces. 
The same is the portion of every man 
and every woman: the heritage of worms 
and serpents, rottenness and cold dis- 
honor, and our beauty so changed that 
our acquaintance quiddy know us not; 
and that change mingled with so much [30 
horror, or else meets so with our fears and 
weak discoursings, that they who six 
hours ago tended upon us, either with 
charitable or ambitious services, cannot 
without regret stay in the room alone 
where the body lies stripped of its life 
and honor. I have read of a fair yoxing 
German gentleman, who, living, often 
refused to be pictured, but put off the 



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importunity of his friends* desire by [40 
giving way that, after a few days' burial, 
they might send a painter to his vault, 
and, if they saw cause for it, draw the 
image of lus death imto the life. They 
did so, and foimd his face half eaten, and 
his midri£f and backbone full of serpents; 
and so he stands pictured among his 
armed ancestors. So does the fairest 
beauty change, and it will be as bad for 
you and me; and then what servants [50 
shall we have to wait upon us in the grave? 
what friends to visit us? what officious 
people to cleanse away the moist and 
unwhdesome doud reflected upon our 
faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, 
which are the longest weepers for our 
funeral? 

This discoiu'se will be useful if we con- 
sider and practise by the following rules 
and considerations respectively. [60 

I. All the rich and all the covetous 
men in the world will perceive, and all the 
worid will perceive for them, that it is 
but an lU recompense for all their cares 
that by this time all that shall be left 
will be this, that the neighbors shall say, 
"He died a rich man;" and yet his wealth 
will not profit him in the grave, but 
hugely swell the sad accoimts of dooms- 
day. And he that kills the Lord's [70 
people with unjust or ambitious wars, for 
an imrewarding interest shall have this 
character, that he threw away all the 
days of his life that one year might be 
redconed with his name, and computed 
by his reign or consulship; and many men 
1^ great labors and affronts, many in- 
dignities and crimes, labor only for a 
pompous epitaph and a loud tide upon 
their marble; whilst those into whose [80 
possessions their heirs or kindred are 
entered are forgotten, and lie imregarded 
as their ashes, and without concernment 
or relation, as the turf upon the face of 
their grave. A man may read a sermon, 
the b^t and most passionate that ever 
man preached, if he shall but enter into 
the sepulchres of kings. In the same 
Escurial where the Spanish princes live 
in greatness and power, and decree [90 
war or peace, they have wisely placed a 
cemetery, where their ashes and their 
^ory shall sleep till time shall be no 



more; and where our kings have been 
crowned thdr ancestors lie interred, and 
they must walk over thdr grandsire's 
head to take his crown. There is an 
acre sown with royal seed, the copy of the 
greatest change, from rich to naked, from 
ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from [100 
living like gods to die like men. There is 
enough to cool the flames df lust, to abate 
the heights of pride, to appease the itch 
of covetous desires, to sully and dash out 
the dissembling colors of a Justful, arti- 
ficial, and imaginary beauty. There the 
warlike and the peaceful, the fortunate 
and the miserable, the beloved and the 
despised princes mingle thdr dust, and 
pay down thdr symbol of mortality, [no 
and tell all the world that when we die 
our ashes shall be equal to kings', and 
our accounts easier, and our pains or our 
crowns shall be less. To my apprehen- 
sion, it is a sad record whidi is left by 
Athenaeus concerning Ninus, the great 
Assjnian monarch, whose life and death 
are summed up in these words: "Ninus 
the Assyrian had an ocean of gold and 
other riches more than the sand in [120 
the Caspian Sea; he never saw the stars, 
and perhaps he never desired it; he never 
stirred up the holy fire among the Magi, 
nor touched his god with the sacred rod 
according to the laws; he never offered 
sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity, nor 
administered justice, nor spake to his 
people, nor numbered them; but he was 
most valiant to eat and drink, and having 
mingled his wines, he threw the rest [130 
upon the stones. This man is dead; be- 
hold his sepulchre; and now hear where 
Ninus is. Sometimes I was Ninus, and 
drew the breath of a living man, but now 
am nothing but day. I have nothing 
but what I did eat, and what I served to 
myself in lust; that was and is all my por- 
tion. The wealth with which I was es- 
teemed blessed, my enemies, meeting 
together, shall bear away, as the mad [140 
Thyades carry a raw goat. I am gone 
to hell; and when I went thither I neither 
carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. 
I that wore a mitre am now a little heap 
of dust." I know not anything that can 
better represent the evil condition of a 
wicked man or a changing greatness. 



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From the greatest secular dignity to dust 
and ashes his nature bears him; and 
from thence to hell his sins carry him, [150 
and there he shall be for ever under the 
dominion of chains and devils, wrath and 
an intolerable calamity. This is the re- 
ward of an imsanctified condition, and a 
greatness ill-gotten or ill-administered. 

2. Let no man extend his thoughts, or 
let his hopes wander towards future and 
far-distant events and accidental con- 
tingencies. This day is mine and yours, 
but ye know not what shall be on [160 
the morrow; and every morning creeps 
out of a dark cloud, leaving behmd it an 
ignorance and silence deep as midnight 
and imdiscemed as are the phantasms 
that make a chrisom-child to smile; so 
that we cannot discern what comes here- 
after, unless we had a light from heaven 
brighter than the vision of an angel, even 
the spirit of prophecy. Without rev- 
elation we cannot tell whether we [170 
shall eat tomorrow, or whether a squin- 
ancy shall choke us; and it is written in 
the unrevealed folds of divine predestina- 
tion that many who are this day alive 
shall tomorrow be laid upon the cold 
earth, and the women shall weep over 
their shroud, and dress them for their 
fimeral. St. James, in his Epistle, notes 
the folly of some men his contemporaries, 
who were so impatient of the event [180 
of tomorrow, or the accidents of next 
year, or the good or evils of old age, that 
they would consult astrologers and witches, 
oracles and devils, what should befall 
them the next calends — ^what should be 
the event of such a voyage — ^what God 
had written in his book concerning the 
success of battles, the election of em- 
perors, the heirs of families, the price of 
merchandise, the return of the Tyrian [190 
fleet, the rate of Sidonian carpets; and 
as they were taught by the crafty and 
lying demons, so they would expect 
the issue; and oftentimes by disposing 
their affairs in order towards such events, 
really did produce some Uttle accidents 
according to their expectation, and that 
made them trust the oracles in greater 
things, and in all. Against this he opposes 
his counsel that we should not search [200 
after forbidden records, much less by 



imcertain significations; for whatsoever 
is disposed to happen by the order of 
natural causes or dvil counsels may be 
rescinded by a peculiar decree of Provi- 
dence, or be prevented by the death erf 
the interested persons; who, while their 
hopes are full, and their causes con- 
joined, and the work brought forward, 
and the sickle put into the harvest, [210 
and the first-fruits offered and ready to be 
eaten, even then, if they put forth their 
hand to an event that stands but at the 
door, at that door their body may be car- 
ried forth to burial before the expedition 
shall enter into fruition. When Richilda, 
the widow of Albert, earl of Ebersberg, 
had feasted the emperor Henry HI, 
and petitioned in behalf of her nephew 
Welpho for some lands fcMinerly pos- [220 
sessed by the earl her husband, just as 
the emperor held out his hand to signify 
his consent, the chamber floor suddenly 
fell imder them, and Richilda, falling 
upon the edge of a bathii;ig-vessel, was 
bruised to death, and stay^ not to see 
her nq>hew sleep in those lands which 
the emperor was reaching forth to her, 
and placed at the door erf restitution. 

3. As our hopes must be confined, so [230 
must our designs: let us not project long 
designs, crafty plots, and diggings so 
deep that the intrigues of a design shall 
never be unfolded till our grandchildren 
have forgotten our virtues or our vices. 
The work of our soul is cut short, facile, 
sweet, and plain, and fitted to the small 
portions of our shorter life; and as we 
must not trouble our inquiry, so ndther 
must we intricate our labor and pur- [240 
poses with what we shall never enjoy. TWs 
rule does not forbid us to plant orchards, 
which shall feed our nephews with their 
fruit, for by such provisions they do some- 
thing towards an imaginary immortality, 
and do charity to their relatives; but such 
projects are reproved which discompose 
our present duty by long and future 
designs: such which, by casting our labors 
to events at distance, make us less to [250 
remember our death standing at the 
door. It is fit for a man to work for his 
day's wages, or to contrive for the hire 
of a week, or to lay a train to make pro- 
visions for such a time as is within our 



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eye, and in our duty, and within the usual 
periods of man's life, for whatsoever 
is made necessary is also made pru- 
dent; but while we plot and busy our- 
selves in the toils of an ambitious war, [260 
or the levies of a great estate, night enters 
in upon us, and tells all the world how 
like fools we lived and how deceived and 
miserably we died. Seneca tells of Senecio 
Cornelius, a man crafty in getting, and 
tenacious in holding, a great estate, and 
one who was as diligent in the care of his 
body as of his money, curious of his 
health as of his possessions, that he all 
day long attended upon his sick and [270 
dying friend; but when he went away 
was quickly comforted, supped merrily, 
went to bed cheerfully, and on a sudden 
being surprised by a squinancy, scarce 
drew his breath imtil the morning, but 
by that time died, being snatched from 
the torrent of his fortune, and the swell- 
ing tide of wealth, and a likely hope 
bigger than the necessities of ten men. 
This accident was much noted then in [280 
Rome, because it happened in so great a 
fortune, and in the midst of wealthy de- 
signs; and presently it made wise men to 
consider how imprudent a person he is who 
disposes of ten years to come when he is 
not lord of tomorrow. 



5. Since we stay not here, being people 
but of a day's abode, and our age is 
like that of a fly, and contemporary with 
a gourd, we must look somewhere else [290 
for an abiding city, a place in anotJier 
country to fix our house in, whose walls 
and foundation is God, where we must 
find rest, or else be restless forever. For 
whatsoever ease we can have or fancy 
here is shortly to be changed into sadness 
or tediousness; it goes away too soon 
like the periods of our life, or stays too 
long like the sorrows of a sinner; its own 
weariness, or a contrary disturbance, [300 
is its load; or it is eased by its revolution 
into vanity and forgetfulness; and where 
either there is sorrow or an end of joy, 
there can be no true felicity; which, be- 
cause it must be had by some instrument, 
and in some period of our duration, we^ 
must carry up our affections to the 



mansion prepared for us above, where 
eternity is the measure, felicity is the state, 
angels are the company, the Lamb is [310 
the light, and God is the portion and in- 
heritance. 



JOHN MILTON (160e-1674) 
L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathM Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bom 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and 
sights imholy! 
Find out some uncouth cell, 5 

Where brooding darkness spreads his 
jealous wings. 
And the night-raven sings; 

There under ebon shades and low- 
browed rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cinmierian desert ever dwell. 10 
But come, thou Goddess fair and free. 
In heaven yclept^ Euphrosyne, 
And by men heart-easing Mirth; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. 
With two sister Graces more, 15 

To ivy-crownM Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sager^ sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-Maying, 20 

There on beds of violets blue 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom,' blithe, and debonair. 
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. 
Nods and becks and wreathM smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek; 30 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as you go. 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 



* called. 



* more wisely. 



* sfmghtly. 



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To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreprovM pleasures free: 40 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing, startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 45 

And at my window bid good-morrow. 
Through the sweet-briar or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine; 
While the cock, with lively din. 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft listening how the hoimds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering mom. 
From the side of some hoar hill, 55 

Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great sun begins his state, 60 
Robed in flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 

And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd telk his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
ures 
Whilst the landskip^ roimd it measures: 70 
Russet lawns and fallows grey. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure^ of neighboring eyes. 80 
Hard by, a cottage chinmey smokes 
From betwixt two agM oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs and other country messes, 85 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves. 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 



>luk(ltcape. 



* center of observation. 



95 



100 



Sometimes, with secure delight. 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round. 
And the jocund rebecks' sound 
To many a youth and many a maid 
Dancing in the chequered shade; 
And young and old come forth to play- 
On a sim^ine hdiday. 
Till the livelong daylight fail: 
Then to the ^icy nut-brown ale. 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How faery Mab the junkets eat. 
She was pinched and pulled, she said; 
And he, by friar's lantern* led. 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
When in one night, ere glimpse of mom^ 
His shadowy flail hath threshed the com 
That ten day-laborers could not end; 
Then lies him down, the lubber^ fiend, xio 
And, stretched out all the chimney's 

length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they cre^, 115 
By whispering winds soon lulled asle^. 
Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons hcAdy 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 120 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 125 

In saffron robe, with taper dear, 
And pomp and feast and revehy. 
With mask and antique pageantry; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haimted stream. 130 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's leamM sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
And ever, against eating cares, 135 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout* 
Of linkSd sweetness long drawn out, 140 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes running, 

* fiddles. ^ will o' the wisp. * awkward. * turn. 



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Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony; 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 14s 

From golden sliunber on a bed 

Of heaped El3rsian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto to have quite set free 

His half-r^ained Eurydice. 150 

These ddights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, witti thee I mean to live. 



IL P^NSEROSO 

Hence, vain dduding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father .bred! 
How little you bested,^ 

Or fill the fixM mind with all your tO)rs! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 5 

And fancies fond^ with gaudy shapes 
possess, 
As thick and nmnberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun- 
beams. 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus* 
train. 10 

But haily thou Goddess sage and holy. 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 15 

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 20 

The sea nymphs', and their powers of- 
fended. 
Yet thou art higher far descended: 
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 
To solitary Saturn bore; 
His dai^ter she (in Saturn's reign 25 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 
Comtf pensive Nim, devout and pure. 
Sober, steadfast, and demiure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with majestic train, 

UooUih. 



And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 

Over thy decent shoiilders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step, and musing gait. 
And looks commercing with the skies. 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40 
There, held in holy passion still. 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 46 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
And add to these retirM Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
Guiding the fiery-wheelM throne. 
The cherub Contemplation; 
And the mute Silence hist along, $$ 

'Less Philomel^ will deign a song. 
In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 

Sweet bird, that shium'st the noise of 

folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chaimtress, oft the woods among, 
I woo, to hear thy even-song; 
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way. 
And oft, as if her head she bowed, 71 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew soimd 
Over some wide-watered shore, 75 

Swinging slow with sullen roar; 
Or if the air will not permit. 
Some still removM place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach Ught to coimterfdt a gloom, 80 
Far from all resort of mirth. 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 
Be seen in some high lonely tower 



* the nightingale. 



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Where I may oft outwatch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or imsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 
The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook; 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or underground. 
Whose power hath a true consent, 95 

With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptered pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' Ime, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 

Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
But, O sad Virgin! that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower; 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 

Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made Hell grant what love did seek; 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That owned the virtuous^ ring and glass. 
And of the wondrous horse of brass. 
On which the Tartar king did ride; 115 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
Of tourneys, and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the 
ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
TiU civil-suited Mom appear, 
Not tricked^ and f roimced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 

While rocking winds are piping loud; 
Or ushered with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves. 
With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 
To archM walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine, or moniunental oak, 135 

Where the rude axe with heavfed stroke 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed haimt. 

* adorned. 



There in dose covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 140 
Hide me from day's garish eye. 
While the bee, with honeyed thigh. 
That at her flowery work doth sing. 
And the waters murmiuing, 
With such consort as they keep, 145 

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; 
And let some strange mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings in airy stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed, 
Softly on my eyelids laid; 150 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or imdem^th. 
Sent by some spirit to mortals good. 
Or the imseen Genius of the wood. 
But let my due feet never fail 155 

To walk the studious cloister's pale,* 
And love the high embowfed roof, 
With antique pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows richly dight,* 
Casting a dim religious light. 160 

There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full- voiced quire below 
In service high and anthems clear 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell* 170 
Of every star that heaven doth shew. 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 17s 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

LYCIDAS 

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned 
Friend, unfortunately drowned in his pas- 
sage from Chester on the Irish Seas, i6jy; 
and by occasion foretells the ruin of our 
corrupted Clergy, then in their height. 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once 

more. 
Ye m)rrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and 

crude. 
And with forced fingers rude 

* enclosure. * onutmented. * reasoo, study. 



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Shatter your leaves before the mellowing 

year. S 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due; 
For Lyddas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lyddas, and hath not left his 

peer. 
Who would not sing for Lyddas? he 

knew 10 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter^ to the parching wind, 
Without the meed^ of some mdodious tear. 
Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well 15 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 

spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the 

string. 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse; 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn, 21 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
For we were nursed upon the self -same 

hiU, 
Fed the same flock, by foimtain, shade, 

and rill; 
Together both, ere the high lawns ap- 
peared 25 
Under the opening eyelids of the mom, 
We drove a-fidd, and both together heard 
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry 

horn. 
Battening^ our flocks with the fresh dews 

of night. 
Oft till the star that rose at evening, 

bright, 30 

Toward heaven's descent had sloped his 

westering whed. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. 
Tempered to the oaten flute; 
Rough Satyrs danced, and Faims with 

doven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent 

long; 35 

And old Damoetas loved to hear our 

song. 
But oh I the heavy change, now thou 

art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must re- 

tuml 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert 

caves, 

> Um. * tribute. * fattening. 



With wild thyme and the gadding vine 
overgrown, 40 

And all their echoes, mourn. 

The willows and the hazel copses green 

Shall now no more be seen, 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft 
lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 

Or taint-worm to the weanling^ herds that 
graze. 

Or frost to flowers, that their gay ward- 
robe wear, 

When first the white-thorn blows; 

Such, Lyddas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the re- 
morseless deep 50 

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lyd- 
das? 

For ndther were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, 
lie. 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 
stream. 55 

Ay me, I fondly^ dream! 

Had ye been there — ^for what could that 
have done? 

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 
bore. 

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal nature did lament, 60 

When by the rout that made the hideous 
roar 

His gory visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian 
shore? 
Alas! what boots it with imcessant care 

To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's 
trade, 65 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use. 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the dear spirit doth 
raise 70 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights and live laborious djtys; 

But the fair guerdon^ when we hope to 
find. 

And think to burst out into sudden 
blaze. 

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrM 
shears, 75 



^ young, weaned. 



sfoolMhly. 



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And slits the thin-spun life. "But not 

the praise," 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trem- 
bling ears: 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal 

soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to tiie world, nor in broad rumor 

lies; 80 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure 

eyes 
And perfect witness of all- judging Jove; 
As he pronoimces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy 

meed." 
O foimtain Arethuse, and thou honored 

flood, 8s 

Smooth-sliding Mindus, crowned with 

vocal reeds. 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood: 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea. 
That came in Neptime's plea. 90 

He asked the waves, and asked the felon^ 

winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this 

gentle swain? 
And questioned every gust of rugged 

wings 
That blows from off each beakM promon- 
tory: 
They know not of his story; 95 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon 

strayed; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses 

dark, 
That simk so low that sacred head of 

thine. 
Next Camus, reverend sire, went foot- 
ing slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the 

edge los 

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with 

woe. 
"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my 

dearest pledge?"* 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake; 

I criminal. * child. 



Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
He shook his mitred locks, and stem be- 
spake: 
"How well could I have spared for thee, 

young swain. 
Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the 

foldl 115 

Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' 

feast 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest; 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves 

know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else 

the least 120 

That to the faithful herdman's art be- 
longs! 
What recks it them? What need they? 

They are sped;' 
And when they list, their lean and flashy 

songs 
Grate on their scrannel^ pipes of wretched 

straw; 
The himgry sheep look up, and are not 

fed, 125 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist 

they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy 

paw 
Daily devoiurs apace, and nothing said. 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 

more." 131 

Return, Alpheus; the dread voice k 

past 
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian 

Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither 

cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand 

hues. 135 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers 

use* 
Of shades and wanton winds and gushing 

brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart star* sparely 

looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled 

eyes. 



* accomplish tbdr end. 
»dweU. 



4 harsh, discordant. 
• the Dog-star. Sirins. 



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That on the green turf suck the honeyed 
diowers, 140 

And purple all the ground with vernal 
flowers. 

Bring the rathe^ primrose that forsaken 
dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked 
with jet, 

The glowing violet, 145 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- 
bine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery 
wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears. 

To strew the laiureate hearse where 
Lydd lies. 151 

For so, to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- 
mise: 

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and soimd- 
ingseas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are 
hurled; 155 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps imder the whelming 
tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous 
world; 

Or whether thou, to our moist^ vows 
denied, 

Sleq>'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 

Where the great vision of the guarded 
mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's 
hold. 

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt 
with ruth;* 

And ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep 

no more, 165 

For Lyddas, your sorrow, is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the watery 
floor; 

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks* his beams, and with new- 
spanned ore 170 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 

So Lyddas sunk low, but mounted high, 



'tearful. 



•pity. 



* adorns. 



Through the dear might of Him that 

walked the waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams 

along, 174 

With nectar piure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the imexpressive^ nuptial sctng, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and 

love. 
There entertain him all the saints above. 
In solemn troops and sweet sodeties, 1 79 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lyddas, the shepherds weep no 

more; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius* of. the 

shore. 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To ail that wander in that perilous flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth^ swain to the 

oaks and rills, 186 

While the still mom went out with sandals 

grey; 
He touched the tender stops of various 

quilk,® 
With eager thought warbling his Doric 

lay: 
And now the sim had stretched out all the 

hills, 190 

And now was dropped into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle 

blue: 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures 

new. 

SONNETS 

ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE 
AGE OF TWENTY-THREE 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
youth. 

Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth 
year! 

My hasting days fly on with full career, 

But my late spring no bud or blossom 
sheVth. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
truth s 

That I to manhood am arrived so near; 

And inward ripeness doth much less ap- 
pear. 

That some more timdy-happy spirits 
endu'th. 

* inezpctsaible. * guardian aagel. 'unknown. * reeds. 



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Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure 
even lo 

To that same lot, however mean or high. 
Toward which Time leads me, and the will 

•of Heaven; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 



ON SHAKESPEARE 

What needs my Shakespeare for his 

honored bones 
The labor of an age in pilM stones? 
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid 
Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 
What need'st thou such weak witness of 

thy name? • 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livelong monimient. 
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavor- 
ing art. 
Thy easy mmibers flow, and that each 

heart 10 

Hath from the leaves of thy imvalued^ 

book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression 

took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make us marble with too much 

conceiving. 
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 1 5 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to 

die. 



TO THE LORD GENERAL CROM- 
WELL 

MAY, 1652 

ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS 
AT THE COMMITTEE FOR PROPAGATION 
OF THE GOSPEL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 

cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious way 

hast ploughed, 

1 invaluable. 



And on the neck of crownfed Fortune 

proud 5 

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work 

pursued, 
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots 

imbrued. 
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises 

loud. 
And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet 

much remains 
To conquer still; Peace hath her vic- 
tories 10 
No less renowned than War: new foes 

arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with 

secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscience from the 

paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent j 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 

wide, \r 

And that one talent which is death to 

hide 1^ 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul 

more bent ^ 4 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present J- 
My true account, lest he returning diide; V 
"Doth Gkxi exact day-labor, light de- 
nied?" (/^ 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent ^ 
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth 

not need l 

Either man's work or his own gifts. 

Who best w 10 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.C 

His state V 

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, t 
And post o'er land and ocean without 

rest; 
They also serve who only stand and 

wait." 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIED- 
MONT 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, 

whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains 

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Even them who kept thy truth so pure of 

old, 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones, 
Foiget not: in thy book record their 

groans 5 

Who were thy sheep, and in their andent 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 

roUed 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 

moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 10 

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 

sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may 

grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy 

way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER 

Cyriack, this three years* day these eyes, 

though dear 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun or moon or star throughout the 

year, 5 

Or man or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a 

jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and 

steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost 

thou ask? 
The consdence, friend, to have lost them 

overplied 10 

In liberty's defence, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe talks from side to 

side. 
This thought might lead me through the 

world's vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better 

guide. 

ON fflS DECEASED WIFE 

Methought I saw my late espousM saint 
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, 



Whom Jove's great son to her glad hus- 
band gave. 

Rescued from Death by force, though pale 
and faint. 

Mine, as whom washed from spot of child- 
bed taint 5 

Purification in the old law did save. 

And such as yet once more I trust to have 

Full sight of her in Heaven without re- 
straint. 

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. 

Her face was veiled; yet to my fanded 
sight 10 

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person 
shined 

So clear as in no face with more delight. 

But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, 

I waked, she fled, and day brought back 
my night. 



PARADISE LOST 
BOOK I 

THE ARGUMENT 

This First Book proposes, first in brief, 
the whole subject, — i^ari^s disobedience, 
and the loss thereupon of Paradise, 
wherein hr'was placed: then touches 
the prime cause of his fall, — the Ser- 
pent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; 
who, revolting from God, and drawing 
to his side many legions of Angds, was, 
by the conmiand of God, driven out of 
Heaven, with all his crew, into the great 
Deep. Which action passed over, the 
Poem hastens into the midst of things; 
presenting Satan, with his Angels, now 
faUen into Hell— described here, not in 
the Center (for Heaven and earth may 
be supposed as yet not made, certainly 
not yet accursed), but in a place of utter 
darkness, fitliest called Chaos. Here 
Satan with his Angels, lying on the binn- 
ing lake, thunderstruck and astonished, 
after a certain space recovers, as from 
confusion; calls up him who, next in 
order and dignity, lay by him: they 
confer of thdr miserable fall. Satan 
awakens all his legions, who lay till then 
in the same manner confounded. They 
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^^, chief leaders named, according to the 
idols known afterwards in Canaan and 
the countries adjoining. To these Satan 
directs his speech; comforts them with 
hope yet of regaining Heaven; but tells 
them lastly of a new world and new 
kind of creature to be created, according 
to an ancient prophecy, or report, in 
Heaven — for that Angds were long be- 
fore this visible creation was the opinion 
of many ancient Fathers. To find out 
the truth of this prophecy, and what to 
determine thereon, he refers to a full 
coimdl. What his associates thence 
attempt, pandemon ium, the palace of 
Satan, ^ises^ suddenl)rbuilt out _ot,the 
Deepr the infernal Peers there sit in 
cSnxrdl. 

Of Man 's first disobedience, and the 
fruir" 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our 

woe, 
With loss of gdep, till one greater Man 
Restore us, anHregain the blissful seat, s 
Sing, Heavenly Muse, that on. the secret 

top 
Of breb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
That shepherd who first taught the chosen 

seed 
In the b^inning how the heavens and 

earth 
Rose out of Chaos : or, if Sion hill i o 

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that 

flowed 
Fast" by the orade of God, I thence 
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian moimt, while it pursues 
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost pre- 
fer 17 
Before all temples the upright heart and 

pure. 
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from 

the first 
Wast present, and, with mighty wings out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast 

Abyss, 
And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is 
dark, 

>cIote. 



Illumine; what is low, raise and support; 
That to the highth of this great argument 
I may assert * Eternal Providence, as 

And justify the ways of God to men-.- 
Say first — for Heaven hides nothing 

from Thy view. 
Nor the deep tract of Hell — say first what 

cause 
Moved our grand Parents, in that happy 

state. 
Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off 50 
From their Creator, and transgress his will 
For * one restraint, lords of the world be- 
sides. 
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? 
The infernal Serpent; he it was, whose 

guile, 
Stirred up with envy and revenge, de- 
ceived 35 
The mother of mankind, what time his 

pride 
Had cast him out from Heaven, with all 

his host 
Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring 
To set himself in glory above his peers, 
He trusted to have equalled the Most 

High, 40 

If he opposed; and, with ambitious aim 
Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle 

proud. 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty 

Power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal 

sky, 45 

With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day 

and night 50 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
Confounded, though inunortal. But his 

doom 
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the 

thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 55 
Torments him; round he throws his bale- 

f\il eyes. 
That witnessed huge afiliction and dismay, 
Mixed with obdurate pride, and steadfast 

hate. 



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At once, as far as Angel's ken, he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild. 60 
A dungeon horrible on all sides round 
As one great furnace flamed; yet from 

those flames 
No light; but rather darkness visible 
Served only to discover sights of woe, 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where 

peace 65 

And rest can never dwell; hope never 

comes 
That comes to all; but torture without end 
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever-burning sulphur imconsimied. 
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70 
For those rebellious; here their prison or- 
dained 
In utter darkness, and their portion set, 
As far removed from God and light of 

Heaven, 
As from the center thrice to the utmost 

pole. 
Oh how imlike the place from whence they 

feU! 75 

There the companions of his fall, o'er- 
. whdmed 

V With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous 

fire, 
He soon discerns; and weltering by his 

side 
One next himself in power, and next in 

crime. 
Long after known in Palestine, and named 
J ' Be^zebub . To whom the Arch-Enemy, 81 
And th^ce in Heaven called Satan, with 

bold words 
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began: — 
"K thou beest he — ^but oh how fallen! 

how changed 
From him who, in the happy realms of 

light, 8s 

Clothed with transcendent brightness, 

didst outshine 
Myriads, though bright! — ^if he, whom 

mutual league. 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
Joined with me once, now misery hath 

joined 90 

In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest 
From what highth fallen, so much the 

stronger proved 
He with his thimder: and till then who 

knew 



The force of those dire arms? Yet not for 

those. 
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage 95 
Can else inflict, do I repent or change. 
Though changed in outward luster, that 

fixed mind. 
And high disdain from sense of injured 

merit. 
That with the Mightiest raised me to 

contend. 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of Spirits armed, loi 
That durst dislike his reign, and, me pre- 
ferring. 
His utmost power with adverse power op- 
posed 
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
And shook his throne. What though the 
field be lost? 105 

All is not lost: the imconquerable will. 
And study of revenge, immortal hate. 
And courage never to submit or yield. 
And what is else not to be overcome; 
That glory never shall his wrath or might 
Extort from me. To bow and sue for 
grace m 

With suppliant knee, and deify his power 
Who, from the terror of this arm, so late 
Doubted his empire^ — that were low in- 
deed; 
That were an ignominy and shame be- 
neath 11$ 
This downfall ; since by fate the strength of 

gods 
And this empyreal substance cannot fail; 
Since, through experience of this great 

event. 
In arms not worse, in foresight much ad- 
vanced. 
We may with more successful hope re- 
solve » 120 
To wage by force or guile eternal war, . 
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
Who now triumphs, and in the excess of 

joy 
Sole reigning holds the tyranny of 
Heaven." 
So spake the apostate Angel, though in 
pain, 125 

Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep de- 
spair; 
And him thus answered soon his bold com- 
peer: — 

1 sovereignty. 



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"O Prince! O Chief of many thronfed 

powers 

That led the embattled Seraphim to war 

Under thy conduct,^ and, in dreadful 

deeds 130 

Feariess, endangered Heaven^s perpetual 

King, 
And put to proof his high supremacy, 
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or 

fate! 
Too well I see and rue the dire event 
That with sad overthrow and foul de- 
feat 13s 
Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty 

host 
In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
As far as gods and heavenly essences 
Can perish: for the mind and spirit re- 
mains 
Invincible, and vigor soon returns, 140 
Though all our glory extinct, and happy 

state 
Here swallowed up in endless misery. 
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I 

now 
Of force believe almighty, since no less 
Than such could have overpowered such 
force as ours) 145 

Have left us this our spirit and strength 

entire. 
Strongly to suffer and support our pains, 
That we may so suffice^ his vengeful ire. 
Or do him mightier service as hte thralls 
By right of war, whatever his business 
be, 150 

Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire, 
Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep? 
What can it then avaU, though yet we feel 
Strength imdiminished, or eternal being 
To undergo eternal pxmishment? " 155 
Whereto with spyeedy words the Arch- 
Fiend replied: — 
"Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering: but of this be sure — 
To do aught good never will be our task, 
But ever to do ill our sole delight, 160 
As being the contrary to his high will 
Whom we resist. If then his providence 
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
Our labor must be to pervert that end, 
And out of good still to find means of evil; 
Which ofttimes may succeed so as per- 
haps 166 



' command. 



' satisfy. 



Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
His inmost counsels from their destined 

aim. 
But see! the angry Victor hath recalled 
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 170 
Back to the gates of Heaven; the sul- 
phurous hail, 
Shot after vis in storm, o'erblown hath 

laid 
The fiery surge that from the precipice 
Of Heaven received us falling; and the 

thimder. 
Winged with red lightning and impetuous 
rage, 175 

Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases 

now 
To bellow through the vast and boundless 

Deep. 
Let us not slip' the occasion, whether scorn 
Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. 
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and 
wild, 180 

The seat of desolation, void of light, 
Save what the glinmiering of these livid 

flames 
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us 

tend 
From off the tossing of these fiery waves; 
There rest, if any rest can hafbor fiiere; 185 
And, reassembling our afficted powers, 
Consult how we may henceforth most of- 
fend 
Our Enemy, our own loss how repair. 
How overcome this dire calamity, 
What reinforcement we may gain from 
hope, 190 

If not what resolution from despair." 

Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, 
With head uplift above the wave, and eyes 
That sparkling blazed; his other i>arts be- 
sides. 
Prone on the flood, extended long and 
large, 195 

Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
As whom* the fables name of monstrous 

size, 
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on 

Jove, 
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den 
By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 
Leviathan, which God of all his works 201 
Created hugest that swim the ocean- 
stream. 

* let slip. « those 



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Him, haply slumbering on the Norway 

foam, 
The pilot of some small night-foundered^ 

skiff 
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 
With fixM anchor in his scaly rind, 206 
Moors by his side imder the lee, while 

night 
Invests the sea, and wished mom delays. 
So stretched out huge in length the Arch- 

Fiend lay, 
Chained on the burning lake; nor ever 

thence 310 

Had risen or heaved his head, but that the 

wiU 
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
Left him at large to his own dark de- 
) signs, 

". That with reiterated crimes he might 
,' Heap on himself damnation, while he 

sought 215 

Eva to others, and enraged might see 
How all his malice served but to bring 

In$nite goodness, grace, and mercy^ shown 
On Mairb]rhlm feeduceJTBut on himself 
Treble conifusion, wrath, and vengeance 

poured. 220 

Forthwith upright he rears from off the 

pool 
His mighty statxu^; on each hand the 

flames 
Driven backward slope their pointing 

^ires, and, rolled 
In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale. 
Then with expanded wings he steers his 

flight 225 

Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 
That felt unusual weight; till on dry 

land 
He lights — ^if it were land that ever burned 
Wiih solid, as the lake with liquid fire, 
And such appeared in hue, as when the 

force 230 

Of subterranean wind transports a hill 
Tom from Pelorus, or the shattered side 
Of thundering iEtna, whose combustible 
And fuelled entraib thence conceiving fire, 
Sublimed* with mineral fury, aid the 

winds, 235 

And leave a singM bottom all involved 
With stench and smoke: such resting found 

the sole 



>overUkeo by night. 



* sublimated. 



Of unblest feet. Him followed his nex t 

mate. 
Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian 

flood 
As gods, and by their own recovered 

strength, 240 

Not by the sufferance of supernal power. 
"Is this the region, this the soil, the 

clime," 
Said then the lost Archangel, " this the seat 
That we must change for Heaven? this 

mournful gloom 
For that celestial light? Be it so, since 

he 245 

Who now is sovran can dispose and bid 
What shall be right: farthest from him is 

best, 
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath 

made supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, 
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! 

hail, 250 

Infernal world! and thou, profoimdest 

HeU, 
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
~' ind is its own p lq,fej and in itself 
Can. jDake.^a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of 

Heaven. 255 

What matter where, if I be still the same, 
And what I should be, all but^ less than he 
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here 

at least 
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not 

built 
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: 
Here we may reign secure, and in my 

choice 261 

To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: 
Better to reign in Hell^ than serve in 

Heaven. 
But wherefore let we then our faithful 

friends, 
The associates and co-partners of our 

loss, 265 

Lie thus astonished* on the oblivious pool. 
And call them not to share with us their 

part 
In this unhappy mansion, or once more 
With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in 

HeU?" 270 

So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub 

s only. * omfouoded. 



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Thus answered: — "Leader of those armies 

bright 
Which but the Omnipotent none could 

have foiled, 
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest 

pledge 
Of hope in fears and dangers — ^heard so 

oft 275 

In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 
Their surest signal — they will soon resimie 
New courage and revive, though now they 

he 
Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of 

fire, 280 

As we erewhile, astoimded and amazed: 
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious 

highth!" 
He scarce had ceased when the superior 

Fiend 
Was moving toward the shore; his ponder- 
ous shield. 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and roimd, 
Behind him cast. The broad circum- 
ference 286 
Himg on his shoulders like the moon, 

whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist 

views 
At evening from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdamo, to descry new lands, 290 
Rivers, or moimtains, in her spotty globe. 
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral,^ were but a 

wand — 
He walked with, to support uneasy 

steps 295 

Over the burning marl,* not like those 

steps 
On Heaven's aziu-e; and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with 

fire. 
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
Of that inflamM sea he stood, and called 
His legions, Angel forms, who lay en- 
tranced, 301 
Thick as autunmal leaves, that strew the 

brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian 

shades. 
High over-arched, embower; or scattered 

sedge 

1 flag-ship. ' toil. 



Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion 

armed 305 

Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose 

waves o'erthrew 
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry. 
While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
From the safe shore their floating car- 
casses 310 
And broken chariot-wheels. So thick be- 

strown, 
Abject and lost lay these, covering the 

flood. 
Under amazement of* their hideous 

change. 
He called so loud, that all the hollow deq) 
Of Hell resoimded: — "Princes, Poten- 
tates, 315 
Warriors, the Flower erf Heaven, — once 

yours, now lost. 
If such astonishment as this can seize 
Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this 

place 
After the toil of battle to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you 
find 320 

To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven? 
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds 
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood 
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates dis- 
cern 326 
The advantage, and descending tread us 

down 
Thus drooping, or with linkM thunder- 
bolts 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? 
Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n!" 330 
They heard, and were abashed, and up 
they spnmg 
Upon the wing; as when men, wont to 

watch, 
On duty sleeping foimd by whom they 

dr^, 
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well 

awake. 

Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 

In which they were, or the fierce pains not 

feel; 336 

Yet to their General's voice they soon 

obeyed, 
Inniunerable. As when the potent rod 

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Of Amram's son,* in Egypt's evil day, 
Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy 

cloud 340 

Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh 

himg 
Like night, and darkened all the land of 

Nile: 
So numberless were those bad Angels seen 
Hovering on wing imder the cope of Hell, 
Twixt upper, nether, and siirrounding 

fires; 346 

Till, as a signal given, the uplifted ^)ear 
Of their great S^tan waving to direct 
Their course, in even balance down they 

light 
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the 

plain: 350 

A multitude like which the populous 

North 
Poured never from her frozen loins, to 

I>ass 
Rhene or the Danaw,^ when her barbarous 

sons 
Came like a deluge on the South, and 

^read 
Beneath^ Gibraltar to the Libyan sands. 
Forthwith from every squadron and each 

band 35<^ 

The heads and leaders thither haste where 

stood 
Their great Conunander; godlike shapes, 

and forms 
Excdling human, princely Dignities, 
And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on 

thrones; 360 

Though of their names in Heavenly records 

now 
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased 
By their rebellion from the Books of Life. 
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
Got them new names, till, wandering o'er 

the Earth, 365 

Through God's high suflFerance, for the 

trial of man. 
By falsities and lies the greatest part 
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake 
God their Creator, and the invisible 
Glory of him that made them, to trans- 
form 370 
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 
With gay religions^ full of pomp and gold, 
And devils to adore for deities: 



>Moi 



'Danube. 



» south of. 



Then were they known to men by various 

names. 
And various idols through the heathen 

world. 375 

Say, Muse, their names then known, 

who first, who last. 
Roused from the slumber on that fiery 

couch. 
At their great Emperor's call, as next in 

worth. 
Came singly where he stood on the bare 

strand. 
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet 

aloof. 380 

The chief were those who from the pit of 

HeU 
Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst 

fix 
Their seats, long after, next the seat of 

God, 
Their altars by his altar, gods adored 
Among the nations roimd, and durst 

abide 385 

Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 
Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed 
Within his sanctuary itsielf their shrines, 
Abominations; and with cursM things 
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. 
And with their darkness durst affront his 

light. 391 

First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with 

blood 
Of hiunan sacrifice, and parents' tears; 
Though, for the noise of drums and tim- 
brels loud. 
Their children's cries imheard that passed 

through fire 395 

To his grim idol. Him the Anmionite 
Worshipped in Rabba and her watery 

plain. 
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream 
Of utmost Amon. Nor content with such 
Audacious neighborhood, the wisest heart 
Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 401 
His temple right against the temple of 

God, 
On that opprobrious hill,, and made his 

grove 
The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet 

thence 
And black Gehenna called, the t}^ of 

HeU. 405 

Next, Chemos, the obscene dread of 

Moab's sons, 



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From Aroer to Nebo and the wild 
Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon » 
And Horon&im, Seon's realm, beyond 
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 
And Eleille to the Asphaltic pool ; 41 1 

Peor his other name, when he enticed 
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, 
To do him wanton rites, which cost them 

woe. 
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 415 
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove 
Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate. 
Till good Josiah drove them thence to 

HeU. 
With these came they who, from the 

bordering flood 
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 
Egypt from S)aian ground, had general 

names 421 

Of Baalim and Ashtaroth: those male. 
These feminine. For Spirits, when they 

please, 
Can either sex assvmie, or both; so soft 
And uncompounded is their essence pure, 
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 426 
Nor founded on the brittle strength of 

bones, 
Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape 

they choose. 
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, 
Can execute their aery purposes, 430 

And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
For those the race of Israel oft forsook 
Their living Strength, and imfrequented 

left 
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 
To bestial gods; for which their heads as 

low 435 

Bowed down in battle, simk before the 

spear 
Of despicable foes. With these in troop 
Came Astoreth, whom the Phenicians 

called 
Astart6, Queen of Heaven, with crescent 

horns; 
To whose bright image nightly by the 

moon 440 

Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs ; 
In Sion also not unsimg, where stood 
Her temple on the offensive mountain, 

built 
By that uxorious king whose heart, though 

large. 
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 445 



To idols foul. Thammuz came next be- 
hind, 
Whose annual woimd in Lebanon allured 
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
In amorous ditties all a siunmer's day, 
While smooth Adonis from his native rock 
Ran piuple to the sea, supposed with 

blood 451 

Of Thammuz yearly woimded: the love^ 

tale 
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat, 
Whose wanton passions in the sacred 

porch 
Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led, 455 
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries 
Of alienated Judah. Next came one 
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive 

ark 
Maimed his brute image, head and hands 

lopt off 
In his own temple, on the grunsd-edge," 460 
Where he fell flat, and shamed \us wor- 
shippers: 
Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward 

man 
And downward fish; yet had his temple 

high 
Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the 

coast 
Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, 465 
And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds. 
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful 

seat 
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 
Of Abbana and Pharphar, ludd streams. 
He also against the house of God was bold: 
A leper once he lost, and gained a king, 471 
Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 
God's altar to disparage and displace 
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to bum 
His odious offerings, and adore the gods 47s 
Whom he had vanquished. After these 

appeared 
A crew who, imder names of old renown, 
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train. 
With monstrous shapes and sorceries 

abuseii^ 
Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 480 
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish 

forms 
Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape 
The infection, when their borrowed gold 

composed 



'threshold. 



'decehred. 



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The calf in Oreb, and the rebel king 
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 485 
Likening his Maker to the grazM ox — 
Jehovah, who, in one night, when he 



From Egypt marching, equalled with one 

stroke 
Both her first-bom and all her bleating 

gods. 
Belial came last, than whom a Spirit more 
lewd 490 

Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to 

love 
Vice for itself. To him no temple stood 
Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than 

he 
In temples and at altars, when the priest 
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled 
With lust and violence the house of God? 
In courts and palaces he also reigns, 497 
And in luxurious cities, where the noise 
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers. 
And injury and outrage; and when night 
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the 
sons 501 

Of Belial, flown^ with insolence and wine. 
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that 

night 
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door 
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape. 505 
These were the prime in order and in 
might; 
The rest were long to tell, though far re- 
nowned 
The Ionian gods — of Javan's issue held 
Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and 

Earth, 
Their boasted parents; — ^Titan, Heaven's 
first-bom, 510 

With his enormous brood, and birthright 

seized 
By younger Saturn ; he from mightier Jove, 
ffis own and Rhea's son, like measure 

foimd; 
So Jove usiuping reigned. These, first in 

Crete 
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top 
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air, 516 
Their highest Heaven; or on the Delphian 

cliff, 
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds 
Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old 
Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields, 520 

1 flushed. 



And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost 
isles. 
All these and more came flocking; but 
with looks 

Downcast and damp, yet such wherein 
appeared 

Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have 
f oimd their Chief 

Not in despair, to have found themselves 
not lost 525 

In loss itself; which on his coimtenance 
cast 

Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted 
pride 

Soon recollecting,* with high words that 
bore 

Semblance of worth, not substance, gently 
raised 

Their fainting courage, and dispelled their 
fears: 530 

Then straight conmiands that at the war- 
like sound 

Of trumpets loud and clarions, be up- 
reared 

His mighty standard. That proud honor 
claimed 

Azazel as his right, a Chemb tall: 

Who forthwith from the glittering staff 
unfurled 535 

The imperial ensign, which, full high ad- 
vanced, 

Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind. 

With gems and golden lustre rich em- 
blazed. 

Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while 

Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds :54o 

At which the xmiversal host up-sent 

A shout that tore Hell's concave, and be- 
yond 

Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 

All in a moment through the gloom were 
seen 

Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 545 

With orient colors waving; with them rose 

A forest huge of spears; and thronging 
helms 

Appeared, and serried^ shields in thick 
array 

Of depth inuneasurable. Anon they move 

In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 550 

Of flutes and soft recorders* — such as 
raised 

To highth of noblest temper heroes old 



s interlocked. 



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Arming to battle, and instead of rage 

Deliberate valor breathed, firm and un- 
moved 

With dread of death to flight or foul re- 
treat; 555 

Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage,* 

With solenm touches troubled thoughts, 
and chase 

Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow 
and pain 

From mortal or immortal minds. Thus 
they, 

Breathing imited force with fixid thought. 

Moved on in silence to soft pipes that 
charmed 561 

Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and 
now 

Advanced in view they stand, a horrid 
front 

Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in 
guise 

Of warriors old, with ordered spear and 
shield, 565 

Awaiting what conmiand their mighty 
Chief 

Had to impose. He through the armfed 
files 

Darts his experienced eye, and soon trav- 
erse^ 

The whole battalion views — their order 
due. 

Their visages and stature as of gods ; 570 

Their number last he sums. And now his 
heart 

Distends with pride, and hardening in his 
strength, 

Glories; for never, since created man. 

Met such embodied force as, named^ with 
these. 

Could merit more than that small in- 
fantry 575 

Warred on by cranes: though all the giant 
brood 

Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined 

That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each 
side 

Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what re- 
sounds 

In fable or romance of Uther's son, 580 

Begirt with British and Armoric knights; 

And all who since, baptized or infidel. 

Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban, 

Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond; 

s compared. 



Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore 585 
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell 
By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond 
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed* 
Their dread Conmiander. He, above the 

rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590 
Stood like a tower; his form had yet not 

lost 
All her original brightness, nor ai^)eared 
Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new- 
risen 
Looks throiigh the horizontal misty air 595 
Shorn of his beams, or from behind Uie 

moon, 
In dim eclipse, disastrous^ twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of 

change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet 

. shone 
Above them all the Archangel; but his 

face 600 

Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and 

care 
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
Of daimtless courage, and considerate^ 

pride 
Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 605 
The fellows of his crime, the followers 

rather 
(Far other once beheld in bliss), con- 

denmed 
Forever now to have their lot in piain; 
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced^ 
Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors 

flimg 610 

For his revolt; yet faithful how they 

stood. 
Their glory withered: as, when Heaven's 

fire 
Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain 

pines, 
With singM top their stately growth, 

though bare, 
Stands on the bk^sted heath. He now pre- 
pared 615 
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks 

they bend 
From wing to wing, and half enclose him 

roimd 



* obeyed. 

• meaitative. 



* threatening disaster. 
' deprived. 



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163 



With all his peers: attention held them 

mute. 
Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of 

scorn, 
Tears, sudi as Angels weep, burst forth: at 
last 630 

Words interwove with sighs found out 
their way: — 
"O myriads of immortal Spirits! O 
Powers 
Matchless, but with the Almighty! — ^and 

that strife 
Was not inglorious, though the event^ was 

dire, 
As this place testifies, and this dire change, 
Hateful to utter. But what power of 
mind, 626 

Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
Of knowledge past or present, could have 

feared 
How such united force of gods, how such 
As stood like these, could ever know re- 
pulse? 630 
For who can yet believe, though after 

loss, 
That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re- 
ascend, 
Self-raised, and repossess their native 

seat? 
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 
K counsels different, or danger shimned 636 
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who 

reigns 
Monardi in Heaven, till then as one secure 
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. 
Consent or custom, and his regal state 640 
Put forth at full, but still his strength con- 
cealed; 
Which tempted our attempt, and wrought 

our fall. 
Henceforth his might we know, and know 

our own. 
So as not either to provoke, or dread 
New war provoked. Our better part re- 
mains 645 
To work* in dose design, by fraud or guile, 
What force effected not; that he no less 
At length from us may find, who over- 
comes 
By force hath overcome but half his foe. 
Space may produce new worlds; whereof 
so rife 650 

'aocompUsh. 



There went a fame in Heaven that he ere 

long 
Intended to create, and therein plant 
A generation whom his choice regard 
Should favor equal to the Sons of Heaven. 
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 655 
Our first eruption;' tJiither, or elsewhere; 
For this infernal pit shall never hold 
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the 

Abyss 
Long under darkness cover. But these 

thoughts 
Full coimsel must mature. Peace is de- 
spaired, 660 
For who can think submission? War, 

then, war. 
Open or understood,* must be resolved." 
He spake; and, to confirm his words, 

outflew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the 

thighs 
Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze 665 
Far round illumined Hell; highly they 

raged 
Against the Highest, 'and fierce with 

graspM arms 
Clashed on their soimding shields the din 

of war. 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of 

Heaven. 
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly 

top 670 

Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest en- 
tire 
Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign 
That in his womb was hid metallic ore, 
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged 

with speed, 
A numerous brigad hastened: as when 

bands 675 

Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe 

armed. 
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. 
Or cast a rampart. Manmion led them 

on: " 

Manmion, the least erected Spirit that fell 
From Heaven; for even in Heaven his 

looks and thoughts 680 

Were always downward bent, admiring 

more 
The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden 

gold, 
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed 

* sortie. * secretly decided oo. 



