Wherefore, God yeve him shame, Boccace
Serv'd him for Basil and Ignace,

His vermeil cheke that shon wyth mirth,
Spake him the blithest priest on yearth;
At chyrch, to show his lillied hond,
Full fetously he prank'd his bond;
Sleke weren his flaxen locks ykempt,
And Isaac Wever was he nempt.

Thilke clerke, echaufed in the groyne,
For a young damosell did pyne,

Born in East-Cheap; who, by my fay,
Ypert was as a popinjay :

Ne wit ne wordes did she waunt,
Wele cond she many a romaunt;
Ore muscadine, or spiced ale,
She carrold soote as nightingale :

And for the nonce couth rowle her cyne,
Withouten speche; a speciall signe
She lack'd somdele of what ech dame
Holds dere as life, yet dredes to name:
So was eftsoons by Isaac won,
To blissful consummation.

Here mought I now tellen the festes,

Who yave the bryde, how bibb'd the ghestes ; But withouten such gawdes, I trow

Myne legend is prolix ynow.

Ryghte wele areeds Dan Prior's song,
A tale shold never be too long;
And sikerly in fayre Englond
None bett doeth taling understond.

She now, algates full sad to chaunge
The citee for her husbond's graunge,
To Kent mote; for she wele did knowe
'Twas vaine ayenst the streme to rowe.
Sa wend they on one steed yfere,
Each cleping toder life and dere;

Heven shilde hem fro myne Bromley host,
Or many a groat theyr meel woll cost.

Deem next ye maistress Wever sene
Yclad in sable bombasine;

The frankeleins wyves accost her blythe,
Curteis to guilen hem of tythe;
And yeve honour parochiall
In pew, and eke at festivall.

Worschip and wealth her husbond hath;
Ne poor in aught, save werks and faith:
Keeps bull, bore, stallion, to dispense
Large pennorths of benevolence.
His berne ycrammed was, and store
Of poultrie cackled at the dore;
His wyfe grete joie to fede hem toke,
And was astonied at the cocke;
That, in his portance debonair,
On everich henn bestow'd a share
Of pleasaunce, yet no genitours
She saw, to thrill his paramours:
Oftsithes she mokel mus'd theron,
Yet nist she howgates it was don.
One night, ere they to sleepen went,
Her Isaac in her arms she hent,
As was her usage; and did saie,
"Of charite I mote thee praie,
To teachen myne unconnyng wit
One thing it comprehendeth niet:
And maie the foul fiend harrow thee,
If in myne quest thou falsen me.

"Our Chaunticlere loves everich hen,
Ne fewer kepes our yerd than ten;
Yet romps he ore beth grete and small,
Ne ken I what he swinks wythall.

Qd. Isaac," Certes by Sainct Poule, Myne lief thou art a simple soule; Foules fro the egle to the wren, Bin harness'd othergise than men? For the males engins of delite

Ferre in theyr entrails are empight;

Is, par mischaunce, theyr merriment Emong the breers mought sore be shent, Thus woxen bote, they much avaunce Love of venereal jouisaunce: And in one month, the trouth to sayne, Swink mo than manhode in yeres twaine. "O Benedicite!" qd. she, "If kepyng hote so kindlych be, Hie in thyne boweles truss thyne gere, And eke the skrippe that daungleth here." "Ne dame," he answer'd, mote that beno j

For as I hope to be a dene,

Thilke Falstaffe-bellie rownd and big,
Was built for corny ale and pig:

Ne in it is a chink for these,

Ne for a wheat-straw, and tway pease." "Pardie," qd. she, "syth theres nat room, Swete Nykin! chafe hem in myne woom."

TO MR. POPE.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM IN HOMER.

IN WHICH THE POET SUPPOSETH APOLLO TO HAVE GIVEN THIS ANSWER TO ONE WHO INQUIRED WHO WAS THE AUTHOR OF THE ILIAD.

*Ηειδον μέν Ἐγὼν, ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Όμηρος.

