The Boatswain gave the dreadful word, They kifs'd, the figh'd, he hung his head. 'Twas CHAUCER's CHARACTERS. WAS when the fields imbibe the vernal fhow'rs, And Venus paints her month with early When Sol, diffufing genial warmth around, 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, In Southwark at the Talbot-Inn I lay, 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, When moft with care had feen their horfes fed, 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, *Thomas Becket. But |