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In vision beatific. By him first 

Men also, and by his suggestion taught, 685 

Ransacked the Center, and with impious 

hands 
Rifled the boweb of their mother Earth 
For treasures, better hid. Soon had his 

crew 
Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none 

admire^ 690 

That riches grow in Hell; that soil may 

best 
Deserve the precious bane. And here let 

those 
Who boast in mortal things, and wonder- 
ing tell 
Of Babel, and the works of Memphian 

kings. 
Learn how their greatest monuments of 

fame, 695 

And strength and art, are easily outdone 
By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour 
What in an age they, with incessant toil 
And hands inniunerable, scarce perform. 
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 
That underneath had veins of liquid fire 701 
Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 
With wondrous art founded^ the massy 

ore. 
Severing' each kind, and scummed the 

bullion dross. 
A third as soon had formed within the 

groimd 705 

A various mold, and from the boiling cells. 
By strange conveyance, filled each hollow 

nook: 
As in an organ, from one blast of wind. 
To many a row of pipes the sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge 710 
Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — 
Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 
With golden architrave; nor did there 

want 715 

Cornice or frieze, with bossy* sculptures 

graven: 
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon, 
Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence 
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine 
Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 720 



* wonder. 

* separating. 



* melted. 

« emboased, in high relief. 



Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria 

strove 
In wealth and luxury. The ascending pik 
Stood fixed her stately highth, and straight 

the doors. 
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide 
Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth 
And level pavement; from the arched 

roof, 726 

Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light 
As from a sky. The hasty multitude 730 
Admiring entesed, and the work some 

praise. 
And some the architect. His hand was 

known 
In Heaven by many a towered structure 

high 
Where sceptered Angels held their res- 
idence, 
And sat as Princes, whom the supreme 

King 735 

Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, 
Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright. 
Nor was his name ui^eard or unadored 
In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land - 
Men called him Mulciber; and how h&' 

fell ^"^ ' 740 

From Heaven they fabled, thrown by 

angry Jove 
Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from 

mom 
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 
A summer's day; and with the setting sun 
Dropped from the zenith like a falling 

star, 745 

On Lemnos, the iEgean isle. Thus they 

relate, 
Erring; for he with this rebellious rout 
Fell long before; nor aught availed him 

now 
To have built in Heaven high towers; nor 

did he scape 
By all his engines,^ but was headlong 

sent 750 

With his industrious crew to build in Hell. 
Meanwhile, the wingfed heralds, by com- 
mand 
Of sovran power, with awful ceremony 
And trumpet's sound, throughout the 

host proclaim 
A solenm coxmcil forthwith to be held 755 

* contrivances. 



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i6s 



At Pandemonium, the high capital 

Of Satan and his peers. Their summons 

called 
From every band and squared regiment 
By place or choice the worthiest; they 

anon, 
With himdreds and with thousands, troop- 
ing came, 760 
Attended. All access was thronged; the 

gates 
And porches wide, but chief the spacious 

hall 
(Though like a covered field, where cham- 
pions bold 
Wont^ ride in armed, and at the Soldan's 

chair 
Defied the best of Panim^ chivalry 765 
To mortal combat, or career with lance), 
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in 

the air. 
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. 

As bees 
In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus 

rides. 
Pour forth their populotis youth about the 

hive 770 

In clusters; they among fresh dews and 

flowers 
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank, 
The suburb of their straw-built citaidd. 
New rubbed with balm, expatiate^ and 

confer* 
Their state-afifairs. So thick the aery 

crowd 775 

Swarmed and were straitened; till, the 

signal given, 
Behold a wonder! they but now who 

seemed 
In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons, 
Now less than smallest dwaris, in narrow 

room 
Throng numberless, like that pygmean 

race 780 

Beyond the Indian moimt; or faery elves, 
Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side 
Or foimtain, some belated peasant sees, 
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the 

Moon 
Sits arbitress,* and nearer to the Earth 785 
Wheels her pale course; they, on their 

mirth and dance 
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear; 



* used to. 



< walk about. 



At once with joy and fear his heart re- 
bounds. 
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms 
Reduced their shapes inunense, and were 
at large, 790 

Though without number still, amidst the 

haU 
Of that infernal court. But far within. 
And in their own dimensions like them- 
selves. 
The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim 
In close recess* and secret conclave sat, 795 
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats. 
Frequent^ and full. After short silence 

then. 
And simimions read, the great consult 
began. 



BOOKH 

THE ARGUMENT 

The consultation begun, Satan debates 
whether another battle be to be haz- 
arded for the recovery of Heaven: 
some advise it, others dissuade. A 
third proposal is preferred, mentioned 
before by Satan — to search the truth 
of that prophecy or tradition in Heaven 
concerning another world, and another 
kind of creature, equal, or not much 
inferior, to themselves, about this time 
to be created. Their doubt who shall 
be sent on this difficult search: Satan, 
their chief, imdertakes alone the voy- 
age; is honored and applauded. The 
coimcil thus ended, the rest betake 
them several ways and to several em- 
ployments, as their inclinations lead 
them, to entertain the time till Satan 
return. He passes on his journey to 
Hell-gates, finds them shut, and who 
sat there to guard them; by whom at 
length they are opened, and discover 
to him the great gulf between Hell 
and Heaven; with what difficulty he 
passes through, directed by Chaos, the 
Power of that place, to the sight of 
this new World which he sought. 

High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of 
Ind, 

* retiremeDt. ' crowded. 



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Or where the gorgeous East with richest 

hand 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and 

gold, 
jatan^xalted sat, by merit raised s 

To that bad^^minence; and, from despair 
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires 
Beyond thus high, insatiate to purs ue 
Vain_war with H^ven; and, by success^ 
" untaught. 

His proud imaginations thus displayed: — 
"Powers and Dominions, Deities of 

Heaven! n 

For since no deep within her gulf can hold 
Immortal vigor, though oppressed and 

fallen, 
I give not Heaven for lost: from this de- 
scent 
Celestial Virtues rising will appear 15 

More glorious and more dread than from 

no fall, 
And trust themselves to fear no second 

fate! 
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of 

Heaven, 
Did first create your leader, next, free 

choice. 
With what besides in council or in fight 20 
Hath been achieved of merit, yet this loss, 
Thus far at least recovered, hath much 

more 
Estabhshed in a safe, imenvied throne, 
Yielded with full consent. The happier 

state 
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might 

draw 25 

Envy from each inferior; but who here 
Will envy whom the highest place exposes 
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's 

aim 
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest 

share 
Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no 

good 
For which to strive, no strife can grow up 

there 31 

From faction: for none sure will claim in 

HeU 
Precedence; none whose portion is so small 
Of present pain that with ambitious mind 
Will covet more! With this advantage, 

then, 35 

To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, 

» the event. 



More than can be in Heaven, we now re- 
turn 
To claim our just inheritance of old, 
Surer to prosper than prosperity 
Could have assured us; and by what best 
way, 40 

Whether of open war o ixovort guile, 
WejaQwIdfibatei Who can advise may 
speak." 
He ceased; and next him Moloch, scep- 
tred king, 
Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest 

Spirit 
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by 
despair. 45 

His trust was with the Eternal to be 

deemed 
Equal in strength, and rather than be less 
Cared not to be at all; with that care 

lost 
Went all his fear: of God, or HeU, or worse. 
He recked not, and these words thereafter 
spake: — 50 

"My sentence* is for open war. Of wiles. 
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those 
Contrive who need, or when they need; 

not now. 
For while they sit contriving, shall the 

rest — 
Millions that stand in arms, and longing 
wait 55 

The signal to ascend — sit lingering here, 
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling- 
place 
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 
The prison of his tyranny who reigns 
By our delay? No! let us rather choose, 60 
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at 

once 
O'er Heaven's high towers to force resist- 
less way. 
Tinning our tortures into horrid arms 
Against the Torturer; when, to meet the 

noise 
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 65 
Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
Among his Angels, and his throne itself 
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange 
fire, 69 

His own invented torments. But perhaps 
The way seems difficult and steep to scale 
With upright wing against a higher foe? 

' judgment. 



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167 



Let such bethink them, if the sleepy 

drench 
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 
That in our proper motion we ascend 75 
Up to our native seat; descent and fall 
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 
When the fierce foe hung on our broken 

rear 
Insulting, and pursued us through the 

deep. 
With what compulsion and laborious 

jQight 80 

We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy, 

then; 
The event is feared? Should we again 

provoke 
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath 

may find 
To our destruction — ^if there be in Hell 
Fear to be worse destroyed? What can be 

worse 85 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, 

condemned 
In this abhorrM deep to utter woe; 
Where pain of unextinguishable fire 
Must exercise us, without hope of end, 
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 
Inexorably, and the torturing hour, 91 
Calls us to penance? More destroyed 

than thus. 
We should be quite abolished, and expire. 
What fear we then? what doubt we to 

incense 
His utmost ire? which, to the highth en- 
raged, 95 
Will either quite consiune us, and reduce 
To nothing this essential' — ^happier far 
Than miserable to have eternal being! — 
Or, if our substance be indeed divine. 
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 100 
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel 
Our power suflSdent to disturb his Heaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm. 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne: 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge." 105 
He ended frowning, and his look de- 

noimced^ 
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
To less than go(k. On the other side up 

rose 
o /Belial, in act more graceful and humane; 
A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed 
For dignity composed, and high exploit, ui 

oun. * threatened. 



But all was false and hollow; though his 

tongue 
Dropped manna, and could make the 

worse appear 
The better reason, to perplex and dash 
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were 

low — 115 

To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds 
Timorous and slothful. Yet he pleased 

the ear. 
And with persuasive accent thus began: — 
" I should be much for open war, O Peers, 
As not behind in hate, if what was urged 
Main reason to persuade inmiediate war 
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to 

cast 122 

Ominotis conjecture on the whole success; 
When he who most excels in fact of arms, 
In what he coimsels and in what excels 125 
Mistrustful, grounds his coiu^e on de- 
spair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
First, what revenge? The towers of 

Heaven are filled 
With armM watch, that render all access 
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep 131 
Encamp their legions, or with obscure 

wing 
Scout far and wide into the realm of Night, 
Scorning siuprise. Or could we break our 

way 
By force, and at our heels all Hell should 

rise 13s 

With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light, yet our great 

Enemy, 
All incorruptible, would on his throne 
Sit impolluted, and the ethereal mould, 
Incapable of stain, would soon expel 140 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire. 
Victorious. Thus repidsed, our final hope 
Is flat despair: we must exasperate 
The Almighty Victor to spend all his 

rage. 
And that muist end us; that must be our 

aure— 14s 

To be no more. Sad cure! for who would 

lose. 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts tiiat wander through 

eternity, 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of imcreated Night, 150 



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Devoid of sense and motion? And who 

knows, 
Let this be good, whether our angry Foe 
Can give it, or will ever? How he can 
Is doubtful; that he never will is sure. 
Will He, so wise, let loose at once his ire,i55 
Belike through impotence, or unaware, 
To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 
To punish endless? * Wherefore cease we 

then?' 
Say they who coimsel war; * we are decreed. 
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe; i6i 
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more. 
What can we suffer worse?' Is this then 

worst. 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? 
What when we fled amain, pursued and 
strook 165 

With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and be- 
sought 
The Deep to shelter us? This Hell then 

seemed 
A refuge from those woimds. Or when we 

lay 
Chained on the burning lake? That siu-e 

was worse. 
What if the breath that kindled those grim 
fires, 170 

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold 

rage, 
And plunge us in the flames; or from above 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us? What if 

all 
Her stores were opened, and this firma- 
ment 175 
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire. 
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous 

faU 
One day upon our heads; while we per- 
haps. 
Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, 
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and 
prey 181 

Of raclung whirlwinds, or forever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in 

chains. 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 185 
Ages of hopeless end? This would be 

worse. 
War therefore, open or concealed, alike 



My voice dissuades: for what can^ force or 

guile 
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose 

eye 
Views all things at one view? He from 
Heaven's highth 190 

All these our motions vain sees and de- 
rides; 
Not more almighty to resist our might 
Than wise to frustrate all our plots and 

wiles. 
Shall we, then, live thus vile — the race of 

Heaven 
Thus trampled, thus expelled to suffer here 
Chains and these torments? Better t±Lese 
than worse, 196 

By my advice; since fate inevitable 
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, 
The Victor's will. To suffer, as to do. 
Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust 
That so ordains: this was at first resolved, 
If we were wise, against so great a foe 202 
Contending, and so doubtful what might 

fall. 
I laugh when those who at the spear are 

bold 
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, 
and fear 205 

What yet they know must follow — to en- 
dure 
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain. 
The sentence of their conqueror. This is 

now 
Our doom; which if we can sustain and 

bear. 
Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit 
His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed. 
Not mind us not offending, satisfied 212 
With what is punished; whence these rag- 
ing fires 
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their 

flames. 
Our purer essence then will overcome 215 
Their noxious vapor, or, inured, not feel; 
Or, changed at length, and to the place 

conformed 
In temper and in nature, will receive 
Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain, 
This horror will grow mild, this darkness 
light; 220 

Besides what hope the never-ending flight 
Of future days may bring, what chance, 
what change 

1 avail. 



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169 



Worth waiting, — since our present lot ap- 
pears 
For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, 
If we procure not to ourselves more woe." 
Thus Belial, with words clothed in rea- 
son's garb, 226 
Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth, 
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon 
spake: — 
"Either to disenthrone the King of 
Heaven 
We war, if war be best, or to regain 230 
Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we 

then 
May hope, when everlasting Fate shall 

yield 
To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the 

strife. 
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain 
The latter; for what place can be for us 235 
Within Heaven's bound, imless Heaven's 

Lord Supreme 
We overpower? Suppose he should relent. 
And publish grace to all, on promise made 
Of new subjection; with what eyes could 
we 239 

Stand in his presence, humble, and receive 
Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne 
With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead 

sing 
Forced Halleluiahs, while he lordly sits 
Our envied sovran, and his altar breathes 
Ambrosial odors and ambrosial flowers, 245 
Our servile offerings? This must be our 

task 
In Heaven, this our delight. How weari- 
some 
Eternity so spent in worship paid 
To whom we hate! Let us not then pur- 
sue, 
By force impossible, by leave obtained 250 
Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state 
Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek 
Our own good from ourselves, and from 

oiu-own 
Live to oiurselves, though in this vast 

recess. 
Free, and to none accountable, preferring 
Hard liberty before the easy yoke 256 
Of servile pomp. Our greatness will ap- 
pear 
Then most conspicuous, when great things 

of small, 
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse. 



We can create, and in what place soe'er 260 
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of 

pain 
Through labor and endurance. This deep 

world 
Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst 
Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all- 
ruling Sire 
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, 265 
And with the majesty of darkness round 
Covers his throne, from whence deep 

thunders roar. 
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resem- 
bles Hell! 
As he our darkness, cannot we his light 
Imitate when we please? This desert soil 
Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and 
gold; 271 

Nor want we skill or art from whence to 

raise 
Magnificence; and what can Heaven show 

more? 
Our torments also may, in length of time, 
Become our elements, these piercing fires 
As soft as now severe, our temper changed 
Into their temper; which must needs re- 
move 277 
The sensible^ of pain. All things invite 
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state 
Of order, how in safety best we may 280 
Compose our present evils, with regard 
Of what we are and where, dismissing quite 
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I ad- 
vise." 
He scarce had finished, when such mur- 
mur filled 
The assembly, as when hollow rocks re- 
tain 285 
The sound of blustering winds, which all 

night long 
Had roused the sea, now with hoarse ca- 
dence lull 
Seafaring men o'erwatched, whose bark by 

chance. 
Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay 
After the tempest: such applause was 
heard 290 

As Mammon ended, and his sentence 

pleased. 
Advising peace; for such another field 
They dreaded worse than Hell; so much 

the fear 
Of thunder and the sword of Michael 



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Wrought still within them; and no less 

desire 295 

To found this nether empire, which might 

rise. 
By policy, and long process of time, 
In emulation opposite to Heaven. 
Which when Beelzebub perceived — ^than 

whom, 
Satan except, none higher sat — ^with grave 
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 301 
A pillar of state. Deep on his front en- 
graven 
Deliberation sat and public care; 
And princely counsel in his face yet shone, 
Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood. 
With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 306 
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his 

look 
Drew audience and attention still as night 
Or simmier's noontide air, while thus he 
spake: — 
"Thrones and Imperial Powers, Oflf- 
spring of Heaven, 310 

Ethereal Virtuesl or these titles now 
Must we renounce, and, changing style, 

be called 
Princes of Hell? for so the popular vote 
Inclines — ^here to continue, and build up 

here 
A growing empire; doubtless! while we 
dream, 315 

And know not that the King of Heaven 

hath doomed 
This place our dxmgeon — not our safe re- 
treat 
Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt 
From Heaven's high jurisdiction, in new 

league 
Banded against his throne, but to re- 
main 
In strictest bondage, though thus far re- 
moved, 321 
Under the inevitable curb, reserved 
His captive multitude. For he, be sure. 
In highth or depth, still first and last will 

reign 
Sole kmg, and of his kingdom lose no 
part 325 

By our revolt, but over Hell extend 
His empire, and with iron sceptre rule 
Us here, as with his golden those in 

Heaven. 
What sit we then projecting peace and 
war? 



War hath determined us,^ and foiled with 

loss 330 

Irreparable; terms of peace yet none 
Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will 

be given 
To us enslaved, but custody severe, 
And stripes, and arbitrary pimishment 
Inflicted? and what peace can we return, 
But, to our power, hostility and hate, 336 
Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though 

slow. 
Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least 
May reap his conquest, and may least re- 
joice 
In doing what we most in suffering feel? 340 
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need 
With dangerous expedition to invade 
Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault 

or siege. 
Or ambush from the Deep. What if we 

find 344 

Some easier enterprise? There is a place 
(If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven 
Err not), another World, the happy seat 
Of some new race called Man, about this 

time 
To be created like to us, though less 349 
In power and excellence, but favored more 
Of him who rules above; so was his will 
Pronounced among the gods, and, by an 

oath 
That shook Heaven's whole circumference, 

confirmed. 
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to 

learn 
What creatures there inhabit, of what 

mould 355 

Or substance, how endued, and what their 

power. 
And where their weakness: how attempted 

best. 
By force or subtlety. Though Heaven be 

shut. 
And Heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure 
In his own strength, this place may lie ex- 
posed, 360 
The utmost border of his kingdom, left 
To their defence who hold it; here, p>erhapsy 
Some advantageous act may be achieved 
By sudden onset — either with Hell-fire 
To waste his whole creation, or possess 365 
All as our own, and drive, as we were 

driven, 

^ made an end of. 



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The puny habitants; or if not drive, 
Seduce them to our party, that their God 
May prove their foe, and with repenting 

hand 
Abolish his own works. This would sur- 
pass 370 
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy 
In oiur confusion, and our joy upraise 
In his disturbance; when his darling sons. 
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall 

curse 
Their frail original, and faded bliss — 375 
Faded so soon! Advise if this be worth 
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here 
Hatching vain empires. " Thus BeSlzebub 
Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised 
By Satan, and in part proposed; for 

whence, 380 

But from the author of all iU, could spring 
So deep a malice, to confound the race 
Of mankind in one root, and Earth with 

Hell 
To mingle and involve, done all to spite 
The great Creator? But their spite still 

serves 385 

His glory to augment. The bold design 
Pleased highly those Infernal States, and 

joy 
Sparided in all their eyes: with full assent 
TTiey vote: whereat his speech he thus 

renews: — 
**Well have ye judged, well ended long 

debate, 390 

Synod of gods! and, like to what ye are. 
Great thmgs resolved; which from the 

lowest deep 
'WMi once more lift us up, in spite of fate, 
Nearer our ancient seat — ^perhaps in view 
Of those bright confines, whence, with 

neighboring arms 395 

And opportxme excursion, we may chance 
Re-ent» Heaven; or else in some mild 

zone 
Dwell, not unvisited of Heaven's fair light, 
Secure, and at the brightening orient beam 
Purge off this gloom: the soft delicious air, 
To heal the scar of these corrosive fires, 401 
Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom 

shall we send 
In search of this new world? whom shall 

we find 
Suffident? who shall tempt with wander- 
ing feet 
The diu'k, unbottomed, infinite Ab)rss, 405 



And through the palpable obscure find out 
His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight. 
Upborne with indefatigable wings 
Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive 
The happy isle? What strength, what art, 

can then 410 

Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe 
Through the strict senteries and stations 

thick 
Of Angels watching round? Here he had 

need 
All circumspection: and we now no less 
Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we 

send, 415 

The weight of all, and oiu- last hope, relies.'* 
This said, he sat; and expectation held 
His look suspense, awaiting who appeared 
To second, or oppose, or imdertake 
The perilous attempt. But all sat mute, 
Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; 

and each 421 

In other's countenance read his own dis- 
may. 
Astonished. None among the choice and 

prime 
Of those Heaven-warring champions could 

be found 
So hardy as to proffer or accept, 425 

Alone, the dreadful voyage; till at last 
Satan, whom now transcendent glory 

raised 
Above his fellows, with monarchal pride 
Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus 

spake: — 
"O Progeny of Heaven! Emp)n:eal 

Thrones! 430 

With reason hath deep silence and demur 
Seized us, though undismayed. Long is 

the way 
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to 

Light. 
Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire. 
Outrageous to devour, immures us round 
Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant, 
Barred over us, prohibit all egress. 437 
These passed, if any pass, the void pro- 

foimd 
Of imessentiaP Night receives him next. 
Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being 
Threatens him, plimged in that abortive 

gulf. 441 

If thence he scape into whatever world 
Or unknown region, what remains him less 



1 devoid of being, ox osence. 



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Than unknown dangers and as hard es- 
cape? 
But I should ill become this throne, O 

Peers, 445 

And this imperial sovranty, adorned 
With splendor, armed with power, if 

aught proposed 
And judged of public moment, in the shape 
Of diflSculty or danger, could deter 
Me from attempting. Wherefore do I 

assume 450 

These royalties, and not refuse to reign. 
Refusing to accept as great a share 
Of hazard as of honor, due alike 
To him who reigns, and so much to him 

due 
Of hazard more, as he above the rest 455 
High honored sits? Go therefore, mighty 

Powers, 
Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intend at 

home. 
While here shall be our home, what best 

may ease 
The present misery, and render Hell 
More tolerable; if there be cure or charm 
To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain 461 
Of this ill mansion; intermit no watch 
Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad 
Through all the coasts of dark destruction 

seek 
Deliverance for us all. This enterprise 465 
None shall partake with me." Thus say- 
ing, rose 
The Monarch, and prevented all reply; 
Prudent, lest, from his resolution raised,^ 
Others among the chief might offer now, 
Certain to be refused, what erst they 

feared, 47© 

And, so refused, might in opinion stand 
His rivals, winning cheap the high repute 
Which he through hazard huge must earn. 

But they 
Dreaded not more the adventure than his 

voice 
Forbidding; and at once with him they 

rose. 475 

Their rising all at once was as the sound 
Of thunder heard remote. Towards him 

they bend 
With awful reverence prone, and as a god 
Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven. 
Nor failed they to express how much they 

praised 480 

iCDCounged by his reaolutioo. 



That for the general safety he despised 
His own; for neither do the Spirits danmed 
Lose all their virtue, — lest bad men should 

boast 
Their specious deeds on Earth, which glory 

excites. 
Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal. 
Thus they their doubtful consultations 

dark 486 

Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief: 
As when from moimtain-tops the dusky 

clouds 
Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, 

o'erspread 
Heaven's cheerful face, the louring ele- 
ment 490 
Scowls o'er the darkened landskip snow or 

shower, 
If chance the radiant sun with farewell 

sweet 
Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, 
The birds their notes renew, and bleating 

herds 494 

Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. 
O shame to men ! Devil with devil damned 
Firm concord holds; men only disagree 
Of creatures rational, though \mder hope 
Of heavenly grace; and, (jod proclaiming 

peace, 
Yet Uve in hatred, enmity, and strife 500 
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars, 
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy: 
As if (which might induce us to accord) 
Man had not heUish foes enow besides, 
That day and m'ght for his destruction 

wait! 505 

The Stygian council thus dissolved; and 

forth 
In order came the grand Infernal Peers: 
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and 

seemed 
Alone the antagonist of Heaven, nor less 
Than Hell's dread Emperor, with pomp 

supreme, 5x0 

And god-like imitated state; him roimd 
A globe of fiery Seraphim enclosed 
With bright emblazonry and horrent* 

arms. 
Then of their session ended they bid cry 
With trumpet's regal sound the great 

result: 515 

Toward the four winds four speedy 

Cherubim 

> bristling. 



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Put to their mouths the sounding alchymy ,^ 
By haraid's voice explained; the hollow 

Abyss 

Heard far and wide, and all the host of Hell 

With deafening shout returned them loud 

acclaim. 520 

Thence more at ease their minds, and 

somewhat raised 
By false presimiptuous hope, the rangM 

Powers 
Disband; and, wandering, each his several 

way , 
Pursues, as inclination or sad choice 
Leads him perplexed, where he may like- 
liest find 525 
Truce to his restless thoughts, and enter- 
tain 
The irksome hours, till his great Chief 

return. 
Part on the plain, or in the air subUme,* 
Upon the wing or in swift race contend. 
As at the Olympian games or Pythian 
fidds; 530 

Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the 



With rapid wheels, or fronted brigads 

form: 
As when, to warn proud cities, war appears 
Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush 
To battle in the clouds; before each van 
Prick forth the aery knights, and couch 

their spears, 536 

Till thickest legions close; with feats of 

arms 
From either end of Heaven the welkin 

bums. 
Others, with vast Tjrphcean rage, more 

feU, 
Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the 

air 540 

In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild 

uproar: 
As when Alddes, from CEchaJia crowned 
With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, 

and tore 
Through pain up by the roots Thessalian 

pines, 
And Lichas from the top of (Eta threw 545 
Into the Euboic sea. Others, more mild, 
Retreated in a silent valley, sing 
With notes angelical to many a harp 
Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall 
By doom of battle, and complain that Fate 

>nited. 



Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or 

Chance. 551 

Their song was partial, but the harmony 
(What could it less when Spirits inmiortal 

sing?) 
Suspended Hell, and took with ravish- 
ment 
The thronging audience. In discourse 

more sweet 555 

(For eloquence the soul, song charms the 

sense) 
Others apart sat on a hill retired. 
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned 

high 
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and 

fate. 
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge ab- 
solute, 560 
And found no end, in wandering mazes 

lost. 
Of good and evil much they argued then. 
Of happiness and final misery, 
Passion and apathy., and glory and shame: 
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy! — 
Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm 
Pain for a while or anguish, and excite 567 
Fallacious hope, or arm the obdured' 

breast 
With stubborn patience as with triple steel. 
Another part, in squadrons and gross 

bands, 570 

On bold adventure to discover wide 
That dismal world, if any clime perhaps 
Might yield them easier habitation, bend 
Four ways their flying march, along the 

banks 
Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge 575 
Into the burning lake their baleful streams: 
AbhorrM Styx, the flood of deadly hate; 
Sad Acheron, of sorrow, black and deep; 
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud 
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce 

Phlegeton, 580 

Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with 

rage. 
Far off from these a slow and silent stream, 
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls 
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks 
Forthwith his former state and being 

forgets, 585 

Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and 

pain. 
Beyond this flood a frozen continent 

* obdurate. 



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Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual 

storms 
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm 

land 
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin 

seems 590 

Of andent pile; all else deep snow and ice, 
A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog 
Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, 
Where armies whole have sunk: the parch- 
ing air 
Bums frore,^ and cold performs the effect 

of fire. 595 

Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled. 
At certain revolutions all the damned 
Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter 

change 
Of fierce extremes, extremes by change 

more fierce, 
From beds of raging fire to starve^ in ice 
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to 

pine 601 

Immovable, infixed, aud frozen round 
Periods of time, — thence hurried back to 

fire. 
They ferry over this Lethean sound 
Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment, 
And wish and struggle, as they pass, to 

reach 606 

The tempting stream, with one small drop 

to lose 
In sweet forgetf ulness all pain and woe. 
All in one moment, and so near the brink; 
But Fate withstands, and, to oppose th^ 

attempt 610 

Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards 
The ford, and of itself the water flies 
All taste of living wight, as once it fled 
The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on 
In confused march forlorn, the adventur- 
ous bands, 615 
With shuddering horror pale, and eyes 

aghast. 
Viewed first their lamentable lot, and 

found 
No rest. Through many a dark and dreary 

vale 
They passed, and many a region dolorous, 
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, 620 
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and 

shades of death — 
A universe of death, which God by curse 
Created evil, for evil only good; 



Wrocen. 



>eztingui9b. 



Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature 

breeds. 
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious 

things, 625 

Abominable, inutterable, and worse 
Than fables yet have feigned, or fear con- 
ceived, 
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras 

dire. 
Meanwhile the Adversary of God and 

Man, 
Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest 

design, 630 

Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates 

of Hell 
Explores his solitary flight: sometimes 
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes 

the left; 
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then 

soars 
Up to the fiery concave towering high. 635 
As when far off at sek a fleet descried 
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 
Of Temate and Tidore, whence merchants 

bring 
Their spicy drugs; they on the trading 

flood, 640 

Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape, 
Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so 

seemed 
Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear 
Hell-bounds, high reaching to the horrid 

roof. 
And thrice threefold the gates; three folds 

were brass, 645 

Three iron, three of adamantine rock 
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire. 
Yet xmconsumed. Before the gates there 

sat 
On either side a formidable Shape. 
The one seemed woman to the waist, and 

fair, 650 

But ended foul in many a scaly fold, 
Volvuninous and vast — a serpent armed 
With mortal sting. About her middle 

round 
A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked 
With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, 

and rung 655 

A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would 

creep. 
If aught disturbed their noise, into her 

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And kennel there; yet there still barked 

and howled 
Within unseen. Far less abhorred than 

these 659 

Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts 
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore; 
Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, 

called 
In secret, riding through the air she 

comes, 
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to 

dance 
With Lapland witches, while the laboring 

moon 665 

Eclipses at their charms. The other 

Shape — 
If shape it might be called that shape had 

none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
Or substance might be called that shadow 

seemed. 
For each seemed either — ^black it stood as 

Night, 670 

Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed 

his head 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward came as fast. 
With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he 

strode. 676 

The undaunted Fiend what this might be 

admired^ — 
Admired, not feared — God and his Son 

except. 
Created thing naught valued he nor 

shimned — 
And with disdainful look thus first b^an: 
"Whence and what art thou, execrable 

Shape, 681 

That dar'st, though grim and terrible, 

advance 
TTiy miscreated front athwart my way 
To ycMider gates? Through them I mean 

to pass, 
That be assured, without leave asked of 

thee. 685 

Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by 

IHOOf, 

Hell-bom, not to contend with Spirits of 
Heaven.'' 

To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, re- 
plied: — 

'wondered. 



"Art thou that Traitor- Angel, art thou he 
Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, 

till then 690 

Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third part of Heaven's 

sons. 
Conjured against the Highest, for which 

both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here con- 
demned 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain? 695 
And recon'st thou thyself with Spirits of 

Heaven, 
Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here 

and scorn, 
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee 

more, 
Thy king and lord? Back to thy pimish- 

ment. 
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings. 
Lest widb a whip of scorpions I pursue 701 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this 

dart 
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs un- 

felt before." 
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape. 
So speaking and so threatening, grew ten- 
fold 705 
More dreadful and deform. On the other 

side. 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood 
Unterrified, and like a comet burned. 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid 

hair 710 

Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the 

head 
Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands 
No second stroke intend; and such a frown 
Each cast at the other as when two black 

clouds, 
With Heaven's artillery fraught, come 

rattling on 715 

Over the Caspian — ^then stand front to 

front 
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
To join tfieir dark encounter in mid-air. 
So frowned the mighty combatants that 

HeU 
Grew darker at their frown; so matched 

they stood; 720 

For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe. And now great 

deeds 



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Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had 

rung, 
Had not the snaky Sorceress that sat 724 
Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key. 
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed be- 
tween. 
"O father, what intends thy hand," she 

cried, 
"Against thy only son? What fury, O son, 
Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart 
Against thy father's head? and know'st for 

whom? 730 

For him who sits above, and laughs the 

while 
At thee, ordained his drudge to execute 
Whatever his wrath, which he calls justice, 

bids — 
His wrath, which one day will destroy ye 

bothi" 
She spake, and at her words the hellish 

Pest 735 

Forbore: then these to her Satan returned: 

"So strange thy outcry, and thy words 

so strange 
Thou interposest, that my sudden hand, 
Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds 
What it intends, till first I know of thee 740 
What thing thou art, thus double-formed, 

and why, 
In this infernal vale first met, thou calPst 
Me father, and that phantasm call'st my 

son. 
I know thee not, nor ever saw till now 
Sight more detestable than him and thee." 
To whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate 

replied: — 746 

"Hast thou forgot me, then, and do I seem 
Now in thine eye so foul? once deemed so 

fair 
In Heaven, when at the assembly, and in 

sight 
Of all the Seraphim with thee combined 750 
In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King, 
All on a sudden miserable pain 
Surprised thee; dim thine eyes, and dizzy 

swmn 
In darkness, while thy head flames thick 

and fast 
Threw forth, till on the left side opening 

wide, 755 

Likest to thee in shape and countenance 

bright. 
Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess 

armed. 



Out of thy head I sprung. Amazement 

seized 
All the host of Heaven: back they recoiled 

afraid 759 

At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign 
Portentous held me; but, familiar grown, 
I pleased, and with attractive graces won 
The most averse; thee chiefly, who full oft 
Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing 
Becam'st enamored; and such joy thou 

took'st 76s 

With me in secret, that my womb con- 
ceived 
A growing biu'den. Meanwhile war arose. 
And fields were fought in Heaven; wherein 

remained 
(For what could else?) to our Almighty 

Foe 
Clear victory; to our part loss and rout 770 
Through all the Empyrean. Down they 

feU, 
Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, 

down 
Into this deep; and in the general fall 
I also: at which time this powerful key 
Into my hands was given, with charge to 

keep 775 

These gates forever shut, which none can 

pass 
Without my opening. Pensive here I sat 
Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb, 
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive 

grown. 
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. 
At last this odious offspring whom thou 

seest, 781 

Thine own begotten, breaking violent way, 
Tore through my entrails, that, with fear, 

and pain 
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew 
Transformed; but he, my inbred enemy, 
Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart, 
Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out 

Deaihl 787 

Hell trembled at the hideous name, and 

sighed 
From all her caves, and back resounded 

Deaiht 
I fled; but he piu^ued (though more, it 

seems, 790 

Inflamed with lust than rage) and, swifter 

far. 
Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed, 
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Engendering with me, of that rape begot 
These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless 

cry 795 

Surround me, as thou saw'st, hourly con- 

• cdved 
And hourly bom, with sorrow infinite 
To me: for, when they list, into the womb 
That bred them they return, and howl, 

and gnaw 
My bowels, their repast; then, bursting 

forth 800 

Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me 

round, 
That rest or intermission none I find. 
Before mine eyes in opposition sits 
Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets 

them on, 
And me, his parent, would full soon devour 
For want of other prey, but that he knows 
His end with mine involved, and knows 

that I 807 

Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane, 
Whenever that shall be: so Fate pro- 

noimced. 
But thou, O father, I forewarn thee, shun 
His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope 811 
To be invulnerable in those bright arms. 
Though tempered heavenly; for that mor- 
tal dint. 
Save he who reigns above, none can re- 
sist." 
She finished; and the subtle Fiend his 

lore 815 

Soon learned, now milder, and thus an- 
swered smooth: — 
" Dear daughter — since thou daim'st me 

for thy sire. 
And my fair son here show'st me, the dear 

pledge 
Of dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and 

joys 
Then sweet, now sad to mention, through 

dire change 820 

BefaUen us imforeseen, unthought of — 

know, 
I oome no enemy, but to set free 
Frcon out this dark and dismal house of 

pain 
Both him and thee, and all the Heavenly 

host 
Of Spirits that, in our just pretences 

armed, 825 

Fell with us from on high. From them I go 
Tliis uncouth errand sole, and one for all 



Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread 
The imfounded Deep, and through the 

void immense 
To search with wandering quest a place 
foretold 830 

Should be — and by concurring signs, ere 

now 
Created vast and roimd — a place of bliss 
In the purlieus of Heaven; and therein 

placed 
A race of upstart creatures, to supply 
Perhaps oiu: vacant room, though more 
removed, . 835 

Lest Heaven, siurcharged with potent mul- 
titude. 
Might hap to move new broils. Be this, 

or aught 
Than this more secret, now designed, I 

haste 
To know; and, this once known, shall soon 

return, 
And bring ye to the place where thou and 
Deadi 840 

Shall dwell at ease, and up and down un- 
seen 
Wing silently the buxom* air, embalmed 
With odors: there ye shall be fed and filled 
Immeasurably; all things shall be your 
prey." 
He ceased; for both seemed highly 
pleased, and Death 845 

Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear 
His famine should be filled, and blessed his 

maw 
Destined to that good hour. No less re- 
joiced 
His mother bad, and thus bespake her 
sire: — 
"The key of this infernal pit, by due 850 
And by command of Heaven's all-powerful 

King, 
I keep, by him forbidden to unlock 
These adamantine gates; against all force 
Death ready stands to interpose his dart. 
Fearless to be o'enhatched by living 
might. 855 

But what owe I to his commands above. 
Who hates me, and hath hither thrust me 

down 
Into this ^oom of Tartarus profound, 
To sit in hateful office here confined. 
Inhabitant of Heaven and Heavenly- 
bom, — 860 

1 yielding, obedient. 



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Here in perpetual agony and pain, 
With terrors and with clamors compassed 

round 
Of mine own brood, that on my bowels 

feed? 
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou 
My being gav'st me; whom should I obey 
But thee? whom follow? Thou wilt bring 

me soon 866 

To that new world of light and bliss, among 
The gods who live at ease, where I shall 

reign 
At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems 
Thy daughter and thy darling, without 

end." 870 

Thus saying, from her side the fatal key, 
Sad instrument of all our woe, she took; 
And, towards the gate rolling her bestial 

train, 
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up- 

drew, 
Which but herself not all the Stygian 

Powers 875 

Could once have moved; then in the key- 
hole turns 
The intricate wards, and every bolt and 

bar 
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease 
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly. 
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
The infernal doors, and on their hinges 

grate 881 

Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom 

shook 
Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut 
Excelled her power: the gates wide open 

stood. 
That with extended wings a bannered 

host, 885 

Under spread ensigns marching, might 

pass through 
With horse and chariots ranked in loose 

array; 
So wide they stood, and like a furnace- 
mouth 
Cast forth redoimding smoke and ruddy 

flame. 
Before their eyes in sudden view appear 
The secrets of the hoary Deep, a dark 891 
Illimitable ocean, without bound, 
Without dimension; where length, breadth, 

and highth, 
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest 

Night 



And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hoU 895 
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise 
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. 
For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four 

champions fierce. 
Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring 
Their embryon atoms; they around the 

flag 900 

Of each his faction, in their several dans, 
Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, 

swift, or slow. 
Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands 
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil. 
Levied to side with warring winds, and 

poise 90s 

Their lighter wings. To whom these most 

adhere. 
He rules a moment; Chaos umpire sits, 
And by decision more embroils the fray 
By which he reigns; next him, high arbiter, 
Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss, 
The womb of Nature, and perhaps her 

grave, 9" 

Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, 
But all these in their pr^;nant causes 

mixed 
Confusedly, and which thus must ever 

fight, 914 

Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain 
His dark materials to create more worlds — 
Into this wild Abjrss the wary Fiend 
Stood on the brmk of Hell and looked 

awhile, 
Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith 
He had to cross. Nor was his ear less 

pealed 920 

With noises loud and ruinous (to compare 
Great things with small) than when Bd- 

lona storms 
With all her battering engines, bent to 

rase 
Some capital city; or less than if this frame 
Of Heaven were falling, and these elements 
In mutiny had from her axle torn 936 

The steadfast Earth. At last his sail- 
broad vans 
He spreads for flight, and, in the surging 

smoke 
Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many 

a league, 
As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides 930 
Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, 

meets 
A vast vacuity. All unawares, 



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Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down 

he drops 
Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this 

hour 
Down had been falling, had not, by ill 

chance, 935 

The strong rebuff of some tumultuous 

cloud. 
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him 
As many miles aloft. That fury stayed — 
Quenched in a boggy S)n1is,* neither 

sea 
Nor good dry land — ^nigh foundered, on 

he fares, 940 

Treading the crude consistence, half on 

foot, 
Half flying; behoves him now both oar 

and sail. 
As when a gryphon through the wilderness 
With wingM course, o'er hill or moory 

dale, 
Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth 945 
Had from his wakeful custody purloined 
The guarded gold: so eagerly the Fiend 
O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, 

dense, or rare, 
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues 

his way. 
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, 

or flies. 950 

At length a universal hubbub wild 
Of stunning sounds and voices all confused, 
Borne through the hollow dark, assaults 

his ear 
With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies 
Undaunted, to meet there whatever 

Power 955 

Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss 
Might in that noise reside, of whom to 

ask 
Which way the nearest coast of darkness 

lies 
Bordering on light; when strai^t behold 

the throne 
Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread 960 
Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him 

enthroned 
Sat sable-vested Ni^ht, eldest of things, 
The consort of his reign ; and by them stood 
Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name 
Of Demogorgon; Rumor next, and Chance, 
And Tumult, and Confusion, all em- 
broiled, 966 



And Discord *with a thousand various 
mouths. 
To whom Satan, turning boldly, thus: — 
"Ye Powers 
And Spirits of this nethermost Abyss, 
Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy. 
With purpose to explore or to disturb 971 
The secrets of your realm; but, by con- 
straint 
Wandering this darksome desert, as my 

way 
Lies through your spacious empire up to 

light, 
Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek 
What readiest path leads where your 
gloomy bounds 976 

Confaie^ with Heaven; or if some other 

place, 
From your dominion won, the Ethereal 

King 
Possesses lately, thither to arrive 
I travel this profoimd. Direct my course: 
Directed, no mean recompense it brings 
To your behoof, if I that region lost, 982 
All usurpation thence expelled, reduce 
To her original darkness and your sway 
(Which is my present journey), and once 
more 98s 

Erect the standard there of ancient Night. 
Yours be the advantage aU, mine the re- 
venge!" 
Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch 
old. 
With faltering speech and visage incom- 

posed. 
Answered: — "I know thee, stranger, who 
thou art: 990 

That mighty leading Angel, who of late 
Made h^ against Heaven's King, though 

overthrown. 
I saw and heard; for such a numerous host 
Fled not in silence through the frighted 

Deep, 
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, 995 
Confusion worse coniFounded; and Heaven- 
gates 
Poured out by millions her victorious 

bands. 
Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here 
Keep residence; if all I can will serve 
That little which is left so to defend, 1000 
Encroached on still through our intestine 
broils, 

'are contiguous to. 



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Weakening the sceptre of ofd Night: first, 

HeU, 
Your dungeon, stretching far and wide 

beneafii; 
Now lately Heaven and Earth, another 

world 
Hung o'er my realm, linked in a golden 

chain 1005 

To that side Heaven from whence your 

legions fell! 
If that way be your walk, you have not 

far; 
So much the nearer danger. Go, and 

speed! 
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain." 
He ceased; and Satan stayed not to 

reply, loio 

But, glad that now his sea should find a 

shore, 
With fresh alacrity and force renewed 
Springs upward, lOce a pyramid of fire. 
Into the wild expanse, and through the 

shock 
Of fighting elements, on all sides round 
Environed, wins his way; harder beset 1016 
And more endangered, than when Argo 

passed 
Through Bosporus betwixt the justling 

rocks; 
Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned 
Charybdis, and by the other whirlpool 

steered: 1020 

So he with difficulty and labor hard 
Moved on. With difficulty and labor he; 
But, he once passed, soon after, when Man 

fell, 
Strange alteration ! Sin and Death amain 
Following his track (such was the will of 

Heaven) 1025 

Paved after him a broad and beaten way 
Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf 
Tamely endured a bridge of wondrous 

length. 
From Hell continued, reaching the utmost 

orb 
Of this frail World; by which the Spirits 

perverse 1030 

With easy intercourse pass to and fro 
To tempt or pimish mortals, except whom 
God and good Angels guard by special 

grace. 
But now at last the sacred influence 
Of light appears, and from the walls of 

Heaven 1035 



Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night 
A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first 

begins 
Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire. 
As from her outmost works, a broken foe, 
With tumult less and with less hostile 
din; 1040 

That Satan with less toil, and now with 

ease, 
Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious 

light. 
And, like a weather-beaten vessel, hdds 
Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle 
torn; 1044 

Or in the emptier waste, resembling air. 
Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to be- 
hold 
Far off the emp)n:eal Heaven, extended 

wide 
In drcuit, imdetermined square or round, 
With opal towers, and battlements 
adorned 1049 

Of living sapphire, once his native seat; 
And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, 
This pendent World, in bigness as a star 
Of smallest magnitude close by the moon. 
Thither, full fraught with mischievous re- 
venge. 
Accurst, and in a cursed horn:, he hies. 1055 



From BOOK XH 

THE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE 

He ended, and they both descend the 

hill. 6g4 

Descended, Adam to the bower where Eve 

Lay sleeping ran before, but found her 

waked; 
And thus with words not sad she him re- 
ceived: — 
"Whence thou return'st and whither 
went'st I know; 610 

For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise, 
Which he hath sent propitious, some great 

good 
Presaging, since, with sorrow and heart's 

(Ustress 
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on; 
In me is no delay; with thee to go 615 
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay 
Is to go hence imwilling; thou to me 
Art dl things under Heaven, all places 
thou, 



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Who for my wilful crime art banished 

^ hence. 
This further consolation yet seciure 620 
I carry hence: though all by me is lost, 
Such favor I unworthy am voutsafed, 
By me the Promised Seed shall all restore." 
So spake om: mother Eve; and Adam 

heard 
Well pleased, but answered not; for now 

too nigh 625 

The Archangel. stood, and from the other 

hill 
To their fixed station, all in bright array. 
The Cherubim descended, on the ground 
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
Risen from a river o'er the marish glides. 
And gathers ground fast at the laborer's 

heel 631 

Homeward returning. High in front ad- 
vanced. 
The brandished sword of God before them 

blazed, 
Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat. 
And vapor as the Libyan air adust,^ 635 
Began to parch that temperate clime; 

whereat 
In either hand the hastening Angel caught 
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern 

gate 
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
To the subjected plain — ^then disappeared. 
They, looking back, all the eastern side 

beheld 641 

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
Waved over by that flaming brand; the 

gate 
With dreadfid faces thronged and fiery 

arms. 
Some natural tears they dropped, but 

wiped them soon; , 645 

The world was all before them, where to 

choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their 

guide. 
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps 

and slow, 
Through Eden took their solitary way. 

From AREOPAGITICA 

I deny not, but that it is of greatest 
concernment in the Church and Common- 
wealth, to have a vigilant eye how books 

'acorched. 



demean themselves as well as men; and 
thereafter to confine, imprison, and do 
sharpest justice on them as malefactors. 
For books are not absolutely dead things, 
but do contain a potency of life in them 
to be as active as that soul was whose 
progeny they are; nay, they do pre- [10 
serve as in a vial the purest eflScacy and 
extraction of that living intellect that 
bred them. I know they are as lively, 
and as vigorously productive, as those 
fabulous dragon's teeth; and being sown 
up and down, may chance to spring up 
armed men. And yet on the other hand, 
unless wariness be used, as good almost 
kill a man as kill a good book: who kills a 
man kills a reasonable creature, God's [20 
image; but he who destroys a good book, 
kills reason itself, kills the image of God, 
as it were in the eye. - Many a man lives 
a biurden to the earth; but a good book is 
the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, 
embalmed and treasured up on pmpose 
to a life beyond life. 'Tis true, no age 
can restore a life, whereof perhaps there 
is no great loss; and revolutions of ages 
do not oft recover the loss of a rejected [30 
truth, for the want of which whole na- 
tions fare the worse. We should be wary 
therefore what persecution we raise against 
the living labors of public men, how we 
spill that seasoned Ufe of man, preserved 
and stored up in books; since we see a 
kind of homicide may be thus committed, 
sometimes a mart)n:dom, and if it extend 
to the whole impression, a kind of mas- 
sacre, whereof the execution ends not [40 
in the slaying of an elemental life, but 
strikes at that ethereal and fifth essence 
the breath of reason itself; slays an im- 
mortality rather than a life. . . . But 
some will say, "What though the in- 
ventors were bad, the thing for all that 
may be good?" It may so; yet if that 
thing be no such deep invention, but 
obvious, and easy for any man to light 
on, and yet best and wisest common- [50 
wealths through all ages and occasions 
have forborne to use it, and falsest se- 
ducers and oppressors of men were the 
first who took it up, and to no other pur- 
pose but to obstruct and hinder the first 
approach of Reformation, I am of those 
who believe, it will be a harder alchemy 



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than Lullius ever knew, to sublimate any 
good use out of such an invention. Yet 
this only is what I request to gain [60 
from this reason, that it may be held a 
dangerous and suspicious fruit, as cer- 
tainly it deserves, for the tree that bore 
it, until I can dissect one by one the prop- 
erties it has. . . . Books are as meats 
and viands are; some of good, some of 
evil substance; and yet God in that im- 
apocryphai vision, said without exception, 
"Rise, Peter, kill and eat," leaving the 
choice to each man's discretion. [70 
Wholesome meats to a vitiated stomach 
differ little or nothing from im wholesome; 
and best books to a naughty mind are not 
imappliable to occasions of evil. Bad 
meats will scarce breed good nourish- 
ment in the healthiest concoction; but 
herein the diflference is of bad books, that 
they to a discreet and judicious reader 
serve in many respects to discover, to 
confute, to forewarn, and to illus- [80 
trate. Whereof what better witness can 
ye expect I should produce, than one of 
your own now sitting in Parliament, the 
chief of learned men reputed in this land, 
Mr. Selden; whose volume of natural and 
national laws proves, not only by great 
authorities brought together, but by ex- 
quisite reasons and theorems almost 
mathematically demonstrative, that all 
opinions, yea errors, known, read, [90 
and collated, are of main service and as- 
sistance toward the speedy attainment of 
what is truest. I conceive, therefore, 
that when God did enlarge the universal 
diet of man's body, saving ever the rules 
of temperance, He then also, as before, 
left arbitrary the dieting and repasting 
of our minds; as wherein every mature 
man might have to exercise his own 
leading capacity. How great a virtue [100 
is temperance, how much of moment 
through the whole life of man! Yet God 
commits the managing so great a trust, 
without particular law or prescription, 
wholly to the demeanor of every grown 
man. And therefore when He Himself 
tabled the Jews from heaven, that omer, 
which was every man's daily portion of 
manna, is computed to have been more 
than might have well sufficed the [no 
heartiest feeder thrice as many meals. 