Hæc modulabar ego, scripsit divinus Homerus. WHEN Phobus, and the nine harmonious Maids, Of old assembled in the Thespian shades, "What theme," they cry'd, "what high immortal air,

Befits these harps to sound, and thee to hear?"
Reply'd the god, "Your loftiest notes employ
To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wondrous song with rapture they rehearse,
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse.
He answer'd with a frown: "I now reveal
A truth that Envy bids me not conceal.
Retiring frequent to his laureat vale,
I warbled to the lyre that favourite tale,
Which, unobserv'd, a wandering Greek and blind,
Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,
From me the god of wit usurp'd the bays.

"But let vain Greece indulge her growing
fame,

Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;
Yet when my arts shall triumph in the west,
And the White Isle with female power is blest,
Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
And the translator's palm to me transfer;
With less regret my claim I now decline,
The world will think this English Iliad mine,"

Others devour Ambition's glittering bait,
To sweat in purple, and repine in state;
Devote their powers to every wild extreme,
For the short pageant of a pompous dream:
Nor can the mind to full perfection brig
The fruits it early promis'd in the spring,
But in a public sphere those virtues fade,
Which open'd fair, and flourish'd in the shade:
So while the Night her ebon sceptre sways,
Her fragrant blooms the Indian plant displays';
But the full day the short-liv'd beauties shun,
Elude our hopes, and sicken at the Sun.

Fantastic joys in distant views appear,
And tempt the man to make the rash career.
Fame, power, and wealth, which glitter at the goal,
Allure his eye, and fire his eager soul;
For these are ease and innocence resign'd,
For these he strips; farewell the tranquil mind!
Headstrong he urges on till vigour fails,
And gray experience (but too late!) prevails:
But, in his evening, view the hoary fool,
When the nerves slacken, and the spirits cool;
When joy and blushy youth forsake his face,
Sicklied with age, and sour with self-disgrace;
No flavour then the sparkling cups retain,
Music is harsh, the Syren sings in vain ;
To him what healing balin can art apply,
Who lives diseas'd with life, and dreads to die?
In that last scene, by Fate in sables drest,
Thy power, triumphant Vir'ue, is confest;
Thy vestal flames diffuse celestial light
Thro' Death's dark vale, and vanquish total night;
Lenient of anguish, o'er the breast prevail,
When the gay toys of flattering Fortune fail.
Such, happy Twisden! (ever be thy name
Mourn'd by the Muse, and fair in deathless Fame!)
While the bright effluence of her glory shone,
Were thy last hours, and such I wish my own :
So Cassia, bruis'd, exhales her rich perfumes,
And incense in a fragrant cloud consumes.
Most spoil the boon that Nature's pleas'd t' impart,
By too much varnish, or by want of art;
By solid science all her gifts are grae'd,
Like gems new polish'd, and with gold enchas'd.
Votes to th' unletter'd 'squire the laws allow,
As Rome receiv'd dictators from the plough:
But arts, address, and force of genius, join
To make a Hanmer in the senate shine.
Yet one presiding power in every breast
Receives a stronger sanction than the rest;
And they who study and discern it well,
Act unrestrain'd, without design excel,
But court contempt, and err without redress,
Missing the master-talent they possess.
Whiston, perhaps, in Euclid may succeed,
But shall I trust him to reform my creed?
In sweet assemblage every blooming grace
Fix Love's bright throne in Teraminta's face,
With which her faultless shape and air agree,
But, wanting wit, she strives to repartec;
And, ever prone her matchless form to wrong,
Lest Envy should be dumb, she lends her tongue.
By long experience D-y may, no doubt,
Ensnare a gudgeon, or sometimes a trout;
Yet Dryden once exclaim'd (in partial spite!)
"He fish!"-because the man attempts to write.
Oh, if the water-nymphs were kind to none
But those the Muses bathe in Helicon :

! The nure-tree,

In what far distant age would Belgia raise
One happy wit to net the British seas!

