The Boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The fails their fwelling bofom fpread,
No longer muft fhe ftay aboard:

They kifs'd, the figh'd, he hung his head.
Her lefs'ning boat, unwilling rows to land:
Adieu, fhe cries; and wav'd her lilly hand.

'Twas

CHAUCER's

CHARACTERS.

WAS when the fields imbibe the vernal

fhow'rs,

And Venus paints her month with early
flow'rs;

When Sol, diffufing genial warmth around,
Unbinds the frozen bofom of the ground;
When gentle Zephyr with refreshing breath
Reviv'd each grain that in the womb of earth
All winter flept; and th' all-enlivening fun,.
Thro' the bright ram had half his progress run;
When birds on ev'ry bough renew their fongs,
And Philomel her evening note prolongs;
Then nature fmiles; then Devotees engage,
Thro' the wide world to roam on pilgrimage.

From

From ev'ry fhire the pious ramblers ftray,

But most to Canterbury bend their way.

There at the Martyr's fhrine a cure they find,
For each fick body, and each love-fick mind.
It fo befel, that feafon, on a day,

In Southwark at the Talbot-Inn I lay,
Refolv'd with zeal my journey to begin

With no fmall off'ring to St. Thomas' fhrine.

For Priefts with empty thanks are never fhamm'd;. The rich buy heaven, and ragged rogues are damn'd.

Full nine and twenty more, a jovial crew,
(Mine Hoft was ravifh'd at a fight fo new)
That night, by fair adventure fought our inn;
All pilgrims, fixt upon the fame defign.

When moft with care had feen their horfes fed,
Happy were they who got a cleanly bed.

With each I talk'd, and each by name could

call,

So quickly grew familiar with 'em all.

There we refolv'd with speed to make our way,
And all fet forward at the break of day.

*Thomas Becket.

But