For those actions which enter into a man, 
rather than issue out of him, and there- 
fore defile not, God uses not to captivate 
under a perpetual childhood of prescrip- 
tion, but trusts him with the gift of 
reason to be his own chooser; there were 
but little work left for preaching, if law 
and compulsion should grow so fast 
upon those things which heretofore [120 
were governed only by exhortation. . . . 
Good and evil we know in the field of 
this world grow up together almost in- 
separably; and the knowledge of good is 
so involved and interwoven with the 
knowledge of evil, and in so many cun- 
ning resemblances hardly to be discerned, 
that those confused seeds which were 
imposed on Psyche as an incessant labor 
to cull out and sort asunder, were not [130 
more intermixed. It was from out the 
rind of one apple tasted that the knowl- 
edge of good and evil, as two twins cleav- 
ing together, leaped forth into the worid. 
And perhaps this is that doom which 
Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, 
that is to say of knowing good by evil. 
As therefore the state of man now is, 
what wisdom can there be to choose, 
what continence to forbear, without [140 
the knowledge of evil? He that can ap- 
prehend and consider vice with all her 
baits and seeming pleasures, and yet ab- 
stain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer 
that which is truly better, he is the true 
warfaring Christian. I cannot praise a 
fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised 
and unbreathed, that never sallies out and 
sees her adversary, but slinks out of the 
race, where that immortal garland [150 
is to be run for, not without dust and heat 
Assuredly we bring not innocence into the 
world, we bring impurity much rather; 
that which purifies us is trial, and trial 
is by what is contrary. That virtue 
therrfore which is but a youngling in the 
contemplation of evil, and knows not the 
utmost that vice promises to her followers, 
and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not 
a pure; her whiteness is but an excre- [160 
mental whiteness; which was the reason 
why our sage and serious poet Spenser, 
whom I dare be known to think a better 
teacher than Scotus or Aquinas, describ- 
ing true temperance under the person of 



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Guyon, brings him in with his palmer 
throu^ the cave of Mammon, and the 
bower of earthly bliss, that he might see 
and know, and yet abstain. Since there- 
fore the knowledge and survey of [170 
vice is in this world so necessary to the 
constituting of human virtue, and the 
scanning of error to the confirmation of 
truth, how can we more safely, and with 
less danger scout into the regions of sin 
and falsity than by reading all manner 
of tractates and hearing all manner of 
reas(m? And this is the benefit which 
may be haH of books promiscuously read. 



I lastly proceed from the no good [180 
it can do, to the manifest hurt it causes, 
in bdng first the greatest discouragement 
and affront that can be offered to learn- 
ing, and to learned men. 

It was the complaint and lamentation 
of prelates, upon every least breath of a 
motion to remove pluralities, and distrib- 
ute more equally Churdi revenues, that 
then all learning would be for ever dashed 
and discouraged. But as for that [190 
opinion, I never found cause to think that 
the tenth part of learning stood or fell 
with the clergy: nor could I ever but hold 
it for a sordid and unworthy speech of 
any churchman who had a competency 
left him. If therefore ye be loth to dis- 
hearten heartily and discontent, not the 
mercenary crew of false pretenders to 
learning, but the free and ingenuous sort 
(rf such as evidently were bom to [200 
study, and love learning for itself, not for 
lucre, or any other end, but the service of 
God and of truth, and perhaps that last- 
ing fame and perpetuity of praise which 
God and good men have consented shall 
be the reward of those whose published 
labors advance the good of mankind, 
then know, that so far to distrust the 
judgment and the honesty of one who 
bath but a common repute in learn- [210 
ing, and never yet offended, as not to 
count him fit to print his mind without 
a tutor and examiner, lest he should drop 
a schism, or something of corruption, is 
the greatest displeasure and indignity to 
a free and knowing spirit that can be put 
upon him. What advantage is it to be a 



man over it is to be a boy at school, if 
we have only escaped the f erular to come 
under the fescu of an Imprimatur? if [220 
serious and elaborate writings, as if they 
were no more than the theme of a gram- 
mar-lad under his pedagogue must not 
be uttered without the cursory eyes of a 
temporising and extemporising licenser? 
He who is not trusted with lus own ac- 
tions, his drift not being known to be evil, 
and standing to the hazard of law and 
penalty, has no great argiunent to think 
himself reputed in the Common- [230 
wealth wherein he was bom, for other 
than a fool or a foreigner. When a man 
writes to the world, he summons up all his 
reason and deliberation to assist him; he 
searches, meditates, is industrious, and 
likely consults and confers with his judi- 
cious friends; after all which done, he 
takes himself to be informed in what he 
writes, as well as any that writ before him; 
if in this the most consummate act [240 
of his fidelity and ripeness, no years, no 
industry, no former proof of his abilities, 
can bring him to that state of maturity, 
as not to be still mistrusted and suspected, 
unless he carry all his considerate dili- 
gence, all his midnight watchings, and 
expense of Palladian oil, to the hasty view 
of an unleisured licenser, perhaps much his 
younger, perhaps far his inferior in judg- 
ment, perhaps one who never knew [250 
the labor of book writing; and if he be 
not repulsed, or slighted, must appear in 
print like a pimy with his guardian, and 
his censor's hand on the back of his title 
to be his bail and security that he is no 
idiot, or seducer, — ^it can not be but a 
dishonor and derogation to the author, 
to the book, to the privilege and dignity 
of learning. . . . 

Lords and Commons of England, [260 
consider what nation it is whereof ye are, 
and whereof ye are the govemors: a na- 
tion not slow and dull, but of a quick, 
ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to 
invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, 
not beneath the reach of any point the 
highest that human capacity can soar to. 
Therefore the studies of learning in her 
deepest sciences have been so ancient and 
so eminent among us, that writers of [270 
good antiquity and ablest judgment have 



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been persuaded that even the school of 
Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took 
beginning from the old philosophy of this 
island. And that wise and civil Roman, 
Julius Agricola, who governed once here 
for Caesar, preferred Uie natural wits of 
Britain, before the labored studies of the 
French. . . . Yet that which is above 
all this, the favor and the love of [280 
Heaven, we have great argument to think 
in a peculiar manner propitious and pro- 
pending towards us. Why else was this 
nation chosen before any other, that 
out of her as out of Sion should be pro- 
claimed and sounded forth the first tidings 
and trumpet of Reformation to all Eu- 
rope? ... But now, as our obdurate clergy 
have with violence demeaned the matter, 
we are become hitherto the latest [290 
and the backwardest scholars, of whom 
God offered to have made us the teachers. 
Now once again by all concurrence of 
signs, and by the general instinct of holy 
and devout men, as they daily and sol- 
emnly express their thoughts, God is 
decreeing to begin some new and great 
period in His church, even to the reform- 
ing of Reformation itself: what does He 
then but reveal Himself to His serv- [300 
ants, and as His manner is, first to His 
Englishmen: I say as His manner is, first 
to us, though we mark not the method of 
His counsels, and are unworthy. Behold 
now this vast dty: a city of refuge, the 
mansion house of liberty, encompassed 
and siuTounded with His protection. 
The shop of war hath not there more 
anvils and hammers waking, to fashion 
out the plates and instruments of [310 
armed justice in defense of beleaguered 
truth, than there be pens and heads 
there, sitting by their studious lampys, 
musing, searching, revolving new no- 
tions and ideas wherewith to present, as 
with their homage and their fealty, the 
approaching Reformation; others as fast 
reading, trjdng all things, assenting to 
the force of reason and convincement. 
What could a man require more from [320 
a nation so pliant and so prone to seek 
after knowledge? What wants there to 
such a towardly and pregnant soil, but 
wise and faithful laborers, to make a 
knowing people, a nation of prophets, of 



sages, and of worthies? We reckon more 
than five months yet to harvest; there 
need not be five weeks; had we but eyes 
to lift up, the fields are white already. 
Where there is much desire to learn, [330 
there of necessity will be much arguing, 
much writing, many opinions; for opinion 
in good men is but knowledge in the mak- 
ing. Under these fantastic terrors of 
sect and schism, we wrong the earnest 
and zealous thirst after knowledge and 
understanding which God hath stirred 
up in this city. What some lament of, 
we rather should rejoice at; should rather 
praise this pious forwardness among [340 
men, to reassume the ill-deputed care of 
their religion into their own hands again. 
A little generous prudence, a little for- 
bearance of one another, and some grain 
of charity might win all these diligences 
to join and unite in one general and 
brotherly search after truth, could we 
but forego this prelatical tradition of 
crowding free consciences and Christian 
liberties into canons and precepts of [350 
men. I doubt not, if some great and 
worthy stranger should come among us, 
wise to discern the mould and temf)er of 
a people, and how to govern it, observing 
the high hopes and aims, the diligent 
alacrity of our extended thoughts and 
reasonings in the pursuance of truth and 
freedom, but that he would cry out as 
Pyrrhus did, admiring the Roman docility 
and courage, "If such were my [360 
Epirots, I would not despair the greatest 
design that could be attempted to make 
a church or kingdom happy." Yet these 
are the men cried out against for schis- 
matics and sectaries; as if, while the 
temple of the Lord was building, some 
cutting, some squaring the marble, others 
hewing the cedars, there should be a sort 
of irrational men who would not con- 
sider there must be many schisms [370 
and many dissections made in the quarry 
and in the timber, ere the house of God 
can be built. And when every stone is 
laid artfully together, it cannot be imited 
into a continuity, it can but be contiguous 
in this world; neither can every piece 
of the building be of one form; nay, rather 
the perfection consists in this, that out 
of many moderate varieties and brotheriy 



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dissimilitudes that are not vastly [380 
di^roportional, arises the goodly and 
the graceful S3rmmetry that commends 
the whole pile and structure. Let us 
therefore be more considerate builders, 
more wise in spiritual architecture, when 
great reformation is expected. For now 
the time seems come, wherein Moses the 
great prophet may sit in heaven rejoicing 
to see that memorable and glorious wish 
of his fulfilled, when not only our [390 
seventy elders, but all the Lord's people, 
are b«:ome prophets. No marvel then 
though some men, and some good men 
too, perhaps, but yoimg in goodness, as 
Joshua then was, envy Uiem. They fret, 
and out of their own weakness are in 
agony, lest those divisions and subdivi- 
sions will undo us. The adversary again 
applauds, and waits the hour; when Uiey 
have branched themselves out (saith [400 
he) small enough into parties and par- 
titions, then will be our time. Fooll 
he sees not the firm root, out of which 
we all grow, though into branches; nor 
wiU beware until he see our small di- 
vided maniples cutting through at every 
angle of his ill-united and imwieldy 
brigade. . . . 

And now the time in special is, by priv- 
ilege to write and speak what may help [410 
to the further discussing of matters in 
agitation. The temple of Janus with his 
two controversal faces might now not 
unsignificantly be set open. And though 
ail the winds of doctrine were let loose to 
play upon the earth, so Truth be in the 
field, we do injurioi^y by licensing and 
prc^biting to misdoubt her strength. Let 
her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew 
Truth put to the worse, in a free [420 
and open encounter? Her confuting is 
the best and surest suppressing. He who 
hears what praying there is for light and 
clearer knowledge to be sent down among 
us, wotild think of other matters to be 
constituted beyond the discipline of 
Geneva, framed and fabricked already to 
our hands. Yet when the new light which 
we b^ for shines in upon us, there be 
who envy and oppose, if it come not [430 
first in at their casements. What a collu- 
sion is this, whenas we are exhorted by 
the wise man to use diligence, to seek for 



wisdom as for hidden treasures early and 
late, that another order shall enjoin us 
to know nothing but by statute? When 
a man hath been laboring the hardest labor 
in the deep mines of knowledge, hath fur- 
nished out his findings in all their equipage, 
drawn forth his reasons as it were [440 
a battle ranged, scattered and defeated 
all objections in his way, calls out his 
adversary into the plain, offers him the 
advantage of wind and sun, if he please, 
only that he may try the matter by dint 
of argument — for his opponents then 
to skidk, to lay ambushments, to keep a 
narrow bridge of licensing where the chal- 
lenger should pass, though it be valor 
enough in soldiership, is but weakness [450 
and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For 
who knows not that Truth is strong, next 
to the Almighty? She needs no policies, 
no stratagems, no licensings to make her 
victorious; those are the shifts and the 
defenses that error uses against her power. 
Give her but room, and do not bind her 
when she sleeps, for then she speaks not 
true, as the old Proteus did, who spake 
oracles only when he was caught and [460 
bound; but then rather she turns hei^f 
into all shapes, except her own, and per- 
haps times her voice according to the 
time, as Micaiah did before Ahab, until 
she be adjured into her own likeness. Yet 
it is not impossible that she may have 
more shapes than one. What else is all 
that rank of things indifferent, wherein 
Truth may be on this side, or on the 
other, without being unlike herself? [470 
What but a vain shadow else is the aboli- 
tion of those ordinances, that hand-writ- 
ing nailed to the cross? what great pur- 
chase is this Christian liberty which Paul 
so often boasts of? His doctrine is, that 
he who eats or eats not, regards a day or 
regards it not, may do either to the Lord. 
How many other things might be tolerated 
in peace, and left to conscience, had we 
but charity, and were it not the [480 
chief stronghold of our hjrpocrisy te be 
ever judging one another. I fear yet this 
iron yoke of outward conformity hath 
left a slavish print upon our necks; the 
ghost of a linen decency yet haunts us. 
We stumble and are impatient at the least 
dividing of one visible congregation from 



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another, though it be not in fundamen- 
tals; and through our forwardness to sup- 
press, and our backwardness to re- [490 
cover any enthralled piece of truth out 
of the gripe of custom, we care not to keep 
truth separated from truth, which is the 
fiercest rent and disunion of all. We do 
not see that while we still affect by all 
means a rigid external formality, we may 
as soon fall again into a gross conforming 
stupidity, a stark and dead congealment 
of wood and hay and stubble forced and 
frozen together, which is more to the [500 
sudden degenerating of a church than 
many subdichotomies of petty schisms. 
Not that I can think well of every light 
separation, or that all in a church is to 
be expected gold and silver and precious 
stones. It is not possible for man to sever 
the wheat from the tares, the good fish 
from the other fry; that must be the 
angels' ministry at the end of mortal 
things. Yet if all cannot be of one [510 
mind, (as who looks they should be?) this 
doubtless is more wholesome, more pru- 
dent, and more Christian, that many be 
tolerated, rather than all compelled. I 
mean not tolerated popery, and open 
superstition, which, as it extirpates all 
religions and dvil supremacies, so itself 
should be extirpate, provided first that 
all charitable and compassionate means 
be used to win and regain the weak [520 
and the misled: that also which is im- 
pious or evil absolutely either against 
faith or manners, no law can possibly 
permit that intends not to unlaw itself. 
But those neighboring differences, or 
rather indifferences, are what I speak of, 
whether in some point of doctrine or of 
discipline, whidi though they may be 
many, yet need not interrupt the unity of 
Spirit, if we could but find among us [530 
the bond of peace. In the meanwhile if 
any one would write, and bring his helpful 
hand to the slow-moving reformation 
which we labor under, if Truth have 
spok-cn to him before others, or but seemed 
at least to speak, who hath so bejesuited 
us that we should trouble that man with 
asking license to do so worthy a deed? 
and not consider this, that if it come 
to prohibiting, there is not aught [540 
more likely to be prohibited than truth 



itself; whose first appearance to our eyes 
bleared and dimmed with prejudice and 
custom, is more unsightly and unplausible 
than many errors, even as the person is 
of many a great man slight and con- 
temptible to see to. And what do they, 
tell us vainly of new opinions, when this 
very opinion of theirs, that none must 
be heard but whom they like, is the [550 
worst and newest opinion of all others, 
and is the chief cause why sects and 
schisms do so much abound, and true 
knowledge is kept at distance from us, 
besides yet a greater danger which is in 
it? For when God shakes a kingdom 
with strong and healthful commotions to 
a general reforming, 'tis not imtrue that 
many sectaries and false teachers are 
then busiest in seducing; but yet [560 
more true it is, that God then raises to 
His own work men of rare abilities, and 
more than conunon industry, not only to 
look back and revise what hath been 
taught heretofore, but to gain further 
and go on, some new enlightened steps 
in the discovery of truth. For such is 
the order of (Jod's enlightening His church, 
to dispense and deal out by degrees His 
beam, so as our earthly eyes may [570 
best sustain it Neither is God appointed 
and confined, where and out of what 
place these His chosen shall be first 
heard to speak; for He sees not as man 
sees, chooses not as man chooses, lest we 
should devote ourselves again to set 
places, and assemblies, and outward call- 
ings of men; planting our faith one while 
in the old Convocation House, and an- 
other while in the Chapel at West- [580 
minster; when all the faith and religion 
that shall be there canonized, is not suf- 
ficient without plain convincement, and 
the charity of patient instruction, to 
supple the least bruise of conscience, to 
edify the meanest Christian, who desires 
to walk in the Spirit, and not in the letter 
of hvunan trust, for all the number of 
voices that can be there made; — no, 
though Harry VH himself there, with [590 
all his liege tombs about him, should lend 
them voices from the dead, to swdl their 
number. . . . 

And as for regulating the Press, let no 
man think to have the honor of advising 



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ye better than yourselves have done in 
that order published next before this, 
" that no book be printed, unless the print- 
er's and the author's name, or at least 
the printer's, be registered." Those [600 
which otherwise come forth, if they be 
found mischievous and libelous, the fire 
and the executioner will be the timeliest 
and the most effectual remedy that man's 
prevention can use. For tUs authentic 
Spanish policy of licensing books, if I 
have said aught, will prove the most 
unlicensed book itself within a short while; 
and was the immediate image of a Star 
Chamber decree to that purpose made [610 
in those very times when that court did 
the rest of those her pious works, for 
which she is now fallen from the stars 
with Lucifer. Whereby ye may guess 
what kind of state prudence, what love 
of the people, what care of religion or good 
manners, there was at the contriving, al- 
though with singular hjrpocrisy it pre- 
tended to bind books to their good be- 
havior. . . . But of these sophisms [620 
and elenchs of merchandise I skill not. 
This I know, that errors in a good govern- 
ment and in a bad are equally almost 
incident; for what magistrate may not 
be misiMormed, and much the sooner, 
if liberty of printing be reduced into the 
|X)wer of a few? But to redress willingly 
and speedily what hath been erred, and 
in highest authority to esteem a plain 
advertisement more than others have [630 
done a sumptuous bribe, is a virtue 
(honored Lords and Commons) answer- 
able to your highest actions, and whereof 
none can participate but greatest and 
wisest men. 



SAMUBL FBPTS (168S-1708) 

From his DL\RY 

Jan, /, 1660 (Lord's day). This morn- 
ing (we living lately in the garret), I rose, 
put on my suit with great skirts, having 
not latdy worn any other dothes but 
them. Went to Mr. Gunning's chapel at 
Exeter House, where he made a very 
good sermon. Dined at home in the 
garret, where my wife dressed the re- 



mains of a turkey, and in the doing of 
it she burned her hand. I stayed at [10 
home all the afternoon, looking over my 
accounts; then went with my wife to my 
father's, and in going observed the great 
posts which the City have set up at the 
Conduit in Fleet Street. 

Mar, ;th. To Westminster by water, 
only seeing Mr. Pinkney at his own 
house, where he showed me how he had 
alwa3rs kept the lion and unicorn, in the 
back of his chimney, bright, in ex- [20 
pectation of the King's coming again. 
At home I found Mr. Himt, who told me 
how the Parliament had voted that the 
Covenant be printed and hung in churches 
again. Great hopes of the King's coming 
again. To bed. 

6th, Everybody now drinks the King's 
health without any fear, whereas before 
it was very private that a man dare do it. 

22nd. To Westminster, and re- [30 
ceived my warrant of Mr. Blackbume to 
be secretary to the two Generals of the 
Fleet 

2jrd. My Lord, Captain Isham, Mr. 
Thomas, John Crewe, W. Howe, and I in 
a hackney to the Tower, where the barges 
stayed for us; my Lord and the Captain 
in one, and W. Howe and I, &c., in the 
other, to the Long Reach, where the 
Siviftsure lay at anchor; (in our way we [40 
saw the great breach which the late high 
water had made, to the loss of many 
£1,000 to the people about Limehouse). 
Soon as my Loixl on board, the guns went 
off bravely from the ships. And a little 
while after comes the Vice-Admiral Law- 
son, and seemed very respectful to my 
Lord, and so did the rest of the com- 
manders of the frigates that were there- 
abouts. I to the cabin allotted for [50 
me, which was the best that any had that 
belonged to my Lord. 

May I. To-day I hear they were very 
merry at Deal setting up the King's flag 
upon one of their maypoles, and drink- 
ing his health upon their knees in the 
streets, and firing the guns, which the 
soldiers of the castle threatened, but durst 
not oppose. 

2nd, In the morning at a breakfast [60 
of radishes in the Purser's cabin. After 
that, to writing till dinner. At which 



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time comes Dimne from London, with 
letters that tell us the welcome news of 
the Parliament's votes yesterday, which 
will be remembered for the happiest May- 
day that hath been many a year to Eng- 
land. The King's letter was read in 
the House, wherein he submits himself and 
all things to them, as to an Act of [70 
Oblivion to all, unless they shall please to 
except any. 

15/A (Lord's day). Trinuned in the 
morning, after that to the cook's room 
with Mr. Sheply, the first time I was there 
this voyage. Then to the quarter-deck, 
upon whidi the tailors and painters were 
at work cutting out some pieces of yellow 
doth into the fashion of a crown and C. R. 
and put it upon a fine sheet, and that [80 
into the flag instead of the State's arms; 
which, after dinner, was finished and set 
up, after it had been shown to my Lord, 
who liked it so well as to bid me give the 
tailors 20s, among them for doing of it. 

23rd, The Doctor and I waied very 
merry, only my eye was very red and ill 
in the morning from yesterday's hurt. 
In the morning came infinity of people 
on board from the King to go along [90 
with him. . . . The King, with the two 
Dukes, and Queen of Bohemia, Prin- 
cess Royal, and Prince of Orange, came 
on board, where I in their coming in 
kissed the King's, Queen's, and Princess's 
hands. . . . Infinite shooting off of the 
guns, and that in a disorder on purpose, 
which was better than if it had been 
otherwise. . . . After dinner the King 
and duke altered the names of some [100 
of the ships; viz., the Nasehy into Charles; 
the Richard, James; the Speaker, Mary; 
the Dunbar, the Henry. ... All the 
afternoon the King walk«I here and there, 
up and down (quite contrary to what I 
thought him to have been), very active 
and stirring. Upon the quarterndeck he 
fell into discourse of his escape from 
Worcester, where it made me ready to 
weep to hear the stories that he told [no 
of his difficulties that he had passed 
through, as his travelling four da)rs and 
three nights on foot, eveiy step up to 
his knees in dirt, with nothing but a green 
coat and a pair of country breeches on, 
and a pair of country shoes that made 



him so sore all over his feet that he could 
scarce stir. Yet he was forced to run 
away from a miller and other company 
that took them for rogues. His sitting [lao 
at table at one place, where the master of 
the house, that had not seen him in eight 
years, did know him, but kq)t it private; 
when at the same table there was one that 
had been of his own raiment at Wor- 
cester, could not know him, but made him 
drink the King's health, and said that the 
King was at least four fingers higher than 
he. At another place he was by some 
servants of the house made to drink, [130 
that they might know him not to be a 
Roundhead, which they swore he was. 
In another place at his inn, the master of 
the house, as the King was standing with 
his hands upon the back of a chair by the 
fireside, kneked down and kissed his hand, 
privatdy, saying that he would not ask 
him who he was, but bid GUxi bless him 
whither he was going. . . . Under sail 
all night, and most glorious weath^. [140 

24S1. Up, and make myself as fine as 
I could, with the linen stockings on and 
wide canons that I bought the other day 
at Hague. Extraordinary press of noble 
company, and great mirth ail the day. 

2Slh. By the morning we were come 
dose to the land, and everybody made 
ready to get on shore. The King and the 
two dukes did eat their breakfast before 
they went, and there being set some [150 
ship's diet before them, only to show them 
the manner of the ship's diet, they eat of 
nothing else but peas and pork and boiled 
beef. I had Mr. Darcy in my cabin; and 
Dr. Gierke, who eat with me, told me how 
the King had given £50 to Mr. Shq>ly 
for my Lord's servants, and £500 among 
the officers and common men of the ship. 
I spoke with the Duke of York about 
business, who called me Pep)rs by [160 
name, and upon my desire did promise 
me his future favor^ Great expectation 
of the King's making some knights, but 
there was none. About noon . . . went 
in a boat by ourselves, and so got on shore 
when the King did, who was received by 
General Monk with all imaginable love 
and respect at his entrance upon the land 
of Dover. Infinite the crowd of pecnJe, 
and the horsemen, citizens, and noble- (170 



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men of all sorts. The Mayor of the town 
came and gave him his white staff, the 
badge of Ms place, which the King did 
give him again. The Mayor also pre- 
sented him from the town a very rich 
Bible, which he took, and said it was the 
thing that he loved above all things in the 
world. 

September 2nd, 1666 (Lord's day). 
Some of our maids sitting up late [180 
last night to get things ready against our 
feast today, Jane called us up about three 
in the morning, to tell us of a great fire 
they saw in the city. So I rose and slipped 
on my night-gown, and went to her win- 
dow, and thought it to be on the back 
side of Mark Lane at the farthest; but, 
b^ng imused to such fires as followed, I 
thought it far enough off; and so went 
to bed again and to sleep. About [190 
sev^i rose again to dress myself, and there 
looked out at the window, and saw the 
fire not so much as it was and further off. 
So to my closet to set things to rights after 
yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane 
comes and tdls me that she hears that 
above three himdred houses have been 
burned down tonight by the fire we saw, 
and that it is now burning down all Fish 
Street, by London Bridge. So I made [200 
my^df ready presently, and walked to 
the Tower, and there got up upon one 
of the high places. Sir J. Robinson's Uttle 
son going up with me; and there I did see 
the houses at that end of the bridge all on 
fire, and an infinite great fire on this and 
the other side the end of the bridge; which, 
among other people, did trouble me for 
poor little MicheU and our Sarah on the 
bridge. So down, with my heart full [210 
of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, 
who tdls me that it begun this morning 
in the King's baker's house in Pudding 
Lane, and that it hath burned St. Mag- 
nus's Church and most part of Fish Street 
already. So I down to the waterside, and 
there got a boat, and through bridge, 
and there saw a lamentable fire. Poor 
Micfadl's house, as far as the Old Swan, 
already burned that way, and the [220 
fire running further, that in a very little 
time it got as far as the Steel-yard, while 
I was there. Everybody endeavoring to 



remove their goods, and flinging into 
the river, or bringing them into lighters 
that lay off; poor people staying in their 
houses as long as tUl the very fire toudied 
them, and then running into boats, or 
clambering from one pair of stairs by the 
waterside to another. And among [230 
other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, 
were loth to leave their houses, but 
hovered about the windows and balconies 
till they were some of them burned, their 
wings, and fell down. Having stayed, 
and in an hour's time seen the fire rage 
every way, and nobody, to my sight, en- 
deavoring to quench it, but to remove 
their goods, and leave all to the fire, and 
having seen it get as far as the Steel- [240 
yard, and the wind mighty high and driv- 
ing it into the city, and every thing, after 
so long a drought, proving combustible, 
even the very stones of the churches, and 
among other things the poor steeple by 

which pretty Mrs. lives, and whereof 

my old schoolfellow Elborough is par- 
son, taken fire in the very top, and there 
burned till it fell down: I to Whitehall 
(with a gentleman with me who de- [250 
sired to go off from the Tower, to see the 
fire, in my boat); to Whitehall, and there 
up to the King's closet in the Chapel, 
where people come about me, and I did 
give them an accoimt dismayed them all, 
and word was carried in to tiie King. So 
I was called for, and did tell the King 
and Duke of York what I saw, and that 
imless his Majesty did conmiand houses 
to be pulled down nothing could stop [260 
the fire. They seemed much troubled, 
and the King commanded me to go to 
my Lord Mayor from him, and conmiand 
him to spare no houses, but to ptdl down 
before the fire every way. . . . Here 
nleeting with Captain Cock, I in his 
coach, which he lent me, and Creed with 
me, to Paul's, and there walked along 
Watling Street, as well as I could; every 
creature coming away loaden with [270 
goods to save, and here and there sick 
people carried away in beds. Extraor- 
dinary good goods carried in carts and 
on backs. At last met my Lord Mayor 
in Canning Street, like a man spent, with 
a handkercher about his neck. To the 
King's message he cried, like a fainting 



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woman, "Lord! what can I do? I am 
spent: people will not obey me. I have 
been pulling down houses; hut the fire [280 
overtakes us faster than we can. do it." 
That be needed no more soldiers; and that 
for himself, he must go and refresh him- 
self, having been up all night. So he 
left me, and I him, and walked home, 
seeing people all almost distracted, and 
no manner of means used to quench the 
fire. The houses, too, so very thick there- 
abouts, and full of matter for burning, as 
pitch and tar, in Thames Street; and [290 
warehouses of oil, and wines, and brandy, 
and other things. . . . 

Met with the King and Duke of York 
in their barge, and with them to Queen- 
hithe, and there called Sir Richard Browne 
to them. Their order was only to pull 
down houses apace, and so below bridge 
at the waterside; but little was or could 
be done, the fire coming upon them so 
fast. Good hoj)es there was of stopy- [300 
ping it at the Three Cranes above, and 
at Buttolph's wharf below bridge, if care 
be used; but the wind carries it into the 
city, so as we know not by the waterside 
what it do there. River full of lighters 
and boats taking in goods, and good 
goods swimming in the water. ... So 
near the fire as we could for smoke; and 
all over the Thames, with one's face in 
the wind, you were almost burned [310 
with a shower of fire-drops. This is very 
true; so as houses were burned by these 
drops and flakes of fire, — three or four, 
nay, five or six houses, one from another. 
When we could endure no more upon the 
water, we to a little ale-house on the 
Bankside, over against the Three Cranes, 
and there stayed till it was dark almost, 
and saw the fire grow; and as it grew 
darker, appeared more and more, and [320 
in comers and upon steeples, and between 
churches and houses, as far as we could 
see up the hill of the city, in a most hor- 
rid, malicious, bloody flame, not like the 
fine flame of an ordinary fire. . . . We 
stayed till, it being darkish, we saw the 
fire as only one entire arch of fire from 
this to the other side the bridge, and in 
a bow up the hill for an arch of above 
a mile long: it made me weep to see [330 
it. . . . So home with a sad heart. 



yd. About four o'clock in the laom- 
ing, my Lady Batten sent me a cart to 
carry away all my money, and plate, and 
best things, to Sir W. Rider's at Bednall 
Green. Wbich I did, riding mjrself in 
my night-gown in the cart; and Lord! to 
see how the streets and the highways are 
crowded with people running and riding, 
and getting of carts at any rate to [540 
fetch away things. . . . At night lay down 
a little upon a quilt of W. Hewer's 
in the office, all my own things being 
packed up or gone; and after me my poor 
wife did the like, we having fed upon the 
remains of yesterday's dinner, having no 
fire nor dishes, nor any opportunity of 
dressing anything. 

4ih. Up by break of day to get away 
the remainder of my things; which [350 
I did by a lighter at the Iron Gate; and 
my hands so few, that it was the afternoon 
before we cotdd get them all away. . . . 
Sir W. Batten not knowing how to remove 
his wine, did dig a pit in the garden, and 
laid it in there; and I took the opportunity 
of laying all the papers of my office that 
I could not otherwise dispose of. And 
in the evening Sir W. Penn and I did dig 
another, and put our wine in it, and [360 
I my Parmezan cheese, as well as my wine 
and some other things. . . . Now begins 
the practise of blowing up of houses 
in Tower Street, those next the Tower; 
which at first did frighten people more 
than anything; but it stopped the fire 
where it was done, it bringing down the 
houses to the ground in the same places 
they stood; and then it was easy to quench 
what little fire was in it, though it [370 
kindled nothing almost. 

January 2ndy 166/. Up, I, and walked 
to Whitehall to attend the Duke of York, 
as usual. My wife up, and with Mrs. 
Penn to walk in the fields to frost-bite 
themselves. . . . With Sir W. Penn by 
coach to the Temple, and there 'light and 
eat a bit at an ordinary by, and then alone 
to the King's House, and there saw The 
Custom of the Country, the second [380 
time of its being acted, wherein Kni{^ 
does the Widow well; but, of all the plays 
that ever I did see, the worst — ^having 
neither plot, language, nor anjrthing in 



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the earth that is acceptable; only Knipp 
sings a little song admirably. But fully 
the worst play that ever I saw or I believe 
shall see. So away home, much displeased 
for the loss of so much time, and dis- 
obliging my wife by being there with- [390 
out her. So, by link, walked home, it 
being mighty cxAA but dry, yet bad walk- 
ing because very slippery with the frost 
and treading. Home and to my chamber 
to set down my journal, and then to 
thinking upon establishing my vows 
against the next year, and so to supper 
and to bed. 

August iQth. Up, and at the office all 
the morning very busy. Towards [400 
noon I to Westminster about some tallies 
at the Exchequer, and then straight home 
again and dined, and then to sing with 
my wife with great content, and then I to 
the office again, where busy, and then out 
and took coach and to the Duke of York's 
House, all alone, and there saw Sir 
Martin Mar-all again, though I saw him 
but two da3rs since, and do find it the most 
comical play that ever I saw in my [410 
life. 

20th. Up, and to my chamber to set 
down my journal for the last three days, 
and then to the office, where busy all the 
morning. At noon home to dinner, and 
then with my wife abroad; set her down at 
the Exchange, and I to St. James's. . . . 
Thence with my Lord Bruncker to the 
Duke's playhouse (telling my wife so at 
the 'Change, where I left her), and [420 
there saw Sir Martin Mar-all again, which 
I have now seen three times, and it hath 
been acted but four times, and still find 
it a very ingenious play, and full of va- 
riety. So home, and to the office, where 
my eyes wotild not suffer me to do any- 
thing by candle-light, and so called my 
wife and walked in the garden. She 
mighty pressing for a new pair of cuffs, 
which I am against the laying out [430 
of money upon yet, which makes her 
angry. So home to supper and to bed. 

2J5t. Up, and my wife and I fell out 
about the pair of cuffs, which she hath a 
mind to have to go to see the ladies danc- 
ing tomorrow at Betty Turner's school; 
aiKl do vex me so that I am resolved to 
deny them her. However, by-and-by a 



way was found that she had them, and I 
well satisfied, being unwilling to let [440 
our difference grow higher upon so small 
an occasion and frowardness of mine. 

22nd. After dinner with my Lord 
Bruncker and his mistress to the King's 
playhouse, and there saw The Indian 
Emperor; where I find Nell come again, 
which I am glad of; but was most in- 
finitely displeased with her being put to 
act the Emperor's daughter, which is a 
great and serious part, which she [450 
do most basely. The rest of the play, 
though pretty good, was not well acted 
by most of tfiem, methought; so that I 
took no great content in it 

October igth. At the office all the morn- 
ing, where very busy, and at neon home 
to a short dinner, being full of my desire 
of seeing my Lord Orrery's new play this 
afternoon at the King's House, The 
Black Prince, the first time it is [460 
acted; where, though we come by two 
o'clock, yet there was no room in the pit, 
but we were forced to go into one of the 
upper boxes, at 45. a piece, which is the 
first time I ever sat in a box in my life. 
And in the same box come, by and by, 
behind me, my Lord Berkeley and his 
lady; but I did not turn my face to them 
to be known, so that I was excused from 
giving them my seat; and this pleas- [470 
ure I had, that from this place the scenes 
do appear very fine indeed, and much 
better than in Uie pit. The house infinite 
full, and the King and Duke of York was 
there. . . . So after having done business 
at the office, I home to supper and to bed. 

LOYALIST STALL BALLADS 

TO MAKE CHARLES A GREAT 
KING 

To make Charles a great King, and give 

him no power; 
To honor him much, and not obey him an 

hour; 
To provide for his safety, and take away 

his Tower; 
And to prove all is sweet, be it never so 

sour: 
The new order of the land, and the 

land's new order. 5 



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To secure men their lives, liberties, and 

estates, 
By arbitrary power, as it pleaseth the 

fates; 
To take away taxes by imposing great 

rates. 
And to make us a plaster by breaking our 

pates: 
The new order, etc. 

To sit and consult for ever and a day; lo 
To counterfeit treason by a Parliamentary 

way; 
To quiet the land by a tumultuous sway; 
New plots to devise, then them to betray: 
The new order, etc. 

To send them their zealots to Heaven in a 

string. 
Who else to confusion religion will bring, 15 
Who say the Lord's Prayer is a Popish 

thing. 
Who pray for themselves, but leave out 

their King: 
The new order of the land, and the 

land's new order. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE 
HOUSE OF COMMONS 

If, Charles, thou wilt but be so kind 
To give us leave to take our mind 

Of all thy store. 
When we, thy loyal subjects, find 
Thou 'ast noUiing left to give behind, s 

We'll ask no more. 

First, for religion, it is meet 
We make it go upon new feet; 

'Twas lame before; 
One from Geneva would be sweet: 10 

Let Warwick fetch't home with his fleet, 

We'll ask no more. 

Let us a consultation call 

Of honest men, but Roundheads all, 

God knows wherefore; 15 

Allow them but a place to bawl 
'Gainst Bishops' courts canonical. 

We'll ask no more. 

Reform each University, 
And in them let no learning be, 20 

A great eye-sore; 



From hence make Rome's Arminians flee, 
That none may have free-will but we, 
We'll ask no more. 

In this we will not be denied, 25 

Because in you we'll not confide, 

We know wherefore; 
The citizens their plate provide; 
Do you but send in yours beside. 

We'll ask no more. 30 



THE CHARACTER OF A ROUND- 
HEAD 

What creature's this with his short haiis, 
His little band, and huge long ears. 

That this new faith hath founded? 
The Puritans were never such; 
The Saints themselves had ne'er so much;5 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 

What's he that doth the Bishops hate. 
And count their calling reprobate, 

Cause by the Pope propounded, 
And say a zealous cobbler's better 10 

Than he that studieth every letter? 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 

What's he that doth high treason say 
As often as his yea and nay, 

And wish the ELing confounded; 15 
And dare maintain that Master Pym 
Is fitter for the crown than him? 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 



COME, DRAWER, SOME WINE 

Come, Drawer, some wine. 
Or we'll pull down the sign, 

For we are all jovial compounders: 
We'll make the house ring 
With healths to our King, 5 

And confusion light on his confoimdeis. 

And next, who e'er sees, 
We drink on our knees. 
To the King, — ^may he thirst that rt- 
pines; 
A fig for those traitors 10 

That look to our waters, 
They have nothing to do with our 
wines. 



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And next, here's a cup 
To the Queen; fill it up! 

Were it poison we would make an end 
on't; IS 

May Charles and she meet, 
And tread under feet 

Both Presbyter and Independent. 

To the Prince, and all others, 

His sisters and broth^^, 20 

As low in condition as high-bom, 
Well drink this, and pray 
That shortly they may 

See all them that wrongs them at 
Tyburn. 

And next, here's three bowls 25 

To all gallant souls 

That for the King did, and will venture; 
May they flourish when those 
That are his, and their foes, 

Are hanged, and rammed down to the 
center. 30 

And next, let a glass 
To OMi undoers pass, 

Attended with two or three ou-ses; 
May plagues sent from hell 
Stuff their bodies as well 35 

As the cavaliers' coin doth their purses! 



THE PROTECTING BREWER 

A brewer may be a burgess grave, 
And carry the matter so fine and so brave, 
That he the better may play the knave, 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may be a Parliament-man, 5 
For there the knavery first began ; 
And brew most cimning plots he can. 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may put on a Nabd face. 
And march to the wars with so much 
grace, . 10 

That he may get a Captain's place. 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may speak so wondrous well - 
That he may rise strange things to tell. 
And so to be made a Colonel, 15 

Which nobody can deny. 



A brewer may make his foes to flee, 
And raise his fortunes so that he 
Lieutenant-General may be. 

Which nobody can deny. 20 

A brewer he may be all in all. 
And raise his powers both great and small. 
That he may be a Lord-General, 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may be as bold as Hector, 25 

When he has drunk off his cup of nectar, 

And a brewer may be a Lord Protector, 

Which nobody can deny. 

Now here remains the strangest thing, 
How this brewer about his liquor did 
bring, 30 

To be an Emperor or a King, 

Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may do what he will. 
And rob the church and state, to sell 
His soul imto the devil of hell, 35 

Which nobody can deny! 



THE LAWYERS' LAMENTATION 

FOR THE LOSS OF CHARING 

CROSS 

Undone! undone! the lawyers cry; 

They ramble up and down; 
We know not the way to Westminster 
Now Charing Cross is down. 
Then fare thee well, old Charing 
Cross, s 

Then fare thee well, old stvunp; 
It was a thing set up by the King, 
And so pulled down by the Rump. 

And when they came to the bottom of the 
Strand, 
They were all at a loss; 10 

This is not the way to Westminster, 
We must go by Charing Cross. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 

The Parliament did vote it down. 

As a thing they thought most fitting. 
For fear it should fall, and so kill 'em 
all, 15 

In the House as they were sitting. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 



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The Whigs they do aflSrm and say, 

To Popery it was bent; 
For what I know it might be so, 

For to church it never went. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 

This cursed Rump rebellious crew 
They were so damned hard-hearted, 

They passed a vote that Charing Cross 
Should be taken down and carted. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 



Now, Whigs, I would advise you all, 25 

Tis what I'd have you do; 
For fear the Eang should cc»ne again, 
Pray pull down Tyburn tool 
Tlien fare thee well, old Charing 
Cross, 
Then fare thee well, old stiunp; 30 
It was a thing set up by the 
King, 
And so pulled down by the 
Rump. 



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JOHN DRTDEN (1681-1700) 

ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL 

In pious times, ere priestcraft did begin, 
Before polygamy was made a sin, 
When man on many multiplied his kind, 
Ere one to one was oirsedly confined, — 4 

Then Israel's monarch, . . . 

. . . wide as his command, 

Scattered his Maker's image through the 

land. 10 

Of all this numerous progeny was none 
So beautiful, so brave, as Absalon. 
* ♦ « « « « 

Eaily in foreign fidds he won renown 

With kings and states allied to Israel's 
crown; 

In peace the thoughts of war he could re- 
move, 25 

And seemed as he were only bom for 
love. ^ 

Whatever he did was done with so much 
ease. 

In him alone 'twas natural to please; 

His motions all accompanied with grace, 

And Paradise was opened in his face. 30 

With secret joy indidgent David viewed 

His youthful image in his son renewed; 

To ail his wishes nothing he denied, 

And made the charming Annabel his 
bride. 

What faults he had (for who from faults is 
free?) 35 

His father could not, or he would not see. 

Some warm excesses, which the law for- 
bore. 

Were cmistrued youth that purged by 
bdlingo'er; 

And Amnon's murder by a spedous name 

Was called a just revenge for injured 
fame. 40 

Thus praised and loved, the noble youth 
remained. 



While David undisturbed in Sion reigned. 
But life can never be sincerely blest; 
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the 

best. 
The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmur- 
ing race 45 
As ever tried the extent and stretch of 

grace; 
God's pampered people, whom, debauched 

with ease. 
No king could govern nor no God could 

please; 
Gods they had tried of every shape and 

size 
That godsmiths could produce or priests 

devise; 50 

These Adam-wits, too fortunately free. 
Began to dream they wanted liberty; 
And when no rule, no precedent, was 

found 
Of men by laws less circumscribed and 

boimd, 
They led their wild desires to woods and 

caves, 55 

And thought that all but savages were 

slaves. 
They who, when Saul was dead, without a 

blow 
Made foolish Ishbosheth the crown forego; 
Who bam'shed David did from Hebron 

bring. 
And with a genend shout proclaimed him 

King; 60 

Those very Jews who at their very best 
Their hvunor more than loyalty expressed. 
Now wondered why so long they had 

obeyed 
An idol monarch whom their hands had 

made; 
Thought they might ruin him they could 

create, 65 

Or melt him to that golden calf, a State. 
But these were random bolts; no formed 

design 
Nor interest made the factious crowd to 

join: 
The sober part of Israel, free from stain. 
Well knew the value of a peaceful reign; ^o 



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And looking backward with a wise affright 
Saw seams of wounds dishonest to the 

sight, 
In contemplation of whose ugly scars 
They cursed the memory of dvil wars. 
The moderate sort of men, thus qualified, 
Inclined the balance to the better side; 76 
And David's mildness managed it so well, 
The bad found no occasion to rebel. 
But when to sin our biassed nature leans. 
The careful Devil is still at hand with 
means, 80 

And providently pimps for ill desires: 
The good old cause, revived, a plot re- 
quires; 
Plots true or false are necessary things 
To raise up commonwealths and ruin 
kings. 
The inhabitants of old Jerusalem 85 
Were Jebusites; the town so called from 

them. 
And theirs the native right. 
But when the chosen people grew more 

strong, 
The rightful cause at length became the 

wrong; 
And every loss the men of Jebus bore, 90 
They still were thought God's enemies the 

more. 
Thus worn and weakened, well or ill con- 
tent. 
Submit they must to David's government: 
Impoverished and deprived of all com- 
mand, 
Their taxes doubled as they lost their land; 
And, what was harder yet to flesh and 
blood, 96 

Their gods disgraced, and burnt like com- 
mon wood. 
This set the heathen priesthood in a flame, 
For priests of all religions are the same. 
Of whatsoe'er descent their godhead be, 
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree, loi 
In his defense his servants are as bold, 
As if he had been bom of beaten, gold. 
The Jewish rabbins, though their enemies, 
In this conclude them honest men and 
wise. 105 

For 'twas their duty, all the learned tiiink, 
To espouse his cause by whom they eat 

and drink. 
From hence began that Plot, the nation's 

curse. 
Bad in itself, but represented worse, 



Raised in extremes, and in extremes de- 
cried, no 

With oaths affirmed, with dying vows de- 
nied. 

Not weighed or winnowed by the multi- 
tude. 

But swallowed in the mass, unchewed and 
crude. 

Some truth there was, but dashed and 
brewed with lies 

To please the fools and puzzle all the 
wise: 115 

Succeeding times did equal folly call 

Believing nothing or believing all. 

The Egyptian rites the Jebusites em- 
braced. 

Where gods were recommended by their 
taste; 

Such savory deities must needs be good 120 

As served at once for worship and for food. 

By force they could not introduce these 
gods. 

For ten to one in former days was odds: 

So fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade; 

Fools are more hard to conquer then per- 
suade. 12$ 

Their busy teachers mingled with the 
Jews 

And raked for converts even the court and 
stews: 

Which Hebrew priests the more imkindly 
took. 

Because the fleece accompanies the flock. 

Some thought they (Jod's anointed meant 
to slay 130 

By guns, invented since full many a day: 

Our author swears it not; but who can 
know 

How far the Devil and Jebusites may go? 

This plot, which failed for want of com- 
mon sense, 

Had yet a deep and dangerous conse- 
quence; 135 

For as, when raging fevers boil the blood, 

The standing lake soon floats into a flood, 

And every hostile humor which before 

Slept quiet in its channels bubbles o'er; 

So several factions from this first ferment 

Work up to foam and threat the govern- 
ment. 141 

Some by their friends, more by themselves 
thought wise. 

Opposed the power to which they could 
not rise. 



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Some had in courts been great and, thrown 
from thence, 

Like fiends were hardened in impenitence. 

Some, by their Monarch's fatal mercy 
grown 146 

From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the 
throne, 

Were raised in power and public office 
high; 

Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men 
could tie. 
Of these the false Achitophel was first,i 50 

A name to all succeeding ages curst: 

For dose designs and crooked coimsels fit; 

Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; 

Restless, unfixed in principles and place; 

In power unpleased, impatient of dis- 
grace: 15s 

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretttti the pigmy body to decay. 

And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. 

A daring pilot in extremity; 

Pleased with the danger when the waves 
went high, 160 

He sought the storms; but, for a calm un- 
fit^ 

Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast 
his wit. 

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 

And thin partitions do their boimds divide; 

Else why should he, with wealth and honor 
blest, 165 

Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? 

Punish a body which he could not please. 

Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? 

And all to leave what with his toil he won 

To that imfeathered two-l^g'd thing, a 
son, 170 

Got, while his soul did huddled notions 

try, 
And bom a shapeless lump, like anarchy. 
In friendship false, implacable in hate, 
Resolved to ruin or to rule the state; 
To compass this the triple bond he broke. 
The pillars of the public safety shook, 1 76 
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke; 
Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting 

fame, 
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name. 
So easy still it proves in factious times 180 
With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, 
Where none can sin against the people's 

will! 



