troduces an old woman of mean parentage, whom a youthful knight of noble blood was forced to marry, and consequently loathed her; the crone being in bed with him on the wedding-night, and finding his aversion, endeavours to win his affection by reason, and speaks a good word for herself (as who could blame her?) in hope to mollify the sullen bridegroom. She takes her topics from the benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and titles without inherent virtue, which is the true nobility. When I had closed Chaucer, I returned to Ovid, and translated some more of his fables; and by this time had so far forgotten the wife of Bath's tale, that, when I took up Boccace unawares, I fell on the same argument of preferring virtue to nobility of blood, and titles, in the story of Sigismunda; which I had certainly avoided for their semblance of the two discourses, if my memory had not failed me. Let the reader weigh them both; and if he thinks me partial to Chaucer, it is in him to right Boccace.

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

larly pleased, both for the invention and the moral, that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader.

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

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

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill is to be spoken of the dead: and therefore peace be to the Manes of his Arthurs. I will only say, that it was not for this noble knight that I drew the plan of an Epic poem on king Arthur, in my preface to the translations of Juvenal. The guardian angels of

Kingdoms were machines too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected them, as Dares did the whirlbats of Eryx, when they were thrown before him by Entellus. Yet from that preface he plainly took his hint: for he began immediately upon the story; though he had the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor; but instead of it, to traduce me in a libel. I shall say the less of Mr. Collier, because in many things he has taxed me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immorality; and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good one. Yet it were not difficult to prove that in many places he has perverted my meaning by his glosses; and interpreted my words into blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides that he is too much given to horse-play in his raillery; and comes to battle like a dictator from the plough. I will not say, The zeal of God's house has eaten him up; but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good manners and civility. It might also be doubted whether it were altogether zeal, which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding; perhaps it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of ancient and modern plays; a divine might have employed his pains to better purpose, than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes; whose examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed, that he read them not without some pleasure. They who have written commentaries on those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have explained some vices, which, without their interpretation, had been unknown to modern times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the former age and us.

There is more bawdry in one Play of Fletcher's called The Custom of the Country, than in all ours together. Yet this has been often acted on the stage in my remembrance. Are the times so much more reformed now, than they were five and twenty years ago? If they are, I congratulate the amendment of our morals. But I am not to prejudice the cause of my fellow-poets, though I abandon my own defence: they have some of them answered for themselves, and neither they nor I can think Mr. Colliers so formidable an enemy, that we should shun him. He has lost ground at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the Prince of Conde at the battle of Seneffe: from immoral plays, to no

plays: ab abusu ad usum, non valet consequentia. But being a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge. As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels, that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmore and Milbourn are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered to their infamy.

--Demetri, Teque Tigelli

Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

TALES FROM CHAUCER.

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND, WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF

PALAMON AND ARCITE.

MADAM,

THE bard who first adorn'd our native tongue, Tun'd to his British lyre this ancient song: Which Homer might without a blush rehearse, And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse: He match'd their beauties, where they most excel;

Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond, to behond What power the charms of beauty had of old; Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done, Inspir'd by two fair eyes, that sparkled like your own,

If Chaucer by the best idea wrought, And poets can divine each other's thought, The fairest nymph before his eyes he set; And then the fairest was Plantagenet; Who three contending princes made her prize, And rul'd the rival nations with her eyes: Who left immortal trophies of her fame, And to the noblest order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,
You keep her conquests, and extend your own:
As when the stars, in their ethereal race,
At length have roll'd around the liquid space,
At certain periods they resume their place,
From the same point of heaven their course
advance,

And move in measures of their former dance;
Thus, after length of ages, she returns,
Restor'd in you, and the same place adorns;
Or you perform her office in the sphere, [year.
Born of her blood, and make a new Platonic
O true Plantagenet, O race divine,
(For beauty still is fatal to the line)

Had Chaucer liv'd that angel face to view,
Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;'
Or had you liv'd to judge the doubtful right,
Your noble Palamon had been the knight;
And conquering Theseus from his side had sent
Your generous lord, to guide the Theban govern-

ment.

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see
A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.
Already have the fates your path prepar'd,
And sure presage your future sway declar'd:
When westward, like the sun, you took your
And from benighted Britain bore the day, [way,
Blue Triton gave the signal from the shore,
The ready Nereids heard, and swam before
To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale
But just inspir'd, and gently swell'd the sail;
Portunus took his turn whose ample hand
Heav'd up his lighten'd keel and sunk the sand,
And steer'd the sacred vessel safe to land.
The land, if not restrain'd, had met your way,
Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea.
Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, ador'd,
In you, the pledge of her expected lord;
Due to her isle; a venerable name;
His father and his grandsire known to fame;
Aw'd by that house, accustom'd to command,
The sturdy kerns in due subjection stand;
Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand.
At your approach, they crowded to the port;
And scarcely landed, you create a court:
As Ormond's harbinger, to you they run;
For Venus is the promise of the sun.
The waste of civil wars, their towns destroy'd,
Pales unhonour'd, Ceres unemploy'd,
Were all forgot; and one triumphant day
Wip'd all the tears of three campaigns away.
Blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought,
So mighty recompense your beauty brought.
As when the dove returning bore the mark
Of earth restor❜d to the long-lab'ring ark,
The relics of mankind, secure of rest,
Oped every window to receive the guest,
And the fair bearer of the message bless'd;
So, when you came, with loud repeated cries,
The nation took an omen from your eyes,
And God advanc'd his rainbow in the skies,
To sign inviolable peace restor❜d;
The saints, with solemn shouts, proclaim'd the
new accord.