Nature permits her various gifts to fall
On various clines, nor smiles alike on all !
The Latian vales eternal verdure wear,
And flowers spontaneous crown the smiling year;
But who manures a wild Norwegian hill,
To raise the jasmine, or the coy jonquil?
Who finds the peach among the savage sloes,
Or in bleak Scythia seeks the blushing rose?
Here golden grain waves o'er the teeming fields,
And there the Vine her racy purple yields.
High on the cliffs the British Oak ascends,
Proud to survey the seas her power defends;
Her sovereign title to the flag she proves,
Scornful of softer India's spicy groves.

These instances, which true in fact we find, Apply we to the culture of the mind. This soil, in early youth improv'd with care, The seeds of gentle science best will bear; That with more particles of flame inspir'd, With glittering arms and thirst of fame is fir'd; Nothing of greatness in a third will grow, But, barren as it is, 'twill bear a beau. If these from Nature's genial bent depart, In life's dull farce to play a borrow'd part; Should the sage dress, and flutter in the Mall, Or leave his problems for a birth-night ball; Should the rough homicide unsheath his pen, And in heroics only murder men; Should the soft fop forsake the lady's charms, To face the foe with inoffensive arms; Each would variety of acts afford,

Fit for some new Cervantes to record.

"Whither," you cry, "tends all this dry discourse
To prove, like Hudibras, a man's no horse.
I look'd for sparkling lines, and something gay
To frisk my fancy with; but, sooth to say!
From her Apollo now the Muse elopes,
And trades in syllogisms more than tropes."-
"Faith, sir, I see you nod, but can't forbear;
When a friend reads, in honour you must hear:
For all enthusiasts, when the fit is strong,
Indulge a volubility of tongue :

Their fury triumphs o'er the men of phlegm,
And, council-proof, will never baulk a theme.
So Burgess on his tripod rav'd the more,
When round him half the saints began to snore."

To lead us safe through Errour's thorny maze,
Reason exerts her pure ethereal rays;
But that bright daughter of eternal day
Holds in our mortal frame a dubious sway.
Though no lethargic fumes the brain invest
And opiate all her active powers to rest;
Though on that magazine no fevers seize,
To calcine all her beauteous images:
Yet banish'd from the realms by right her own,
Passion, a blind usurper, mounts the throne:
Or, to known good preferring specious ill,
Reason becomes a cully to the Will:
Thus man, perversely fond to roam astray,
Hoodwinks the guide assign'd to show the way;
And in life's voyage like the pilot fares,
Who breaks the compass, and contemns the stars,
To steer by meteors, which at random fly,
Preluding to a tempest in the sky.
Vain of his skill, and led by various views,
Each to his end a different path pursues;
And seldom is one wretch so humble known,
To think his friend's a better than his own:

The boldest they, who least partake the light,
As game-cocks in the dark are train'd to fight.
Nor shame, nor ruin, can our pride abate,
But what became our choice we call our fate.
"Villain," said Zeno to his pilfering slave,
"What frugal Nature needs, I freely gave;
With thee my treasure I depos'd in trust,
What could provoke thee now to prove unjust?"
"Sir, blame the stars," felonious culprit cry'd:
"We'll by the statute of the stars be try'd.
If their strong influence all our actions urge,
Some are foredoom'd to steal- and some to
scourge:

The beadle must obey the Fates decree,
As powerful Destiny prevail'd with thee.”

This heathen logic seems to bear too hard
On me, and many a harmless modern bard:
The critics hence may think themselves decreed
To jerk the wits, and rail at all they read;
Foes to the tribe from which they trace their clan,
As monkeys draw their pedigree from man;
To which (tho' by the breed our kind's disgrac'd)
We grant superior elegance of taste:
But in their own defence the wits observe,

That, by impulse from Heaven, they write and starve;

Their patron-planet, with resistless power,
Irradiates every poet's natal hour;
Engendering in his head a solar heat,
For which the college has no sure receipt,

Else from their garrets would they soon withdraw,
And leave the rats to revel in the straw.