Where crowds can wink and no offence be 

known, 
Since in another's guilt they find their 

own! 185 

Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; 
The statesman we abhor, but praise the 

judge. 
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abbethdin 
With more discerning eyes or hands more 

dean, 
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to re- 
dress, 190 
Swift of despatch and easy of access. 
Oh! had he been content to serve the crown 
With virtues only proper to the gown. 
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 
From cockle that oppressed the noble 

seed, 195 

David for him his tuneful harp had 

strung 
And Heaven had wanted one immortal 

song. 
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not 

stand. 
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land. 
Achitophel, grown weary to possess 200 
A lawful fame and lazy happiness. 
Disdained the golden fruit to gather 

free. 
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the 

tree. 
Now, manifest^ of crimes contrived long 

since, 
He stood at bold defiance with his prince. 
Held up the buckler of the people's 

cause 206 

Against the crown, and skulked behind the 

laws. 
The wished occasion of the plot he takes; 
Some circumstances finds, but more he 

makes; 
By buzzing emissaries fills the ears 210 
Of listening crowds with jealousies and 

fears 
Of arbitrary coimsels brought to light, 
And proves the king himself a Jebusite. 
Weak argiunents! which yet he knew full 

well 
Were strong with people easy to rebel. 215 
For, governed by the moon, the giddy 

Jews 
Tread the same track when she the prime 

renews; 

> evidently guilty. 



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And once in twenty years, their scribes 

record, 
By natural instinct they change their lord. 
Achitophel still wants a chief, and none 220 
Was found so fit as warlike Absalon. 
Not that he wished his greatness to create, 
(For politicians neither love nor hate) 
But, for he knew his title not allowed 
Would keep him stiD depending on the 
crowd, 225 

That kingly power, thus ebbing out, 

might be 
Drawn to the dr^ of a democracy. 
Him he attempts with studied arts to 

please. 
And sheds his venom in such words as 
these: 229 

"Auspicious prince, at whose nativity 
Some royal planet niled the southern sky. 
Thy longing coimtry's darling and desire. 
Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire, 
Their second Moses, whose extended wand 
Divides the seas and shows the promised 
land, 23s 

Whose dawning day in every distant age 
Has exercised the sacred prophet's rage, 
The people's prayer, the glad diviner's 

theme. 
The yoimg men's vision and the old men's 

dream. 
Thee savior, thee the nation's vows con- 
fess, 240 
And, never satisfied with seeing, bless: 
Swift imbespoken pomps thy steps pro- 
claim, 
And stammering babes are taught to lisp 

thy name. 
How long wilt thou the general joy detain, 
Starve and defraud the people of thy 
reign? 24s 



Had thus old David, from whose loins you 

spring, 
Not dared, when Fortime called him to be 

King, 
At Gath an exile he might still remain, 
And Heaven's anointing oil had been in 

vain. 265 

Let his successful youth your hopes engage. 
But shim the example of declining age. 
Behold him setting in his western skies. 
The shadows lengthening as the vapors 

rise; 



He is not now as when on Jordan's sand 270 
The joyful people thronged to see him 

land. 
Covering the beach and blackening all the 

strand; 



All sorts of men, by my successful arts 
Abhorring kings, estrange their altered 
hearts 290 

From David's rule; and 'tis the general 

cry: 
* Religion, conmionwealth, and lib«ty/ 
If 3rou, as champion of the public good. 
Add to their arms a chief of royal blood. 
What may not Israel hope, and what ap- 
plause 295 
Might such a general gain by such a 

cause? 
Not barren praise alone, that gaudy 

flower. 
Fair only to the sight, but solid power; 
And nobler is a limited* command, 
Given by the love of all your native land, 
Than a successive title, long and dark, 301 
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of J^oah's 
ark." 
What cannot praise eflFect in mighty 
minds. 
When flattery soothes, and when ambi- 
tion blinds? ^ 304 
Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, 
Yet sprung from high is of celestial seed; 
In God 'tis glory, and when men aspire, 
'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire. 
The ambitious youth, too covetous of fame, 
Too full of angels' metal in his frame, 310 
Unwarily was led from virtue's ways. 
Made drunk with honor, and debauched 

with praise. 
Half loth, and half consenting to the ill, 
(For loyal blood within him struggled still,) 
He thus replied: "And what pretence 
have I 315 

To take up arms for public liberty? 
My father governs with imquestioned 

right. 
The faith's defender, and mankind's de- 
light; 
Good, gracious, just, observant of the 

laws; 
And Heaven by wonders has espoused his^ 
cause. 320 

* ai^minted. 



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199 



Whom has he wronged in all his peaceful 

reign? 
Who sues for justice to his throne in vain? 
What millions has he pardoned of his foes. 
Whom just revenge did to his wrath ex- 
pose? 324 
Mild, easy, humble, studious of our good. 
Inclined to mercy and averse from blood. 
If mildness ill with stubborn Israel suit, 
His crime is God's beloved attribute. 



Why then should I, encouraging the bad, 
Turn rebel and run popularly mad? 336 
Were he a tyrant, who by lawless might 
Oppressed the Jews and raised the Jebu- 

site. 
Well might I mourn; but nature's holy 

bands 
WouM curb my ^irit and restrain my 

hands; 340 

Tlie people might assert their liberty, 
But what was right in them were crime in 

me. 
His favor leaves me nothing to require, 
Prevents my wishes, and outnms desire; 
What more can I expect while David lives? 
All but his kingly diadem he gives: 346 
And that" — ^But here he paused, then 

sighing said, 
"Is justly destined for a worthier head; 
For when my father from his toils shall 

rest, 349 

And late augment the nimiber of the blest. 
His lawful issue shall the throne ascend, 
Or the collateral line, where that shall 

end. 
Hb brother, though oppressed with vulgar 

^ite. 
Yet daimtless and secure of native right, 
Of every royal virtue stands possessed, 355 
Still dear to all the bravest and the best. 
Eis courage goes, his friends his truth pro- 
claim, 
ICs loyalty the King, the world his fame. 
His mercy even the offending crowd will 

find. 
For sxire he comes of a forgiving kind. 360 
Why should I then repine at Heaven's 

decree, 
Which gives me no pretence to royalty? 
Yet ch that Fate, propitiously inclined. 
Had raised my biith, or had debased my 

mind; 364 



To my large soul not all her treasure lent, 
And then betrayed it to a mean descent I 
I find, I find my moimting spirits bold. 
And David's part disdains my mother's 

mould. 
Why am I scanted by a niggard birth? 369 
My soul disdains the kindred of her earth. 
And, made for empire, whispers me within, 
'Desire of greatness is a god-like sin.' " 
Him staggering so when Hell's dire 
agent foimd, 
WhOe fainting virtue scarce maintained 

her groimd. 
He pours fresh forces in, and thus re- 
plies: 375 
"The eternal God, supremely good and 

wise. 
Imparts not these prodigious gifts in vain. 
What wonders are reserved to bless your 

reign! 
Against your will your arguments have 
shown 379 

Such virtue's only given to guide a throne. 
Not that your faflier's mildness I contemn, 
But manly force becomes the diadem. 
'Tis true he grants the people all they 

crave, 
And more, perhaps, than subjects ought 

to have; 
For lavish grants suppose a monarch tame. 
And more his goodness than his wit pro- 
claim. 386 



Doubt not; but, when he most affects the 
frown, 

Conmiit a pleasing rape upon the crown. 

Secure his person to secure your cause: 475 

They who possess the Prince possess the 
laws." 
He said, and this advice above the rest 

With Absalom's mild natiure suited best; 

Unblamed of life (ambition set aside,) 

Not stained with cruelty nor puffed with 
pride, 480 

How happy had he been if Destiny 

Had higher placed his birth or not so high ! 

His ki^ly virtues might have claimed a 
throne 

And blessed all other coimtries but his 
own; 

But charming greatness since so few re- 
fuse, 485 

'Tis juster to lament him than accuse. 



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Strong were his hopes a rival to remove, 
With blandishments to gain the public 

love, 
To head the faction while their zeal was 

hot, 
And popularly prosecute the plot. 490 
To further this, Achitophd unites 
The malcontents of all the Israelites, 
Whose differing parties he could wisely 

join 
For several ends to serve the same design; 
The best, (and of the princes some were 

such,) 495 

Who thought the power of monarchy too 

much; 
Mistaken men, and patriots in their 

hearts, 
Not wicked, but seduced by impious arts; 
By these the springs of property were bent 
And wound so Wgh they cracked the 

government. 500 

The next for interest sought to embroil 

the state 
To sell their duty at a dearer rate. 
And make their Jewish markets of the 

throne, 
Pretending public good to serve their own. 
Others thought kings an useless heavy 

load, 505 

Who cost too much and did too little good. 
These were for lajnng honest David by . 
On principles of pure good husbandry. 
With them joined all the haranguers of the 

throng. 
That thought to get preferment by the 

tongue. Sio 



A numerous host of dreaming saints suc- 
ceed 

Of the true old enthusiastic breed : 530 

'Gainst form and order they their power 
employ. 

Nothing to build, and all things to de- 
stroy. 

But far more numerous was the herd of 
such 

Who think too little, and who talk too 
much. 

These out of mere instinct, they knew not 
why, 535 

Adored their fathers' God and property, 

And, by the same blind benefit of Fate, 

The Devil and the Jebusite did hate: 



Bom to be saved, even in their own de- 
spite, 
Because they could not help believing 

right. 540 

Such were the took; but a whole Hydra 

rriore 
Remains, of sprouting heads too long to 

score. 
Some of their chiefs were princes of the 

land: 
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand; 
A man so various that he seemed to be 545 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
StiflF in opinions, always in the wrong. 
Was everything by starts and nothing 

long; 
But in the course of one revolving moon 
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and 

buffoon; 550 

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, 

drinking. 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in 

thinking. 
Blest madman, who could every hour 

employ 
With something new to wish or to enjoy I 
Railing and praising were his usual 

themes, 555 

And both (to show his judgment) in ex- 
tremes: 
So over violent, or over civil, 
That every man with him was God or 

Devil. 
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art: 
Nothing went unrewarded but desert 560 
Beggared by foob whom still he found too 

late. 
He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
He laughed himself from Court; then 

sought relief 
By forming parties, but could ne'er be 

chief: 
For spite of him, the weight of business fell 
On Absalom and wise Achitophel: 566 
Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, 
He left not faction, but of that was left 



Shimei, whose youth did early promise bring 
Of zeal to God, and hatred to his King, 586 
Did wisely from expensive sins refrain, 
And never broke the Sabbath but for gain; 
Nor ever was he known an oath to vent, 
Or curse, unless against the government 



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Thus heaping wealth by the most ready 

way ^ 591 

Among the Jews, which was to cheat and 

pray, 
The city, to reward his pious hate 
Against his master, chose him magistrate. 
Hfc hand a vare^ of justice did uphold, 595 
His neck was loaded with a chain of gold. 
During his office treason was no crime; 
The sons of Belial had a glorious time; 
For Shimei, though not prodigal of pelf. 
Yet loved his wid^ed neighbor as himself. 
When two or three were gathered to de- 
claim 601 
Against the monarch of Jerusalem, 
Shimei was always in the midst of them: 
And, if they cursed the King when he was 

by, 

Would rather curse than break good com- 
pany. 60s 
If any durst his factious friends accuse. 
He packed a jury of dissenting Jews; 
Whose feliow-feding in the godly cause 
Would free the su£fering saint from himian 

laws: 
For laws are only made to punish those 610 
Who serve the ^bg, and to protect his foes. 
If any leisure time he had from power. 
Because 'tis sin to misemploy an hour, 
His business was by writing to persuade 
That kings were useless and a dog to 
trade: 615 

And that his noble style he might refine. 
No Rechabite more diimned 3ie fumes of 

wine. 
Chaste were his cellars, and his shrieval 

board 
The grossness of a dty feast abhorred: 
His Qooks with long disuse thdr trade 
forgot ; 620 

Oxd was his kitchen, though his brains 

were hot. 
Such frugal virtue malice may accuse. 
But sure 'twas necessary to the Jews: 
For towns once burnt such magistrates 

require 
As dare not tempt God's providence by 
fire. 625 



Surrounded thus with friends of every 
sort, 
Deluded Absalom forsakes the court; 

iwaocl. 



Impatient of high hopes, urged with re- 
nown. 

And fired with near possession of a crown. 

The admiring crowd are dazzled with sur- 
prise, 686 

And on his goodly person feed their eyes. 

His joy concealed, he sets himsdf to show. 

On each side bowing popularly low; 

His looks, his gestiu-es, and his words he 
frames, 690 

And with familiar ease repeats thdr names. 

Thus formed by nature, furnished out 
with arts. 

He glides unfelt into their secret hearts. 

Youth, beauty, graceful action, seldom 

fail. 
But common interest always will prevail; 
And pity never ceases to be shown 725 
To Him who makes the people's wrongs his 

own. 
The crowd that still believe their kings 

oppress. 
With lifted hands their young Messiah 

bless; 
Who now begins his progress to ordain 
With chariots, horsemen, and a numerous 

tram; 730 

From east to west his glories he displays. 
And, like the sim, the promised land sur- 

ve)rs. 
Fame runs before him like the morning 

star, 
And shouts of joy salute him from afar; 
Each house recdves him as a guardian god, 
And consecrates the place of his abode. 736 

Oh foolish Isradl never warned by ill! 
Still the same bait, and circumvented still I 
Did ever men forsake thdr present ease, 
In midst of health imagine a disease, 756 
Take pains contingent mischiefs to foresee, 
Make heirs for monarchs, and for God 

decree? 
What shall we think? Can people give 

away 
Both for themselves and sons their native 

sway? 760 

Then they are left defenceless to the sword 
Of each unbounded, arbitrary lord; 
And laws are vain by which we right enjoy, 
If kings imquestioned can those laws 

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Yet if the crowd be judge of fit and just, 
And kings are only officers in trust, 766 
Then this resiuning covenant was declared 
When kings were made, or is forever 

barred. 
If those who gave the sceptre could not tie 
By their own deed their own posterity, 770 
How then could Adam bind his future 

race? 
How could his forfeit on mankind take 

place? 
Or how could heavenly justice danm us all 
Who ne*er consented to our father's fall? 
Then kings are slaves to those whom they 

command, 775 

And tenants to their people's pleasure 

stand. 
Add that the power, for property allowed, 
Is mischievously seated in the crowd; 
For who can be secure of private right, 
If sovereign sway may be dissolved by 

might? 780 

Nor is tiie people's judgment always true: 
The most may err as grossly as the few; 
And faultless kings run down by common 

cry 
For vice, oppression, and for tyranny. 



Now what relief can righteous David 
bring? 811 

How fatal 'tis to be too good a king! 

Friends he has few, so high the madness 
grows; 

Who dare be such must be the people's 
foes. 

Yet some there were even in the worst of 
days; 815 

Some let me name, and naming is to praise. 
In this short file Barzillai first appears, 

Barzillai, crowned with honor and with 
years. 

Long since the rising rebels he withstood 

In regions waste beyond the Jordan's 
flood: 820 

Unfortimately brave to buoy the state. 

But sinking imdemeath his master's fate. 

In exile for his godlike prince he mourned, 

For him he s&ered, and with him re- 
turned. 

The court he practised, not the courtier's 
art: 825 

Large was his wealth, but larger was his 
heart, 



Which wdl the noblest objects knew to 
choose. 

The fighting warrior, and recording Muse. 

His b«l could once a fruitful issue boast; 

Now more than half a father's name is 
lost. 830 

His eldest hope, with every grace adorned, 

By me, so Heaven will have it, always 
mourned 

And always honored, snatched in man- 
hood's prime 

By imequal fates and Providence's crime: 

Yet not before the goal of honor won, 835 

AU parts fulfilled of subject and (A 
son; 

Swift was the race, but short the time to 
run. 



Indulge one labor more, my weary 

Muse, 
For Amiel: who can Amiel's praise refuse? 
Of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet 900 
In his own worth, and without title great: 
The Sanhedrin long time as chief he ruled, 
Their reason guided, and their passion 

cooled: 
So dexterous was he in the Crown's de- 
fence, 
So formed to speak a loyal nation's 

sense, 905 

That, as their band was Israel's tribes in 

small, 
So fit was he to represent them all. 
Now rasher charioteers the seat ascend. 
Whose loose careers his steady skill com- 

mend: 
They, like unequal ruler of the day, 910 
Misguide the seasons and mistake the 

way. 
While he, withdrawn, at their mad labor 

smiles, 
And safe enjo3rs the Sabbath of his toils. 
These were the chief, a small but faithful 

band 
Of worthies in the breach who dared to 

stand 915 

And tempt the united fiuy of the land. 
With grief they viewed such powerful 

engines bent 
To batter down the lawful government 
A numerous faction, with pretended 

frights. 
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The true* successor from the court re- 
moved; 921 
The jJot by hireling witnesses improved. 
These ills they saw, and, as their duty 

boimd, 
They showed the King the danger of the 

wound; 
That no concessions from the throne 
would please, 925 

But lenitives fomented the disease; 
That Absalom, ambitious of the crown, 
Was made the lure to draw the people 

down; 
That false Achitophel's pernicious hate 
Had turned the i^ot to ruin Church and 
State; 930 

The council violent, the rabble worse; 
That Shimei taught Jerusalem to ciu^. 
With all these loads of injuries op- 
pressed. 
And long revolving in his careful breast 
The event of things, at last, his patience 
tired, 935 

Thus from his royal throne, by Heaven 

in^ired. 
The godlike David spoke; with awful fear 
His train their Maker in their master hear. 
"Thus long have I, by native mercy 
swayed, 
My wrongs dissembled, my revenge de- 
layed; 940 
So wilUng to forgive the offending age, 
So much the father did the king assuage. 
But now so far my clemency they slight. 
The offenders question my forgiving right. 
That one was made for many, they con- 
tend; 945 
But 'tis to rule, for that's a monarch's end. 
They call my tenderness of blood my fear. 
Though maiily tempers can the longest 

bear. 
Yet since they will divert my native course, 
'Tk time to show I am not good by force. 
Those heaped affronts that haughty sub- 
jects bring 951 
Are biudens for a camel, not a king. 
Kings are the public pillars of the State, 
Bom to sustain and prop the nation's 

wd^t: 
If my young Samson will pretend a call 955 
To shake the colvunn, let him share the 

fall. 
But oh that yet he would repent and live! 
How easy 'tis for parents to forgive! 



With how few tears a pardon might be won 
From nature, pleading for a darling son! 
Poor pitied youth, by my paternal care 961 
Raised up to all the height his frame could 

bear! 
Had God ordained his fate for empire bom. 
He would have given his soul another turn : 
Gulled with a patriot's name, whose 

modem sense 965 

Is one that would by law supplant his 

prince; 
The people's brave, the politidan's tool. 
Never was patriot yet but was a fool. 
Whence comes it that religion and the 

laws 
Should more be Absalom's than David's 

cause? 970 

His old instmctor, ere he lost his place. 
Was never thought endued with so much 

grace. 
Good heavens, how faction can a patriot 

paint! 
My rebel ever proves my people's saint. 
Would they impose an heir upon the 

throne? 975 

Let Sanhedrins be taught to give their 

own. 
A king's at least a part of government. 
And mine as requisite as their consent 
Without my leave a future king to choose 
Infers a right the present to depose. 980 
True, they petition me to approve their 

choice; 
But Esau's hands suit ill with Jacob's 

voice'. 
My pious subjects for my safety pray. 
Which to seciu-e, they take my power away. 
From plots and treasons Heaven preserve 

my years, 985 

But save me most from my petitioners, 
Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave; 
God cannot grant so much as ti^ey can 

crave. 
What then is left but with a jealous eye 
To guard the small remains of royalty? 990 
The law shall still direct my peaceful sway. 
And the same law teach rebels to obey. 



By their own arts, 'tis righteously decreed. 
Those dire artificers of death shall bleed. 
Against themselves their witnesses will 
swear 1012 

Till, viper-like, their mother-plot they tear. 



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And suck for nutriment that bloody gore 
Which was their principle of life before. 
Their Belial with their Beelzebub will 
fight; 1016 

Thus on my foes my foes shall do me right. 
Nor doubt the event; for factious crowds 



In their first onset all their brutal rage. 
Then let them take an unresisted course; 
Retire and traverse, and delude their force: 
But when they stand all breathless, urge 

the fight, 1022 

And rise upon them with redoubled might: 
For lawful power is still superior found, 
When long driven back at length it stands 

the ground." 1025 

He said. The Almighty, nodding, gave 

consent; 
And peals of thunder shook the firmament. 
Henceforth a series of new time began; 
The mighty years in long procession ran; 
Once more the godlike David was restored, 
And willing nations knew their lawful lord. 



MAC FLECKNOE 

All hiunan things are subject to decay. 
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must 

obey. 
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, 

young 
Was called to empire, and had governed 

long; 
In prose and verse, was owned without 
dispute, 5 

Through all the realms of Nonsense, ab- 
solute. 
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace. 
And blest with issue of a large increase. 
Worn out with business, did at length de- 
bate 
To settle the succession of the state; 10 
And, pondering which of all his sons was 

fit 
To reign and wage immortal war with 

wit. 
Cried, "'Tis resolved, for Nature pleads 

that he 
Should only rule who most resembles me. 
Shadwdl alone my perfect image bears, 15 
Mature in dulness from his tender years; 
Shadwell alone of all my sons is he 
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 



The rest to some faint meaning Wke pre- 
tence. 
But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20 
Some beams of wit on other souls may fell, 
Strike through, and make a lucid interval; 
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no 

ray. 
His rismg fogs prevail upon the day. 
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye 25 
And seems designed for thoughtless maj- 
esty. 
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade 

the plain. 
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
Heywood and Shirley were but types of 

thee. 
Thou last great prophet of tautology. 30 
Even I, a dunce of more renown thaua they, 
Was sent before but to prepare thy way, 
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget^ 

came 
To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom 

strung, 35 

When to King John of Portugal I sung. 
Was but the prelude to that glorious day 
When thou on silver Thames didst cut 

thy way. 
With well-timed oars before the royal 

barge. 
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial 

charge, 40 

And, big with hymn, commander (rf an 

host; 
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets 

tossed. 
Methinks I see the new Arion sail, 
The lute still trembling imdemeath thy nail. 
At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore 

to shore 45 

The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar; 



About thy boat the little fishes throng. 
As at the morning toast that floats along. 
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious 

band, 51 

Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing 

hand. 
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal 

time. 
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's 

rhyme: 

1 coarse cloth. 



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Though they in number as in sense excel, 
So just, so like tautology, they fell 56 

That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore, 
The lute and sword which he in triumph 

bore. 
And vowed he ne'er would act Valerius 

more." 
Here sto(^>ed the good old sire and wept 
for joy, 60 

In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 
All arguments, but most his plays, per- 
suade 
That ior ancHnted dulness he was made. 
Qose to the walls which fair Augusta 
bind, 64 

(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,) 
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight 
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight; 
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate or- 
dains, 
Of all the pile an empty name remains; 69 



Near these a Nursery erects its head 
Where queens are iFormed and future 
heroes bred, 75 

Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and 

WTiere infant trulls their tender voices try. 
And little Maximins the gods defy. 
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, 
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; 
But gentle Simkin just reception 6n6s 81 
Amidst this moniunent of vanished minds; 
Pure cUnches^ the suburbian muse affords. 
And Panton waging harmless war with 

words. 
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well 

known, 85 

Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's 

throne. 
For ancient Dekker prophesied long since 
That in this pile should reign a mighty 

prince. 
Bom for a scourge of wit and flail of sense, 
To whom true dulness should some 

Psyches owe, 90 

But worlds of Misers from his pen should 

flow; 
Humorists and hypocrites it should pro- 
duce, 
Whole Raymond families and tribes of 

Bruce. 



Now Empress Fame had published the 

renown 
Of Shadweirs coronation through the 

town. 95 

Roused by report of fame, the nations 

meet 
From near BunhiU and distant Watling- 

street. 
No Persian carpets spread the imperial 

way. 
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; 



Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there 
lay; 102 

But loiads of Shadwell almost choked the 
way. 

Bilked stationers for yeomen stood pre- 
pared. 

And Herringman was captain of the guard. 

The hoary prince in majesty appeared, 106 

High on a throne of his own labors reared. 

At his right hand our young Ascanius 
sate, 

Rome's other hope and pillar of the state. 

His brows thick fpgs instead of glories 
grace, no 

And lambent dulness played aroimd his 
face. 

As Hannibal did to the altars come. 

Sworn by his sire a niortal foe to Rome; 

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be 
vain. 

That he till death true dulness would 
maintain; 115 

And, in his father's right and realm's de- 
fence. 

Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce 
with sense. 

The king himself the sacred unction made, 

As king by office and as priest by trade. 

In his sinister hand, instead of ball, 120 

He placed a naighty mug of potent ale; 

Lovers Kingdom to his right he did con- 
vey. 

At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; 

Whose righteous lore the prince had prac- 
tised young 

And from whose loins recorded Psyche 
spnmg. 125 

His temples, last, with poppies were o'er- 
spread, 

That nodding seemed to consecrate his 
head. 



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Just at that point of time, if fame not lie, 
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did 

fly. 
So Romulus, *tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 
Presage of sway from twice six vultures 
took. 131 

The admiring throng loud acclamations 

make, 
And omens of his f utiu"e empire take. 
The sire then shook the honors of his 

head. 
And from his brows damps of oblivion 
shed 13s 

Full on the filial dulness: long he stood. 
Repelling from his breast the raging god; 
At length burst out in this prophetic mood: 
"Heavens bless my sonl from Ireland let 

him reign 
To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 
Of his dominion may no end be known, 
And greater than his father's be his throne; 
Beyond Lovers Kingdom let him stretch his 

pen!" 
He paused, and all the people cried 

'^Amen." 
Then thus continued he: ■'^My son, ad- 
vance 145 
Still in new impudence, new ignorance. 
Success let others teach; learn thou from 

me 
Pangs without birth,' and fruitless indus- 
try. 
Let Virtuosos in five years be wnt. 
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 
Let gentle George in triumph tread the 
stage, 151 

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; 
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm tiie 

pit, 
And in their folly show the writer's wit. 
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy de- 
fence, ^ 155 
And justify their author's want of sense. 
Let them be all by thy own model made 
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid. 
That they to future ages may be known, 
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 160 
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same. 
All full of thee, and differing but in name. 
But let no alien Sedley interpose 
To lard with wit thy himgry Epsom prose. 
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou 
wouldst cull, 165 
Trust nature; do not labor to be dull; 



But write thy best, and top; and in each 

line 
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine. 
Sir Formal, though imsought, attends thy 

quill, 
And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to 

fame 
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name; 
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with 

praise, 
And uncle Qgleby thy envy raise. 
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no 

part: 175 

What share have we in nature or in art? 
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, 
And rail at arts he did not imderstand? 
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's 

vein. 
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble 

strain? 180 



When did his muse. from Fletcher scenes 

purloin. 
As thou whole Etheredge dost transfuse 

to thine? 184 

But so transfused as oil on water's flow, 
His alwa3rs floats above, thine sinks below. 
This is thy province, this thy wondrous 

way, 
New himiors to invent for each new play: 
This is that boasted bias of thy mind, 
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, 
Which makes thy writings lean <mi one 

side still, 191 

And, in all changes, that way bends thy 

wiU. 
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence 
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. 
A.tim of man in thy large bulk is writ, 195 
But sure thou art but a kilderkin of wit 
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly 

creep; 
Thy tragic muse gives smiles; thy comic, 

sleep. 
With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to 

write, 
Thy inoffensive satires never bite; 200 
In thy felonious heart though venom lies, 
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. 
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase 

fame 
In keen iambics, but mild anagram. 



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Leave writing plays, and choose for thy 
(xxnmand 205 

Some peaceful province in Acrostic Land. 

There thou mayest wings display and 
altars raise, 

And torture one poor word ten thousand 
ways; 

Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents 
suit, 

Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy 
lute." ^ 210 

He said, but his last words were scarcely 
heard. 

For Bruce and Longville had a trap pre- 
pared, 

And down they sent the yet declaiming 
bard. 

Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind, 

Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. 

The mantle fell to the young prophet's 
part 216 

With double portion of his father's art. 



Prom THE HIND AND THE 
PANTHER 

A milk-white Hind, inmiortal and im- 

changed, 
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged ; 
Without unspotted, innocent within. 
She feared no danger, for she knew no 

sin. 
Yet had she oft been chased with horns 

and hounds 5 

And Scythian shafts, and many wingM 

wounds 
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to 

fly, 

And doomed to death, though fated not 
to die. 
Not so her young; for their imeqiial line 

Was hero's make, half hmnan, half di- 
vine. 10 

Their earthly mold obnoxious was to 
fate. 

The immortal part assimied inmiortal 
state. 

Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood. 

Extended o'er the Caledonian wood. 

Their native walk; whose vocal blood 
arose 15 

And cried for pardon on their perjured 
foes. 



Their fate was fruitful, and the sangiiine 
seed. 

Endued with souls, increased the sacred 
breed. 

So captive Israel multiplied in chains, 

A nmnerous exile, and enjoyed her pains. 20 

With grief and gladness mixed, their 
mother viewed 

Her martyred offspring and their race re- 
newed; 

Their corps to perish, but their kind to 
last. 

So much the deathless plant the dying fruit 
surpassed. 
Panting and pensive now she ranged 
alone, 25 

And wandered in the kingdom^ once her 
own. 

The conunon hunt, though from their rage 
restrained 

By sovereign power, her company dis- 
dained; 

Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring 
eye 

Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 30 

'Tis true she bounded by, and tripped so 
light 

They had not time to take a steady sight; v 

For truth has such a face^and such a mien / 

As to be loved needs only to be seen. j 
The bloody Bear, an Independent 
beast 35 

Unlicked to form, in groans her hate ex- 
pressed. 

Among the timorous kind the quaking 
Hare 

Professed neutrality, but would not swear. 

Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists 
use, 

Mimicked all sects, and had his own to 
choose; 40 

Still when the Lion looked, his knees he 
bent. 

And paid at church a courtier's compli- 
ment. 

The bristled Baptist Boar, impure as he, 

But whitened with the foam of sanctity, 

With fat pollutions filled the sacred 
place, 45 

And mountains levelled in his furious race: 

So first rebellion foimded was in grace. 

But since the mighty ravage which he 
made 

In German forests had his guilt betrayed, 



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With broken tusks and with a borrowed 
name, 50 

He shimned the vengeance and concealed 
the shame, 

So lurked in sects imseen. With greater 
guile 

False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil; 

The graceless beast by Athanasius first 

Was chased from Nice; then, by Sodnus 
nursed, 55 

His impious race their blasphemy re- 
newed. 

And nature's king through nature's optics 
viewed. 

Reversed, they viewed him lessened to 
their eye, 

Nor in an infant could a God descry. 

New swarming sects to this obliquely 
.tend; 60 

Hence they began, and here they all will 
end. 



The Panther, sure the noblest next the 

Hind, 
And fairest creature of the spotted kind; 
Oh, could her inborn stains be washed 

away. 
She were too good to be a beast of prey ! 330 
How can I praise or blame, and not of- 
fend. 
Or how divide the frailty from the friend? 
Her faults and virtues lie so mixed, that 

she 
Nor wholly stands condemned, nor wholly 

free. 
Then, like her injured Lion, let me speak; 
He cannot bend her and he would not 

break. 336 

Unkind already, and estranged in part. 
The Wolf begins to share her wandering 

heart. 
Though unpolluted yet with actual ill. 
She half commits who sins but in her 

will. 340 

If, as oiu" dreaming Platonists report, 
There could be spirits of a middle sort. 
Too black for heaven and yet too white 

for hell, 
Who just dropped half-way down, nor 

lower fell; 
So poised, so gently she descends from 

high, 345 

It seems a soft dismission from the sky. 



Her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pre- 
tence 

Her clergy heralds make in her defence; 

A second century not half-way run. 

Since the new honors of her blood be- 
gun. 350 

A S(»IG;FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 
. : , . NOVEMBER 22, 1687 

From harmony, from lieavenly harmony, 
This universal frame b^an: 
When Nature imdemeath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay. 
And could not heave her head, 5 

The tuneful voice was heard from high: 
"Arise, ye more than dead." 

Then cold and hot and moist and dry 
In order to their stations leap. 
And Music's power obey. 10 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it 

ran. 
The diapason closing full in Man. 15 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ! 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fdl 
To worship that celestial sound. 20 
Less than a god they thoi^ht there could 
not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and qudl ! 



The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms. 
The double, double, double beat 

Of Ihe thundering drum 

Cries: "Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! 



25 



30 



The soft complaining flute 

In d)dng notes discovers 

The woes of hopeless lovers, 35 

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling 
lute. 



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Shaxp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation. 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion, 40 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 

But oh! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach 
The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 45 

Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 
» Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
And trees unrooted left their place, 

Sequacious of the lyre; 50 

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 

higher: 
When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
An angel heard, and straight appeared, 
Mistaking earth for heaven. 

Grand Chorus 

As from the power of sacred la)rs 55 

The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blessed above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die. 
And Music shall imtune the sky. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE 
POWER OF MUSIC 

A Song in Honor of St. Cecilia's Day, 
1697 

Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne: 5 

His valiant peers were placed around; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 
bound: 
(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side. 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but tie brave. 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 



Chorus 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but die brave, 

None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 20 

Amid tjie tuneful choir. 
With flying j&ngers touched the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 25 

Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 30 
And while he sought her snowy 
breast; 
Then roimd her slender waist he curled, 
And stapiped an image of himself, a 
sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty 

sound, 
"A present deity," they shout around; 
"A present deity," the vaulted roofs 
rebound: 36 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god. 
Affects to nod, 40 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

Chorus 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god. 
Affects to nod, 45 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musi- 
cian sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the 
drums; 50 

Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face: 
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, 
he comes. 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first orckin; 55 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 



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Drinking Ls the soldier's pleasure; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 

Chorus 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 

Rich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 

I Soothed with the sound, the king grew 
/ vain; 

Fought all his battles o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice 
he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 70 
And, while he heaven and earth de- 
fied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his 
pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to infuse; 
He sung Darius great and good, 75 

By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

FaUen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted at his utmost need 80 

By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor 
sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 85 
The various turns of chance be- 
low; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving in his altered soul 
The various turns of chance be- 
low; 90 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 95 
For pity melts the mind to love. 



Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleas- 
ures. 
"War," he sung, "is toil and trouble; 
Honor but an empty bubble; 100 

Never ending, still beginning. 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 
If the world be worth thy win- 
ning. 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying; 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 
Take the good the gods provide 
thee." 

The many rend the skies with loud ap- 
plause: 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the 
cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair no 

Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length, with love and wine at once <^ 

pressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her 
breast us 

Chorus 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 120 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed, 
The vanqiushed victor sunk upon her 
breast. 



Now strike the golden l)n« again: 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 125 
And rouse him, Uke a rattling peal of 
thimder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head; 
As awaked from the d^. 
And, amazed, he stares around, xjo 
' Revenge, revenge ! " Timotheus cries, 
"See the Furies arise! 
See the snakes that they rear. 
How they hiss in their hair, 



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And the sparkles that flash from their 
eyes! 135 

Bdiold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 
were^ain, 
And imburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain: 140 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian 
abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile 

gods!" 145 

The fxinces applaud with a furious joy; 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way. 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. . ISO 

Chorus 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 

Thus, long ago, 155 

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timot^us, to his breathing flute 
And soimding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
desire. 160 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet, enthusiast, from her sacred 
store. 
Enlarged the former narrow boimds. 
And added length to solemn soimds, 165 
Wth Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 
Let old Timotheus 3deld the prize. 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 170 

Grand Chorus 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 



The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store, 
Enlarged the former narrow boimds. 
And added length to solemn soimds. 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 176 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 180 



LINES PRINTED UNDER THE EN- 
GRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON 

(In Tonson's folio edition of Paradise 
Lost, 1688) 

Three poets, in three distant ages bom, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed. 
The next in majesty, in both the last: 
The force of Nature could no farther go; 
To make a third she joined the former two. 



Prom AN 



ESSAY OF 
POESY 



DRAMATIC 



Af 



As Neander was b^^I^ning to examine 
The Silent IF<w»a»7^ugenius, earnestly 
r^arding him: I beseech you, Neander, 
said he, gratify the company, and me in 
particular, so far as, before you speak 
of the play, to give us a character pf the 
author; and tell us frankly your opinion, 
whether you do not think all writers, 
both French and English, ought to give 
place to him? [10 

I fear, replied Neander, that, in obey- 
ing your commands, I shall draw some 
envy on myself. Besides, in performing 
them, it will be first necessary to speak 
somewhat of Shakespeare and Fletcher, his 
rivals in poesy; and one of them, in m^ 
opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his 
superior. 

To begin then with Shakespeare. He 
was the man who of all modem, and [20 
p<>rhi^g_anr.rQpt p^tft^ ^^ ^^ lafg^t and 
most comgrehensiY^ soul. All the images 
of nature were still present to him, and 
he drew them not laboriously, butJugkily: 
when he describes anything, you more 



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than see it, you feel it too. Those who 
« accuse him to have wanted learning, give 
him the greater commendation: he was 
oataiajly l^as^ > ^^ needed not the 
spectacles of books to read natiu"e; he [30 
looked inwards, and found her there. I 
cannot say he is everywhere alike; were 
he so, I should do him injury to compare 
him with the greatest of mankind. He 
is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit 
degenerating into clenches, his serious 
swelling into bombast. But he is always 
great, when some great occasion is pre- 
sented to him: no man can say, he ever 
had a fit subject for his wit, and did [40 
not then raise himself as high above the 
rest of poets. 

Quantum lenta solvent inter vibuma cu- 
pressL , 

The consideration of this made Mr. 
Hales of Eton say, that there was no 
subject of which any poet ever writ, but 
he would produce it much better done in 
Shakespeare; and however others are now 
generally preferred before him, yet the [50 
age wherein he lived, which had contem- 
poraries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, 
never equaled them to him in their es- 
teem: and in the last king's court, when 
Ben's reputation was at highest. Sir 
John Suckling, and with him the greater 
part of the courtiers, set our Shake^eare 
far above him. 

Beaiunont and Fletcher, of whom I am 
next to speak, had, with the advantage [60 
of Shakespeare's wit, which was their pre^ 
cedent, great jiatural gifts, improved by 
study; Beaiunont especially being so 
accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jon- 
son, while he lived, submitted all his writ- 
ings to his censure, and 'tis thought, 
used his judgment in correcting, if not 
contriving all his plots. What value he 
had for him, appears by the verses he 
writ to him; and therefore I need speak (70 
no further of it. The first play that 
brought Fletcher and him in esteem, was 
their Phildster; for before that, they had 
written two or three very imsuccessfully: 
as the Uke is reported of Ben Jonson, 
before he writ Every Man in his Humor, 
Their plots were generally more regular 
than Shakespeare's, especially those which 



were made before Beaumont's death; 
and they imderstood and imitated the [80 
conversation of gentlemen much better; 
whose wild debaucheries, and quickness 
of wit in repartees, no poet before them 
could paint as they have done. Humor, 
which Ben Jonson derived from particu- 
lar persons, they made it not their busi- 
ness to describe; they represented all 
the passions very lively, but above all, 
love. I am apt to believe the English 
language in them arrived to its high- [90 
est perfection; what words have since been 
taken in, are rather superfluous than 
ornamental. Their pla)rs are now the 
most pleasant and frequent entertain- 
ments of the stage; two of theirs being 
acted through the year for one of Shake- 
speare's or Jonson's: the reason is, because 
there is a certain gaiety in their come- 
dies, and pathos in their more serious 
plays,. whidi suits generally with all [100 
men's himiors. Shakespeare's language is 
likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jon- 
son's wit comes short of theirs. 

As for Jonson, to whose character I* 
am now arrived, if we look upon hinJ 
while he was himself (for his last playy 
were but his dotages), I think himthe 
most learned and judicious writer^w faich 
any theater ever jtcL He was a most 
severe judge oi' Mlhself, as well as [no 
others. One cannot say he wanted wit, 
but rather that he was f m^lj)f it. In his 
works you find little to retrSich or alter. 
Wit and language, and humor also in 
some measure, we had before him; but 
something of art was wanting to the 
drama, till he came. He managed his 
strength to more advantage than any 
who preceded him. You seldojn find him 
making love in any of his scenes, or [120 
endeavoring to move the passions; his 
genius was too sullen and saturnine to del 
it gracefully, especially when he knew he/ 
came after those who had performed both 
to such an height. Jl umor was his proper 
sphere; and in that he delighted most 
to represent mechanic people. He was 
deeply conversant in the ancients, both 
Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly 
from them: there is scarce a poet (130 
or historian among the Roman authors 
of those times, whom he has not trans- 



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lated in Sejanus and Catiline. But hi 
has done his robberies so openly, thai 
one may see he fears not to be taxed b; 
any law. He invades authors like a 
monarch; and what would be theft in 
other poets, is only victory in him. With 
the spoils of these writers he so repre- 
sents old Rome to us, in its rites, [14b 
ceremonies, and customs, that if one of 
their poets had written either of his 
tragedies, we had seen less of it than in 
him. If there was any fault in his lan-i 
gtiage, it was, that he weaved it tool 
closely and laboriously, in his comedie^ 
especially: perhaps, too, he did a little 
too mudi Romanize our tongue, leaving 
the words which he translated almost 
as much Latin as he found them: [150 
wherein, though he learnedly followed their 
l^^guage, he did not enough comply with 
the idiom of ours. If I would compare 
him with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge 
him the m ore o^ ect poet, but Shake- 
speaxe the greatCT'^nt r-SKakespeEtre waJ 
the Homer, oryatherot oiu- dramatic poets f 
Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elabo-* 
rate writing; I adm^ him, but I love f 
Shake^)eare. To conclude of him; as [160 
he has g^en us the most correct plays, so 
in the precepts which he has laid down 
in his Discoveries, we have as many and ^ 
profitable rules for perfecting the stage, I 
as any wherewith the French can furnish I 
us. f 



From the PREFACE TO THE FABLES 

It remains that I say somewhat of 
Chaucer in partiailar. 

In the first place, as he is the father of 
English poetry, so I hold him in the sam€ 
degree of veneration as the Grecians 
held Homer, or the Romans Virgil. He 
is a perpetual fountain of good sense, 
learned .in all sciences, and therefore 
speaks properly on all subjects. As he 
Imew what to say, so he knows also [10 
when to leave off; a continence which is 
practised by few writers, and scarcely by 
any of the ancients, excepting Viigil and 
Horace. One of our late yeat poets is 
sunk in his reputation becluse he could 
never forgive any conceit vjhich came in 



his way, but swept, like a drag-net, great 
and small. There was plenty enough, 
but the dishes were ill sorted; whole 
pyramids of sweetmeats for boys and [20 
women, but little of solid meat for men. 
All this proceeded, not from any want of 
knowledge, but of judgment. Neither 
did he want that in discerning the beau- 
ties and faults of other p)oets, but only 
indulged himself in the luxury of writing; 
and perhaps knew it was a fault but hoped 
the reader would not find it. For this 
reason, though he must always be thought 
a great poet, he is no longer esteemed [30 
a good writer; and for ten impressions, 
which his works have had in so many 
successive years, yet at present a hundred 
books are scarcely purchased once a 
twelvemonth; for, as my last Lord Roches- 
ter said, though somewhat profanely, 
"Not being of God, he could not stand." 
Chaucer followed nature everywhere, 
but was never so bold to go beyond her; 
and there is a great difference of being [40 
poeta and nimis poeta, if we believe Catul- 
lus, as much as betwixt a modest behavior 
and affectation. The verse of Chaucer, 
I confess, is not harmonious to us; but 
'tis like the eloquence of one whom Taci- 
tus comimends, it was auribus istius tenv- 
poris accommodata; they who lived with 
him, and some time after him, thought it 
musical; and it continues so even in our 
judgment, if compared with the num- [50 
bers of Lydgate and Gower, his contem- 
poraries; there is the rude sweetness of a 
Scotch tune in it, which is natural and 
pleasing though not perfect. 'Tis true I 
cannot go so far as he who published 
the last edition of him, for he would make 
us believe the fault is in oiu- ears, and 
that there were really ten syllables in a 
verse where we find but nine; but this 
opinion is not worth confuting; 'tis so [60 
gross and obvious an error that common 
sense (which is a rule in everything but 
matters of faith and revelation) must 
convince the reader that equality of 
numbers, in every verse whidi we call 
heroic, was .either not known or not always 
practised in Chaucer!s age. It were an 
easy matter to produce some thousands 
of his verses which are lame for want of 
half a foot, and sometimes a whole [70 






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one, and which no pronunciation can 
make otherwise. We can only say that 
he lived in the infancy of our poetry, 
and that nothing is brought to perfec- 
tion at the first. We must be children 
before we grow men. 



He must have been a man of a most 
wonderful comprehensive nature, because, 
as it has been truly observed of him, he 
has taken into the compass of his [80 
Canterbury Talei the various manners 
and humors (as we now call them) of the 
whole Englislx nation in his age. Not a 
single character has escaped him. All 
his pilgrims are severally distinguished 
from each other, and not only in their 
inclinations but in their very physiog- 
nomies and persons. Baptista Porta 
could not have described their natures 
better than by the marks which the [90 
poet gives them. The matter and manner 
of their tales and of their telling are so 
suited to their different educations, hu- 
mors, and callings that each of them would 
be improper in any other mouth. Even 
the grave and serious characters are dis- 
tinguished by their several sorts of gravity : 
their discourses are such as belong to 
their age, their calling, and their breed- 
ing; such as are becoming of them, [100 
and of them only. Some of his persons 
are vicious and some virtuous; some are 
unleam.ed, or (as Chaucer calls them) 
lewd, and some are learned. Even the 
ribaldry of the low characters is different: 
the Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook are 
several men, and distinguished from each 
other as much as the mincing Lady 
Prioress and the broad-speaking, gap- 
toothed Wife of Bath. But enough [no 
of this; there is such a variety of game 
springing up before me that I am dis- 
tracted in my choice and know not which 
to follow. It is sufficient to say, accord- 
ing to the proverb, that here is God's 
plenty. We have our forefathers and 
great-grand-dames all before us as they 
were in Chaucer's days: their general 
characters are still remaining in man- 
kind, and even in England, 3iough [120 
they are called by other names than those 
of monks, and friars, and canons, and 



lady abbesses, and nuns; for mankind is 
ever the same, and nothing lost out of 
nature though ever3rthing is altered. 



DANIBL DEFOE (1660?-1781) 

From THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISH- 
MAN 

Satire, be kind, and draw a silent veil, 
Thy native England's vices to conceal; 
Or, if that task's impossible to do, 
At least be just, and show her virtues too; 
Too great the first, alas! the last too few. 5 



Ingratitude, a devil of black renown, 
Possessed her very early for his own: 
An ugly, siu-ly, siUlen, selfish spirit, 
Who Satan's worst perfections does m- 

herit; 
Second to him in malice and in force, 10 
All devil without, and all within him 

worse. 
He made her first-bom race to be so 

rude, 
And suffered her to be so oft subdued. 
By several crowds of wandering thieves 

o'er-nm. 
Often unpeopled, and as oft undone; is 
While every nation that her powers re- 
duced 
Their languages and manners introduced; 
From whose mixed relics our compounded 

breed 
By spurious generation does succeed. 
Making a race uncertain and uneven, 20 
Derived from all the nations under 

heaven. 
The Romans first with Julius Caesar 

came. 
Including all the nations of that name, 
Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards; and by 

computation 
Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation. 25 
With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sw&ao 

came. 
In search of plimder, not in search of 

fame. 
Scots, Picts, and Irish from the Hibernian 

^ore; 
And conquering William • brought the 

Normans o'er. 



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AU these their barbarous offspring left 
behind, 30 

The dregs of armies, they of all man- 
kind, 
Blended with Britons, who before were 

here, 
Of whom the Welsh have blest the char- 
acter. 
From this amphibious, ill-bom mob 



That vain, ill-natured thing, an English- 
man. 35 

The customs, sir-names, languages and 
manners. 

Of all these nations, are their own ex- 
plainers; 

Whose relics are so lasting and so strong, 

They've left a shibboleth upon our tongue; 

By which, with easy search, you may 
distinguish 40 

Your Roman, Saxon, Danish, Norman, 
English. 



And here begins the andent pedigree 
That so exalts our poor nobility.* — 
Tis that from some French trooper they 

derive. 
Who with the Norman bastard did arrive: 
The trophies of the families appear; 46 
S(mie show the sword, the bow, and some 

the spear. 
Which their great ancestor, forsooth, did 

wear. 
These in the herald's register remain. 
Their noble mean extraction to explain; 50 
Yet who the hero was, no man can tell. 
Whether a drummer, or a colonel; 
The silent record bliishes to reveal 
Their imdescended dark original. 
But grant the best How came the 

chMge to pass, 55 

A true-bom Englishman of Norman race? 
A Turkish horse can show more history 
To prove his well-descended family. 
Conquest, as by the modems 'tis expressed. 
May give a title to the lands possessed; 60 
But that the longest sword should be so 

dvil 
To make a Frenchman English, that's the 

deviL 
These are the heroes that despise the 

Dutch, 
And raO at new-come foreigners so much; 



Forgetting that themselves are all derived 
From the most scoundrel race that ever 

lived, 66 

A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and 

drones 
Who ransacked kingdoms and dispeopled 

towns; 
The Pict and painted Briton, treacherous 

Scot, 
By hxmger, theft, and rapine, hither 

brought; ^ 70 

Norwegian pirates, buccaneering Danes, 
Whose red-haired offspring everywhere re- 

nmins; 
Who, joined with Norman French, com- 

poxmd the breed 
From whence yoiu* tme-bom Englishmen 

proceed. 



But England, modem to the last de- 
gree. 
Borrows or makes her own nobility, 76 
And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree; 
Repines that foreigners are put upon 

her. 
And talks of her antiquity and honor. 
Her Sackvills, Savils, Cecils, Delameres, 80 
Mohuns, Montagues, Duras and Veeres, 
Not one have Engli^ names, yet all are 

English peers. 
Yoiu" Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers, 
Pass now for true-bom English knights 

and squires, 
And make good senate-members, or lord 

mayors. 85 

Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes 
Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes. 
Antiquity and birth are needless here; 
'Tis impudence and money makes a peer. 
Innumerable dty knights we know, 90 
From Blue-coat Hospitals, and Bridewell 

flow. 
Draymen and porters fill the dty chair. 
And foot-boys magisterial purple wear. 
Fate has but very small distinction set 
Betwixt the Counter and the coronet. 95 
Tarpaulin lords, pages of high renown. 
Rise up by poor men's valor, not their 

own; 
Great families of yesterday we show, 
And lords, whose parents were the Lord 

knows who. 



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Then let us boast of ancestors no more, 
Or deeds of heroes done in dajrs of yore, 
In latent records of the ages past, 102 

Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion 

placed; 
For if our virtues must in lines descend, 
The merit with the families would end, 105 
And intermixture would most fatal grow. 
For vice would be hereditary too; 
The tainted blood would of necessity 
Involuntary wickedness convey. 

Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two 
May seem a generation to pursue; m 

But virtue seldom does r^ard the breed; 
Fools do the wise, and wise men fools 

succeed. 
What's it to us what ancestors we had? 
If good, what better? or what worse, if 

bad? 115 

Examples are for imitation set. 
Yet aU men follow virtue with regret. 
Could but oiu- ancestors retrieve their 

fate. 
And see their offspring thus d^enerate, — 
How we contend for birth and names un- 
known, 120 
And build on their past actions, not our 

own, — 
They'd cancel records, and their tombs 

deface, 
And openly disown the vile degenerate 

race; 
For fame of families is all a cheat; 
It's personal virtue only makes us great.125 



THE SHORTEST WAY WITH THE 
DISSENTERS 

Sir Roger L'Estrange tells us a story in 
his collection of fables, of the cock and 
the horses. The cock was gotten to roost 
in the stable among the horses; and there 
being no racks or other conveniences for 
him, it seems he was forced to roost upon 
the ground. The horses jostling about for 
room and putting the cock in danger of 
his life, he gives them this grave advice, 
"Pray, genUefolks, let us stand still, [10 
for fear we should tread upon one an- 
other." 

There are some people in the world, 
who, now they are unperched, and re- 
duced to an equality with other people, 



and under strong and very just appre- 
hensions of being further treated as they 
deserve, begin, with Esop's cock, to preadi 
up peace and union and the Christian 
duties of moderation; forgetting that (20 
when they had the power in their hands, 
those graces were strangers in their gates! 

It is now near fourteen years, that the 
glory and peace of the purest and most 
flourishing Church in the world has been 
eclipsed, buffeted, and disturbed by a 
sort of men whom God in his providence 
has suffered to insult over her, and bring 
her down. These have been the days 
of her humiliation and tribulation. She [30 
has borne with an invincible patience the 
reproach of the wicked; and God has at 
last heard her prayers, and delivered her 
from the oppression of the stranger. 

And now, they find their day is over, 
their power gone, and the throne of this 
nation poss^sed by a royal, English, 
true, and ever constant member of, and 
friend to, the Church of England. Now 
they find that they are in danger of [40 
the Church of England's just resentments. 
Now, they cry out, "Peace!" "Union!'' 
"Forbearance!" and "Charity!": as if 
the Church had not too long harbored her 
enemies under her wing, and nourished 
the viperous brood, till they hiss and fly 
in the face of the mother that cherished 
them! 

No, gentlemen, the time of mercy is 
past, your day of grace is over, you [50 
should have practised peace, and modera- 
tion, and charity, if you expected any 
yourselves. 

We have heard none of this lesson for 
fourteen years past. We have been huffed 
and bullied with your Act of Toleration. 
You have told us that you are the Church 
established by law, as well as others; have 
set up your canting synagogues at our 
church doors; and the Church and her [60 
members have been loaded with re- 
proaches, with oaths, associations, ab- 
jurations, and what not! Where has been 
the mercy, the forbearance, the charity 
you have shown to tender consciences of 
the Church of England that could not 
take oaths as fast as you made them; that, 
having sworn allegiance to their lawful 
and rightful king, could not dispense with 



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theiT oath, their king being still alive, [70 
and swear to your new hodge-podge of a 
Dutch government? These have been 
turned out of their livings, and they and 
their families left to starve; their estates 
double taxed to carry on a war they had 
no hand in, and you got nothing by! 
What account can you give of the multi- 
tudes you have forced to comply, against 
their consciences, with your new sophis- 
tical politics, who, like new converts [80 
in France, sin because they cannot starve? 
And now the tables are turned upon you, 
you must not be persecuted! It is not a 
Christian spirit! 

You have butchered one king, deposed 
another king, and made a mock king of 
a third, and yet, you could have the face 
to exi>ect to be employed and trusted by 
the fourth! Anybody that did not know 
the temper of your party, would stand [90 
amazed at the impudence as well as folly 
to think of it! 

Your management of yoiu- Dutch mon- 
arch, whom you reduced to a mere King 
of Clubs, is enough to give any future 
princes such an idea of your principles 
as to warn them suflSciently from coming 
into your clutches; and, God be thanked, 
the Queen is out of your hands, knows 
you, and will have a care of you ! [100 

There is no doubt but the supreme au- 
thority of a nation has in itself a power, 
and a right to that power, to execute the 
laws upon any part of that nation it 
governs. The execution of the known laws 
of the land, and that with but a gentle 
hand neither, was all that the fanatical 
party of this land have ever called perse- 
cution. This they have magnified to 
a height that the sufferings of the [no 
Huguenots in France were not to be com- 
pared with. Now to execute the known 
laws of a nation upon those who trans- 
gress them, after volimtarily consenting 
to the making of those laws, can never 
be called persecution, but justice. But 
justice is always violence to the party 
offending, for every man is innocent in 
his own eyes. The first execution of the 
laws against Dissenters in England [120 
was in the days of King James I; and 
what did it amoimt to? Truly, the worst 
they suffered was, at their own request, 



to let them go to New England, and erect 
a new colony; and give them great privi- 
l^es, grants, and suitable powers; keep 
them xmder protection, and defend them 
against all invaders; and receive no taxes 
or revenue from them! This was the 
cruelty of the Church of England. [130 
Fatal lenity! It was the ruin of that 
excellent prince, King Charles I. Had 
King James sent all the Puritans in Eng- 
land away to the West Indies, we had 
been a national unmixed Church. The 
Church of England had been kept imdi- 
vided and entire! 

To requite the lenity of the father, they 
take up arms against the son, conquer, 
pm^ue, take, imprison, and at last [140 
put to death the anointed of God, and 
destroy the very being and nature of 
government: setting up a sordid impostor, 
who had neither title to govern, nor under- 
standing to manage, but supplied that 
want, with power, bloody and desperate 
coimsels and craft, without conscience. 

Had not King James I withheld the 
full execution of the laws, had he given 
them strict justice, he had cleared [150 
the nation of them, and the consequences 
had been plain: his son had never been 
murdered by them, nor the monarchy 
overwhelmed. It was too much mercy 
shown them that was the ruin of his pos- 
terity, and the ruin of the nation's peace. 
One would think the Dissenters should 
not have the face to believe that we are 
to be wheedled and canted into peace 
and toleration, when they know that [160 
they have once requited us with a dvil 
war, and once with an intolerable and 
unrighteous persecution, for our former 
civility. 

Nay, to encourage us to be easy with 
them, it is apparent that they never had 
the upper hand of the Church but they 
treated her with all the severity, with all 
the reproach and contempt as was pos- 
sible! What peace and what mercy [170 
did they show the loyal* gentry of the 
Church of England, in the time of their 
triumphant Commonwealth? How did 
they put all the gentry of England to 
ransom, whether Siey were actually in 
arms for the king or not, making people 
compound for their estates, and starve 



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their families! How did they treat the 
clergy of the Church of England, sequester 
the ministers, devour the patrimony [i8o 
of the Church and divide the spoil, by 
sharing the Church lands among thar 
soldiers, and turning her clergy out to 
starve! Just such measure as they have 
meted, should be measured them again! 

Charity and love is the known doctrine 
of the Church of England, and it is plain 
she has put it in practise towards the 
Dissenters, even beyond what they ought, 
till she has been wanting to herself, [190 
and in effect unkind to her own sons; par- 
ticularly, in the too much lenity of King 
James I, mentioned before. Had he so 
rooted the Puritans from the face of the 
land, which he had an opportunity early 
to have done, they had not had the power 
to vex the Church, as since they have 
done. 

In the days of King Charles H, how 
did the Chiu-ch reward their bloody [200 
doings with lenity and mercy! Except 
the barbarous regicides of the pretended 
court of justice, not a soul suffered for all 
the blood in an imnatural war. King 
Charles came in all mercy and love, 
cherished them, preferred them, employed 
them, withheld the rigor of the law and 
oftentimes, even against the advice of his 
Parliament, gave them liberty of con- 
science; and how did they requite [210 
him? With the villainous contrivance to 
depose and murder him and Ms successor, 
at the Rye House Plot! 

King James H, as if mercy was the 
inherent quality of the family, began 
his reign with unusual favor to them. 
Nor could their joining with the Duke of 
Monmouth against him, move him to do 
himself justice upon them. But that 
mistaken prince, thinking to win [220 
them by gentleness and love, proclaimed 
a universal liberty to them, and rather 
discountenanced the Chiu-ch of England 
than them. How they requited him, all 
the world knows! 

The late reign is too fresh in the memory 
of all the world to need a comment. How 
imder pretense of joining with the Church 
in redressing some grievances, they pushed 
things to that extremity, in conjxmc- [230 
tion with some mistaken gentlemen, as to 



depose the late king; as if the grievance 
of the nation could not have been re- 
dressed but by the absolute ruin of the 
prince. Here is an instance of thdr 
temper, their- peace, and charity! To 
what height they carried themselves dur- 
ing the reign of a king of their own, how 
they crept into all places of trust and 
profit; how they insinuated them- [240 
selves into the favor of the king, and 
were at first preferred to the highest 
places in the nation, how they engrossed 
the ministry; and, above all, how pitifully 
they managed, is too plain to need any 
remarks. . . . 

These are the gentlemen! these, their 
ways of treating the Church, both at 
home and abroad! Now let us examine 
the reasons they pretend to give, why [250 
we should be favorable to diem; why we 
should continue and tolerate them among 
us. 

First. They are very numerous, they 
say. They are a great part of the nation, 
and we cannot suppress them. 

To this, may be answered: 

First. They are not so numerous as 
the Protestants in France: and yet the 
French king effectually cleared the [260 
nation of them at once; and we don't find 
he misses them at home! But I am not 
of the opinion they are so numerous as is 
pretended. Their party is more numerous 
than their persons; and those mistaken 
people of the Church who are misled 
and deluded by their wheedling artifices 
to join with them, make their party the 
greater: but those will open their eyes 
when the government shall set heartily (270 
about the work, and come off from diem, 
as some animals, which they say, always 
desert a house when it is likely to fall. 

Secondly. The more numerous, the 
more dangerous; and therefore the more 
need to suppress them; and God has 
suffered us to bear them as goads in our 
sides, for not utterly extingmshing them 
long ago. 

Thirdly. If we are to allow them, [280 
only because we cannot suitress them; 
then it ought to be tried, whether we can 
or no. And I am of opinion it is easy to 
be done, and could prescribe ways and 
means, if it were proper: but t doubt not 



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the government will find effectual methods 
for die rooting of the contagion from the 
face of this land. 

Another argument they use, which is 
this: that it is a time of war, and we [290 
have need to unite against the common 
enemy. 

We answer, this common enemy had 
been no enemy, if they had not made him 
so. He was quiet, in peace, and no way 
disturbed or encroached upon us; and we 
know no reason we had to quarrel with 
him. 

Bui, further, we make no question but 
we are able to deal with this common [300 
enemy without their help: but why must 
we unite with them, because of the 
enemy? Will they go over to the enemy, 
if we do not prevent it, by a union with 
them? We are very well contented they 
should, and make no question we shall 
be ready to deal with them and the com- 
mon enemy too; and better without them 
than with them. Besides, if we have a 
common enemy, there is the more [310 
need to be secure against our private 
enemies. K there is one common enemy, 
we have the less need to have an enemy 
in our bowels! 

It was a great argument some people 
used against suppressing the old money, 
that "it was a time of war, and it was 
too great a risk for the nation to run. If 
we should not master it, we should be 
undone!" And yet the sequel proved [320 
the hazard was not so great, but it might 
be mastered, and the success was answer- 
able. The suppressing the Dissenters is 
not a harder work, nor a work of less 
necessity to the public. We can never 
enjoy a settled, imintemipted union and 
tranquillity in this nation, till the spirit 
of Whiggism, faction, and schism is melted 
down like the old money! .... 

The rq)resentatives of the nation [330 
have now an opportunity. The time is 
come which all good men have wished 
for, that the gentlemen of England may 
serve the Church of England, now they 
are protected and encouraged by a Church 
of En^and queen! . . . 

If ever you will establish the best Chris- 
tian Church in the world; if ever you will 
suppress the spirit of enthusiasm; if ever 



you will free the nation from the [340 
viperous brood that have so long sucked 
the blood of their mother; if ever you will 
leave your posterity free from faction 
and rebellion, this is the time! This is 
the time to pull up this heretical weed of 
sedition, that has so long disturbed the 
peace of our Church, and poisoned the 
good com! 

But, says another hot and cold objec- 
tor, this is renewing fire and faggot, [350 
reviving the Act De heretico comburendo. 
This will be cruelty in its nature, and 
barbarous to all the world. 

I answer, it is cruelty to kill a snake or 
a toad in cold blood, but the poison of 
their nature makes it a diarity to our 
neighbors to destroy those creatures, not 
for any personal injury received, but for 
prevention; not for the evil they have 
done, but the evil they may do. Ser- [360 
pents, toads, vipers, etc., are noxious to the 
body, and poison the sensitive life: these 
poison the soul, corrupt our posterity, 
ensnare our children, destroy Uie vitals 
of our happiness, our future felidty, and 
contaminate the whole mass! 

Shall any law be given to such wild 
creatures? Some beasts are for sport, 
and the huntsmen give them advantages 
of ground, but some are knocked on [370 
the head by all possible ways of violence 
and surprise. 

I do not prescribe fire and faggot; but 
as Sdpio said of Carthage, Delenda est 
Carthago! they are to be rooted out of 
this nation, if ever we will live in peace, 
serve God, or enjoy our own. As for the 
manner, I leave it to those hands who 
have a right to execute God's justice on 
the nation's and the Church's enemies. [38 d 

But if we must be frighted from this 
justice, under these specious pretenses, 
and odious sense of cruelty, nothing will 
be dfected. It will be more barbarous to 
our own children and dear posterity, when 
they shall reproach their fathers, as we 
do ours, and tell us, "You had an op- 
portunity to root out this cursed race 
from the world under the favor and pro- 
tection of a true Church of England [390 
queen, and out of your foolish pity, you 
spared them, because, forsooth, you would 
not be cruel! And now our Church is 



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THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



suppressed and persecuted, our religion 
trampled imder foot, our estates plun- 
dered, our persons imprisoned, and dragged 
to gaols, gibbets, and scaffolds! Your 
sparing this Amalekite race is our de- 
struction! Your mercy to them proves 
cruelty to your poor posterity! " [400 

How just will such reflections be when 
our posterity shall fall under the merci- 
less clutches of this uncharitable genera- 
tion; when our Chiirch shall be swallowed 
up in schism, faction, enthusiasm, and 
confusion; when our government shall 
be devolved upon foreigners, and our 
monarchy dwindled into a republic! 

It would be more rational for us, if we 
must spare this generation, to sum- [410 
mon our own to a general massacre; and 
as we have brought them into the world 
free, to send them out so; and not betray 
them to destruction by our supine n^li- 
gence, and then cry, "It is mercy!" 

Moses was a merciful meek man; and 
yet with what fury did he run through 
the camp, and cut the throats of three 
and thirty thousand of his dear Israelites 
that were fallen into idolatry. What [420 
was the reason? It was mercy to the 
rest, to make these examples, to prevent 
the destruction of the whole army. 

How many millions of future souls we 
save from infection and delusion, if the 
present race of poisoned spirits were 
purged from the face of the land! 

It is vain to trifle in this matter. The 
light foolish handling of them by mulcts, 
fines, etc., — 'tis their glory and their [430 
advantage!. If the gallows instead of the 
Coimter, and the gallejrs instead of the 
fines were the reward of going to a con- 
venticle to preach or hear, tiiere would 
not be so many sufferers. The spirit of 
martjrrdom is over. They that will go 
to church to be chosen sheriSSfs and mayors, 
would go to forty churches rather than 
be hanged! 

If one severe law were made and [440 
punctually executed that whoever was 
found at a conventicle should be banished 
the nation, and the preacher be hanged, 
we should soon see an end of the tale. 
They would all come to church, and one 
age would make us all one again. 

To talk of five shillings a month for not 



coming to the sacrament, and one bulling 
per week, for not coming to church: 
this is such a way of converting [450 
people as was never known. This is 
sellmg them a liberty to transgress, for 
so much money. If it be not a crime, 
why don't we give them full license? And 
if it be, no price ought to compound for 
the committing it, for that is selling a 
liberty to people to sin against God and 
the government. 

If it be a crime of the highest conse- 
quence, both against the peace and [460 
welfare of the nation, the glory of (jod, 
the good of the Church, and the happiness 
of the. soul, let us rank it among capital 
offenses, and let it receive a punishment 
in proportion to it. 

We hang men for trifles, and banish 
them for things not worth naming; but 
that an offense against God and the 
Church, against the welfare of the world, 
and the cSgnity of religion shall be [470 
bought off for five shillings: this is such 
a shame to a Christian government that 
it is with regret I transmit it to posterity. 

If men sin against God, affront his 
ordinances, .rebel against his Church, 
and disobey the precepts of their su- 
periors; let them suffer, as such capital 
crimes deserve. So will religion flourish, 
and this divided nation be once again 
united. ... [480 

How can we answer it to God, to the 
Church, and to our posterity, to leave 
them entangled with fanaticism, error, 
and obstinacy, in the bowels of the nation; 
to leave them an enemy in their streets, 
that, in time, may involve them in the 
same crimes, and endanger the utter ex- 
tirpation of the religion of the nation. 

What is the difference betwixt this, and 
being subject to the power of the [490 
Chiirch of Rome, from whence we have 
reformed? If one be an extreme on one 
hand, and one on another, it is equally 
destructive to the truth to have errors 
settled among us, let them be of what 
nature they will. Both are enemies of 
our Church, and of our peace; and why 
should it not be as criminal to admit an 
enthusiast as a Jesuit? Why should the 
Papist with his seven sacraments be [500 
worse than the Quaker with no sacraments 



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at all? Why should religious houses be 
mxxe^ intolerable than meeting houses? 
Alas, the Church of England! What 
with popery on one hand, and schismatics 
on the other, how has she been crucified 
between two thieves. Now, let us crucify 
the thieves! 

Let her foimdations be established upon 
the destruction of her enemies! The [510 
doors of mercy being always open to the 
returning part of the deluded people, let 
the obstinate be ruled with the rod of 
iron! 

Let all true sons of so holy and op- 
pressed a mother, exasperated by her 
afiiictions, harden their hearts against 
those who have expressed her. 

And may God Almighty put it into the 
hearts of all the friends of truth, to [520 
lift up a standard against pride and Anti- 
christ, that the posterity of the sons of 
error may be rooted out from the face of 
this land, for ever! 

A TRUE RELATION 

OF 

THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 

The next day after her death, to Mrs. 
Bargrave, at Canterbury, the eighth 
of Sq>tember, 1705 

The Preface 

This relation is matter of fact, and at- 
tended with such circumstances as may 
induce any reasonable man to believe it. 
It was sent by a gentleman, a justice of 
peace at Maidstone, in Kent, and a very 
intelligent person, to his friend in London, 
as it is here worded; which discourse is at- 
tested by a very sober and understanding 
gentlewoman and kinswoman (of the said 
gentleman's) who lives in Canterbury, [10 
within a few doors of the house in which 
the within-named Mrs. Bargrave lives; 
who believes his kinswoman to be of so dis- 
cerning a spirit, as not to be put upon by 
any fallacy, and who positively assiu'ed 
him that the whole matter as it is here re- 
lated and laid down is what is really true, 
and what she herself had in the same words, 
as near as may be, from Mrs. Bargrave's 
own mouth, who she knows, had no [20 



reason to invent and publish such a story, 
or any design to forge and tell a lie, being a 
woman of much honesty and virtue, and 
her whole life a course, as it were, of 
piety. The use which we ought to make 
of it is to consider that there is a life to 
come after this, and a just God who will 
retribute to every one according to the 
deeds done in the body, and therefore to 
reflect upK>n our past course of life we [30 
have led in the world; that our time is 
short and uncertain; and that if we would 
escape the pimishment of the ungodly 
and receive the reward of the righteous, 
which is the la)dng hold of eternal life, 
we ought, for the time to come, to return 
to God by a speedy repentance, ceasing 
to do evil, and learning to do well; to 
seek after God early, if haply He may 
be found of us, and lead such lives [40 
for the future as may be well pleasing in 
His sight. 

A Relation of the Apparition of 
Mrs. Veal 

This thing is so rare in all its drcimi- 
stances, and on so good authority, that 
my reading and conversation has not 
given me anything like it. It is fit to 
gratify the most ingenious and serious 
inquirer. Mrs. Bargrave is the person 
to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after her 
death; she is my intimate friend, and I 
can avouch for her reputation for these 
last fifteen or sixteen years, on my [10 
own knowledge; and I can confirm the 
good character she had from her youth 
to the time of my acquaintance; though 
since this relation she is calumniated by 
some people that are friends to the 
brother of Mrs. Veal who appeared, who 
think the relation of this appearance to 
be a reflection, and endeavor what they 
can to blast Mrs. Bargrave's reputation, 
and to laugh the story out of coun- [20 
tenance. But by the circumstances 
thereof, and the cheerful disposition of 
Mrs. Bargrave, notwithstanding the im- 
heard-of ill-usage of a very wicked hus- 
band, there is not the least sign of dejec- 
tion in her face; nor did I ever hear her 
let fall a desponding or murmuring ex- 
pression; nay, not when actually under 
her husband's barbarity, which I have 



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been witness to, and several other [30 
persons of undoubted reputation. 

Now you must know Mrs. Veal was a 
maiden gentlewoman of about thirty 
years of age, and for some years last past 
had been troubled with fits, which were 
perceived coming on her by her going 
off from her disa>urses very abruptly to 
some impertinence. She was maintained 
by an only brother, and kept his house 
in Dover. She was a very pious [40 
woman, and her brother a very sober man, 
to all appearance; but now he does all he 
can to null or quash the story. Mrs. Veal 
was intimately acquainted with Mrs. 
Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. 
Veal's circumstances were then mean; her 
father did not take care of his children as 
he ought, so that they were exposed to 
hardships; and Mrs. Bargrave in those 
days had as imkind a father, though [50 
she wanted neither for food nor clothing, 
whilst Mrs. Veal wanted for both; so that 
it was in the power of Mrs. Bargrave to 
be very much her friend in several in- 
stances, which mightily endeared Mrs. 
Veal; insomuch that she would often 
say, "Mrs. Bargrave, you are not only 
the best, but the only friend I have in the 
world; and no circumstance in life shall 
ever dissolve my friendship." They [60 
would often condole each other's adverse 
fortunes, and read together "Drelincourt 
upon Death," and other good books; and 
so, like two Christian friends, they com- 
forted each other under their sorrow. 

Some time after, Mr. Veal's friends got 
him a place in the custom-house at Dover, 
which occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and 
little, to fall off from her intimacy with 
Mrs. Bargrave, though there never [70 
was any such thing as a quarrel; but an 
indifferency came on by degrees, till at 
last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen her in 
two years and a half; though about a 
twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave 
had been absent from Dover, and this 
last half-year had been in Canterbury 
about two months of the time, dwelling 
in a house of her own. 

In this house, on the 8th of Septem- [80 
ber last, viz., 1705, she was sitting alone, 
in the forenoon, thinking over her un- 
fortunate life, and arguing herself into 



a due resignation to Providence, thou|^ 
her condition seemed hard. "And," said 
she, "I have been provided for hitherto, 
and doubt not but I shall be still; and am 
well satisfied that my afflictions shall end 
when it is most fit for me;" and then 
took up her sewing-work, which she [90 
had no sooner done but she hears a knock- 
ing at the door. She went to see who it 
was there, and this proved to be Mrs. 
Veal, her old friend, who was in a riding- 
habit; at that moment of time the clod^ 
struck twelve at noon. 

"Madam," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I 
am surprised to see you, you have been 
so long a stranger;" but told her she was 
glad to see her, and offered to salute [too 
her, which Mrs. Veal complied with, till 
their lips almost touched; and then Mrs. 
Veal drew her hand across her own eyes 
and said, "I am not very well," and so 
waived it. She told Mrs. Bargrave she 
was going a journey, and had a great 
mind to see her first. "But," says Mrs. 
Bargrave, "how came you to take a 
journey alone? I am amazed at it, be- 
cause I know you have so fond a [no 
brother." "Oh," says Mrs. Veal, "I 
gave my brother the sUp, and came away, 
because I had so great a desire to see you 
before I took my journey." So Mrs. 
Bargrave went in with her into another 
room within the first, and Mrs. Veal set 
her down in an elbow-chair, in which 
Mrs. Bargrave was sitting when she heard 
Mrs. Veal knock. Then says Mrs. Veal, 
" My dear friend, I am come to renew [120 
our old friendship again, and beg 3rour 
pardon for my breach of it; and if you 
can forgive me, you are one of the best <rf 
women." "Oh," says Mrs. Bargrave, 
"don't mention such a thing. I have not 
had an uneasy thought about it; I can 
easily forgive it." "What did you think 
of me?" said Mrs. Veal, ^ys Mrs. 
Bargrave, "I thou^t you were like the 
rest of the world, and that prosperity [130 
had made you forget yourself and me." 
Then Mrs. Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave 
of the many friendly offices she did in 
her former day^, and much of the con- 
versation they had with eadi other in 
the time of tlieir adversity; what books 
they read, and what comfort in particular 



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ttey received from Drelincourt's "Bode 
of Death," which was the best, she said, 
<m that subject ever wrote. She [140 
also mentioned Dr. Sherlock, and two 
Dutch books which were translated, wrote 
upon death, and several others; but Dre- 
lincourt, she said, had the clearest notions 
of death and of the future state of any 
who had handled that subject. Then she 
asked I^rs. Bargrave whether she had 
Drelincourt. She said, "Yes." Says 
Mrs. Veal, "Fetch it." And so Mrs. 
Bargrave goes upstairs and brings it [150 
down. Says Mrs. Veal, "Dear Mrs. Bar- 
grave, if the eyes of our faith were as 
open as the eyes of our body, we should 
see numbers of angels about us for our 
guard. The notions we have of heaven 
now are nothing like to what it is, as 
Drelincourt sa)rs. Therefore be com- 
forted imder your affictions, and believe 
that the Almighty has a particular regard 
to you, and that your afflictions are [160 
marks of God's favor; and when they have 
done the business they are sent for, they 
shall be removed from you. And believe 
me, my dear friend, believe what I say 
to you, one minute of future happiness 
will infinitely reward you for all your 
sufferings; for I can never believe" (and 
claps her hand upon her knee with great 
earnestness, which indeed ran through 
most of her discourse) " that ever [170 
God will suffer you to spend all your 
da3rs in this afflicted state; but be assured 
that your afflictions shall leave you, or 
yt>u them, in a short time." She spake 
in that pathetical and heavenly manner 
that Mrs. Bargrave wq>t several times, 
she was so deeply affected with it. 

Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Hor- 
neck's " Ascetick," at the end of which he 
gives an account of the lives of the [180 
primitive Christians. Their pattern she 
recommended to our imitation, and said 
their conversation was not like this of 
our age; "for now," says she, "there is 
nothing but frothy, vain discourse, which 
is far different from theirs. Theirs was 
to edification, and to build one another 
up in faith; so that they were not as we 
are, nor are we as they were; but," said 
she, "we might do as they did. There [190 
was a hearty friendship among them; but 



where is it now to be found?" Says 
Mrs. Bargrave, " 'Tis hard indeed to find 
a true friend in these days." Says Mrs. 
Veal, "Mr. Norris has a fine copy of 
verses, called 'Friendship m Perfection,' 
which I wonderfully admire. Have you 
seen the book?" says Mrs. Veal. "No," 
says Mrs. Bargrave, "but I have the 
verses of my own writing out." [200 
"Have you?" says Mrs. Veal; "then 
fetch them." Which she did from above- 
stairs, and offered them to Mrs. Veal to 
read, who refused, and waived the thing, 
saying holding down her head would 
make it ache; and then desired Mrs. 
Bargrave to read them to her, which she 
did. As they were admiring "Friend- 
ship" Mrs. Veal said, "Dear Mrs. Bar- 
grave, I shall love you for ever." In [210 
these verses there is twice used the word 
Eiysian. "Ah!" says Mrs. Veal, "these 
poets have such names for heaven ! " She 
would often draw her hand across her 
own eyes and say, "Mrs. Bargrave, don't 
you think I am mightily impaired by my 
fits?" "No," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I 
think you look as well as ever I knew 
you." 

After all this discourse, which theap- [220 
parition put in words much finer than 
Mrs. Bargrave said she could pretend to, 
and was much more than she can re- 
member, for it cannot be thought that 
an hour and three-quarters' conversation 
could all be retained, though the main 
of it she thinks she does, she said to Mrs. 
Bargrave she would have her write a 
letter to her brother, and tell- him she 
would have him give rings to such and [230 
such, and that Uiere was a purse of gold 
■in her cabinet, and that she would have 
two broad pieces given to her cousin 
Watson. 

Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave 
thought that a fit was coming upon her, 
and so placed herself in a chair just be- 
fore her knees, to keep her from falling 
to the groimd, if her fits should occasion 
it (for the elbow-chair, she thought, [240 
would keep her from falling on either 
side); and to divert Mrs. Veal, as she 
thought, took hold of her gown-sleeve 
several times and conunended it. Mrs. 
Veal told her it was a scoured silk, and 



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newly made up. But for all this, Mrs. 
Veal persisted in her request, and told 
Mrs. Bargrave she must not deny her; 
and that she would have her tell her 
brother all their conversation when [250 
she had an opportunity. "Dear Mrs. 
Veal," said Mrs. Bargrave, "this seems 
so impertinent that I cannot tell how to 
comply with it; and what a mortifying 
story will our conversation be to a young 
gentleman!" "Well," says Mrs. Veal, 
"I must not be denied." "Why," says 
Mrs. Bargrave, "'tis much better, me- 
thinks, to do it yourself." "No," says 
Mrs. Veal, "though it seems imperti- [260 
nent to you now, you will see more reason 
for it hereafter." Mrs. Bargrave then, 
to satisfy her importunity, was going 
to fetch a pen and ink, but Mrs. Veal 
said, "Let it alone now, but do it when I 
am gone; but you must be sure to do it;" 
which was one of the last things she en- 
joined her at parting; and so she promised 
her. 

Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. [270 
Bargrave's daughter. She said she was 
not at home, "but if you have a mind to 
see her," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll send 
for her." "Do," says Mrs. Veal. On 
which she left her, and went to a neigh- 
bor's to send for her; and by the time 
Mrs. Bargrave was returning, Mrs. Veal 
was got without the door in the street, in 
the face of the beast-market, on a Satur- 
day (which is market-day), and stood [280 
ready to part as soon as Mrs. Bargrave 
came to her. She asked her why she was 
in such haste. She said she must be 
going, though perhaps she might not go 
her journey until Monday; and told Mrs. 
Bargrave she hoped she should see her 
again at her cousin Watson's before she 
went whither she was a-going. Then 
she said she would take her leave of her, 
and walked from Mrs. Bargrave in [290 
her view, till a turning interrupted the 
sight of her, which was three-quarters 
after one in the afternoon. 

Mrs. Veal died the 7th of September, 
at twelve o'clock at noon, of her fits, and 
had not above four hours' senses before 
death, in which time she received the sacra- 
ment. The next day after Mrs. Veal's 
appearing, being Sunday, Mrs. Bargrave 



was mightily indisposed with a cold [300 
and a sore throat, that she could not 
go out that day; but on Monday morn- 
ing she sends a person to Captain Wat- 
son's to know if Mrs. Veal was there. 
They wondered at Mrs. Baigrave's in- 
quiry, and sent her word th^t she was 
not there, nor was expected. At this 
answer, Mrs. Bargrave told the maid she 
had certainly mistook the name^or made 
some blunder. And though she was ill, [310 
she put on her hood, and went herself 
to Captain Watson's, though she knew 
none of the family, to see if Mrs. Veal 
was there or not. They said they won- 
dered at her asking, for that she had not 
been in town; they were sure, if she had, 
she would have been there. Says Mrs. 
Bargrave, "I am sure she was with me 
on Saturday almost two hours." They 
said it was impossible; for they must [520 
have seen her, if she had. In comes 
Captain Watson while they are in dispute, 
and said that Mrs. Veal was certainly 
dead, and her escutcheons were making. 
This strangely siuprised Mrs. Bargrave, 
who went to the person inunediately who 
had the care of them, and foxmd it true. 
Then she related the whole story to Cap- 
tain Watson's family, and what gown she 
had on, and how striped, and that [330 
Mrs. Veal told her it was scoured. Then. 
Mrs. Watson cried out, "You have seen 
her indeed, for none knew but Mrs. Veal 
and myself that the gown was scoiu-ed." 
And Mrs. Watson owned that she de- 
scribed the gown exactly; "for," said she, 
"I helped her to make it up." This Mrs. 
Watson blazed all about the town, and 
avouched the demonstration of the truth 
of Mrs. Bargrave's seeing Mrs. Veal's [340 
apparition; and Captain Watson carried 
two gentlemen inunediately to Mrs. 
Bargrave's house to hear the relation 
from her own mouth. And then it spread 
so fast that gentlemen and persons 
of quality, the judicious and sceptical 
part of the world, flocked in upon her, 
which at last became such a task that she 
was forcM to go out of the way; for they 
were in generd extremely satisfied of [350 
the truth of the thing, and plainly saw 
that Mrs. Bargrave was no hypochondriac, 
for she always appears with such a cheer- 



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ful air and pleasing mien, that she has 
gained the favor and esteem of all the 
gentry, and 'tis thought a great favor if 
they can but get the relation from her 
own mouth. I should have told you before 
that Mrs. Veal told Mrs. Bargrave that 
her sister and brother-in-law were [360 
just come down from London to see her. 
Says Mrs. Bargrave, "How came you to 
order matters so strangely?" "It could 
not be helped," says Mrs. Veal. And 
her sister and brother did come to see 
her, and entered the town of Dover just 
as Mrs. Veal was expiring. Mrs. Bar- 
grave asked her whether she would drink 
some tea. Says Mrs. Veal, "I do not care 
if I do; but I'll warrant this mad fel- [370 
low" (meaning Mrs. Bargrave's husband) 
"has broke all your trinkets." "But," 
sajrs Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll get some- 
thing to drink in for all that." But 
Mrs. Veal waived it, and said, "It is no 
matter; let it alone;" and so it passed. 

All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, 
which was some hours, she recollected fresh 
sayings of Mrs. Veal. And one material 
thing more she told Mrs. Bargrave — [380 
that old Mr. Breton allowed Mrs. Veal 
ten poimds a year, which was a secret, 
and unknown to Mrs. Bargrave till Mrs. 
Veal told it her. Mrs. Bargrave never 
varies in her story, which puzzles those 
who doubt of the truth or are unwilling 
to believe it. A servant in a neighbor's 
yard adjoining to Mrs. Bargrave's house 
heard her talking to somebody an hour 
of the time Mrs. Veal was with her. [390 
Mrs. Bargrave went out to her next 
neighbor's the very moment she parted 
witib Mrs. Veal, and told what ravishing 
conversation she had with an old friend, 
and told the whole of it. Drdincourt's 
"Book of Death" is, since this happened, 
bought up strangely. And it is to be 
observed that, notwithstanding all this 
trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has 
undergone upon this account, she [400 
never took the value of a farthing, nor 
suffered her daughter to take anything 
of anybody, and therefore can have no 
interest in telling the story. 

But Mr. VeaJ does what he can to 
stifle the matter, and said he would see 
Mrs. Bargrave; but yet it is certain matter 



of fact that he has been at Captain Wat- 
son's since the death of his sister, and 
yet never went near Mrs. Bargrave; [410 
and some of his friends report her to be a 
great liar, and that she knew of Mr. 
Breton's ten pounds a year. But the 
person who pretends to say so has the 
reputation of a notorious liar among 
persons whom I know to be of undoubted 
repute. Now, Mr. Veal is more a gentle- 
man than to say she lies, but says a bad 
husband has crazed her; but she needs 
only to present herself and it will [420 
effectually confute that pretence. Mr. 
Veal says he asked his sister on her death- 
bed whether she had a mind to dispose of 
an3rthing, and she said no. Now, the 
things which Mrs. Veal's apparition would 
have disposed of were so trifling, and 
nothing of justice aimed at in their dis- 
posal, that the design of it appears to me 
to be only in order to make Mrs. Bargrave 
so to demonstrate the truth of her [430 
appearance, as to satisfy the world of the 
reality thereof as to what she had seen 
and heard, and to secure her reputation 
among the reasonable and understanding 
part of mankind. And then again Mr. 
Veal owns that there was a purse of gold; 
but it was not found in her cabinet, but 
in a comb-box. This looks improbable; 
for that Mrs. Watson owned that Mrs. 
Veal was so very careful of the key [440 
of her cabinet that she would trust no- 
body with it; and if so, no doubt she 
woidd not trust her gold out of it. And 
Mrs. Veal's often drawing her hand over 
her eyes, and asking Mrs. Bargrave 
whether her fits had not impaired her, 
looks to me as if she did it on purpose 
to remind Mrs. Bargrave of her fits, to 
prepare her not to think it strange that 
she should put her upon writing to [450 
her brother to dispose of rings and gold, 
which looks so much like a dying person's 
request; and it took accordingly with 
Mrs. Bargrave, as the effects of her fits 
coming upon her; and was one of the 
many instances of her wonderful love to 
her and care of her that she should not 
be affrighted; which indeed appears in 
her whole management, particularly in her 
coming to her in the daytime, waiv- [460 
ing the salutation, and when she was 



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THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



alone; and then the manner of her parting 
to prevent a second attempt to salute her. 

Now, why Mr. Veal should think this 
relation a reflection (as 'tis plain he does 
by his endeavoring to stifle it), I can't 
imagine, because the generality believe 
her to be a good spirit, her discourse was 
so heavenly. Her two great errands were 
to comfort Mrs. Bargrave in her [470 
affliction, and to ask her forgiveness for 
her breach of friendship, and with a pious 
discourse to encourage her. So that after 
all to suppose that Mrs. Bargrave could 
hatch such an invention as this from 
Friday noon till Saturday noon (suppos- 
ing that she knew of Mrs. Veal's death 
the very first moment) without jumbling 
drciunstanpes, and without any interest 
too, she must be more witty, for- [480 
tunate, and wicked too, than any indiffer- 
ent person, I dare say, will allow. I 
asked Mrs. Bargrave several times if she 
was siire she felt the gown. She answered 
modestly, "If my senses are to be relied 
on, I am sure of it." I asked her if she 
heard a sound when she clapped her 
hands upon her knee. She said she did 
not remember she did, and she said, " She 
appeared to be as much a substance [490 
as I did, who talked with her; and I may," 
said she, "be as soon persuaded that your 
apparition is talking to me now as that 
I did not really see her; for I was under 
no manner of fear; I received her as a 
friend, and parted with her as such. I 
would not," says she, "give one farthing 
to make any one bdieve it; I have no 
interest in it. Nothing but trouble is 
entail^ upon me for a long time, for [500 
aught I know; and had it not come to 
light by accident, it would never have 
been made public." But now she says 
she will make her own private use of it, 
and keep herself out of the way as much 
as she can; and so she has done since. 
She says she had a gentleman who came 
thirty miles to her to hear the relation, 
and that she had told it to a roomf ull of 
people at a time. Several particular [510 
gentlemen have had the story from Mrs. 
Bargrave's own mouth. 

This thing has very much affected me, 
and I am as well satisfied as I am of the 
best groimded matter of fact. And why 



we should dispute matter of fact because 
we cannot solve things of which we have 
no certain or demonstrative noticms, 
seems strange to me. Mrs. Baigrave's 
authority and sincerity alone would [530 
have been undoubted in any other case. 



JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) 

From THE TALE OF A TUB 

The Author's Preface 

The wits of the present age being so 
very numerous and penetrating, it seems 
the grandees of church and state begin to 
fall xmder horrible apprehensions lest 
these gentlemen, during the intervals of 
a long peace, should find leisure to {Hck 
holes in the weak sides of religion and 
government. To prevent whidi, there 
has been much thought employed of late 
upon certain projects for taking off [10 
the force and edge of those formidable 
inquirers from canvassing and reasoning 
upon such delicate points. They have at 
length fixed upon one which wfll require 
some time as well as cost to perfect. 
Meanwhile, the danger hourly increasing 
by new levies of wits, all appointed (as 
there is reason to fear) with pen, ink, 
and paper, which may at an hour's warn- 
ing be drawn out into pamphlets and [20 
other offensive weapons, ready for im- 
mediate execution, it was judged of ab- 
solute necessity that some present expedi- 
ent be thought on, till the main design 
can be brought to maturity. To this 
end, at a grand committee some days 
ago, this important discovery was made 
by a certain curious and refined observer: 
— that seamen have a custom, whai 
they meet a whale, to fling him an [30 
empty tub by way of amusement, to di- 
vert him from laying violent hands upon 
the ship. This parable was immediately 
mythologised; the whale was interpreted 
to be Hobbes's Leviathan, which tosses 
and plays with all schemes of religion 
and government, whereof a great many 
are hollow, and dry, and empty, and 
noisy, and wooden, and given to rotati<m: 
this is the leviathan whence the ter- [40 



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lible wits of our age are said to borrow 
their wet^ns. The ship in danger is 
easUy understood to be its old antitype, 
the commonwealth. But how to analyze 
the tub, was a matter of diflSculty; when 
after long inquiry and debate, the literal 
meaning was preserved; and it was de- 
creed, that in order to prevent these 
leviathans from tossing and sporting with 
the commonwealth, which of itself [50 
is too apt to fluctuate, they should be 
diverted from that game by a Tale of a 
Tub. And, my genius being conceived 
to lie not unhappUy that way, I had the 
honor done me to be engaged in the 
performance. ... 

Section n 

Once upon a time there was a man 
who had three sons by one wife, and all 
at a birth, neither coiild the midwife tell 
certainly which was the eldest. Their 
father died while they were young; and 
upon his death-bed, calling the lads to 
hun, spoke thus: — 

"Sons, because I have purchased no 
estate, nor was bom to any, I have long 
considered of some good legacies to [10 
bequeath you; and at last, with much 
care, as well as expense, have provided 
each of you (here they are) a new coat. 
Now, you are to understand that these 
coats have two virtues contained in them; 
one is, that with good wearing they will 
last you fresh and sound as long as you 
live; the other is, that they will grow in 
the same proportion with your bodies, 
lengthening and widening of them- [20 
selves, so as to be always fit. Here; let me 
see them on you before I die. So; very 
well; pray, diildren, wear them clean, 
aiKi brush them often. You will find in 
my will (here it is) full instructions in 
every particular concerning the wearing 
and management of your coats; wherein 
you must be very exact, to avoid the penal- 
ties I have appointed for every trans- 
gression or n^ect, upon which yoiu* [30 
future fortunes will entirely depend. I 
have also commanded in my will that 
you should live together in one house like 
brethren and friends, for then you will 
be sure to thrive, and not otherwise." 



Here, the story says, this good father 
died, and the three sons went all together 
to seek their fortunes. 

I shall not trouble you with recounting 
what adventures they met for the [40 
first seven years, any farther than by 
taking notice that they carefully ob- 
served their father's will, and kept their 
coats in very good order: that they 
travelled through several countries, en- 
countered a reasonable quantity of giants, 
and slew certain dragons. 

Being now arrived at the proper age 
for producing themselves, they came up 
to town, and fell in love with the ladies, [50 
but especially three, who about that time 
were in chief reputation: the Duchess 
d' Argent, Madame de Grands Titres, 
and the Coimtess d'Orgueil. On their 
first appearance our t^ee adventurers 
met with a very bad reception; and soon 
with great sagadty guessing out the 
reason, they quickly b^an to improve in 
the good qualities of the town; they writ, 
and rallied, and rhymed, and sung, [60 
and said, and said nothing; . . . they 
killed bailiffs, kicked fiddlers down stairs, 
eat at Locket's, loitered at Will's; they 
talked of the drawing-room, and never 
came there; dined with lords they never 
saw; whispered a duchess, and spoke 
never a word; exposed the scrawls of their 
laundress for billets-doux of quality; came 
ever just from court, and were never seen 
in it; attended the levee sub dio; got [70 
a list of peers by heart in one company, 
and with great familiarity retailed them 
in another. Above all, they constantly 
attended those committees of senators 
who are silent in the house and loud in 
the coffee-house; where they nightly ad- 
journ to chew the cud of politics, and are 
encompassed with a ring of disciples, 
who lie in wait to catch up their 
droppings. The three brothers had ac- [80 
quired forty other qualifications of the 
like stamp, too tedious to recount, and 
by consequence were justly reckoned the 
most accomplished persons in the town; 
but all would not suffice, and the ladies 
aforesaid continued still inflexible. To 
clear up which difficulty I must, with the 
reader's good leave and patience, have 
recourse to some points of weight. 



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which the authors of that age have not [90 
suflSciently illustrated. 

For about this time it happened a sect 
arose whose tenets obtained and spread 
very far, especially in the grande monde, 
and among everybody of good fashion. 
They worshipped a sort of idol, who, as 
their doctrine delivered, did daily create 
men by a kind of manufactory operation. 
This idol they placed in the lughest parts 
of the house, on an altar erected [100 
about three foot; he was shown in the 
posture of a Persian emperor, sitting on 
a superficies, with his legs interwoven 
under him. . . . 

The worshippers of this deity had also 
a system of their belief, which seemed 
to turn upon the following fimdamentals. 
They held the imiverse to be a large suit 
of clothes, which invests everything; that 
the earth is invested by the air; the [no 
air is invested by the stars; and the stars 
are invested by the primum mobile. Look 
on this globe of earth, you will find it to 
be a very complete and fashionable dress. 
What is that which some call land but a 
fine coat faced with green? or the sea, 
but a waistcoat of water-tabby? Proceed 
to the particular works of the creation, 
you will find how curious journeyman Na- 
ture has been to trim up the vegetable [120 
beaux; observe how sparkish a periwig 
adorns the head of a beech, and what a 
fine doublet of white satin is worn by the 
birch. To conclude from all, what is man 
himself but a microcoat, or rather a com- 
plete suit of clothes with all its trinunings? 
As to his body there can be no dispute; 
but examine even the acquirements of his 
mind, you will find them all contribute in 
their order towards furnishing out an [130 
exact dress: to instance no more; is not 
religion a cloak, honesty a pair of shoes 
worn out in the dirt, self-love a surtout, 
vanity a shirt, and conscience a pair of 
breeches? . . . 

These opinions, therefore, were so uni- 
versal, as well as the practices of them, 
among the refined part of court and town, 
that our three brother adventurers, as 
their circumstances then stood, were [140 
strangely at a loss. For, on the one 
side, the three ladies they addressed 
themselves to, whom we have named 



already, were at the very top of the fash- 
ion, and abhorred all that were below it 
but the breadth of a hair. On the other 
side, their father's will was very precise; 
and it was the main precept in it, with 
the greatest penalties annexed, not to add 
to or diminish from their coats one [150 
thread, without a positive conmiand in 
the will. Now, the coats their father 
had left them were, 'tis true, of very good 
doth, and besides so neatly sewn, you 
would swear they were all of a piece; but 
at the same time very plain, and with 
little or no ornament: and it happened 
that before they were a month in town 
great shoulder-knots came up; straight all 
the world was shoulder-knots. . . . [160 
That fellow, cries one, has no soul; where 
is his shoulder-knot? Our three brethrai 
soon discovered their want by sad ex- 
perience, meeting in their walks with 
forty mortifications and indignities. If 
they went to the playhouse the door- 
keeper showed them into the twelve- 
penny gallery; if they called a boat, says 
a waterman, "I am first sculler"; if 
they stepped to the Rose to take a [170 
bottle, the drawer would cry, "Friend, 
we sell no ale;" if they went to visit a 
lady, a footman met tiiem at the door 
with "Pray send up your message." In 
this unhappy case they went inmiediatdy 
to consult their father's will, read it over 
and over, but not a word of the shoulder- 
knot. What should they do? — ^what tem- 
per should they find? — obedience was 
absolutely necessary, and yet shoulder- [180 
knots appeared extremely requisite. Afto- 
much Uiought one of tilie brothers, who 
happened to be more book-learned than 
the other two, said he had found an ex- 
pedient. "'Tis true," said he, "there 
is nothing here in this will, Midem verbiSy 
making mention of shoulder-knots: but 
I dare conjecture we may find them m- 
clusivCy or Midem sylldbis" This distinc- 
tion was immediately approved by [190 
all, and so they fell again to examine the 
will; but their evil star had so directed 
the matter that the first syllable was not 
to be found in the whole writing. Upon 
which disappointment, he who found the 
former evasion took heart, and said, 
"Brothers, there are yet hopes; for though 



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we cannot find them totidem verbiSy nor 
toHdem syttabisy I dare engage we shall 
make them out tertio modo, or totidem [200 
liieris" This discovery was also highly 
commended, upon which they fell once 
more to the scrutiny, and picked out 
S, H, O, U, L, D, E, R; when the same 
planet, enemy to their repose, had won- 
derfully contrived that a K was not to be 
found. Here was a weighty difficulty! 
but the distinguishing brother, for whom 
we shall hereafter find a name, now 
his hand was in, proved by a very [210 
good argument that K was a modem, 
illegitimate letter, imknown to the learned 
ages, nor anywhere to be found in ancient 
manuscripts. "'Tis true," said he, 
" Calends hath in Q. V. C. been sometimes 
writ with a K, but erroneously; for in 
the best copies it is ever spelled with a C. 
And, by consequence, it was a gross 
mistake in our language to spell 'knot' 
with a K;" but that from hencefor- [220 
ward he would take care it should be 
writ with a C. Upon this all farther diffi- 
culty vanished — shoulder-knots were made 
clearly out to be jure paterno, and our 
three gentlemen swaggered with as large 
and as flaunting ones as the best. . . . 