Nothing so much intoxicates the brain As Flattery's smooth insinuating bane: She on th' unguarded ear employs her art, While vain Self-love unlocks the yielding heart; And Reason oft submits when both invade, Without assaulted, and within betray'd. When Flattery's magic mists suffuse the sight, The don is active, and the boor polite; Her mirror shows perfection through the whole, And ne'er reflects a wrinkle or a mole; Each character in gay confusion lies, And all alike are virtuous, brave, and wise: Nor fail her fulsome arts to soothe our pride, Though praise to venom turns, if wrong apply'd. Me thus she whispers, while I write to you: "Draw forth a banner'd host in fair review! Then every Muse invoke thy voice to raise, Arms and the man to sing in lofty lays : Whose active bloom heroic deeds employ, Such as the son of Thetis sung at Troy'; When his high-sounding lyre his valour rais'd, To emulate the demi-gods he prais'd. Like him the Briton, warm at Honour's call, At fam'd Blaragnia quell'd the bleeding Gaul; By France the genius of the fight confest, For which our patron saint adorns his breast."

Is this my friend, who sits in full content, Jovial, and joking with his men of Kent, And never any scene of slaughter saw, But those who fell by physic or the law? Why is he for exploits in war renown'd, Deck'd with a star, with bloody laurels crown'd? O often prov'd, and ever found sincere ! Too honest is thy heart, thy sense too clear, On these encomiums to vouchsafe a smile, Which only can belong to great Argyll.

VOL X

! Iliad ix

But most among the brethren of the bays, The dear enchantress all her charms displays, In the sly commerce of alternate praise. If, for his father's sius condemn'd to write, Some young half-feather'd poet takes a flight, And to my touchstone brings a puny ode, Which Swift, and Pope, and Prior, would explode Though every stanza glitters thick with stars, And goddesses descend in ivory cars: Is it for me to prove, in every part, The piece irregular by laws of art? His genius looks but awkward, yet his fate May raise him to be premier bard of state; I therefore bribe his suffrage to my fame, Revere his judgment, and applaud his flame; Then cry, in seeming transport, while I speak, ""Tis well for Pindar that he dealt in Greek!" He, conscious of desert, accepts the praise, And, courteous, with increase the debt repays: Boileau's a mushroom, if compar'd to me, And, Horace, I dispute the palm with thee! Both, ravish'd, sing Te Phoebum for success; Rise swift, ye laurels !-boy! bespeak the press, Thus on imaginary praise we feed ; Each writes till all refuse to print or read: From the records of Fame condemn'd to pass To Brisquet's calendar 1, a rubric ass.

Few, wondrous few! are eagle-ey'd to find
A plain disease, or blemish in the mind :
Few can, tho' wisdom should their health insure,
Dispassionate and cool attend a cure.

In youth disus'd t' obey the needful rein,
Well pleas'd a savage liberty to gain,
We sate the kind desire of every sense,
And lull our age in thoughtless indolence;
Yet all are Solons in their own conceit,
Though, to supply the vacancy of wit,
Folly and Pride, impatient of control,
The sister-twins of Sloth, possess the soul.
By Kneller were the gay Pumilio drawn,
Like great Alcides, with a back of brawn,
I scarcely think his picture would have power
To make him fight the champions of the tower;
Though lions there are tolerably tame,
And civil as the court from which they came.
But yet, without experience, sense, or arts,
Pumilio boasts sufficiency of parts ;
Imagines he alone is amply fit

To guide the state, or give the stamp to wit:
Pride paints the mind with an heroic air,
Nor finds he a defect of vigour there.

When Philomel of old essay'd to sing,
And in his rosy progress hail'd the Spring,
Th' aërial songsters, listening to the lays,
By silent ecstasy confest her praise,

At length, to rival her enchanting note,
The peacock strains the discord of his throat,
In hope his hideous shrieks would grateful prove;
But the nice audience hoot him through the grove.
Conscious of wanted worth, and just disdain,
Lowering his crest, he creeps to Juno's fane:
To his protectress there reveals the case;
And for a sweeter voice devoutly prays.

Then thus reply'd the radiant goddess, known
By her fair rolling eyes and rattling tone:
"My favourite bird! of all the feather'd kind,
Each species had peculiar gifts assign'd:

1 Brisquet, jester to Francis I. of France, kept a calendar of fools.

Fe