The learned brother, so often men- 
tioned, was reckoned the best scholar in 
all that or the next street to it, insomuch 
as, having run something behindhand [230 
in the world, he obtained the favor of 
a certain lord to receive him into his 
house, and to teach his children. A while 
after the lord died, and he, by long prac- 
tice of his father's will, foimd the way of 
contriving a deed of conveyance of that 
house to himself and his heirs; upon which 
he took possession, turned the young 
squires out, and received his brothers in 
their stead. [240 

Section VI 

We left lord Peter in open rupture with 
his two brethren; both for ever discarded 
from his house, and resigned to the wide 
world, with little or notibing to trust to. 
Which are circumstances that render 
them pr<^r subjects for the charity of a 
writer's pen to work on; scenes of misery 
ever affording the fairest harvest for 
great adventures. And in this the world 



may perceive the difference between [10 
the integrity of a generous author and 
that of a common friend. The latter is 
observed to adhere closely in prosperity, 
but on the decline of fortune to drop 
suddenly off. Whereas the generous 
author, just on the contrary, finds his 
hero on the dunghill, from thence by 
gradual steps raises him to a throne, 
and then immediately withdraws, ex- 
pecting not so much as thanks for [20 
his pains; in imitation of which example, 
I have placed lord Peter in a noble house, 
given him a title to wear and money to 
spend. There I shall leave him for some 
time; retiuning where common charity 
directs me, to the assistance of his two 
brothers at their lowest ebb. However, I 
shall by no means forget my character 
of an h^torian to follow the truth step by 
step, whatever happens, or wherever [30 
it may lead me. 

The two exiles, so nearly imited in for- 
tune and interest, took a lodging together; 
where, at their first leisure, tJiey began 
to reflect on the nmnberless misfortimes 
and vexations of their life past, and could 
not tell on the sudden to what failure in 
their conduct they ought to impute them; 
when, after some recollection, they called 
to mind the copy of their father's will, [40 
which they had so happOy recovered. 
This was immediately produced, and a 
firm resolution taken between them to 
alter whatever was already amiss, and 
reduce all their future measures to the 
strictest obedience prescribed therein. 
The main body of the will (as the reader 
cannot easily have forgot) consisted in 
certain admirable rules about the wearing 
of their coats; in the perusal whereof, [50 
the two brothers at every period duly 
comparing the doctrine with the practice, 
there was never seen a wider difference 
between two things; horrible downright 
transgressions of every point. Upon 
which they both resolved, without farther 
delay, to fall immediately upon reducing 
the whole exactly after their father's 
model. 

But here it is good to stop the hasty [60 
reader, ever impatient to see the end of an 
adventure before we writers can duly 
prepare him for it. I am to record that 



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these two brothers began to be distin- 
guished at this time by certain names. 
One of them desired to be called MARTIN, 
and the other took the appellation of 
JACK. These two had lived in much 
friendship and agreement under the tyr- 
anny of their brother Peter, as it is [70 
the talent of fellow-suflferers to do; men 
in misfortime being like men in the dark, 
to whom all colors are the same: but when 
they came forward into the world, and 
b^gan to display themselves to each 
other and to tie light, their complexions 
appeared extremely different; which the 
present posture of their affairs gave them 
sudden opportimity to discover. 

But here the severe reader may [80 
justly tax me as a writer of short memory, 
a deficiency to which a true modem can- 
not but of necessity be a little sub- 
ject. ... I ought in method to have 
informed the reader, about fifty pages 
ago, of a fancy lord Peter took, and in- 
fusol into his brothers, to wear on their 
coats whatever trimmings came up in 
fashion; never pulling off any as they went 
out of the mode, but keeping on all [90 
together, which amounted in time to a 
medley the most antic you can possibly 
conceive; and this to a degree, that upon 
the time of their falling out there was 
hardly a thread of the original coat to be 
seen; but an infinite quantity of lace, and 
ribbons, and fringe, and embroidery, and 
points; I mean only those tagged with 
sOver, for the rest fell off. Now this 
material circumstance, having been [100 
forgot in due place, as good fortune hath 
ordered, comes in very properly here 
when the two brothers are just going to 
reform their vestures into the primitive 
state prescribed by their father's will. 

They both unanimously entered upon 
this great work, looking sometimes on 
their coats, and sometimes on the will. 
Martin laid the first hand; at one twitch 
brought off a large handful of points; [no 
and, with a second pull, stripped away 
ten dozen yards of fringe. But when he 
had gone tibus far he demurred a while: 
he knew very well there yet remained a 
great deal more to be done; however, the 
first heat being over, his violence began to 
cool, and he resolved to proceed more mod- 



erately in the rest of the work, having al- 
ready narrowly escaped a swinging rent, in 
pulling off the points, which, being [120 
tagged with silver (as we have observed 
before), the judicious workman had, with 
much sagacity, double sewn, to preserve 
them from falling. Resolving therefore to 
rid his coat of a huge quantity of gold lace, 
he picked up the stitches with much cau- 
tion, and (Uligently gleaned out all the 
loose threads as he went, which proved 
to be a work of time. Then he fell about 
the embroidered Indian figures of [130 
men, women, and children; against which, 
as you have heard in its due place, their 
father's testament was extremely exact 
and severe: these, with much dexterity and 
application, were, after a while, quite 
eradicated or utterly defaced. For the 
rest, where he observed the embroidery 
to be worked so close as not to be got 
away without damaging the doth, or 
where it served to hide or strengthen [140 
any flaw in the body of the coat, con- 
tracted by the perpetual tampering of 
workmen upon it, he concluded the wisest 
course was to let it remain, resolving in 
no case whatsoever that the substance of 
the stuff should suffer injury; which he 
thought the be^t method for serving the 
true intent and meaning of his fatiier's 
will. And this is the nearest account I 
have been able to collect of Martin's [150 
proceedings upon this great revolution. 

But his brother Jack, whose adven- 
tures will be so extraordinary as to furnish 
a great part in the remainder of this dis- 
course, entered upon the matter with 
other thoughts and a quite different ^irit 
For the memory of lord Peter's injuries 
produced a degree of hatred and spite 
which had a much greater share of in- 
citing him than any r^ards after his [160 
father's commands; since these appeared, 
at best, only secondary and subservient 
to the other. However, for this medley 
of hmnor he made a shift to find a vary 
plausible name, honoring it with the title 
of zeal; which is perhaps the most signif- 
icant word that has been ever yet pro- 
duced in any language, as I think I have 
fully proved in my excellent analytical dis- 
course upon that subject; wherein I [170 
have deduced a histori-theo-physi-logical 



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account of zeal, showing how it first 
proceeded from a notion into a word, and 
thence, in a hot summer, ripened into a 
tangible substance. This work, containing 
three large volxunes in folio, I design very 
shortly to publish by the modem way of 
subscription, not doubting but the no- 
bility and gentry of the land will give me 
all possible encouragement; having [180 
had already such a taste of what I am 
able to perform. 

I record, therefore, that brother Jack, 
brimful of this miraculous compound, 
reflecting with indignation upon Peter^s 
tyranny, and farther provoked by the 
despondency of Martin, prefaced his 
resolutions to this purpose. "What," 
said he, "a rogue that locked up his drink, 
turned away our wives, cheated us [190 
of our fortimes; palmed his damned crusts 
upon us for mutton; and at last kicked us 
out of doors; must we be in his fashions, 
with a pox? A rascal, besides, that all 
the street cries out against." Having 
thus kindled and inflamed himself as high 
as possible, and by consequence in a 
delicate temper for beginning a reforma- 
tion, he set about the work immediately; 
and in three minutes made more [200 
despatch than Martin had done in as 
many hours. For, courteous reader, 
you are given to imderstand that zeal is 
never so highly obliged as when you set 
it a-tearing; and Jack, who doted on that 
quality in himself, allowed it at this time 
its full swing. Thus it happened that, 
stripping down a parcel of gold lace a 
little too hastily, he Vent the main body 
of his coat from top to bottom; and [210 
whereas his talent was not of the happiest 
in taking up a stitch, he knew no better 
way than to dam it again with packthread 
and a skewer. But the matter was yet 
nifinitely worse (I record it with tears) 
when he proceeded to the embroidery: for, 
being clumsy by nature, and of temper 
impatient; withal, beholding millions of 
stitches that required the nicest hand and 
sedatest constitution to extricate, in [220 
a great rage he tore off the whole piece, 
doth and all, and fl\mg them into the 
kennel, and furiously thus continuing his 
career: "Ah, good brother Martin," said 
he, "do as I do, for the love of God; strip. 



tear, pull, rend, flay off all, that we may 
appear as unlike the rogue Peter as it is 
possible; I would not for a hundred poimds 
carry the least mark about me that 
might give occasion to the neighbors [230 
of suspecting that I was related to sudi 
a rascal." But Martin, who at this time 
happened to be extremely phlegmatic 
and sedate, begged his brother, of all 
love, not to damage his coat by any 
means; for he never would get such an- 
other: desired him to consider that it was 
not their business to form their actions 
by any reflection upon Peter, but by ob- 
serving the rules prescribed in their [240 
father's will. That he should remember 
Peter was still their brother, whatever 
faults or injuries he had conunitted; and 
therefore they should by all means avoid 
such a thought as that of taking meas- 
ures for good and evil from no other rule 
than of opposition to him. That it was 
true, the testament of their good father 
was very exact in what related to the wear- 
ing Qf their coats; yet it was no less [250 
penal and strict in prescribing agreement, 
and friendship, and affection between 
them. And therefore, if straining a point 
were at all dispensable, it would cerUunly 
be so rather to the advance of imity than 
increase of contradiction. . . . 



A MODEST PROPOSAL 

FOR PREVENTING THE CHILDREN OF POOR 
PEOPLE IN IRELAND FROM BEING A BUR- 
DEN TO THEIR PARENTS OR COUNTRY, 
AND FOR MAKING THEM BENEFICIAL TO 
THE PUBLIC 

It is a melancholy object to those who 
walk through this great town or travel 
in the coimtry, when they see the streets, 
the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with 
beggars of the female sex, followed by 
three, four, or six children, all in rags 
and importuning every passenger for an 
alms. These mothers, instead of being 
able to work for their honest livelihood, 
are forced to employ all their time in [10 
strolling to b^ sustenance for their help- 
less infants: who as they grow up either 
turn thieves for want of work, or leave 
their dear native coimtry to fight for the 



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THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to 
the Barbadoes. 

I think it is agreed by all parties that 
this prodigious number of children in 
the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels 
of their mothers, and frequently of [20 
their fathers, is in the present deplorable 
state of the kingdom a very great addi- 
tional grievance; and, therefore, whoever 
could find out a fair, cheap, and easy 
method of making these children sound, 
useful members of the conunonwealth, 
would deserve so well of the public as to 
have his statue set up for a preserver of 
the nation. 

But my intention is very far from be- [30 
ing confined to provide only for the chil- 
dren of professed beggars; it is of a much 
greater extent, and shall take in the 
whole niunber of infants at a certain age 
who are bom of parents in effect as little 
able to support them as those who de- 
mand our diarity in the streets. 

As to my own part, having turned my 
thoughts for many years upon this, im- 
portant subject, and maturely weighed [40 
the several schemes of other projectors, 
I have always found them grossly mis- 
taken in the computation. It is true, a 
child just bom may be supported by its 
mother's milk for a solar year, with Httle 
other nourishment; at most not above the 
value of 2S., which the mother may 
certainly get, or the value in scraps, by 
her lawful occupation of begging; and 
it is exactly at one year old that I [50 
propose to provide for them in such a 
manner as instead of being a charge upon 
their parents or the parish, or wanting 
food and raiment for the rest of their 
lives, they shall on the contrary con- 
tribute to the feeding, and partly to the 
clothing, of many thousands. . . . 

The niunber of souls in this kingdom 
being usually reckoned one milUon and 
a half, of these I calculate there may [60 
be about two himdred thousand couple 
whose wives are breeders; from which 
nimiber I subtract thirty thousand couples 
who are able to maintain their own chil- 
dren, although I apprehend there cannot 
be so many, imder the present distresses 
of the kingdom; but this being granted, 
there will remain an hundred and sev- 



enty thousand breeders. I again subtract 
fifty thousand for those women ... [70 
whose children die by accident or dis- 
ease within the year. There only remains 
one himdred and twenty thousand chil- 
dren of poor parents annually bom. 
The question therefore is, how this num- 
ber shall be reared and provided for, 
which, as I have already said, imder the 
present situation of affairs, is utterly 
impossible by all the methods hitherto 
proposed. For we can neither employ [80 
them in handicraft or agriculture; we 
neither build houses (I mean in the coun- 
try) nor cultivate land: they can very 
seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing, 
till they arrive at six years old, excqjt 
where they are of towardly parts; although 
I confess they leam the mdiments much 
earlier, during which time, they can how- 
ever be properly looked upon only as 
probationers, as I have been informed [90 
by a principal gentleman in the county of 
Cavan, who protested to me that he never 
knew above one or two instances under 
the age of six, even in a part of the king- 
dom so renowned for the quickest pro- 
ficiency in that art. 

I am assured by our merchants, that a 
boy or a girl before twelve years old is 
no salable conmiodity; and even when 
they come to this age they will not [100 
jdeld above three pounds, or three poimds 
and half-a-crown at most on the exchange; 
which cannot turn to account either to 
the parents or kingdom, the charge of 
nutriment and rags having been at least 
four times that value. 

I shall now therefore himibly propose 
my own thoughts, which I hope will not 
be liable to the least objection. 

I have been assured by a very [no 
knowing American of my acquaintance 
in London, that a young healthy child 
well nursed is at a year old a most deli- 
cious, nourishing, and wholesome food, 
whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; 
and I make no doubt that it will equally 
serve in a fricassee or a ragout. . . . 
A child will make two dishes at an enter- 
tainment for friends; and when the family 
dines alone, the fore or hind quarter [120 
will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned 
with a little pepper or salt will be very 



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good boiled on the fourth day, especially 
in winter. 

I have reckoned upon a medium that a 
chfld just bom will weigh 12 pounds, 
and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, 
increaseth to 28 pounds. 

I grant this food will be somewhat 
dear, and therefore very proper for [130 
landlords, who, as they have already de- 
voured most of the parents, seem to have 
the best title to the children. . . . 

I have already computed the charge of 
nursing a b^gar's child (in which list 
I reckon all cottagers, laborers, and four- 
fifths of the farmers) to be about two 
shillings per annum, rags induded; and 
I believe no gentleman would repine to 
give ten shillings for the carcass of a [140 
good fat child, which, as I have said, will 
make four dishes of excellent nutritive 
meat, when he hath only some particular 
friend or his own family to dine with 
him. Thus the squire will learn to be a 
good landlord, and grow popular among 
his tenants; the mother will have eight 
shillings net profit, and be fit for work 
till she produces another child. 

Those who are more thrifty (as I [150 
must confess the times require) may flay 
the carcass; the skin of which artificially 
dressed will make admirable gloves for 
ladies, and sununer boots for fme gentle- 
men. 

As to oiu* dty of Dublin, shambles may 
be appointed for this purpose in the most 
convenient parts of it, and butchers we 
may be assured will not be wanting; al- 
though I rather recommend buying [160 
the diildren alive than dressing them hot 
from the knife as we do roasting pigs. 

A very worthy person, a true lover of 
his coimtry, and whose virtues I highly 
esteem, was lately pleased in discoiursing 
on this matter to offer a refinement upon 
my scheme. He said that many gentle- 
men of this kingdom, having of late de- 
stroyed their deer, he conceived that the 
want of vem'son might be well sup- [170 
plied by the bodies of young lads and 
maidens, not exceeding fomleen years 
of age nor under twelve; so great a number 
of both sexes in every country being now 
ready to starve for want of work and 
service; and these to be disposed of by 



their parents, if alive, or otherwise by 
their nearest relations. But with due 
deference to so excellent a friend and so 
deserving a patriot, I cannot be al- [180 
together in his sentiments; for as to the 
males, my American acquaintance assured 
me, from frequent experience, that their 
fle^ was generally tough and lean, like 
that of our school-boys, by continual 
exercise, and their taste disagreeable; and 
to fatten them would not answer the 
charge. . . . And besides, it is not 
improbable that some scrupulous people 
might be apt to censure such a prac- [190 
tice (although indeed very imjustiy), as 
a littie bordering upon cruelty; which, I 
confess, hath alwa)rs been with me the 
strongest objection against any project, 
however so well intended. 

But in order to justify my friend, he 
confessed that this expedient was put 
into his head by the famous Psalmanazar, 
a native of the island Formosa, who came 
from thence to London above twenty [200 
years ago, and in conversation told my 
friend, that in his coimtry when any 
young person happened to be put to death, 
the executioner sold the carcass to per- 
sons of quality as a prime dainty; and 
that in his time the body of a plump girl 
of fifteen, who was crucified for an at- 
tempt to poison the emperor, was sold 
to his imperial majesty's prime minister 
of state, and other great mandarins of [210 
the court, in joints from the gibbet, at 
four hundred crowns. Neither indeed 
can I deny, that if the same use were 
made of several plump young girls in 
this town, who without one single groat 
to their fortunes cannot stir abroad 
without a chair, and appear at playhouse 
and assemblies in foreign fineries which 
they never will pay for, the kingdom 
would not be the worse. [220 

Some persons of a desponding spirit 
are in great concern about that vast 
number of poor people, who are aged, 
diseased, or maimed, and I have been 
desired to employ my thoughts what 
course may be taken to ease the nation 
of so grievous an encumbrance. But I 
am not in the least pain upon that matter, 
because it is very well known that they 
are every day dying and rotting by [230 



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cold and famine, and filth and vermin, as 
fast as can be reasonably expected. And 
as to the yoimg laborers, they are now 
in as hopeful a condition; they cannot get 
work, and consequently pine away for 
want of nourishment, to a degree that if 
at any time they are accidentally hired 
to conmion labor, they have not strength 
to perform it; and thus the country and 
themselves are happily delivered from [240 
the evils to come. 

I have too long digressed, and there- 
fore shall return to my subject. I think 
the advantages by the proposal which I 
have made are obvious and many, as well 
as of the highest importance. 

For first, as I have already observed, 
it would greatly lessen the number of 
papists, with whom we are yearly over- 
rim, being the principal breeders of [250 
the nation as well as our most dangerous 
enemies; and who stay at home on pur- 
pose with a design to deliver the king- 
dom to the pretender, hoping to take 
their advantage by the absence of so 
many good protestants, who have chosen 
rather to leave their coimtry than stay at 
home and pay tithes against their con- 
science t6 an episcopal curate. 

Secondly, the poorer tenants will [260 
have something valuable of their own, 
which by law may be made liable to dis- 
tress and help to pay their landlord's 
rent, their com and cattle being already 
seized, and money a thing imknown. 

Thirdly, whereas the maintenance of 
an himdred thousand children, from two 
years old and upward, cannot be com- 
puted at less than ten shillings a-piece 
per anniun, the nation's stock will be [270 
thereby increased fifty thousand poimds 
per annum, beside the profit of a new 
dish introduced to the tables of all gentle- 
men of fortime in the kingdom who have 
any refinement in taste. And the money 
will circulate among ourselves, the goods 
being entirely of our own growth and 
manufacture. 

Fourthly, the parents, beside the gain 
of eight shillings sterling per annum [280 
by the sale of their children, will be rid 
of the charge of maintaining them after 
the first year. 
.Fifthly, this food would likewise bring 



great custom to taverns; where the vint- 
ners will certainly be so prud«it as to 
procure the best receipts for dressing it 
to perfection, and consequently have 
their houses frequented by all the fine 
gentlemen, who justly value them- [290 
selves upon their knowledge in good eat- 
ing: and a skilful cook, who imderstands 
how to oblige his guests, will contrive to 
make it as expensive as they please. 

Sixthly, this would be a great induce- 
ment to marriage, which all wise nations 
have either encouraged by rewards or 
enforced by laws and penalties. It would 
increase the care and tenderness of mothers 
toward their children, when they [300 
were sure of a settlement for life to the 
poor babes, provided in some sort by the 
public, to their annual profit instead c^ 
expense. We should see an honest emula- 
tion among the married women, which 
of them could bring the fattest child to 
the market. Men would become as fond 
of their wives during the time of their 
pregnancy as they are now of their mares 
in foal, their cows in calf, their sows [510 
when they are ready to farrow; nor offer 
to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a 
practice) for fear of a miscarriage. 

Many other advantages might be enu- 
merated. For instance, the addition of 
some thousand carcasses in our exporta- 
tion of barreled beef, the propagation of 
swine's flesh, and improvement in the 
art of making good bacon, so much wanted 
among us by the great destruction [320 
of pigs, too frequent at our tables; wtdch 
are no way comparable in taiste or mag- 
nificence to a well-grown, fat, yearling 
child, which roasted whole will make a 
considerable figure at a lord mayor's feast 
or any other public entertainment. But 
this and many others I omit, being stu- 
dious of brevity. 

Supposing that one thousand families 
in tMs city would be constant cus- [330 
tomers for infant's flesh, beside others 
who might have it at merry-meetings, 
particularly weddings and diristenings, 
I compute that Dublin would take off 
annually about twenty thousand car- 
casses; and the rest of the kingdom (who^ 
probablv they will be sold somewhat 
cheaper) the remaining eighty thousand. 



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I can think of no one objection that 
will iK)ssibly be raised against this [340 
pn^)06al, unless it should be urged diat 
the number of people will be thereby 
much lessened in the kingdom. This I 
fredy own, and was indeed one principal 
design in offering it to the world. I desire 
the reado" will observe, that I calculate 
my remedy for this one individual king- 
dom of Ireland and for no other that 
ever was, is, or I think ever can be upon 
earth. Therefore let no man talk to [350 
me of other expedients: of taxing our ab- 
sentees at five shillings a pound; of using 
neither clothes nor household furniture 
except what is of our own growth and 
manufactm^; of utterly rejecting the ma- 
terials and instruments that promote 
foreign luxiiry; of curing the expensive- 
ness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gam- 
ing in our women; of introducing a vein 
of parsimony, prudence, and tem- [360 
perance; of learning to love our country, 
wherein we differ even from Laplanders 
and the inhabitants of Topinamboo; of 
quitting our animosities and factions, nor 
act any longer like the Jews, who were 
murdering one another at the very mo- 
ment their dty was taken; of being a 
little cautious not to sell our country 
and conscience for nothing; of teaching 
landlords to have at least one degree [370 
of mercy toward their tenants; lastly, of 
putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and 
skill into our shopkeepers; who, if a resolu- 
tion could now be taken to buy only our 
native goods, would inmiediately imite to 
cheat and exact upon us in the price, the 
measure, and the goodness, nor could 
ever yet be brought to make one fair pro- 
posal of just dealing, though often and 
earnestly invited to it. bSo 

Therrfore I repeat, let no man talk 
to me of these and the like expedients, till 
he hath at least some glimpse of hope that 
there will be ever some hearty and sincere 
attempt to put them in practice. 

But as to myself, having been wearied 
out for many years with offering vain, 
idle, visionary thoughts, and at length 
utterly despairing of success, I fortunately 
(dl upon this proposal; which, as it [390 
is wholly new, so it hath something sob'd 
and real, of no expense and little trouble, 



full in our own power, and whereby we 
can incur no danger in disobliging Eng- 
land. For this kind of conmiodity will 
not bear exportation, the flesh being of 
too tender a consistence to admit a long 
continuance in salt, although perhaps I 
could name a coimtry which would be 
glad to eat up our whole nation with- Ucx) 
out it. 

After all, I am not so violently bent 
upon my own opinion as to reject any 
offer proposed by wise men, which shall 
be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, 
and effectual. But before something of 
that kind shall be advanced in contradic- 
tion to my scheme, and offering a better, 
I desire the author or authors will be 
pleased maturely to consider two [410 
points. First, as things now stand, how 
they will be able to find food and raiment 
for an himdred thousand useless mouths 
and backs. And secondly, there being a 
round million of creatures in human 
figure throughout this kingdom, whose 
whole subsistence put into a common 
stock would leave them in debt two mil- 
lions of pounds sterling, adding those 
who are b^gars by profession to the [420 
bulk of farmers, cottagers, and laborers, 
with their wives and children who are 
beggars in effect: I desire those politicians 
who dislike my overture, and may per- 
haps be so bold as to attempt an answer, 
that they will first ask the parents of these 
mortals, whether they would not at this 
day think it a great happiness to have 
been sold for food at a year old in the 
manner I prescribe, and thereby have [430 
avoided such a perpetual scene of mis- 
fortimes as they have since gone through 
by the oppression of landlords, the im- 
possibility of paying rent without money 
or trade, the want of common sustenance, 
with neither house nor clothes to cover 
them from the inclemencies of the weather, 
and the most inevitable prospect of 
entailing the like or greater miseries upon 
their breed for ever. 1440 

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, 
that I have not the least personal interest 
in endeavoring to promote this necessary 
work, having no other motive than the 
public good of my coimtry, by advancing 
our trade, providing for infants, relieving 



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the poor, and giving some pleasure to 
the rich. I have no children by which 
I can propose to get a single penny; the 
youngest being nine years old, and [450 
my wife past ddld-bearing. 

From THE JOURNAL TO STELLA 

Sept. 30f 1710. Have not I brought 
myself into a fine premimire to begin 
writing letters in whole sheets? and now 
I dare not leave it off. I can't tell whether 
you like these journal letters: I believe 
they would be dull to me to read them 
over; but, perhaps, little MD is pleased to 
know how Presto passes his time in her 
absence. I always begin my last the 
same day I ended the former. I told [10 
you where I dined to-day at a tavern 
with Stratford: Lewis, who is a great 
favorite of Harley's, was to have been 
with us; but he was hurried to Hamp- 
ton Court, and sent his excuse, and that 
next Wednesday he would introduce me 
to Harley. 'Tis good to see what a la- 
mentable confession the Whigs all make 
me of my ill usage; but I mind them 
not. I am already represented to Har- [20 
ley as a discontented person, that was 
used ill for not being Whig enough; and 
I hope for good usage from him. The 
Tories dryly tell me, I may make my 
fortune, if I please; but I do not imder- 
stand them, or rather, I io imderstand 
them. 

OcU 4, After I had put out my candle 
last night, my landlady came into my 
room, with a servant of Lord Halifax, [30 
to desire I would go dine with him at his 
house near Hampton Court; but I sent 
him word I had business of great impor- 
tance that hindered me, etc. And, to-day, 
I was brought privately to Mr. Harley, 
who received me with the greatest respect 
and kindness imaginable: he has appointed 
me an hour on Satiu-day at four, after- 
noon, when I will open my business to 
him. [40 

Oct. 7. I wonder when this letter will 
be finished: it must go by Tuesday, that 
is certain; and if I have one from MD 
before, I will not answer it, that's as cer- 
tain too! 'Tis now morning, and I did 
not finish my papers for Mr. Harley last 



night; for you must imderstand Presto 
was sleepy, and made blimders and blots. 
Very pretty that I must be writing to 
young women in a morning fresh and [50 
fasting, faith. Well, good morrow to 
you: and so I go to business, and lay a^e 

this paper till night, sirrahs. At 

night. Jack How told Harley, that if 
there were a lower place in hell than an- 
other, it was reserved for his porter, who 
tells lies so gravely, and with so dvil a 
manner. This porter I have had to deal 
with, going this evening at four to visit 
Mr. Harley, by his own appointment. [60 
But the fellow told me no lie, though I 
suspected every word he said. He told 
me his master was just gone to dinner, 
with much company, and desired I would 
come an hour hence, which I did, expect- 
ing to hear Mr. Harley was gone out; but 
they had just done dinner. Mr. Hariey 
came out to me, brought me in, and pre- 
sented me to his son-in-law, Lord Do- 
blane (or some such name), and his [70 
own son, and among others. Will Penn the 
Quaker: we sat two hours, drinking as 
good wine as you do; and two hours more 
he and I alone; where he heard me tdl 
my business; asked for my powers, and 
read them; and read likewise a memorial 
I had drawn up, and put it in his pocket 
to show the Queen; told me the measure 
he would take; and, in short, said every- 
thing I could wish; told me he must [80 
bring Mr. St. John (Secretary of State) 
and me acquainted; and spoke so many 
things of personal kindness and esteem 
for me, that I am inclined half to believe 
what some friends have told me, that he 
would do everything to bring me over. 
He has desired to dme with me (what a 
comical mistake was that), I mean, he has 
desired me to dine with him on Tuesday; 
and after foiu* hours being with him, [90 
set me down at St. James's Coffeehouse, 
in a hackney coach. All this is odd and 
comical if you consider him and me. He 
knew my Christian name very well. I 
could not forbear saying thus much upon 
this matter, although you will think it 
tedious. But I will tell you; you must 
know, 'tis fatal to me to be a scoundrel 
and a prince the same day: for being to 
see him at four, I could not engage [100 



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myself to dine at any friend's; so I went 
to Tooke, to give him a ballad and dine 
with him; but he was not at home; so I 
was forced to go to a blind chop house, and 
dine for tenpence upon gill ale, bad broth, 
and three chops of mutton; and then go 
reeking from thence to the first minister 
of state. And now I am going in charity to 
send Stede a Tatler, who is very low of 
late. I think I am civiller than I used [no 
to be; and have not used the expression 
of "yoM in Ireland" and "we in England," 
as I did when I was here before, to your 
great indignation. — ^They may taJk of the 
you know what; but, gad, if it had not 
been for that, I should never have been 
able to get the access I have had; and if 
that helps me to succeed, then that same 
iking will be serviceable to the church. 
But how far we must depend upon [120 
new friends, I have learned by long prac- 
tice, though I think, among great minis- 
ters, they are just as good as old ones. 
And so I think this important day has 
made a great hole in this side of the paper; 
and the fiddle faddles of to-morrow and 
Monday will make up the rest; and, be- 
sides, I shall see Harley on Tuesday be- 
fore this letter goes. 

Feb. 4y 1711. I went to Mr. Addi- [130 
son's, and dined with him at his lodgings; I 
had not seen him these three weeks; we are' 
grown common acquaintance: yet what 
have I not done for his friend Steele? Mr. 
Hariey reproached me the last time I saw 
him, that to please me, he would be recon- 
ciled to Steele, and had promised and ap- 
pointed to see him, and that Steele never 
came. Harrison, whom Mr. Addison rec- 
onmi^ided to me, I have introduced to [140 
the Secretary of State, who has promised 
me to take care of him; and I have repre- 
sented Addison himself so to the ministry, 
that they think and talk in his favor, 
thou^ Aey hated him before. — ^Well; he 
is now in my debt, and there's an end; and 
I never had the least obligation to him, 
and there's another end. This evening 
I had a message from Mr. Harley, de- 
siring to know whether I was alive, [150 
and that I would dine with him to-morrow. 
They dine so late, that since my head 
has been wrong, I have avoided being 
with them. 



Feb, 6. Mr. Harley desired I would 
dine with him again to-day; but I re- 
fused him, for I fell out with him yes- 
terday, and will not see him again till 
he makes me amends; and so I go to 
bed. [160 

Feb. 7. I was this morning early with 
Mr. Lewis of the Secretary's oflSce, and 
saw a letter Mr. Harley had sent to him, 
desiring to be reconciled; but I was deaf 
to all entreaties, and have desired Lewis 
to go to him, and let him know I expect 
fartiier satisfaction. If we let these great 
ministers pretend too much, there will be 
no governing them. He promises to make 
me easy, if I will but come and see [170 
him; but I won't, and he shall do it by 
message, or I will cast him oflF. I'll teU 
you the cause of our quarrel when I see 
you, and refer it to yourselves. In that 
he did something, which he intended for 
a favor, and I have taken it quite other- 
wise, disliking both the thing and the 
manner, and it has heartily vexed me, 
and all I have said is truth, though it 
looks like jest; and I absolutely re- [180 
fused to submit to his intended favor, 
and expect further satisfaction. 

Feb. I J. I have taken Mr. Harley into 
favor again. 

June jOy lyii. We have plays acted 
in our town, and Patrick was at one 
of them, oh, oh. He was damnably 
mauled one day when he was drunk; he 
was at cuflFs with a brother footman, who 
dragged him along the floor on his [190 
face, which looked for a week after as if 
he had the leprosy; and I was glad enough 
to see it. I have been ten times sending 
him over to you; yet now he has new 
clothes, and a laced hat, which the hat- 
ter brought by his orders, and he offered 
to pay for the lace out of his wages. 
Farewell, my dearest lives and lights, I 
love you better than ever, if possible, as 
hope saved, I do, and ever will. [?oo 
God Almighty bless you ever, and make 
us happy together; I pray for this twice 
every day; and I hope God will hear my 
poor hearty prayers. Remember, if I 
am used ill and imgratefully, as I have 
formerly been, 'tis what I am prepared 
for, and shall not wonder at it. Yet, I am 
now envied, and thought in high favor. 



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and have every day numbers of con- 
siderable men teasing me to solicit [210 
for them. And the ministry all use me 
perfectly well, and all that know them 
say they love me. Yet I can coimt upon 
nothing, nor will, but upon MD's love 
and kmdness. They think me useful; 
they pretended they were afraid of none 
but me; and that they resolved to have 
me; they have often confessed this: yet 
all makes little impression on me. Pox 
of these speculations! they give me [220 
the spleen; and that is a disease I was 
not bom to. — ^Let me alone, sirrahs, and 
be satisfied: I am, as long as MD and 
Presto are well: 

Little wealth. 
And much health, 
And a life by stealth; 

that is all we want; and so, farewell, 
dearest MD; Stella, Dingley, Presto, all 
together, now and forever all to- [230 
gether. Farewell again and again. 

May 51, 1712. rU say no more to 00 
tonite, sellohs, because I must send away 
the letter, not by the bell, but early: 
and besides, I have not much more to 
say at zis plesent liting. Does MD never 
read at all now, pee? But 00 walk 
plodigiousry, I suppose, — ^You make noth- 
ing of walking to, to, to, ay, to Dony- 
brook. I walk too as much as I can, [240 
because sweating is good; but I'll walk 
more if I go to Kensington. I suppose 
I shall have no apples tliis year neither, 
for I dined t'other day with Lord Rivers, 
who is sick at his coimtry house, and he 
showed me all his cherries blasted. Nite 
deelest sollahs; farewell deelest Rives; 
rove poor Pdfr. Farewell deelest richar 
MD, MD, MD, FW, FW, FW, FW, FW, 
ME, ME, Lde, ME, Lele, Lele, [250 
richar MD. 

Nov. iSy 1712, Before this comes to 
your hands, you will have heard of the 
most terrible accident that hath almost 
ever happened. This morning at eight, 
my man brought me word that Duke of 
Hamilton had fought with Lord Mohun, 
and killed him, and was brought home 
woimded. I immediately sent him to the 
Duke's house, in St. James's Square; [260 
but the porter could hardly answer for 



tears, and a great rabble was about the 
house. In short, they fought at seven 
this morning. The dog Mohun was 
killed on the spot; and while the Diike was 
over him, Mohim shortening his sword, 
stabbed him in at the shoulder to the 
heart. The Duke was helped toward the 
cake-house by. the ring in Hyde Paik 
(where they fought), and died on the [270 
grass, before he could reach the house; 
arid was brought home in his coach by 
eight, while the poor Duchess was asleq). 
Macartney, and one Hamilton, were the 
seconds, who fought likewise, and are 
both fled. I am told, that a footman of 
Lord Mohim's stabbed Duke of Hamil- 
ton; and some say Macartney did so tea 
Mohim gave the affront, and yet sent the 
challenge. I am infinitely concerned [280 
for the poor Duke, who was a frank, 
honest, good-natured man. I loved him 
very well, and I think he loved me better. 
He had the greatest mind in the world 
to have me go with him to France, but 
durst not tell it to me; and those he did, 
said I could not be spared, which was 
true. They have removed the pow 
Duchess to a lodging in the neigUx)r- 
hood, where I have been with her two [290 
hours, and am just come away. I never 
saw so melancholy a scene; for indeed all 
reasons for real grief belong to her; nor 
is it possible for any body to be a greater 
loser in all regards. She has moved my 
very soul. The lodging was inconvenient, 
and they would i^ve removed her to 
another; but I would not suffer it, be- 
cause it had no room backward, and 
she must have been tortured with [300 
the noise of the Grub Street screamers 
mentioning her husband's murder to her 
ears. 

I believe you have heard the story of 
my escape, in opening the ben-box sent 
to Lord-Treasurer. The prints have 
told a thousand lies of it; but at last we 
gave them a true account of it at length, 
printed in the evening; only I woidd not 
suffer them to name me, having been [310 
so often named before, and teased to 
death with questions. I wonder how I 
came to have so much presence of mind, 
which is usually not my talent; but so it 
pleaded God, and I saved myself and him; 



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for there was a bullet apiece. A gentle- 
man told me, that if I had been killed, 
the Whigs would have called it a judg- 
ment, because the barrels were of ink- 
horns, with which I had done them [320 
so much mischief . There was a pure Grub 
Street of it, full of lies and inconsistencies. 
I do not like these things at all, and I 
wish myself more and more among my 
willows. There is a devilish spirit among 
peq[>le, and the ministry must exert them- 
selves, or sink. Nite dee sollahs, I'll 
goseq>. 

Nov. 16. I thought to have finished 
this yesterday, but was too much (330 
disturbed. I sent a letter early this 
morning to Lady Masham, to beg her 
to write some comforting words to the 
poor Duchess. I dined to-day with Lady 
Masham at Kensington. She has prom- 
ised me to get the Queen to write to the 
Duchess kindly on this occasion; and to- 
morrow I wffl b^ Lord-Treasurer to 
visit and comfort her. I have been with 
her two hours again, and find her [340 
worse. Her violences not so frequent, 
but her melancholy more formal and 
settled. She has abimdance of wit and 
s{xrit; about thirty-three years old; hand- 
some and airy, and seldom spared any- 
body that gave her the least provocation; 
by which she had many enemies, and 
few friends. Lady Orkney, her sister-in- 
law, is come to town on this occasion, and 
bdiaved herself with great himian- [350 
ity. They have alwa)rs been very ill to- 
gether, and the poor Duchess could not 
have patience when people told her I 
went often to Lady Orkney's. But I am 
resolved to make them friends; for the 
Duchess is now no more the object of 
envy, and must learn humility from the 
severest master. Affliction. I design to 
make the ministry put out a proclama- 
tion (if it can be found proper) against [360 
that villain Macartney. What shall we 
do with these murderers? I cannot end 
this letter to-ni^t, and there is no occa- 
sion; for I cannot send it till Tuesday, and 
the coroner's inquest on the Duke's body 
is to be to-morrow, and I shall know no 
more. But what care 00 for all this? Iss, 
MD im sorry for poo Pdfr's friends; and 
this is a very surprising event. 'Tis 



late, and I'll go to bed. This looks [370 
like journals. Nite. 

Nov. 18. The committee of coimcil is 
to sit this afternoon upon the affair of 
Duke of Hamilton's murder, and I hope 
a proclamation will be out against Ma- 
cartney. I was just now ('tis now noon) 
with the Duchess, to let her know Lord- 
Treasurer will see her. She is mightily 
out of order. The jury have not vet 
brought in their verdict upon the cor- (380 
oner's inquest. We suspect Macartney 
stabbed the Duke while he was fighting. 
The Queen and Lord-Treasurer are in 
great concern at this event. I dine to-day 
again with Lord-Treasurer; but must 
send this to the post-office brfore, because 
else I shall not have time; he usually 
keeps me so late. 



JOSEPH ADDISON (167i-1719) 

Prom THE CAMPAIGN, A POEM TO 
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARL- 
BOROUGH 

But, O my muse, what nimibers wilt 
thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle joined! 
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous 
soimd 27s 

The victor's shouts and dying groans con- 
found. 
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the 

skies. 
And all the thunder of the battle rise ! 
Twas then great Marlborough's mighty 

soul was proved. 
That, in the shock of charging hosts un- 
moved, 280 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair. 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; 
In peaceful thought the field of death sur- 
veyed. 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid. 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 285 
And taught the doubtful battle where to 

rage. 
So when an angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
Calm and serene he drives the furious 
blast, 290 



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And, pleased the Almighty's orders to 

perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the 

storm. 

HYMN 

The spadovis firmament on high. 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

Th' imwearied Sim from day to day 5 

Does his Creator's power display; 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The Moon takes up the wondrous taJe ; 10 
And nightly to the listening Earth 
Repeats the story of her birth: 
Whilst all the stars that round her bum. 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 15 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 20 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice; 
Forever singing as they shine, 
"The Hand that made us is divine." 



JOSEPH ADDISON (1678-1719) AND 
RICHARD STEELE (1672-1789) 

From THE TATLER 

PROSPECTUS 

No. I. Tuesday, April 12, lyog 

Quicquid agurU homines 

— nostri est farrago libeUu 
Juv. Sat. i, 8s, 86, 
Whatever men do, or say, or think, or dream, 
Our motley paper seizes for its theme. — Pope. 

Though the other papers, which are 
publish«i for the use of the good people of 
England, have certainly very wholesome 
effects, and are laudable in their particular 



kinds, they do not seem to come up to the 
main design of such narrations, which, I 
htunbly presume, should be [nindpally 
intended for the use of poUtic persons, 
who are so public-spirited as to n^^ed 
their own affairs to look into trans- [10 
actions of state. Now these gentlemen, 
for the most part, bdng persons of strong 
zeal, and weak intellects, it is both a 
charitable and necessary work to cR& 
something, whereby such worthy and 
well-affected members of the commcm- 
wealth may be instructed, after then- 
reading, what to think; which shall be 
the end and purpose of this my paper, 
wherein I shall, from time to time, [20 
report and consider all matters of what 
kind soever that shall occur to me, and 
pubUsh such my advices and reflecdois 
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday 
in the week, for the convenience of the 
post. I resolve to have something which 
may be of entertainment to the fair sex, 
in honor of whom I have invented the 
title of this paper. I therefore earnestly 
desire all persons, without distinc- [30 
tion, to take it in for the present graHs, 
and hereafter at the price of one penny, 
forbidding all hawkers to take more for 
it at their peril. And I desire all p^^ons 
to consider, that I am at a very great 
charge for proper materials for this work, 
as well as that, before I resolved upon it, 
I had settled a correspondence in all parts 
of the known and knowing world. And 
forasmuch as this globe is not trodden [40 
upon by mere drudges of business only, 
but that men of ^irit and genius are 
justly to be esteemed as considerable 
agents in it, we shall not, upon a dearth of 
news, present you with musty foreign 
edicts, and dull proclamations, but shall 
divide our relatioq of the passages which 
occur in action or discourse throughout 
this town, as well as elsewhere, imder 
such dates of places as may prepare [50 
you for the matter you are to expect in 
the following manner. 

All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and 
entertainment, shall be under the article 
of White's Chocolate-house; poetry, under 
that of Will's Coffee-house; learning, 
imder the title of Grecian; foreign and 
domestic news, you will have from St 



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James's Coffee-house; and what else 
I have to offer on any other subject [60 
shall be dated from my own Apartment. 

I once more desire my reader to con- 
sider, that as I cannot keep an ingenious 
man to go daily to Will's imder two-pence 
each day, merely for his charges; to 
White's under six-pence; nor to the Gre- 
cian, without allowing him some plain 
Spanish, to be as able as others at the 
learned table; and that a good observer 
cannot speak with even Kidney at [70 
St-^ James's without dean linen; I say, 
these considerations will, I hope, make 
all persons willing to comply with my 
humble request (when my gratis stock is 
exhausted) of a penny apiece; especially 
since they are sure of some proper amuse- 
ment, and that it is impossible for me to 
want means to entertain them, having, 
besides the force of my own parts, the 
power of divination, and that I can, by [80 
casting a figiure, tell you all that will 
happen before it comes to pass. 

But this last faculty I shall use very 
sparingly, and speak but of few things 
until Uiey are passed, for fear of divulg- 
ing matters which may offend our su- 
periors. * * * 

— Steele. 

DUELLING 

No. 25. Tuesday y June 7, lyog. 
Qmcquid agutU homines— 
— nostri est farrago libeUi. 

JuD. Sat. i. 85, 86. 
Whatever men doy or say, or think, or dream. 
Our motley paper seizes for its theme. — Pope. 

White's Chocolate-House, June 6. 
A letter from a yoimg lady, written 
in the most passionate terms, wherein 
she laments the misfortune of a gentle- 
man, her lover, who was lately wounded 
in a duel, has turned my thoughts to 
that subject, and inclined me to examine 
into the causes which precipitate men into 
so fatal a foUy. And as it has been pro- 
posed to treat of subjects of gallantry in 
the article from hence, and no one [10 
point in nature is more proper to be con- 
sidered by the company who frequent 
this place than that of duels, it is worth 



our consideration to examine into this 
chimerical groimdless himior, and to lay 
every other thought aside, until we have 
stripped it of all its false pretences to 
credit and reputation amongst men. 

But I must confess, when I consider 
what I am going about, and nm over in [20 
my imagination all the endless crowd of 
men of honor who will be offended at 
such a discoiu-se, I am undertaking, me- 
thinks, a work worthy an invulnerable 
hero in romance, rather than a private 
gentleman with a single rapier: but as 
I am pretty well acquainted by great 
opportimities with the natiu*e of man, 
and know of a truth that all men fight 
against their will, the danger vanishes, [30 
and resolution rises upon this subject. 
For this reason I shall talk very freely 
on a custom which all men wish exploded, 
though no man has courage enough to 
resist it. 

But there is one unintelligible word, 
which I fear will extremely perplex my 
dissertation, and I must confess to you 
I find very hard to explain, which is 
the term "satisfaction." An honest [40 
country gentleman had the misfortune 
to fall into company with two or three 
modem men of honor, where he hap- 
pened to be very ill-treated; and one of 
the company, being conscious of his 
offense, sends a note to him in the morn- 
ing, and tells him, he was ready to give 
him satisfaction. "This is fine doing," 
says the plain fellow; "last night he sent 
me away cursedly out of hmnor, and [50 
this morning he fancies it would be a 
satisfaction to be nm through the body." 

As the matter at present stands, it is 
not to do handsome actions denominates 
a man of honor; it is enough if he dares 
to defend ill ones. Thus you often see a 
common sharper in competition with a 
gentleman of the first rank; though all 
mankind is convinced that a fighting 
gamester is only a pick-pocket with [60 
the courage of a highwayman. One can- 
not with any patience reflect on the im- 
accountable jtunble of persons and things 
in this town and nation, which occasions 
very frequently that a brave man falls 
by a hand below that of a common hang- 
man, and yet his executioner escapes the 



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clutches of the hangman for doing it. 
I shall therefore hereafter consider, how 
the bravest men in other ages and na- [70 
tions have behaved themselves upon such 
incidents as we decide by combat; and 
show, from their practice, that this re- 
sentment neither has its foundation from 
true reason or solid fame; but is an im- 
posture, made of cowardice, falsehood, 
and want of understanding. For this 
work, a good history of quarrels would 
be very edifying to the public, and I 
apply myself to the town for par- [80 
ticulars and circumstances within their 
knowledge, which may serve to embellish 
the dissertation with proper cuts. Most 
of the quarrels I have ever known, have 
proceeded from some vaUant coxcomb's 
persisting in the wrong, to defend some 
prevailing folly, and preserve himself 
from the ingenuity of owning a mistake. 

By this means it is call^ "giving a 
man satisfaction," to urge your [90 
offense against him with yoxu: sword; 
which puts me in mind of Peter's order to 
the keeper in The Tale of a Tub: "If you 
neglect to do all this, damn you and your 
generation for ever: and so we bid you 
heartily farewell." If the contradiction 
in the very terms of one of our challenges 
were as well explained and turned into 
downright English, would it not run after 
this manner? [100 

"Sir, 

Your extraordinary behavior last m'ght, 
and the liberty you were pleased to take 
with me, makes me this morning give 
you this, to tell you, because you are an 
Ui-bred puppy, I will meet you in Hyde- 
park, an hour hence; and because you want 
both breeding and hiunanity, I desire 
you would come with a pistol in your 
hand, on horseback, and endeavor to [no 
shoot me through the head, to teach you 
more manners. If you fail of doing me 
this pleasure, I shall say, you are a rascal, 
on every post in town: and so, sir, if you 
will not injure me more, I shall never 
forgive what you have done already. 
Pray, sir, do not fail of getting everything 
ready; and you will infinitely oblige, sir, 
your most obedient himible servant, 
etc." * * * [120 

— Steele. 



NED SOFTLY 

No. 163. Tuesday, April 25, 1710, 

Idem inficeto est inficelior rure, 
Sitnul poemata attigU; neque idem unquam 
yEqui est beatus, ac poema cum scribit: 
Tarn gaudet in se, tamque se ipse mircUur. 
Nimirum idem omnes faUimur; neque est 

quisquam 
Quern nan in aliqud re videre Suffenum 

Possis 

Catul. de Suffeno, xx. 14. 
Sujffenus has no more wit than a mere 
clown when he attempts to write verses, and 
yet he is never happier than when he is 
scribbling; so much does he admire himself 
and his compositions. And, indeed, this 
is the foible of every one of us, for there is 
no man living who is not a Suffenus in one 
thing or other. 

Will's Coffee House, April 24. 

1 yesterday came hither about two 
hours before the company generally make 
their ai^>earance, witib a design to read 
over all the newspapers; but, upon my 
sitting down, I was accosted by Ned 
Softly, who saw me from a comer in the 
other end of the room, where I found he 
had been writing something. "Mr. 
Bickerstaff," says he, "I observe by a 
late Paper of yours, that you and I [10 
are just of a humor; for you must know, 
of aU impertinences, there is nothing which 
I so much hate as news. I never read a 
Gazette in my life; and never trouble my 
head about our armies, whetha- they win 
or lose, or in what part of the world they 
lie encamped." Without giving me time 
to reply, he drew a paper of verses out 
of his pocket, telUng me, "that he had 
something which would entertain me [20 
more agreeably; and that he would desire 
my judgment upon every line, for that 
we had time enough before us until the 
company came in." 

Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a 
great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his 
favorite: and as that admirable writer 
has the best and worst verses of any among 
our great English poets, Ned Softly has 
got all the bad ones without book; [30 
which he repeats upon occasicm, to show 



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his reading, and garnish his conversation. 
Med is indeed a true English reader, in- 
capable of reb'shing the great and mas- 
terly strokes of this art; but wonderfully 
pleased with the little Gothic ornaments 
of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, 
and quibbles, which are so frequent in the 
most admired of our English poets, and 
practised by those who want genius [40 
and strength to represent, after the man- 
ner of the ancients, simplicity in its nat- 
ural beauty and perfection. 

Finding myself imavoidably engaged 
in such a conversation, I was resolved to 
turn my pain into a pleasure, and to di- 
vert myself as well as I could with so very 
odd a fellow. "You must understand," 
says Ned, "that the sonnet I am going 
to read to you was written upon a [50 
lady, who showed me some verses of her 
own making, and is, perhaps, the best 
poet of our age. But you shall hear it." 

Upon whidb he b^gan to read as follows: 

To MntA ON Her Incomparable Poems. 

When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine. 
And tune your soft melodious notes. 

You seem a sister of the Nine, 
Or Phcebus* self in petticoats. 

I fancy, when your song you sing, [60 

(Your song you sing with so much art) 

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing; 
For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. 

"Why," says I, "this is a little nos^ay 
of conceits, a very limip of salt : every verse 
has something in it that piques; and then 
the dart in die last line is certainly as 
pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram, 
for so I think you critics call it, as ever 
entered into the thought of a poet." [70 
"Dear Mr. BickerstafiF," says he, shaking 
me by the hand, "everybody knows you 
to be a judge of these things; and to tell 
you truly, I read over Rosconunon's 
translation of 'Horace's Art of Poetry' 
three several times, before I sat down to 
write the sonnet which I have shown you. 
But you diall hear it again, and pray 
observe every line of it; for not one of 
them shall pass without your approba- [80 
tioiL 



When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine. 

"That is," says he, "when you have 
your garland on; when you are writing 
verses." To which I replied, "I know 
your meaning: a metaphor!" "The 
same," said he, and went on: 

" And tune your soft melodious notes. 

"Pray observe the gliding of that verse; 
there is scarce a consonant in it: I [go 
took care to make it run upon liquids. 
Give me your opinion of it." "Tnxly," 
said I, "I think it as good as the former." 
"I am very glad to hear you say so," 
says he; "but mind the next: 

You seem a sister of the Nine. 

"That is," says he, "you seem a sister 
of the Muses; for, if you look into ancient 
authors, you will find it was their opinion 
that there were nine of them." "I [100 
remember it very well," said I; "but pray 
proceed." 

" Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. 

"Phoebus," says he, "was the god of 
poetry. These little instances, Mr. Bick- 
erstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then, 
to take oflF from the air of learning, which 
Phoebus and the Muses had given to this 
first stanza, you may observe, how it 
falls all of a sudden into the familiar; [no 
'in Petticoats'! 

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats." 

"Let us now," says I, "enter upon the 
second stanza; I find the first line is still a 
continuation of the metaphor: 

I fancy, when your song you sing." 

"It is very right," says he, "but pray 
observe the turn of words in those two 
lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting 
of them, and have still a doubt upon [120 
me, whether in the second line it should 
be *Your song you sing;' or, 'You sing 
your song.' You shall hear them both: 

I fancy, when your song you sing, 
(Your song you sing with so mudi art) 

or 
I fancy, when your song you sing, 

(You sing your song with so much art.) " 

"Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural 
either way, that you have made me [130 



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almost giddy with it." "Dear sir," said 
he, grasping me by the hand, "you have 
a great deal of patience; but pray what do 
you think of the next verse? 

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing." 

"ThmkI" says I; "I think you have 
made Cupid look like a little goose." 
"That was my meaning," says he: "I 
think the ridicule is well enough hit off. 
But we come now to the last, which [140 
sums up the whole matter: 

For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. 

"Pray, how do you like that Ah! doth 
it not make a pretty figure in that place? 

Ah! ^it looks as if I felt the dart, and 

cried out as being pricked with it! 

For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. 

"My friend Dick Easy," continued he, 
" assured me, he would rather have written 
that Ah! than to have been the au- [150 
thor of the iEneid. He indeed objected, 
that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of 
the lines, and like a dart in the other. But 

as to that " "Oh! as to that," says I, 

"it is but supposing Cupid to be like a 
porcupine, and his quills and darts will be 
the same thing." He was going to em- 
brace me for the hint; but half a dozen 
critics coming into the room, whose faces 
he did not like, he conveyed the son- [160 
net into his pocket, and whispered me in 
the ear, "he would show it me again as 
soon as his man had written it over fair." 

—Addison. 



FROZEN WORDS 

No. 2S4- Thursday f November 23, 1710, 

Splendidi mendax . 

Hot. 2 Od. Hi. 35. 

Gloriously false . 

Francis. 

My Own Apartment, November 22, 
There are no books which I more delight 
in than in travels, especially those that 
describe remote countries, and give the 
writer an opportunity of showing his 
parts without incurring any danger of 



being examined or contradicted. Among 
all the authors of this kind, our renowned 
countryman. Sir John Mandeville, has 
distinguished himself by the copiousness 
of his invention and the greatness of [10 
his genius. The second to Sir John I take 
to have been Ferdinand Mendez Pinto, 
a person of infinite adventure, and un- 
bounded imagination. One reads the 
voyages of these two great wits, with as 
much astonishment as the travels of Ulys- 
ses in Homer, or of the Red-Cross Knight 
in Spenser. All is enchanted ground, and 
fairyland. 

I have got into my hands, by great [20 
chance, several manuscripts of these two 
eminent authors, which are filled with 
greater wonders than any of those they 
have conmiimicated to the public; and 
indeed, were they not so well attested, they 
would appear altogether improbable. I 
am apt to think the ingenious authors did 
not pubUsh them with the rest of their 
works, lest they should pass for fictions 
and fables: a caution not imnecessary, [30 
when the reputation of their veradty was 
not yet established in the world. But as 
this reason has now no farther weight, I 
shall make the public a present of these 
curious pieces, at such times as I shall 
find myself unprovided with other sub- 
jects. 

The present paper I intend to fill with 
an extract from Sir John's Journal, in 
which that learned and worthy knight [40 
gives an account of the freezing aini 
thawing of several short speeches, which 
he made in the territories of Nova ZemUa. 
I need not inform my reader, that the 
author of "Hudibras" alludes to this 
strange quality in that cold climate, 
when, speaking of abstracts! notions 
dothed in a visible shape, he adds that 
apt simile, 

"Like words congealed in northern air." $0 

Not to keep my reader any longer in sus- 
pense, the relation put into modem lan- 
guage, is as follows: 

"We were separated by a storm in the 
latitude of seventv-three, insomuch, that 
only the ship which I was in, with a Dutdi 
and French vessel, got safe into a cmk 



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of Nova Zembla. We landed, in order 
to refit our vessels, and store ourselves 
i¥ith provisions. The crew of each ves- [60 
sd made themselves a cabin of turf and 
woody at some distance from each other, 
to fence themselves against the inclemen- 
cies of the weather, which was severe 
beyond imagination. We soon observed, 
that in talking to one another we lost 
several of our words, and could not hear 
one another at above two yards distance, 
and that too when we sat very near the 
fire. After much perplexity, I found [70 
that our words froze in the air, before 
they could reach the ears of the persons 
to whom they were spoken. I was soon 
confirmed in this conjecture, when, upon 
the increase of the cold, the whole com- 
pany grew dumb, or rather deaf; for 
every man was sensible, as we afterwards 
found, that he spoke as well as ever; but 
the sounds no sooner took air than they 
were condensed and lost. It was now [80 
a miserable spectacle to see us nodding 
and gaping at one another, every man 
talking, and no man heard. One might 
observe a seaman that could hail a ship 
at a league's distance, beckoning with 
his hand, straining his lungs, and tearing 
his throat; but all in vain: 

" Nee vox nee verba sequunhir, 

Ovid, Met. xi. 326. 
"Nor voice, nor words ensued. 

"We continued here three weeks [90 
in this dismal plight. At length, upon a 
turn of wind, the air about us began to 
thaw. Our cabin was immediately filled 
with a dry clattering sound, which I 
afterwards found to be the crackling of 
consonants that broke above our heads, 
and were often mixed with a gentle hiss- 
ing, which I imputed to the letter 5, that 
occurs so frequently in the Enghsh tongue. 
I soon after felt a breeze of whispers [100 
rushing by my ear; for those, being of a 
soft and gentle substance, immediately 
liquefied in the warm wind that blew 
across our cabin. These were soon fol- 
lowed by syllables and short words, and 
at length by entire sentences, that melted 
sooner or later, as they were more or less 
congealed; so that we now heard every 



thing that had been spoken during the 
whole three weeks that we had been [no 
siletUy if I may use that expression. It 
was now very early in the morning, and 
yet, to my surprise, I heard somebody 
say, 'Sir John, it is midnight, and time 
for the ship's crew to gq to bed.' This 
I knew to be the pilot's voice; and, upon 
recollecting myself, I concluded that he 
had spoken these words to me some days 
before, though I could not hear them 
until the present thaw. My reader [120 
will easily imagine how the whole crew was 
amazed to hear every man talking, and 
see no man opening his mouth. In the 
midst of this great surprise we were all 
in, we heard a volley of oaths and curses, 
lasting for a long while, and uttered in a 
very hoarse voice, which I knew belonged 
to the boatswain, who was a very choleric 
fellow, and had taken his opportunity of 
cursing and swearing at me, when he [130 
thought I could not hear him; for I had 
several times given him the strappado on 
that account, as I did not fail to repeat 
it for these his pious soliloquies, when 
I got him on shipboard. 

"I must not omit the names of several 
beauties in Wapping, which were heard 
every now and then, in the midst of a 
long sigh that accompam'ed them; as, 
'Dear Kate!' 'Pretty Mrs. P^gyl' [140 
'When shall I see my Sue again!' This 
betrayed several amours whidi had been 
concealed until that time, and furnished 
us with a great deal of mirth in our return 
to England. 

"When this confusion of voices was 
pretty well over, though I was afraid to 
ofifer at speaking, as fearing I should 
not be heard, I proposed a visit to the 
Dutch cabin, which lay about a mile [150 
farther up in the country. My crew were 
extremely rejoiced to find they had again 
recovered their hearing; though every 
man uttered his voice with the same 
apprehensions that I had done. 



" Et timide verba irUermissa retenlat. 

Ovm, Met. i. 746, 
'*And tried his tongue, his silence softly 
broke. 

"At about half-a-mile's distance from 
I our cabin we heard the groanings of a bear, 



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which at first startled us; but, upon [160 
enquiry, we were informed by some of 
our company, that he was dead, and now 
lay in salt, having been killed upon that 
very spot about a fortnight before, in the 
time of the frost. Not far from the 
same place, we jwrere likewise entertained 
with some posthumous snarls and barkings 
of a fox. 

"We at length arrived at the little 
Dutch settlement; and, upon entering [170 
the room, found it filled with sighs that 
smelt of brandy, and several other un- 
savory sounds, that were altogether in- 
articulate. My valet, who was an Irish- 
man, fell into so great a rage at what he 
heard, that he drew his sword; but not 
knowing where to lay the blame, he put 
it up again. We were stimned with these 
confused noises, but did not hear a single 
word until about half-an-hour after; [180 
which I ascribed to the harsh and ob- 
durate sounds of that language, which 
wanted more time than ours to melt, and 
become audible. 

"After having here met with a very 
hearty welcome, we went to the cabin of 
the French, who, to make amends for 
their three weeks' silence, were talking 
and disputing with greater rapidity and 
confusion than I ever heard in an [190 
assembly, even of that nation. Their 
language, as I found, upon the first giving 
of Uie weather, fell asunder and dissolved. 
I was here convinced of an error, into 
which I had before fallen; for I fancied, 
that for the freezing of the sound, it was 
necessary for it to be wrapf>ed up, and, 
as it were, preserved in breath: but 
I found my mistake when I heard the 
soimd of a kit plajring a minuet over [200 
our heads. I asked the occasion of it ; upon 
which one of the company told me Uiat 
it would play there above a week longer; 
*for,' says he, 'finding ourselves bereft of 
speech, we prevailed upon one of the com- 
pany, who had his musical instrument 
about him, to play to us from morning 
to night; all whidi time was employed 
in dancing in order to dissipate our 
chagrin, and tuer le temps,^** [210 

Here Sir John gives very good philosoph- 
ical reasons, why the kit could not be 
heard during the frost; but, as they are 



something prolix, I pass them over in 
silence, and shall only observe, that the 
honorable author seems, by his quota- 
tions, to have been well versed in the 
andent poets, which perhaps raised his 
fancy above the ordinary pitch of histo- 
rians, and very much contributed to [220 
the embellishment of his writings. 

—Addison. 



From THE SPECTATOR 
MR. SPECTATOR 

No. I. Thursday, March i, 1711, 

Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare 

lucem 
Cogitai, id spedosa dekinc miracula promai, 
Hor. Ars Pod, 143. 

One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; 
Another out of smoke brings glorious light, 
And, wiihout raising expectation high. 
Surprises us with dazzling miracles. 

— ^ROSCX)MMON. 

I have observed that a reader seldom 
peruses a book with pleasure, till he 
knows whether the writer of it be a black 
or a fair man, of a mild or choleric dis- 
position, married or a bachelor, with 
other particulars of the like nature, that 
conduce very much to the right under- 
standing of an author. To gratify this 
curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, 
I design this paper, and my next, [10 
as prefatory discourses to my following 
writing, and shall give some account in 
them of the several persons that are en- 
gaged in this work. As the chief trouble 
of compiling, digesting, and correcting 
will fall to my ^are, I must do myself 
the justice to open the work with my 
own history. 

I was bom to a small hereditary es- 
tate, which, according to the tradition [20 
of the village where it lies, was bounded 
by the same hedges and ditches in Wil- 
liam the Conqueror's time that it is at 
present, and has been delivered down 
from father to son whole and entire, 
without the loss or acquisition of a single 
field or meadow, during the space of six 
himdred years. There runs a story in 



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the family that when my mother was 
gixie with child of me about three [30 
months, she dreamt that she was brought 
to bed of a judge. Whether this might 
proceed from a law-suit which was then 
depending in the family,. or my father's 
bang a justice of the peace, I cannot de- 
termine; for I am not so vain as to think 
it presaged any dignity that I should 
arrive at in my future life, though that 
was the interpretation which the neigh- 
borhood put upon it. The gravity of [40 
my behavior at my very first appearance 
in the world seemed to favor my mother's 
droim; for, as she often told me, I threw 
away my rattle before I was two months 
old, and would not make use of my coral 
until they had taken away the bells from 
it 

As for the rest of my infancy, there 
being nothing in it remarkable, I shall 
pass it over in silence. I find that [50 
during my nonage I had the reputation 
of a very sullen youth, but was always a 
favorite of my schoolmaster, who used 
to say, that my parts were solid, and 
would wear well. I had not been long 
at the imiversity, before I distinguished 
mysdf by a most profound silence; for, 
during the space of eight years, excepting 
in the public exercises of the college, 
I scarce uttered the quantity of a [60 
hundred words; and indeed do not re- 
member that I ever spoke three sentences 
together in my whole life. Whilst I was 
in this learned body, I applied m3rself 
with so much diligence to my studies, 
that there are very few celebrated books, 
either in the learned or the modem tongues, 
whidi I am not acquainted with. 

Upon the death of my father, I was 
resolved to travel into foreign coun- [70 
tries, and therefore left the university, 
with the character of an odd imaccount- 
able fellow, that had a great deal of learn- 
ing, if I would but show it. An insatiable 
tlmst after knowledge carried me into 
all the coimtries of E\ux)pe, in which there 
was anything new or strange to be seen; 
nay, to such a degree was my curiosity 
rawed, that having read the controversies 
of some great men concerning the an- [80 
tiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to 
Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the 



measure of a pyramid; and as soon as I 
had set myself right in that particular, 
returned to my native country with great 
satisfaction. 

I have passed my latter years in this 
dty, where I am frequently seen in most 
public places, though there are not above 
half a dozen of my select friends that [90 
know me; of whom my next paper shall 
give a more particular account. There 
is no place of general resort, wherein 
I do not often make my appearance; 
sometimes I am seen thrusting my head 
into a round of politicians at Will's, and 
listening with great attention to the nar- 
ratives that are made in those little cir- 
cular audiences. Sometimes I smoke a 
pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem at- [100 
tentive to nothing but the Postman, 
overhear the conversation of every table 
in the room. I appear on Sunday nights 
at St. James's coffee-house, and some- 
times join the little committee of politics 
in the inner room, as one who comes there 
to hear and improve. My face is likewise 
very well known at the Grecian, the 
Cocoa-tree, and in the theaters both of 
Drury-Lane and the Hay-market. I [no 
have been taken for a merchant upon 
the Exchange for above these ten years, 
and sometimes pass for a Jew in the as- 
sembly of stodc-jobbers at Jonathan's. 
In short, wherever I see a duster of people, 
I always mix with them, though I never 
open my lips but in my own dub. 

Thus I live in the world rather as a 
Spectator of mankind, than as one of the 
spedes, by which means I have made [120 
myself a speculative statesman, soldier, 
merchant, and artisan, without ever med- 
dling with any practical part in life. I 
am very well versed in the theory of a 
husband or a father, and can discern the 
errors in the economy, business, and di- 
version of others, better than those who 
are engaged in them; as standers-by dis- 
cover blots which are apt to escape those 
who are in the game. I never espoused [130 
any party with violence, and am resolved 
to observe an exact neutrality between 
the Whigs and Tories,^ unless I shall 
be forced to dedare myself by the hos- 
tilities of dther side. In short, I have 
acted in all the parts of my life as a looker- 



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on, which is the character I intend to 
preserve in this paper. 

I have given the reader just so much 
of my history and character, as to let [140 
him see I am not altogether unqualified 
for the business I have undertaken. As 
for other particulars in my life and adven- 
tures, I shall insert them in following 
papers, as I shall see occasion. In the 
meantime, when I consider how much I 
have seen, read, and heard, I begin to 
blame my own taciturnity; and since I 
have neither time nor inclination, to com- 
municate the fulness of my heart in [150 
speech, I am resolved to do it in writ- 
ing, and to print m)rself out, if possible, 
before I die. I have been often told by 
my friends, that it is a pity so many 
useful discoveries which I have made 
should be in the possession of a silent 
man. For this reason, therefore, I shall 
publish a sheet-full of thoughts every 
morning, for the benefit of my contempo- 
raries; and if I can any way contrib- [160 
ute to the diversion or improvement of 
the country in which I live, I shall leave 
it when I am simmioned out of it, with 
the secret satisfaction of thinking that 
I have not lived in vain. 

There are three very material points 
which I have not spoken to in this paper; 
and whidi, for several important rea- 
sons, I must keep to myself, at least for 
some time: I mean, an accoimt of [170 
my name, my age, and my lodgings. I 
must confess, I would gratify my reader 
in anything that is reasonable; but as for 
these three particulars, though I am sen- 
sible they might tend very much to the 
embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet 
come to a resolution of conunimicating 
them to the public. They would indeed 
draw me out of that obscurity which I 
have enjoyed for many years, and ex- [180 
pose me in public places to several salutes 
and civilities, which have been alwa}^ very 
disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain 
I can suffer, is the being talked to, and 
being stared at. It is for this reason like- 
wise, that I keep my complexion and 
dress as very great secrets; though it is 
not impossible but I may make discover- 
ies of both in the progress of the work 
I have undertaken. [190 



After having been thus particular upon 
myself, I shall, in to-morrow's paper, 
give an accoimt of those gentlemen who 
are concerned with me in this work; for, 
as I have before intimated, a plan of it 
is laid and concerted, as all other mattCTS 
of importance are, in a club. However, 
as my friends have engaged me to stand 
in the front, those who have a mind to 
correspond with me may direct their [200 
letters to the Spectator, at Mr. Buck- 
ley's, in Little Britain. For I must further 
acquaint the reader, that, though our 
club meets only on Tuesdays and Thurs- 
days, we have appointed a conunittee to 
sit every night, for the inspection of all 
such papers as may contribute to the 
advancement of the public weal. 

— ^Addison. 

THE CLUB 

No, 2. Friday J March 2, 1711. 

— Ast dii sex 
Et plures una conclatnani ore. 

— Juv. Sat, rdi, 167, 
Six more at least join their consenting voice. 

The first of our society is a gentleman 
of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a 
baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. 
His great grandfather was inventor of 
that famous country-dance which is called 
after him. All who know that shire are 
very well acquainted with the parts and 
merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman 
that is very singular in his behavior, but 
his singularities proceed from his [10 
good sense, and are contradictions to the 
manners of the world, only as he thinks 
the world is in the wrong. However, this 
humor creates him no enemies, for he 
does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; 
and his being unconfined to modes and 
forms, makes him but the readier and more 
capable to please and oblige all who know 
him. When he is in town, he lives in 
Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself [20 
a bachelor, by reason he was crossed in 
love by a perverse beautiful widow of the 
next county to him. Before this disap- 
pointment. Sir Roger was what you call 
a fine gentleman, had often supped with 



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my Lord Rochester and Sir George Eth- 
erege, fought a duel upon his first coming 
to town, and kicked Bully Dawson in 
a public co£fee house for calling him 
youngster. But being ill used by Uie [30 
above mentioned widow, he was very 
serious for a year and a half; and though, 
his temper being naturally jovial, he at 
last got over it, he grew careless of himself, 
and never dressed afterwards. He con- 
tinues to wear a coat and doublet of the 
same cut that were in fashion at the time 
of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, 
he tells us, has been in and out twelve 
times since he first wore it. It is said [40 
Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after 
he had forgot his cruel beauty, inasmuch 
that it is reported he has frequently of- 
fended in point of chastity with beggars 
and gypsies; but this is looked upon, by 
his friends, rather as matter of raillery 
than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth 
year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a 
good house both in town and country; 
a great lover of mankind; but there is [50 
such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that 
he is rather beloved than esteemed. 

His tenants grow rich, his servants look 
satisfied, all the young women profess love 
to him, and the young men are glad of his 
company. When he comes into a house, he 
calls the servants by their names, and 
talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I 
must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice 
of the quorum; that he fills the chair [60 
at a quarter-session with great abilities, 
and three months ago, gained universal 
ai^lause, by explaining a passage in the 
game-act. 

The gentleman next in esteem and 
authority among us, is another bachelor, 
who is a member of the Inner Temple; 
a man of great probity, wit, and under- 
standing; but he has chosen his place of 
residence rather to obey the direction [70 
of an old himiorsome father, than in pur- 
suit of his own inclinations. He was 
I^aced there to study the laws of the land, 
and is the most learned of any of the house 
in those of the stage. Aristotle and 
Longinus are much better understood by 
him than Littleton or Coke. The father 
sends up every post questions relating to 
naarriage articles, leases, and tenures, in 



the neighborhood; all which questions [80 
he agrees with an attorney to answer and 
take care of in the lump. He is studying 
the passions themselves, when he should 
be inquiring into the debates among men 
which arise from them. He knows the 
argument of each of the orations of Demos- 
thenes and Tully; but not one case in 
the reports of our own courts. No one 
ever took him for a fool, but none, ex- 
cept his intimate friends, know he has [90 
a great deal of wit. This turn makes 
him at once both disinterested and agree- 
able. As few of his thoughts are drawn 
from business, they are most of them fit 
for conversation. His taste of books is 
a little too just for the age he lives in; 
he has read all, but approves of very few. 
His familiarity with the customs, man- 
ners, actions, and writings of the an- 
cients, makes him a very delicate ob- [100 
server of what occurs to him in the pres- 
ent world. He is an excellent critic, and 
the time of the play is his hour of busi- 
ness; exactly at five he passes through 
New Inn, crosses through Russell court, 
and takes a turn at WUl's, till the play 
begins; he has his shoes rubbed, and his 
periwig powdered, at the barber's as you 
go into the Rose. It is for the good of the 
audience when h^ is at a play; for [no 
the actors have an ambition to please him. 
The person of next consideration is Sir 
Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great 
eminence in the city of London. A person 
of indefatigable industry, strong reason, 
and great experience. His notions of 
trade are noble and generous, and, as 
every rich man has usually some sly 
way of jesting, which would make no great 
figure were he not a rich man, he [120 
calls the sea the British Common. He 
is acquainted with commerce in all its 
parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid 
and barbarous way to extend dominion 
by arms; for true power is to be got by 
arts and industry. He will often argue 
that if this part of our trade were well 
cultivated, we should gain from one na- 
tion; — and if another, from another. I 
have heard him prove, that diligence [130 
makes more lasting acquisitions than 
valor, and that sloth has mined more 
nations than the sword. He abounds in 



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several frugal maxims, amongst which 
the greatest favorite is, "A penny saved 
is a penny got." A general tiuder of 
good sense is pleasanter company than 
a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having 
a natural unaffected eloquence, the per- 
spicuity of his discourse gives the [140 
same pleasure that wit would in another 
man. He has made his fortunes himself; 
and says that England may be richer 
than odier kingdoms, by as plain methods 
as he himself is richer than other men; 
though at the same time I can say this of 
him, that there is not a point in the com- 
pass but blows home a ship in which he 
is an owner. 

Next to Sir Andrew in the dub-room [150 
sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great 
courage,' good understanding, but in- 
vincible modesty. He is one of those 
that deserve very well, but are very awk- 
ward at putting their talents within the 
observation of such as should take notice 
of them. He was some years a captain, 
and behaved himself with great gallantry 
in several engagements and at several 
sieges; but having a small estate of [160 
his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, 
he has quitted a way of life, in which 
no man can rise suitably to his merit, 
who is not something of a courtier as well 
as a soldier. I have heard him often 
lament, that in a profession where merit 
is placed in so conspicuous a view, im- 
pudence should get the better of modesty. 
When he has talked to this purpose, I 
never heard him make a sour expres- [170 
sion, but frankly confess that he left the 
world, because he was not fit for it. A 
strict honesty and an even regular be- 
havior are in themselves obstacles to 
him that must press through crowds who 
endeavor at the same end with himself, 
the favor of a commander. He will, how- 
ever, in his way of talk, excuse generals 
for not disposing according to men's de- 
sert, or inquiring into it: for, says he, [180 
that great man who has a mind to help 
me, has as many to break through to 
come at me, as I have to come at him: 
therefore, he will conclude, that the man 
who would make a figure, especially in a 
military way, must get over all false 
modesty, and assist his patron against 



the importimity of other pretenders, by 
a proper assurance in his own vindication. 
He says it is a dvil cowardice to [190 
be backward in asserting what you ou^t 
to expect, as it is a nulitary fear to be 
slow in attacking when it is your duty. 
With this candor does the gentleman 
speak of himself and others. The same 
frankness runs through all his conversa- 
tion. The military part of his life has 
furnished him with many adventures, in 
the relation of which he is very agreeable 
to the company; for he is never [200 
over-bearing, though accustomed to com- 
mand men in the utmost d^ree bdow 
him; nor ever too obsequious, from an 
habit of obeying men highly above him. 
But, that our sodety may not appear 
a set of humorists, unacquainted wilii the 
gallantries and pleasures of the age, we 
have amongst us the gallant Will Honey- 
comb, a gentleman who, according to lus 
years, should be in the decline of his [210 
life, but, having ever been very careful 
of his person, and always had a very easy 
fortune, time has made but a very little 
impression, dther by wrinkles on his 
forehead, or traces on his brain. His 
person is weU turned, of a good hd^t 
He is very ready at that sort of discourse 
with whidi men usually entertain wom^i. 
He has all his life dressed very well, and 
remembers habits as others do men. [220 
He can smile when one speaks to him, and 
laughs easily. He knows the history of 
every mode, and can inform you from 
which of the French king's wenches our 
wives and daughters had this manner <rf 
curling their ^ur, that way of placing 
their hoods; whose frailty was covo'ed 
by such a sort of petticoat, and vrho&t 
vanity to show her foot made that part 
of the dress so short in such a year. [230 
In a word, all his conversation and knowl- 
edge have been in the female world. 
As other men of his age will take notice 
to you what such a minister said upon 
such and such an occasion, he will tdl 
you, when the Duke of Monmouth 
danced at court, such a woman was then 
smitten, another was taken with him at 
the head of his troop in the PariL. In all 
these important relations, he has ever [240 
about the same time recdved a kiiul 



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glance or a blow of a fan from some 
cdebrated beauty, mother of the present 
Lord Such-a-one. ♦ ♦ ♦ This way of 
talking of his very much enlivens the 
conversation among us of a more sedate 
turn; and I find there is not one of the 
company, but m)rself, who rarely speak 
at all, but speaks of him as of that sort 
of man who is usually called a well- [250 
bred fine gentleman. To conclude his 
character, where women are not con- 
cerned, he is an honest worthy man. 

I cannot tell whether I am to account 
him whom I am next to speak of, as one of 
our company; for he visits us but seldom, 
but when he does, it adds to every man 
dse a new enjoyment of himself. He is 
a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of 
general learning, great sanctity of life, [260 
and the most exact good breeding. He 
has the misfortune to be of a very weak 
constitution; and consequently cannot 
accept of such cares and business as pre- 
ferments in his function would obUge 
him to; he is therefore among divines 
what a chamber-councillor is among 
lawyers. The probity of his mind, and 
the integrity of his fife, create him fol- 
lowers, as being eloquent or loud ad- [270 
vances others. He seldom introduces the 
subject he ^)eaks upon; but we are so 
far gone in years that he observes, when 
he is among us, an earnestness to have 
him fall on some divine topic, which he 
alwa3rs treats with much authority, as 
one who has no interest in this world, as 
one who is hastening to the object of all 
his wishes, and conceives hope from his 
deca3rs and infirmities. These are my [280 
ordinary companions. 

— Steele. 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
No. 26. Friday y March 30, 171 1, 

Pallida mars (squo pulsai pede pauperum 
tabemas 
Regumque htrres, O heate Sexii! 
Vikt summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare 
longam. 
Jam U premei nox, fabulaeque manes , 
El damns exilis PluUmia. 

Hot, Od. i, 4, 13, 



With equal foot, rich friend, impartial 

Fate 
Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate: 
Life*s span forbids thee to extend thy cares, 
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years: 
Night soon wUl seize, and you must quickly 

go 
To storied ghosts, and Pluto's house below. 

— Ckeech. 

When I am in a serious humor, I very 
often walk by myself in Westminster 
Abbey; where the gloominess of the 
place, and the use to which it is applied, 
with the solemnity of the building, and 
the condition of the people who lie in it, 
are apt to fill the mind with a kind of 
melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, 
that is not disagreeable. I yesterday 
passed a whole afternoon in the church- [10 
yard, the doisters, and the church, amus- 
ing myself with the tombstones and 
inscriptions that I met with in those 
several regions of the dead. Most of 
them recorded nothing else of the "buried 
person, but that he was bom upon one 
day, and died upon another; the whole 
history of his life being comprehended in 
those two circumstances that are com- 
mon to all mankind. I could not but [20 
look upon these registers of existence, 
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of 
satire upon the departed persons; who 
had left no other memorial of them, but 
that they were bom, and that they died. 
They put me in mind of several persons 
mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, 
who have sounding names given them, for 
no other reason but that they may be 
killed, and are celebrated for nothing [30 
but being knocked on the head. 

TXavK6y T€ McSovra T€ ^patXoxov T€. H<Mn. 
Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochum- 
que. Virg. 

The life of these men is finely described 
in holy writ by "the path of an arrow," 
which is immediately closed up and lost^ 
Upon my going into the church, I en- 
tertained myself with the digging of a 
grave; and saw in every shovd-fuU of [40 
it that was thrown up, the fragment of 
a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of 



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fresh mouldering earth, that some time 
or other had a place in the composition 
of a human body. Upon this I began 
to consider with myself what innmner- 
able multitudes of people lay confused 
together under the pavement of that an- 
cient cathedral; how men and women, 
friends and enemies, priests and sol- [50 
diers, monks and prebendaries, were 
crumbled amongst one another, and 
blended together in the same common 
mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, 
with old-age, weakness, and deformity, lay 
undistinguished in the same promiscuous 
heap of matter. 

After having thus siu^eyed this great 
magazine of mortality, as it were in the 
limip, I examined it more particularly [60 
by the accounts which I found on several 
of the monuments which are raised in 
every quarter oi that ancient fabric. 
Some of them were covered with such ex- 
travagant epitaphs, that if it were possible 
for the dead person to be acquainted 
with them, he would blush at the praises 
which his friends have bestowed upon 
him. There are others so excessively 
modest, that they deliver the charac- [70 
ter of the person departed in Greek or 
Hebrew, and by that means are not un- 
derstood once in a twelvemonth. In the 
poetical quarter, I found there were 
poets who had no monmnents, and mon- 
uments which had no poets. I observed 
indeed that the present war had filled the 
church with many of these uninhabited 
monuments, which had been erected to 
the memory of persons whose bodies [80 
were perhaps buried in the plains of 
Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted 
with several modem epitaphs, which are 
written with great elegance of expres- 
sion and justness of thought, and there- 
fore do honor to the living as well as 
to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt 
to conceive an idea of flie ignorance or 
politeness of a nation from the turn of [90 
their public monuments and inscriptions, 
they should be submitted to the perusal 
of men of learning and genius, before 
they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesley 
Shovel's monmnent has very often given 
me great offense. Instead of the brave 



rough English admiral, which was the 
distinguishing character of that plain 
gallant man, he is represented on his 
tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed [100 
in a long periwig, and reposing himself 
upon velvet cushions under a canopy of 
state. The inscription is answerable to 
the monument; for instead of cdd^rating 
the many remarkable actions he had 
performed in the service of his country, 
it acquaints us only with the manner of 
his death,' in which it was impossible for 
him to reap any honor. The Dutch, 
whom we are apt to despise for want [no 
of genius, show an infinitely greater taste 
of antiquity and poUteness in their build- 
ings and works of this nature, than what 
we meet with in those of our own coun- 
try. The monuments of their admirals, 
which have been erected at the public 
expense, represent them Hke themselves; 
and are adorned with rostral crowns and 
naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons 
of sea-weed, shells, and coral. [120 

But to return to our subject. I have 
left the repository of our English kings 
for the contemplation of another day, 
when I shall find my mind disposed for 
so serious an amusement. I know that 
entertainments of this nature are apt to 
raise dark and dismal thoughts in timo- 
rous minds, and gloomy imaginations; 
but for my own part, though I am always 
serious, I do not know w^t it is to [130 
be melancholy; and can therefore take 
a view of nature in her deep and solemn 
scenes, with the same pleasure as in her 
most gay and delightful ones. By this 
means I can improve myself with those 
objects, which others consider with ter- 
ror. When I look upon the tombs of the 
great, every emotion of envy dies in me; 
when I read the epitaphs of the beauti- 
ful, every inordinate desire goes out; [140 
when I meet with the grief of parents 
upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with 
compassion; when I see the tomb of 
the parents themselves, I consider the 
vanity of grieving for those whom we 
must quickly follow. When I see kings 
lying by those who deposed them, when 
I consider rival wits placed side by side, 
or the holy men that divided the world 
with their contests and disputes, I [150 



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reflect with sorrow and astonishment on 
the little competitions, factions, and 
itbaXes of mankind. When I read the 
several dates of the tombs, of some that 
died yesterday, and some six hundred 
years ago, I consider that great day when 
we shdl all of us be contemporaries, 
and make our appearance together. 

— ^Addison. 



SIR ROGER AT CHURCH 

No. 112, Monday, July p, 1711. 

'AAimrov9 fUv irpSna $€oiSy vofup o>s Suucarot 
Tifi^.— Pythag. 

First, in obedience to thy country^ s rites , 
Worship the immortal gods, 

I am always very well pleased with a 
country Sunday, and think, if keeping 
hdy the seventh day were only a hiunan 
institution, it would be the best method 
that could have been thought of for the 
polishing and civilizing of mankind. It 
is certain the country people woiJd soon 
degenerate into a kind of savages and 
barbarians, were there not such frequent 
returns of a stated time in which the [10 
whde village meet- together with their 
best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, 
to converse with one another upon indif- 
ferent subjects, hear their duties ex- 
plamed to them, and join together in 
adoration of the Supreme Being. Sun- 
day dears away the rust of the whole 
week, not only as it refreshes in their 
minds the notions of religion, but as it 
puts both the sexes upon appearing in [20 
their nK>st agreeable forms, and exerting 
all such qualities as are apt to give them 
a figure in the eye of the village. A coun- 
try fellow distinguishes himself as much 
in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon 
the Change, the whole parish-politics be- 
ing goierally discussed in that place 
either after sermon or before the bell 
rings. 

My friend Sir Roger, being a good [30 
(^urdunan, has beautified the inside of 
his church with several texts of his own 
choofiing. He has likewise given a hand- 



some pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- 
munion table at his own expense. He 
has often told me, that at his coming to 
his estate he found his parishioners very 
irregular; and that in order to make 
them kneel and join in the responses, 
he gave every one of them a hassock [40 
and a common-prayer book: and at tlie 
same time employed an itinerant singing 
master, who goes about the country for 
that purpose, to instruct them rightly in 
the tunes of the Psalms; upon which 
they now very much value themselves, 
and indeed outdo most of the country 
churches that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole 
congregation, he keeps them in very [50 
good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep 
in it besides himself; for if by chance he 
has been surprised into a short hap at 
sermon, upon recovering out of it he 
stands up and looks about him, and if 
he sees anybody else nodding, either 
wakes them himself, or sends his serv- 
ants to them. Several other of the old 
knight's particularities break out upon 
these occasions. Sometimes he will [60 
be lengthening out a verse in the singing 
Psalms, half a minute after the rest of 
the congregation have done with it; 
sometimes, when he is pleased with the 
matter of his devotion, he pronounces 
"Amen" three or four times to the same 
prayer; and sometimes stands up when 
everybixiy else is upon their knees, to 
count the congregation, or see if any of 
his tenants are missing. [70 

I was yesterday very much surprisied 
to hear my old friend, in the midst of 
the service, calling out to one John 
Matthews to mind what he was about, 
and not disturb the congregation. This 
John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable 
for being an idle fellow, and at that time 
was kicking his heels for his diversion. 
This authority of the knight, though ex- 
erted in that odd manner which ac- [80 
companies him in aU circimistances of 
life, has a very good effect upon, the parish, 
who are not polite enough to see any 
thing ridiculous in his behavior; besides 
that the general good sense and worthi- 
ness of ]m character makes his friends 
observe these Uttle singularities as foils 



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that rather set off than blemish his good 
qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished^ [90 
nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is 
gone out of the church. The knight 
walks down from his seat in the chancel 
between a double row of his tenants, that 
stand bowing to him on each side; and 
every now and then inquires how such 
a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father 
do, whom he does not see at church; 
which is understood as a secret reprimand 
to the person that is absent. [100 

The chaplain has often told me, diat 
upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger 
has been pleased with a boy that answers 
well, he has ordered a Bible to be given 
him next day for his encoiuugement; and 
sometimes accompanies it wiUi a flitch of 
bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has like- 
wise added five pounds a year to the 
clerk's place; and that he may encourage 
the young fellows to make themselves [no 
perfect in the church-service, has prom- 
ised, upon the death of the present in- 
cumbent, who is very old, to bestow it 
according to merit. 

The fair understanding between Sir 
Roger and his chaplain, and their mu- 
tual conourence in doing good, is the 
more remarkable, because the very next 
village is famous for the differences and 
contentions that rise between the par- [120 
son and the squire, who live in a per- 
petual state of war. The parson is always 
preaching at the squire, and the squire 
to be revenged on the parson never 
comes to church. The squire has made all 
his tenants atheists, and tithe-stealers; 
while the parson instructs them every 
Sunday in the dignity of his order, and 
insinuates to them, in almost every 
sermcm, that he is a better man than [130 
his patron. In short, matters have come 
to such an extremity, that the squire has 
not said his prayers either in public or 
private this half year; and that the parson 
threatens him, if he does not mend his 
manners, to pray for him in the face of 
the whole congr^ation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too fre- 
quent in the country, are very fatal to 
the ordinary people; who are so used [140 
to be dazzled with riches, that they pay 



as much deference to the understanding 
of a man of an estate, as of a man of learn- 
ing; and are very hardly brought to re- 
gard any truth, how important soever 
it may be, that is preached to them, when 
they know there are several men of five 
hundred a year who do not believe it. 

— ^Addison. 



SIR ROGER AT THE ASSIZES 

No. 122. Friday^ July 20^ 1711. 

Comes jucunius in via pro vekiculo est, 

Publ. Syr. Frag. 
An agreeable companion upon the road is as 
good as a coach. 

A man's first care should be to avoid 
the rq>roaches of his own heart; his next, 
to escape the censures of the world. If 
the last interferes with the former, it 
ought to be entirely neglected; but other- 
wise there cannot be a greater satisfac- 
tion to an honest mind, than to see those 
approbations which it gives itself sec- 
onded by the applauses of the public. A 
man is more sure of conduct, when the [10 
verdict which he passes upon his own 
behavior is thus warranted and confirmed 
by the opinion of all that know him. 

My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of 
those who is not only at peace within 
himself, but beloved and esteemed by all 
about him. He receives a suitable trib- 
ute for his imiversal benevolence to man- 
kind, in the returns of affection and good- 
will, which are paid him by every one [20 
that lives within his neighborhood. I 
lately met with two or three odd instances 
of that general respect which is shown 
to the good old knight. He would needs 
carry Will Wimble and myself with 
him to the county assizes. As we were 
upon the road Will Wimble joined a 
couple of plain men who rid before us, 
and conversed with them for some time; 
during which my friend Sir Roger ac- [30 
quainted me wiUi their characters. 

"The first of them," says he, "that has 
a spaniel by his side, is a yeoman of 
about an hundred pounds a vear, an 
honest man. He is just within the game- 



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act, and qualified to kill a hare or a 
pheasant. He knocks down a dinner 
with his gun twice or thrice a week; and 
by that means lives much cheaper than 
those who have not so good an estate [40 
as himself. He would be a good neighbor 
if he did not destroy so many partridges. 
In short he is a very sensible man; shoots 
flying, and has been several times fore- 
man of the petty jury. 

"That other that rides along with him 
is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for 
'taking the law' of everybody. There is 
not one in the town where he lives that 
he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. [50 
The rogue had once the impudence to go 
to law with the widow. His head is full 
of costs, damages, and ejectments. He 
plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so 
long for a trespass in breaking one of 
his hedges, till he was forced to sell the 
ground it enclosed to defray the charges 
of the prosecution; his father left him 
fourscore poimds a year; but he has cast 
and been cast so often, that he is not [60 
now worth thirty. I suppose he is going 
upon the old business of tie willow tree." 

As Sir Roger was giving me this ac- 
count of Tom Touchy, Will Wimble and 
his two companions stopf>ed short till we 
came up to them. After having paid 
thdr respects to Sir Roger, Will told him 
that Mr.. Touchy and he must appeal to 
him upon a dispute that arose between 
them. Will it seems had been giving [70 
his fdlow-traveler an account of his an- 
gimg one day in such a hole; when Tom 
Toiihy, instead of hearing out his story, 
toH him that Mr. Such-a-one, if he 
pleased, might "take the law of him" for 
fishmg in that part of the river. My 
friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon 
a round trot; and after having paused 
some time, told them, with the air of a 
man who would not give his judg- [80 
ment rashly, that " mudi might be said on 
both sides." TTiey were neither of them 
dissatisfied with the knight's determina- 
tion, because neither of Uiem found him- 
sdf in the wrong by it; upon which we 
made the best of our way to the assizes. 

The court was sat before Sir Roger 
came; but notwithstanding all the justices 
bad taken their places upon the bench, 



they made room for the old knight at [90 
the head of them; who, for his reputation 
in the country, took occasion to whisper 
in the judge's ear, that he was glad his 
lordship had met with so much good 
weather in his circuit. I was listening 
to the proceedings of the court with much* 
attention, and infinitely pleased with that 
great appearance of solemnity which so 
properly accompanies such a public ad- 
ministration of our laws; when, after [100 
about an hour's sitting, I observed to my 
great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that 
my friend Sir Roger was getting up to 
speak. I was in some pain for him till I 
found he had acquitted himself of two or 
three sentences, with a look of much 
business and great intrepidity. 

Upon his first rising the court was 
hushed, and a general whisper ran among 
the country people that Sir Roger [no 
"was up." The speech he made was so 
little to the purpose, that I shall not trou- 
ble my readers with an accoimt of it; and 
I believe was not so much designed by the 
knight himself to inform the court, as to 
give him a figure in my eye, and keep up 
his credit in 5ie country. 

I was highly delighted, when the court 
rose, to see the gentlemen of the country 
gathering about my old friend, and [120 
striving who should compliment him 
most; at the same time that the ordinary 
people gazed upon him at a distance, not 
a little admiring his courage, that was not 
afraid to speak to the judge. 

In our return home we met with a very 
odd accident; which I cannot forbear re- 
lating, because it shows how desirous all 
who know Sir Roger are of giving him 
marks of their esteem. When we [130 
were arrived upon the verge of his estate, 
we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves 
and our horses. The man of the house 
had, it seems, been formerly a servant 
in the knight's family; and to do honor 
to his old master, had some time since, 
unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a 
sign-post before the door; so that the 
knight's head had hung out upon the 
road about a week before he himself [140 
knew anything of the matter. As soon 
as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, 
finding that his servant's indiscretion pro- 



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ceeded wholly from affection and good- 
will, he only told him that he had made 
him too high a compliment; and when the 
fellow seemed to think that could hardly 
be, added with a more decisive look, that 
it was too great an honor for any man 
tinder a duke; but told him at the [150 
same time, that it might be altered with 
a very few touches, and that he himself 
would be at the charge of it. Accordingly, 
they got a painter by the knight's direc- 
tions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, 
and by a little aggravation of the features 
to change it into the Saracen^s Head. I 
should not- have known this story, had 
not the inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's 
alighting, told him in my hearing, [160 
that his honor's head was brought back 
last night with the alterations that he 
had ordered to be made in it. Upon this 
my friend with his usual cheerfulness re- 
lated the particulars above-mentioned, 
and ordered the head to be brought into 
the room. I could not forbear discovering 
greater expressions of mirth than ordi- 
nary upon the appearance of this mon- 
strous face, under which, notwith- [170 
standing it was made to frown and stare 
^ a ny>st extraordinary manner, I could 
still discover a distant resemblance of my 
old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me 
laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I 
thought it possible for people to know 
him in that disguise. I at first kept my 
usual silence; but upon the knight's con- 
juring me to tell him whether it was not 
still more like himself than a Saracen, [180 
I composed my countenance in the best 
manner I could, and repUed "that much 
might be said on both sides." 

These several . adventures, with the 
knight's behavior in them, gave me as 
pleasant a day as ever I met with in any 
of my travels. 

— ^Addison. 



THE VISION OF MIRZA 

No, ijQ. Saturday^ September i, I'^ii. 

— Omnenty qtue nunc obducta tuenti 
Martales hebetat mus tibi, et kumida circum 
Caligat, nubem^eripiam — 

Virg* ^n, it, 604, 



The cloud, which, intercepting the dear light. 
Hangs o'er thy eyes, and Hunts thy tn^rud 

sight, 
I will remove — 

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up 
several Oriental manuscripts, whicJi I 
have still by me. Among others I met 
with one entitled The Visions of Mirza, 
which I have read over with great pleas- 
ure. I intend to give it to the public 
when I have no other entertainment for 
them; and shall begin with the first vision, 
which I have translated word for word as 
follows: [10 

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, 
I always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devo- 
tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer. As I was here 
airing myself on the tops of the moimtains, 
I fell into a profound contemplation on 
the vanity of human life; and passing [20 
from one thought to another, 'Surely,' 
said I, 'man is but a shadow, and Ufe a 
dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I 
cast my eyes towards the sunmiit of a 
rock that was not far from me, where I 
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, 
with a musical instrument in his hand. 
As I looked upon him he applied it to his 
lips, and began to play upon it. The 
sound of it was exceedingly sweet, [30 
and wrought into a variety of tunes that 
were inexpressibly melodious, and alto- 
gether different from anytlung I had 
ever heard. They put me in mind of 
those heavenly airs that are played to 
the departed souls of good men upon 
their first arrival in Paradise, to wear 
out the impressions of their last agindes, 
and qualify them for the pleasures of 
that happy place. AJy heart melted [40 
away in secret raptur^. 

"I had been often told that the roci 
before me was the Jiaunt of a Genius; 
and that several hgid been entertained 
with music who had passed by i^, but 
never heard that the musician had before 
made himself visible. When he had 
raised my thoughts by those tran^)orting 
airs whidi he played to taste the pleasures 



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of his conversation, as I looked upon [50 
him like one astonished, he beckoned to 
me, and by the waving of his hand di- 
rected me to approach the place where he 
sat. I drew near with that reverence 
which is due to a superior nature; and 
as my heart was entirely subdued by the 
captivating strains I had heard, I fell 
down at his feet and wept. The Genius 
smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
sion and affability that familiarized [60 
him to my imagination, and at once dis- 
pelled all the fears and apprehensions 
with which I approached him. He lifted 
me from the ground, and taking me by 
the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, *I have heard 
thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.' 

''He then led me to the highest jrin- 
nacle of the rock, and placing me on the 
top of it, 'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said 
he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' [70 
*I see,' said I, *a huge valley, and a pro- 
digious tide of water rolling through it.' 
'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is 
the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water 
that thou seest is part of the great Tide 
of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said 
I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick 
mist at one end, and again loses itself 
in a thick mist at the other? ' ' What thou 
seest,' said he, 'is that portion of [80 
eternity which is called time, measured 
out by the sun, and reaching from the 
b^inning of the world to its consumma- 
tion. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea 
that is bounded with darkness at both 
ends, and tell me what thou discoverest 
in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing 
m the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge 
thou seest,' said he, 'is Hiunan Life: 
consider it attentively.' Upon a more [90 
leisurely survey of it, I found that it con- 
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, 
with several broken arches, which added 
to those that were entire, made up the 
number about a hundred. As I was count- 
ing the arches, the Genius told me that 
this bridge consisted at first of a thousand 
arches; but that a great flood swept away 
the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous 
condition I now beheld it. 'But tell [100 
me farther,' said he, 'what thou dis- 
coverest on it.' 'I see multitudes of peo- 
ple passing over it,' said I, 'and a black 



cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I 
looked more attentively, I saw several of 
the passengers dropping through the 
bridge into the great tide that flowed 
underneath it; and upon farther examina- 
tion, perceived there were innumerable 
trap-doors that lay concealed in the [no 
bridge, which the passengers no sooner 
trod upon, but they fell through them 
into the tide, and immediately disap- 
peared. These hidden pit-falls were set 
very thick at the entrance of the bridge, 
so that throngs of people no sooner broke 
through the cloud, but many of them fell 
into fliem. They grew thinner towards 
the middle, but multiplied and lay closer 
together towards the end of the arches [120 
that were entire. 

"There were indeed some persons, but 
their number was very small, that con- 
tinued a kind of hobbling march on the 
broken arches, but fell through one after 
another, being quite tired and spent with 
so long a walk. 

"I passed some time in the contempla- 
tion of this wonderful structure, and the 
great variety of objects which it [130 
presented. My heart was filled with a 
deep melancholy to see several dropping 
unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and 
jollity, and catching at everything that 
stood by them to save themselves. Some 
were looking up towards the heavens in a 
thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a 
^)eculation stumbled and fell out of 
sight. Multitudes were very busy in the 
pursuit of bubbles that glittered in [140 
their eyes and danced before them; but 
often when they thought themselves 
within the reach of them, their footing 
failed and down they sunk. In this con- 
fusion of objects," I observed some with 
scymetars in their hands, who ran to 
and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several 
persons on trap-doors which did not seem 
to lie in their way, and which they might 
have escaped had they not been [150 
thus forced upon them. 

"The Genius seeing me indulge myself 
on this melancholy prospect, told me I 
had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take 
thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and 
tell me if thou yet seest anything thou 
dost not comprehend.' Upon looking up, 



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'what mean/ said I, 'those great flights 
of birds that are perpetually hovering 
about the bridge, and settling upon it [i6o 
from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, 
ravens, cormorants, and among many 
other feathered creatures several little 
winged boys, that perch in great numbers 
upon the middle arches.' 'These,' said 
the Genius, *are Envy, Avarice, Super- 
stition, Despair, Love, with the IDce cares 
and passions that infest human life.' 

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' 
said I, 'Man was made in vain! how [170 
is he given away to misery and mor- 
tality! tortured in life, and swallowed up 
in death! ' The Genius being moved with 
compassion towards me, bid me quit so 
uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no 
more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage 
of his existence, in his setting out for 
eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick 
mist into which the tide bears the several 
generations of mortals that fall into [180 
it.' I directed my sight as I was ordered, 
and (whether or no the good Genius 
strengthened it with any supernatural 
force, or dissipated part of the mist that 
was before too thick for the eye to pene- 
trate), I saw the valley opening at the 
farther end, and spreading forth into an 
immense ocean, that had a huge rock of 
adamant running through the midst of 
it, and dividing it into two equal [190 
parts. The clouds still rested on one 
half of it, insomuch that I could discover 
nothing in it; but the other appeared to 
me a vast ocean planted with innumer- 
able islands, that were covered with fruits 
and flowers, and interwoven with a 
thousand little shining seas that ran 
among them. I could see persons dressed 
in glorious habits with garlands upon 
their heads, passing among the trees, I200 
lying down by the sides of fountains, or 
resting on beds of flowers; and could 
hear a confused harmony of singing birds, 
falling waters, hmnan voices, and musical 
instruments. Gladness grew in me upon 
the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I 
might fly away to those happy seats; but 
the Grenius told me there was no pas- 
sage to them, except through the faio 
gates of death that I saw opening every 



moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,' 
said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before 
thee, and with which the whole face of 
the ocean appears spotted as far as thou 
canst see, are more in niunber than the 
sands on the sea-shore; there are myriads 
of islands behind those which thou here 
(Uscoverest, reaching farther than thine 
eye, or even thine imagination can [220 
extend itself. These are the mansicms of 
good men after death, who, according to 
the degree and kinds of virtue in which 
they excelled, are distributed among these 
several islands, which abound with pleas- 
ures of different kinds and degrees, suit- 
able to the relishes and perfections of 
those who are settled in them; every 
island is a paradise accommodated to 
its respective inhabitants. Are not [230 
these, O Mirza, habitations worth con- 
tending for? Does life appear miserable 
that gives thee opportunities of earning 
such a reward? Is death to be feared 
that will convey thee to so happy an 
existence? Think not man was made in 
vain, who has such an eternity reserved 
for him.' I gazed with inexpressible 
pleasure on these happy islands. At 
length, said I, 'Show me now, I be- [240 
seedi thee, the secrets that lie hid under 
those dark clouds which cover the ocean 
on the other side of the rock of adamant' 
The Grenius making me no answer, I 
turned me about to address myself to 
him a second time, but I found that he 
had left me; I then turned again to the 
vision which I had been so long contem- 
plating; but instead of the rolling tide, 
the arched bridge, and the happy [250 
islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow 
valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and 
camels grazing upon the sides of it." 

—Addison. 

A COQUETTE'S HEART 

No, 281. Tuesday, January 22, 1712. 

Pectoribus inhians spiratUia consulU exta. 

Virg, JEn, tp. 64, 
Anxious the reeking entrails he consults. 

Having already giveh an account of the 
dissection of a beau's head, with the 



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several discoveries made on that occa- 
sion, I shall here, according to my promise, 
enter Mj^n the dissection of a coquette's 
heart, and communicate to the public 
such particularities as we observed in 
that curious piece of anatomy. 

I should perhaps have waived this 
undertaking, had not I been put in [10 
mind of my promise by several of my 
unknown correspondents, who are very 
importunate with me to make an ex- 
ample of the coquette, as I have already 
done of the b^u. It is therefore in 
compliance with the request of friends, 
that I have looked over the minutes of 
my former dream, in order to give the 
public an exact relation of. it, which I 
shall enter upon without farther [20 
preface. 

Our operator, before he engaged in this 
visionary dissection, told us that there 
was nothing in his art more difficult than 
to lay open the heart of a coquette, by 
reason of the many labyrinths and recesses 
which are to be found in it, and which 
do not appear in the heart of any other 
animal. 

He desired us first of all to observe [30 
the pericardium, or outward case of the 
heart, which we did very attentively; and 
by the help of our glasses discerned in it 
Bullions of litjle scars, which seemed to 
have been occasioned by the points of 
innumerable darts and arrows, that from 
time to time had glanced upon the out- 
ward coat; though we could not discover 
the smallest orifice by which any of them 
had entered and pierced the inward [40 
substance. 

Every smatterer in anatomy knows that 
this pericardium, or case of the heart, 
contains in it a thin reddish liquor, sup- 
posed to be bred from the vapors which 
exhale out of the heart, and being stopped 
here, are condensed into this watery sub- 
stance. Upon examining this liquor, we 
found that it had in it all the quaUties 
of that spirit which is made use of in [50 
the thermometer to show the change of 
weather. 

Not must I here omit an experiment 
one of the company assured us he him- 
self had made with this liquor, which he 
found in great quantity about the heart 



of a coquette whom he had formerly 
dissected. He affirmed to us, that he had 
actually inclosed it in a small tube made 
after the manner of a weather-glass; [60 
but that, instead of acquainting him with 
the variations of the atmosphere, it showed 
him the qualities of those persons who 
entered the room where it stood. He 
affirmed also, that it rose at the approach 
of a pliune of feathers, an embroidered 
coat, or a pair of fringed gloves; and that 
it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a 
clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashionable 
coat came into his house. Nay, he [70 
proceeded so far as to assure us, that upon 
his laughing aloud when he stood by it, 
the liquor moimted very sensibly, and 
immediately sunk again upon his looking 
serious. In short, he told us that he knew 
very well by this invention, whenever 
he had a man of sense or a coxcomb in 
his room. 

Having cleared away the pericardium, 
or the case, and liquor above-men^ [80 
tioned, we came to the heart itself. The 
outward surface of Jt was extremely slip- 
pery, and the mucro, or point, so very 
cold withal, that upon endeavoring to 
take hold of it, it glided through the 
fingers like a smooth piece of ice. 

The fibres were turned and twisted in 
a more intricate and perplexed manner 
than they are usually foimd in other 
hearts; insomuch that the whole heart [90 
was wound up together like a Gordian 
knot, and must have had very irregular 
and unequal motions, while it was em- 
ployed in its vital fimction. 

One thing we thought very observable, 
namely, that upon examining all the 
vessels which came into it, or issued out of 
it, we could not discover any conununi- 
cation that it had with the tongue. 

We could not but take notice like- [100 
wise that several of those little nerves in 
the heart which are affected by the senti- 
ments of love, hatred, and other passions, 
did not descend to this before us from the 
brain, but from the muscles which lie 
about the eye. 

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, 
I found it to be extremely lignt, and 
consequently very hollow, whidi I did 
not wonder at, when, upon looking [no 



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into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of 
cells and cavities running one within 
another, as our historians describe the 
apartments of Rosamond's bower. Sev- 
eral of these little hollows were stuffed 
with innumerable sorts of trifles, which 
I shall forbear giving any particular 
account of, and shall, therefore, only take 
notice of what lay first and uppermost, 
which, upon our unfolding it, and [120 
applying our microscopes to it, appeared 
to be a flame-colored hood. 

We are informed that the lady of this 
heart, when living, received the addresses 
of several who made love to her, and did 
not only give each of them encouragement, 
but made everyone she converse! with 
believe that she regarded him with an 
eye of kindness; for which reason we ex- 
pected to have seen the impression of [130 
multitudes of faces among the several 
plaits and foldings of the heart; but to 
our great surprise not a single print of 
this nature discovered itself till we came 
into the very core and centre of it. We 
there observed a little figure, which, 
upon applying our glasses to it, appeared 
dressed in a very fantastic manner. 
The more I looked upon it, the more I 
thought I had seen the face before, but [140 
could not possibly recollect either the 
place or time; when at length one of the 
company, who had examined this figure 
more nicely than the rest, showed us 
plainly by the make of its face, and the 
several turns of its features, that the little 
idol which was thus lodged in the very 
middle of the heart was the deceased beau, 
whose head I gave some account of in 
my last Tuesday's paper. [150 

As soon as we had finished our dis- 
section, we resolved to make an experi- 
ment of the heart, not being able to deter- 
mine among ourselves the nature of its 
substance, which differed in so many 
particulars from that in the heart of 
other females. Accordingly, we laid it 
into a pan of burning coals, when we ob- 
served in it a certain salamandrine qual- 
ity, that made it capable of living in [160 
the midst of fire and flame, without 
being consimied or so much as singed. 

As we were admiring this strange 
phenomenon, and standing round the 



heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious 
sigh, or rather crack, and dispersed all 
at once in smoke and vapor. This im- 
aginary noise, which methought was loudar 
than the burst of a cannon, produced 
such a violent shake in my brain, [170 
that it dissipated the fiunes of sleq), 
and left me in an instant broad awake. 

— ^Addison. 



AL£XAND£R POP£ (168^-1744) 
From WINDSOR FOREST 

The groves of Eden, vanished. now so 

long. 
Live in description, and look green in 

song: 
These, were my breast inspired with equal 

flame, 
Like them in beauty, should be like m 

fame. 10 

Here hills and vales, the woodland and 

the plain, 
Here earth and water seem to strive 

agam; 
Not chaos-like together crushed and 

bruised. 
But, as the world, harmoniously confused: 
Where order in variety we see, 15 

And where, though all things differ, all 

agree. * 

Here waving groves a chequered scene 

display. 
And part admit, and part exclude the day; 
As some coy nymph her lover's warm 

address 
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20 
There, interspersed in lawns and opening 

glades. 
Thin trees arise that shun each other's 

shades. 
Here in full light the russet plains extend: 
There wrapt in clouds the bluish hills 

ascend. 
Even the wild heath displays her purple 

dyes, 25 

And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise, 
That crowned with tufted trees and 

springing com, 
Like verdant isles, the sable waste adom. 
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we 
The weeping amber or tiie balmy tree, 30 



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While by our oaks the precious loads are 

borne, 
And reahns commanded which those trees 

adorn. 
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, 
Though gods assembled grace his towering 

height, 
Than what more humble mountains offer 

here, 35 

Where, in their blessings, all those gods 

appear. 
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona 

crowned. 
Here blushing Flora paints th' enamelled 

ground, 
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect 

stand. 
And nodding tempt the jojrful reaper's 

hand, 40 

Rich industry sits smiling on the plains, 
And peace and [Jenty tell a Stuart reigns. 



See! from the brake the whirring pheas- 
ant wrings, 
And mounts exulting on triumphant 

wings: 
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, 
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the 

ground. 
Ah! what avail his glossy, var)dng dyes, 115 
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, 
The vivid green his shining plumes un- 
fold. 
His painted wings, and breast that flames 

with gold? 
Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds 

the sky. 
The woods and fields their pleasing toils 

deny. 120 

To plains with well-breathed beagles we 

repair. 
And trace the mazes of the circling hare 
(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow beasts 

pursue. 
And learn of man each other to undo). 
With slaughtering guns th' unwearied 

fowler roves, 125 

When frosts have whitened all the naked 

groves. 
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees 

o'ershade, 
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery 

glade. 



He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; 
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen 

sky: 130 

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath. 
The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden 

death; 
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes 

prepare, 
They fall, and leave their little lives in 

air. 
In genial spring, beneath the quivering 

shade, ^ 135 

Where cooling vapors breathe along the 

mead, 
The patient fisher takes his silent stand, 
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: 
With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly 

breed, 
And eyes the dancing cork and bending 

reed. 140 

Our plenteous streams a various race 

supply. 
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tjnian 

dye, 
The silver eel, in shining volumes rolled. 
The yellow carp, in scales bedropped with 

gold, 
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson 

stains, 145 

And pikes, the tyrants of the watery 

plains. 
Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery 

car: 
The youth rush eager to the sylvan war. 
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks 

surround, 
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening 

hound. 150 

Th' impatient courser pants in every 

vein. 
And, pawing, seems to beat the distant 

plain: 
Hills, vales, and floods appear already 

crossed, 
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are 

lost. 
See the bold youth strain up the threaten- 
ing steep, 155 
Rush through the thickets, down the 

valleys sweep, 
Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager 

speed. 
And earth rolls back beneath the flying 

steed. 



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AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 

From PART I 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill; 
But, of the two, less dac^gerous is th' 

offence 
To tire our patience, than mislead our 

sense. 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this; 5 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes 

amiss; 
A fool might once himself alone expose; 
Now one in verse makes many more in 

prose. 
TIs with our judgments as our watches, 

none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 
In poets as true genius is but rare. 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share; 
Both must alike from Heaven derive their 

Ught, 
These bom to judge, as well as those to 

write. 
Let such teach others who themselves 

excel, 15 

And censure freely who have written well. 
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, 
But are not critics to their judgment too? 



First follow Nature, and your judgment 
frame 

By her just standard, which is still the 
same; 

Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 

One dear, imchanged, and universal light. 

Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart. 

At once the source, and end, and test of 
Art. 

Art from that fimd each just supply pro- 
vides, 

Works without show, and without pomp 
presides. 75 

In some fair body thus th' informing soul 

With spirits fecils, with vigor fills the 
whole, 

Each motion guides, and every nerve sus- 
tains; 

Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. 

Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been 
profuse, 80 

Want as much more, to turn it to its use; 



For wit and judgment often are at strife. 
Though meant each other's aid, like man 

and wife. 
'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's 
steed; 84 

Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; 
The winged courser, like a generous horse, 
Shows most true mettle when you check 
his course. 
Those rules of old, discovered, not de- 
vised. 
Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; 
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90 
By the same laws which first herself or- 
dained. 



You, then, whose judgment the right 
course would steer. 

Know well each ancient's proper char- 
acter; 

His fable,^ subject, scope in every page; 120 

Religion, country, genius of his age: 

Without all these at once before your ^es, 

Cavil you may, but never criticise. 

Be Homer's works your study and delight. 

Read them by day, and meditate by night; 

Thence form your judgment, thence your 
maxims bring, 126 

And trace the Muses upward to their 
spring. 

Still with itself compared, his text peruse; 

And let your comment be the Mantuan 
Muse. 
When first yoimg Maro in his boundless 
mind 130 

A work t' outlast immortal Rome de- 
signed, 

Perhaps he seemed above the critic's 
law. 

And but from nature's fountains scorned 
to draw: 

But when t' examine every part he came, 

Nature and Homer were, he foimd, the 
same. 135 

Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold 
design; 

And rules as strict his labored work con- 
fine, 

As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. 

Learn hence for ahdent rules a just es- 
teem; 

To copy nature is to copy them. 140 

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From PART II 



A little learning is a dangerous thing; 15 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian 

spring: 
Tlere shallow draughts intoxicate the 

brain, 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 
Fired at first si^t with what the Muse 

imparts, 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of 

arts, 30 

While from the boimded level of our mind 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths 

behind; 
But, more advanced, behold with strange 

surprise 
New distant scenes of endless science rise! 
So pleased at first the towering Alps we 

try, 25 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread 

the sky, 
Th' eternal snows appear already past. 
And the first clouds and mountains seem 

the last; 
But, those attained, we tremble to survey 
The growing labors of the lengthened way, 
Th' increasing proq)ects tire oiu: wander- 
ing eyes, 31 
HiDs peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps 

arise! 



Some to conceit alone their taste con- 
fine, 
And glittering thoughts struck out at 
every line; 90 

Pleased with a work where nothing's just 

or fit; 
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 
Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace, 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 95 
And hide with ornaments their want of 
K art 

V True wit is nature to advantage dressed. 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well 



Something whose truth convinced at sight 

we find. 
That gives us back the image of our mind. 
As shades more sweetly recommend the 

li^t, 1 01 , 

So modest plainness sets oflF sprightly wit. 



For works may have more wit than does 

'em good. 
As bodies perish through excess of blood. 
Others for language all their care ex- 
press, 105 
And value books, as women men, for 

dress: 
Their praise is still — the style is excellent; 
The sense they humbly take upon con- 
tent. 
Words are like leaves; and where they 

most abound, 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely 

foimd. no 

False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; 
The face of natm-e we no more survey, 
All glares alike, without distinction gay: 
But true expression, like th' imchanging 

sun, 115 

Clears and improves whate'er it shines 

upon; 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
Expression is the dress of thought, and 

stiU 
Appears more decent, as more suitable; 
A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, 
Is like a down in regaJ purple dressed : 121 
For different styles with different subjects 

sort,^ 
As several garbs with country, town, and 

coiut. 
Some by old words to fame have made 

pretence. 
Ancients in phrase, mere modems in their 

sense; 125 

Such labored nothings, in so strange a 

style. 
Amaze tli' unleam'd, and make the 

learned smile. 
Unlucky as Fungoso in the play, 
These sparks with awkwaixi vanity dis- 
play 
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 
And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 131 
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets 

dressed. 
In words, as fashions, the same rule will 

hold; 
Alike fantastic if too new or old: 
Be not the first by whom the new are 

tried, 135 

Nor yet tie last to lay the old aside. 

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But most by numbers judge a poet's 

song; 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right 

or wrong. 
In the bright Muse though thousand 

charms conspire, 
Her voice is ail these tuneful fools ad- 
mire; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their 

ear, 141 

Not mend their minds; as some to church 

repair, 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels 

tire; 145 

While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull 

line: 
While they ring round the same unvaried 

chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes: 
Where'er you find "the cooling western 

breeze," . 150 

In the next line, it "whispers through the 

trees; 
If cr3rstal streams "with pleasing mur- 

miu^ creep," 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 

"sleep:" 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a 

thought, 15s 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow 

length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, 

and know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly 

slow; 
And praise the easy vigor of a line, 160 

Where Denham's strength, and Waller's 

sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not 

chance. 
As those move easiest who have learned to 

dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives oflFence: 
The sound must seem an echo to the 

sense. 165 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently 

blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother niun- 

bers flows; 



But when loud surges lash the sounding 

shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the 

torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast wei^t 

to throw, 170 

The line, too, labors, and the words move 

slow. 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the 

plain, 
Flies o'er th' unbending com, and skims 

along the main. 
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays siirprise, 
And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 175 
While, at each change, the son of Libyan 

Jove 
Now bums with glory, and then melts with 

love; 
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury 

glow. 
Now sighs steal out, and tears b^in to 

flow: 
Persians and Greeks like tiuns of nature 

found, 180 

And the world's victor stood subdued by 

sound! 
The power of music all our hearts allow, 
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of 

such 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scom to take offence ; 186 
That always shows great pride, or little 

sense; 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the 

best. 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy raptiu-e 

move; 190 

For fools admire, but men of sense ap- 
prove: 
As things seem large which we through 

mists descry, 
Dullness is ever apt to magnify. 

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM 

Canto I 

What dire offence from amorous causes 
springs. 
What mighty contests rise from trivial 
things, 



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I sing. — ^This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to 

view. 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 5 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
Say what strange motive. Goddess! 
could compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
Oh say what stranger cause, yet unex- 
plored, 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 10 
In tasks so bold, can Uttle men engage. 
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty 
rage? 
Sol through white curtains shot a 
timorous ray, 
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the 

day. 

Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 

shake, 15 

And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake. 

Thrice nmg the bell, the slipper knocked 

the ground. 
And the pressed watch returned a silver 

sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed, 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy 
rest. 20 

Twas he had siunmoned to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovered o'er her 

head: 
A youth more glittering than a birth-night 

beau, 
(That ev'n in slimiber caused her cheek to 

glow) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 25 
And thus in whispers said, or seemcnl to 
say: 
'' Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished 
care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant 

thought, 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have 
taught — 30 

Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen. 
The sflver token, and the circled green. 
Or virgins visited by angel powers. 
With golden crowns and wreaths of heav- 
enly flowers, — 
Hear and believe! thy own importance 
know, 35 

Nor bound thy narrow views to things be- 
k)w. 



Some secret truths, from learned pride con- 
cealed. 
To maids alone and children are revealed. 
What though no credit doubting wits may 

give? 
The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 
Ejiow, then, unnumbered spirits round^ 

thee fly. 
The light militia of the lower sky. 
These, though unseen, are ever on the 

wing, 
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the 

Ring. 
Think what an equipage thou hast in 

air, 45 

And view with scorn two pages and a 

chair. ^ 

As now your own, our beings were of 

old. 
And once enclosed in woman's beauteous 

mould; 
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 
Think not, when woman's transient 

breath is fled. 
That all her vanities at once are dead; 
Succeeding vanities she still regards, 
And though she pla)rs no more, o'erlooks 

the cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 55 
And love of ombre, after death survive. 
For when the fair in all their pride expire. 
To their first elements their souls retire: 
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
Moimt up, and take a salamander's name. 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 61 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental 

tea. 
The graver prude sinks downward to a 

gnome. 

In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 

The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair. 

And sport and flutter in Uie fields of air. 66 

"Know further yet: whoever fair and 

chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph em- 
braced; 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with 

ease 
Assiune what sexes and what shapes they 

please. 70 

What guards the purity of melting maids. 
In courtly balls, and midnight mas- 

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Safe from the treacherous friend, the dar- 

mg spark, 
The glance by day, the whisper in the 

(krk, 
When kind occasion prompts their warm 

desires, * 75 

When music softens, and when dancing 

fires? 
Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials 

know, 
Though honor is the word with men below. 
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of 

their face. 
For life predestined to the gnomes' em- 
brace. 80 
These swell their prospects and exalt their 

pride, 
When offers are disdained, and love 

denied: 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain. 
While peers, and dukes, and all their 

sweeping train, 
And g^ers, stars, and coronets appear, 85 
And in soft soimds *Your Grace' salutes 

their ear. 
Tis these that early taint the female soul, 
Instruct the eyes of yoimg coquettes to 

roll, 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to 

know. 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 
"Oft when the world imagine women 

stray. 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide 

their way; 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim 

fall 95 

To one man's treat, but for another's 

ball? 
When Florio speaks, what virgin could 

withstand. 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? 
With varying vanities, from every part. 
They shift the moving toyshop of their 

heart, 100 

Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots 

sword-knots strive, 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches 

drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call; 
Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it 

aU. 



"Of these am I, who thy protection 

claim, 105 

A watchfiil sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal w\6s of air, 
In the dear mirror of thy ruling star 
I saw, alas! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main* this morning sim descend, 
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or 

where. m 

Warned by the sylph, O pious maid, 

beware! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can: 
Beware of all, but most beware of man!" 
He said; when Shock, who thought she 

slept too long, us 

Leaped up, and waked his mistress with 

his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors were no 

sooner read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 
And now, imveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
played, I2X 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent 

adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears, 125 
To that she b^ds, to 3iat her eyes she 

rears. 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, aiKi 

here 
The various offerings of the world 2q>pear; 
From each she nicely culls with curious 

toil, 151 

And dedks the goddess with the glittering 

spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 135 
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and 

the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billds- 

doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her 

face; 143 

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Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
Axkd keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
Tlie busy sylphs surround their darling 

care, 145 

Tliese set the head, and those divide the 

hair, 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait 

the gown; 
And Betty 's praised for labors not her 

own. 

Canto EL 

Not with more glories, in th' ethereal 

plain. 

The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 

Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 

Launched on the bosom of the silver 

Thames. 
Fair n3miphs and well-dressed youths 
around her shone, 5 

But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she 

wore 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; 11 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sim, her eyes the gazers 

strike. 

And, like the sun, they shine 00 all alike. 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of 

pride, 15 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults 

to hide; 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of man- 
kind. 
Nourished two locks, which graceful himg 
behind - 20 

In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory 

neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender 

chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray; 25 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
Th' adventurous baron the bright locks 
admired; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 



Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 31 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; 
For when success a lover's toil attends. 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 
For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had im- 
plored 35 
Propitious Heaven, and every Power 

adored. 
But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built. 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly 

gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of 

gloves. 
And all the trophies of his former loves ; 40 
With tender billets-doux he lights the 

pyre. 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise 

the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent 

eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
The Powers gave ear, and granted half his 

prayer; 45 

The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides. 

The sunbeams trembling on the floating 

tides; 
While melting music steals upon the sky, 
And softened soimds along the waters die; 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently 

play, 51 

Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his 

breast. 
He smnmons straight his denizens of air ; 55 
The lucid squadrons round the sails re- 

pair;i 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers 

breathe. 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train 

beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of 

gold; ' 60 

Transparent forms, too fine for mortal 

sight. 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
Thin glittering textures of Uie filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 65 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 

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While every beam new transient colors 

flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave 

their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gUded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; 70 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: 
"Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief 

give ear! 
Fa)rs, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, 

hear! 
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks 

assigned 75 

By laws eternal to th' atrial kind. 
Some in the fields of piu-est aether play. 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs 

on high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless 

sky. 80 

Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale 

light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the 

night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry 

main, 85 

Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions 

guide: 
Of these the chief the care of nations own. 
And guard with arms divine the British 

throne. 90 

"Our humbler province is to tend the 

fair, 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious 

care; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal 

flowers; 95 

To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in 

showers, 
A brighter wash; to curl their waving 

hairs. 

Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; 

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 

To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 100 

"This day, black omens threat the 

brightest fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; 



Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight; 
But what, or where, the fates have wraj^)ed N 

in night. 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's 

law, 105 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; 
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball 
Or whether Heaven has doomed that 

Shock must fall. 110 

Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge 

repair: 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care: 
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock 
To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, 1 1 7 
We trust th' important charge, the 

petticoat: 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence 

to fail. 
Though stiff with hoops, and armed with 

ribs of whale; 120 

Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the wide drciunf erence around. 
"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post ne^ects, or leaves the fair at laige, 
ShaU feel sharp vengeance soon o'erts^e 

his sins, 125 

Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes Ue, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; 
Gimis and pomatums shall his fli^t re- 
strain. 
While, clogged, he beats his silken wings 

in vain; 130 

Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled 

flower; 
Or, as Ldon fixed, the wretch shall fed 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 
And tremble at the sea that froths below!" 
He spoke; the spirits from the sails 

descend; 137 

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph ex- 
tend; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; 
With beating hearts the dire event thqr 

wait, 141 

Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 



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Canto m 

Close by those meads, forever crowned 
ij^th flowers, 

Where Thames with pride surve)rs his 
rilsing towers, 

There stands a structure of majestic frame, 

Which from the neighboring Hampton 
takes its name. 

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall fore- 
doom 5 

Of foreign t3rrants and of nymphs at home; 

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms 
obey, 

Dost sometimes counsel take — ^and some- 
times tea. 
Hither the heroes and the n3miphs re- 
sort, 

To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 10 

In various talk th' instructive hours Uiey 



Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One ^)eaks the glory of the British Queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian 

screen; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and 
eyes; 15 

At every word a reputation dies. 
Snuffy or the fan, supply each pause of 

diat. 

With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

MeanwhOhs, declining from the noon of 

day. 

The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 

The hungry judg^ soon the sentence sign. 

And wretches hang that jmymen may 

dine; 22 

The merchant from th' Exchange retiurns 

in peace, 
And the long labors of the toilet cease. 
Bdinda now, whom thirst of fame invites. 
Bums to encounter two adventurous 
knights, 26 

At ombre singly to decide their doom; 
And swells ho: breast with conquests yet 

to come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms 

to jdn, 
Each band the niunber of the sacred nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial 
guard 31 

Descend, and sit on each important card: 
First, Anel perched upon a Matadore, 
Then each, according to the rank they bore ; 



For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient 

race, 35 

Are, as when women, wondrous fond of 

place. 
Behold four kings in majesty revered,^ 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain 

a flower. 
The expressive emblem of their softer 

power; 40 

Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty 

band. 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their 

hand; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train. 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.,..--^ 
The skilful nymph reviews her force 

with care: 45 

"Let spades be trumps!" she said, and 

trumps they were. 
Now moved to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 

board. 50 

As many more Manillio forced to jdeld. 
And marched a victor from the verdant 

field. 
Him Basto followed, but, his fate more 

hard. 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian 

card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
The hoary majesty of spades appears, 56 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed; 
The rest, his many-colored robe con- 
cealed. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince 

engage. 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 
E'en mighty Pam, that kings and queens 

o'erthrew. 
And mowed down armies in the fights of 

Loo, 
Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid. 
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade. 
Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 
Now to tie baron fate inclines the field. 66 
His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades ; 
The club's black tyrant first her victim 

died, 
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous 

pride. 70 



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What boots the regal circle on his head, 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; 
That long behmd he trails his pompous 

robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the 

globe? 
The baron now his diamonds pours 

apace; 75 

Th' embroidered king who shows but half 

his face. 
And his refulgent queen, with powers com- 
bined. 
Of broken troq)s an easy conquest 6nd. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder 

seen. 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level 

green. 80 

Thus when dispersed a routed army runs. 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
With like confusion different nations fly. 
Of various habit, and of various dye, 
The pierced battalions disunited fall, 85 
In heaps on heaps; one fate overwhelms 

them all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily 

arts, 
And wins (oh shameful chance!) the 

queen of hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek for- 
sook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; 90 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching 

ill. 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
And now (as oft in some distempered 

state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate. 
An ace of hearts steps forth; the king un- 
seen 95 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his 

captive queen: 
He springs to vengeance with an eager 

pace. 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the 

sky; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals 

reply. 100 

Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to 

fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
Sudden, these honors shall be snatched 

away. 
And cursed forever this victorious day. 



For lo! the board with cups and spoons 

is crowned, 105 

The berries crackle, and the mill tuim 

round; 
On shining altars of Japan they raise 
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors 

glide, 
While China's earth receives the smoking 

tide. no 

At once they gratify their scent and taste, 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast 
Straight hover round the fair her aiiy 

band; 
Some, as she sii^>ed, the fuming liquor 

fanned, 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dfc- 

played, 115 

Trembling, and conscious of the ricb 

broouie. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
And see through all things with his half- 
shut eyes) 
Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too 

late, 121 

Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's 

fate! 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! 
But when to mischief mortals bend their 

will, 125 

How soon they find fit instruments of ill! 
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting 

grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining 

case: 
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 
Present the spear, and arm him for the 

fight. 130 

He takes the gift with reverence, and ex- 
tends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her 

head. 
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repaiiy 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow Da(± 

the hair; 136 

And thrice they twitched the diamond in 

her ear; 
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe 

drew near. 



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Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought; 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, 141 
He watched 1^' ideas rising in her mind, 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art. 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart 
Amazed, confused, he foimd his power 

expired, 145 

Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 

The peer now spreads the glittering for- 

fex wide, 
T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine dosed, 
A wretched ^Iph too fondly interposed; 150 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 

twain 
(But airy substance soon unites again) . 
The meeting points the sacred hair dis- 
sever 
From the fair head, forever, and forever! 
Then flashed the living lightning from 

her eyes, 155 

And screams of horror rend th' affright^ 

skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are 

cast, 
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe 

their last; 
Or when rich China vessels, fallen from 

hi^, 
In Ottering dust and painted fragments 

lie! 160 

"Let wreaths of triiun^di now my tem- 

jrfes twine," 
The victor cried; "the glorious prize is 

minel 
While fish in st^;eams, or birds delight in 

air. 
Or in a coach and six the British fair. 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 165 

Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, 
While visits shall be paid on solemn da3rs. 
When numerous wax-lights in bright order 

blaze, 
While nymphs take treats, or assignations 

give, 
So long my honor, name, and praise shall 

live! 170 

What Time would spare, from steel re- 
ceives its date, 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate! 
Steel could the labor of the gods destroy, 
And strike to dust th' imperial towers of 

Troy; 



Steel could the works of mortal pride con- 
found, 175 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 

What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs 
should feel 

The conquering force of unresisted steel?" 

Canto IV 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph 

oppressed. 

And secret passions labored in her breast. 

Not youthful kings in battle seized alive. 

Not scornful virgins who their charms 

survive. 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 6 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die. 
Not C3mthia when her mantua's pinned 

awry. 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and de- 
spair. 
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. 
For, that sad moment, when the sylphs 
withdrew, n 

And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper 
scene, 15 

Repaired to search the gloomy cave of 
Spleen. 
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the 
gnome, 
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region 

knows. 
The dreaded east is aU the wind that 
blows. 20 

Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air. 
And screened in shades from day's de- 
tested glare. 
She sighs forever on her pensive bed, 
Pain at her side, and Megrim^ at her head. 
Two handmaids wait the throne, alike 
in place, 25 

But differing far in figure and in face. 
Here stood fil-nature like an ancient maid. 
Her wrinkled form in black and white 

arrayed; 
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, 

and noons 
Her hand is filled; her bosom with lam- 
poons. 30 



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There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen; 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faint into airs, and langtdshes with pride; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming 

woe, . 35 

Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for 

show. 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these. 
When each new night-dress gives a new 

disease. 
A constant vapor o'er the palace flies. 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists 

arise; 40 

Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haimted 

shades, 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids: 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 

spires/ 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple 

fires; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 
And crystal domes, and angels in ma- 
chines. 
Unnumbered throngs on every side are 

seen. 
Of bodies changed to various forms by 

Spleen. 
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held 

out. 
One bent; the handle this, and that the 

spout. so 

A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; 
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie 

talks; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy 

works. 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for 

corks. 
Safe passed the gnome through this 

fantastic band, 55 

A branch of healing spleenwort in his 

hand. 
Then thus addressed the power: "Hail, 

wayward queen! 
Who rule the sex, to fifty from fifteen; 
Parent of vapors^ and of female wit; 
Who give th' h)rsteric, or poetic fit; 60 
On various temp)ers act by various ways. 
Make some take physic, others scribble 

plays; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay, 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 

1 coib. ' whims. 



A nymph there is that all thy power dis- 
dains, 65 
And thousands more in equal mirth main- 
tains. 
But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a 

grace, 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face. 
Like dtron- waters matrons' cheeks inflsinie, 
Or change complexions at a losing game; 70 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, 
Or nunpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. 
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, 
Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, 
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, 75 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes 

could ease: 
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; 
That single act gives half the world the 

spleen." 
The goddess with a discontented air 
Seems to reject him, though she grants 

his prayer. 80 

A wondrous bag with both her hands she 

binds. 
Like that where once Ulysses held the 

winds: 
There she collects the force of female lungs, 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of 

tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 85 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing 

tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly 

mounts to day. 
Simk in Thalestris' arms the n3anph he 

found. 
Her eyes dejected and her hair imbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he 

rent, 91 

And all tiie furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda bums with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
"O wretched maid ! " she spread her hands, 

and cried, 95 

(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretch«i 

maid!" replied) 
"Was it for this you took such constant 

care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? 
For this your locks in paper durance 

bound. 
For this with torturing irons wreathed 

around? 100 



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For this with fillets strained your tender 

. head, 
And bravely bore the double loads of 

lead? 
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, 
While the fops envy, and the Ladies stare! 
Honor forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Elase, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex re- 
sign. 106 
Methinks already I your tears survey, 
Already hear the horrid things they say, 
Already see you a degraded toast, 
' And all your honor in a whisper lost! no 
How shall I, then, your helpless fame de- 
fend? 
Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, 
£jqx>sed through cr3rstal to the gazing 

eyes, 
And heightened by the diamond's circling 
Rtys, 115 

On that rapacious hand forever blaze? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus 

grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of 

Bow: 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. 
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish 
aU!" I20 

She said; then raging to Sir Plume re- 
pairs, 
And bids her beau demand the precious 

hairs 
(Sir Plimie, of amber snuflf-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a douded cane). 
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking 
face, 125 

He first the snuflF-box opened, then the 

case. 
And thus broke out — "My lord — ^why — 

what the devil! 
Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you 

miist be dvil! 
Plague on't! 'tis past a jest — ^nay, prithee, 

pox! 
Give her the hair." — ^He spoke, and rapped 
his box. 130 

"It grieves me much," replied the peer 

again, 
"Who speaks so well should ever speak 

in vain. 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted 
hair, 



Which never more its honors shall re- 
new, 13s 
Clii^)ed from the lovely head where late 

it grew) 
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall forever 

wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph 

spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 140 
But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears 

not so; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows 

flow. 
Then see! the n)anph in beauteous grief 

appears. 
Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in 

tears; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping 

head, 145 

Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus 

she said: 
"Forever cursed be this detested day. 
Which snatched my best, my favorite curl 

away! 
Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been. 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never 

seen! 150 

Yet am not I the first mistaken maid. 
By love of comls to numerous ills be- 
trayed. 
Oh, had I rather unadmired remained 
In some lone isle or distant northern land; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the 

way, 155 

Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 

bohea! 
There kept my charms concealed from 

mortal eye. 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords 

to roam? 
Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at 

home! 160 

'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to 

teU: 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch- 
box fell; 
The tottering china shook without a wind; 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most 

unkind! 
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of 

fate, 165 

In mystic visions, now believed too late! 



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See the poor remnants of these slighted 

hairs! 
My hands shall rend what e'en thy rajHne 

spares; 
These in two sable ringlets taught to 

break, 
Once gav^ new beauties to the snowy 

neck; 170 

The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; 
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears de- 
mands, 
And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious 

hands. 
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to 

seize 175 

Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!" 

Canto V 

She said: the pitying audience melt in 
tears. 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's 
ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, 

For who can move when fair Belinda fails? 

Not half so fixed the Trojan could re- 
main, 5 

While Alma begged and Dido raged in 
vain. 

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her 
fan; 

SUence ensued, and thus the n3anph began: 
"Say, why are beauties praised and 
honored most. 

The wise man's passion, and the vain 
man's toast? 10 

Why decked with all that land and sea 
afford, 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored? 

Why round our coaches crowd the white- 
gloved beaux, 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost 
rows? 

How vain are all these glories, all our 
pains, IS 

Unless good sense preserve what beauty 
gauis; 

That men may say, when we the front- 
box grace, 

'Behold the first m virtue as in face! ' 

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day. 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age 
away, 20 



Who would not scorn what housewife's 
cares produce, 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of 
use? 

To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint, 

Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint 

But since, silas! fraU beauty must de- 
cay; 25 

Curled or imcurled, since locks will turn 
to grey; 

Since painted, or not painted, aU shall 
fade, 

And she who scorns a man must die a 
maid; 

What then remains but well our power to 
use, 

And keqp good humor still whatever we 
lose? 30 

And trust me, dear, good humor can pre- 
vail. 

When airs, and flights, and screams, and 
scolding fail. 

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may 
roll; 

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins 
the soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applause en- 
sued; 3S 

Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her 
prude. 

"To arms, to arms!" the fierce virago 
cries, 

And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 

All side in parties, and begin th' attack; 

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale- 
bones crack; 40 

Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly 
rise, ^ 

A6d bass and treble voices strike the skies. 

No conmion weapons in their hands are 
found; 

Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal 
wound. 
So when bold Homer makes the gods 
engage, 45 

And heavenly breasts with himian pas- 
sions rage; 

'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes 
arms; 

And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: 

Jove's thunder roars. Heaven trembles all 
around, 

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps 
resound: 50 



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Earth shakes her nodding towers, the 

ground gives way, 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of 

day! 
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's 

height 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view 

the fight: 
Propped on their bodkin-spears, the 

writes survey 55 

The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
While through the press enraged Thales- 

tris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her 

eyes, 
A beau and witling perished in the throng. 
One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 
*' O cruel n)anph! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and simk beside his 

chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards 

cast, 
"Those eyes are made so killing" — ^was 

his last. 
Thus on Maeander's flowery margin lies 65 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he 

dies. 
When bold Sir Plume had drawn 

Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a 

frown; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in 

air, 71 

Weighs the men's wits against the lady's 

hair; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side 

to side; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs 

subside. 
See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, 75 
With more than usual lightning in her 

eyes; 
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to 

try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to 

die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength 

endued. 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils 

drew, 81 

A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; 



The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden with starting tears each eye over- 
flows, 8s 
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 
"Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda 

cried. 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck. 
Her great great grandsire wore about his 

neck, 90 

In three seal-rings; which after, melted 

down, 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's 

gown; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it 

grew, 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's 

hairs, 95 

Which long she wore, and now Belinda 

wears.) 
"Boast not my fall," he cried, "insult- 

ing foe! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as 

low; 
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind: 
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 1*00 
Rather than so, ah, let me still survive, 
And bum in Cupid's flames — ^but bum 

alive." 
"Restore the lock!" she cries; and all 

aroimd 
"Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs re- 
bound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 105 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused 

his ()ain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are 

crossed, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is 

lost! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept 

with pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in 

vain: no 

With such a prize no mortal must be 

blessed. 
So Heaven decrees! With Heaven who can 

contest? 
Some thought it moimted to the lunar 

sphere. 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured 

there. 



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There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous 

vases, 115 

And beaux' in snuflf-boxes and tweezer 

cases; 
There broken vows and death-bed ahns 

are found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband 

bound; 
The courtier's promises, and sick man's 

prayers, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of 

heirs; 120 

Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a 

flea, 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
But trust the Muse— she saw it upward 

rise. 
Though marked by none but quick, poetic 

eyes: 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens 

withdrew, 125 

To Proculus alone confessed in view) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air. 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
The heavens bespangUng with dishevelled 

light. 130 

The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 
And pleased pursue its progress through 

the skies. 
This the beau monde shall from the 

Mall survey. 
And hail with music its propitious ray; 
This the blest lover shall for Venus 

tsJce, 135 

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloud- 
less skies. 
When next he looks through Galileo's 

eyes; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- 
doom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140 
Then cease, bright n3anph! to mourn 

thy ravished hair. 
Which adds new glory to the shining 

sphere! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can 

boast. 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you 

lost. 
For, after all the murders of your eye, 145 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall 

die; 



When those fair suns shall set, as set they 

must. 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust; 
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to 

fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's 

name. 150 

AN ESSAY ON MAN 

From Book I 

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner 
things 
To low ambition, and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since life can little more suf^ly 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; s 
A mighty maze! but not without a plan; 
A wild, where weeds and flowers promis- 
cuous shoot; 
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit 
Together let us beat ^ this ample field, 
Try what the open, what the covert yield; 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, ex- 
plore II 
Of aU who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, 
And catch the manners living as they rise; 
Laugh where we miist, be candid where 
we can; 15 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 
I. Say first, of God above, or man be- 
low. 
What can we reason, but from what we 

know? 
Of man, what see we but his station here, 
From which to reason, or to which refer? 20 
Through worlds imnumbered though the 

God be known, 
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He who through vast inunensity can 

pierce. 
See worlds on worlds compose one uni- 
verse, 
Observe how system into system runs, 25 
What other planets circle other suns. 
What varied being peoples every star, 
May tell why Heaven has made us as we 

are: 
But of this frame the bearings, and the 

ties. 
The strong connections, nice dependencies, 

1 scour, range thiougfa. 



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Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 31 
Looked through? or can a part contain 

the whole? 
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, 
And drawn, supports, upheld by God, or 

thee? 
II. Presumptuous man! the reason 

wouldst thou find, 35 

Why formed so weak, so little, and so 

blind? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason 

guess, 
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no 

less? 
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are 

made 
Taller or stronger than the weeds they 

shade; 40 

Or ask of yonder argent fields above. 
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. 



Resp>ecting man, whatever wrong we 
caU, 

May, must be right, as relative to all. 

In human works, though labored on with 
pain, 

A thousand movements scarce one purpose 
gain; 

In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 

Yet serves to second too some other use. 

So man, who here seems principal alone. 

Perhaps acts second to some sphere un- 
known. 

Touches some wheel, or verges to some 
goal: 

'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 
When the proud steed shall know why 
man restrains 

His fieiy course, or drives him o'er the 
(dains; 

When the dull ox, why now he breaks the 
clod. 

Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god; 

Then shall man's pride and didlness com- 
prehend 65 

His actions', passions', being's, use and 
end; 

Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; 
and why 

This hour a slave, the next a deity. 
Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven 
in fault; 
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought : 70 



His knowledge measured to his state and 

place, 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 
If to be perfect in a certain sphere. 
What matter soon or late, or here or 

there? 
The blest to-day is as completely so, 75 
As who began a thousand years ago. 
in. Heaven from all creatiu'es hides 

the book of fate. 
All but the page prescribed, their present 

state: 
From brutes what men, from men what 

spirits know: 
Or who could suffer being here below? 80 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and 

play? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery 

food. 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his 

blood. 
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given. 
That each may fill the drcle marked by 

Heaven: 86 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 
And now a bubble biu*st, and now a 

world. 90 

Hope humbly then; with trembling 

pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher Death; and God 

adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to 

know. 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 
Man never is, but alwa)rs to be, blest. 96 
The soul, uneasy and confined from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored 

mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the 

wind; 100 

His soul proud science never taught to 

stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 
Yet simple nature to his hc^ has given, 
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler 

Heaven; 
Some safer world in depths of woods em- 
braced, 105 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 



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Where slaves once more their native land 

behpld, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst 

for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, m 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of 

sense 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence; 
Call imperfection what thou fanciest 

such; 115 

Say, "Here he gives too little, there too 

much;" 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,^ 
Yet cry, "K man's unhappy, God's im- 

just;" 
If man alone engross not Heaven's high 

care. 
Alone made perfect here, inunortal there, 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the 

rod, 121 

Re-judge his justice, be the god of God. 
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the 

skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes; 125 
Men would be angels, angels would be 

gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order, sms against the Eternal Cause. 130 



IX. What if the foot, ordained the dust 

to tread. 
Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head? 260 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame; 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or 

pains, 265 

The great directing Mind of All ordains. 
All are but parts of one stupendous 

whole. 
Whose body natiu^ is, and God the soul; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all 

the same. 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal 

frame, 270 

* pleasure. 



Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the 

trees. 
Lives through all life, extends throu^ all 

extent, 
Spreads imdivided, operates un^)^ity 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal 

part, 27s 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart. 
As full , as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 
As the rapt seraph that adores and bums. 
To him ho high, no low, no great, no 

small; 
He fills, he boimds, connects, and equals 

all. 280 

X. Cease then, nor order inq>erfection 

name: 
Our proper bliss depends on what we 

blame. 
Know thy own point: this kind, this due 

degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows 

on thee. 
Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, 285 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art, imknown to thee; 
All chance, direction, which thou canst not 

see; 290 

All discord, harmony not imderstood; 
All partial evil, universal good: 
And, spite of pride, in erring rc^ison's 

spite. 
One truth is dear, Whatever is, is right. 



From EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT 

— Were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame in- 
spires. 
Blessed with each talent and each art to 

please, 195 

And bom to write, converse, and live with 

ease; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule 

alone. 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the 

throne; 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous 

eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused hunself to 

rise; 200 



Digitized by 



Googl( 



POPE 



279 



Damn with faint praise, assent with dvil 
leer, 

And without sneering, teach the rest to 
sneer; 

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 

Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 

Alike reserved to blame, or to com- 
mend, 205 

A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; 

Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers be- 
sieged. 

And so obUging that he ne'er obliged; 

Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 

And sit attentive to his own applause, 210 

While wits and Templars every sentence 
raise. 

And wonder with a foolish face of praise — 

Who but must laugh, if such a man there 
be? 

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! 

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 



Father of all! in every age. 
In every clime adored. 

By saint, by savage, and by 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! 



Thou Great First Cause, least imder- 
stood: S 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that Thou art good. 

And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 
To see the good from ill; 10 

And, binding nature fast in fate, 
Left free the hiunan will. 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 15 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty gives, 

Let me