When at your second coming you appear,
(For I fortell that millenary year)
The sharpen'd share shall vex the soil no more,
But earth unbidden shall produce her store;
The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile,
And heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.
Heaven from all ages has reserv'd for you
That happy clime, which venom never knew;

Or if it had been there, your eyes alone
Have power to chase all poison but their own.
Now in this interval, which fate has cast
Betwixt your future glories and your past,
This pause of power, 't is Ireland's hour to

mourn;

While England celebrates your safe return, By which you seem the season to command, And bring our summers back to their forsaken land,

The vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend, Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send ; Nor can we spare you long, tho' often we may lend.

The dove was twice employ'd abroad, before The world was dried and she return'd no more.

Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger, New from her sickness, to that northern air Rest here awhile your lustre to restore, That they may see you as you shone before; For yet, the eclipse not wholly past, you wade Through some remains, and dimness of a shade.

A subject in his prince may claim a right, Nor suffer him with strength impar'd to fight: Till force returns, his ardour we restrain, And curb his warlike wish to cross the main.

Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin The inquiry, where disease could enter in; How those maligant atoms forc'd their way, What in the faultless frame they found to make their prey?

Where every element was weigh'd so well,
That heaven alone, who mix'd the mass, could
Which of the four ingredients could rebel ; [tell
And where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage,
A soul might well be pleas'd to pass an age.

And yet the fine materials made it weak: Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break : E'en to your breast the sickness durst aspire-; And, forc'd from that fair temple to retire, Profanely set the holy place on fire.

In vain your lord, like young Vespasian, mourn'd,

When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd:
And I prepar'd to pay in verses rude
A most detested act of gratitude:
E'en this had been your elegy, which now
Is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow.
Your angel sure our Morley's mind in-
spir'd,

To find the remedy your ill required.
As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,
Was taught to dream a herb for Ptolemee⚫
Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow d
As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,
So lik'd the frame, he would not work anew,
To save the charges of another you.

Or by his middle science did he steer, And saw some great contingent good appear Well worth a miracle to keep you here: And for that end, preserv'd the precious mould, Which all the future Ormonds was to hold; And meditated in his better mind [ing kind. An heir from you, which may redeem the failBlest be the power which has at once restor'd The hopes of lost succession to your lord; Joy to the first and last of each degree, Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see; To you the Graces, and the Muse to me. O daughter of the rose, whose cheeks unite The differing titles of the red and white; Who heaven's alternate beauty well display, The blush of morning, and the milky way; Whose face is paradise, but fenc'd from sin: For God in either eye has plac'd a cherubin. All is your lord's alone; e'en absent, he Employs the care of chaste Penelope. For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours, For him your curious needle paints the flowers; Such works of old imperial dames were taught; Such, for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought. The soft recesses of your hours improve The three fair pledges of your happy love : All other parts of pious duty done, You owe your Ormond nothing but a son; To fill in future times his father's place, And wear the garter of his mother's race.

PALAMON AND ARCITE;*
OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE.
BOOK I.

IN days of old, there liv'd, of mighty fame,
A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name:
A chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd,
The rising nor the settting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous
dame,

With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride,
With love to friend, and fortune for his guide,
And his victorious army at his side.

I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array, Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way:

Chaucer was more than sixty years old, and Dryden seventy, when they wrote Palamon. Sade says, in 1259 Boccace sent a copy of Dante, written by his own hand, to Petrarch, who, it seems, was jealous of Dante, and in his answer speaks coldly of him.-Sade, p. 507. Dr. J. W.

But, were it not too long, I would recite The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight Betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight; The town besieg'd, and how much blood it cost The female army, and the Athenian host; The spousals of Hippolita the queen, What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen; The storm at their return, the ladies' fear But these, and other things, I must forbear; The field is spacious I design to sow, With oxen far unfit to draw the plough: The remnant of my tale is of a length To tire your patience, and to waste my strength And trivial accidents shall be forborne, That others may have time to take their turn; As was at first enjoin'd us by mine host: That he whose tale is best, and pleases most, Should win his supper at our common cost.

And therefore where I left, I will pursue This ancient story, whether false or true, In hope it may be mended with a new. The prince I mention'd, full of high renown, In this array drew near the Athenian town; When in his pomp and utmost of his pride, Marching, he chanc'd to cast his eye aside, And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay By two and two across the common way: At his approach they rais'd a rueful cry, And beat their breasts, and held their hands

on high,

Creeping and crying, till they seized at last His courser's bridle, and his feet embrac❜d.

Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence

you are,

bears,

And long have waited in the temple nigh,
Built to the gracious goddess Clemency.
But reverence thou the power whose name it
bears,
[tears.
Relieve the oppress'd, and wipe the widow's
I, wretched I, have other fortune seen,
The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen:
At Thebes he fell; curst be the fatal day!
And all the rest thou seest in this array,
To make their moan, their lords in battle lost
Before that town besieg'd by our confederate
host:

But, Creon, old and impious, who commands
The Theban city, and usurps the lands,
Denies the rites of funeral fires to those
Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes.
Unburn'd, unburied, on a heap they lie;
Such is their fate, and such his tyranny;
No friend has leave to bear away the dead,
But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed.
At this she shriek'd aloud; the morunful train
Echo'd her grief, and, grovelling on the plain,
With groans, and hands upheld, to move his
mind,

Besought his pity to their helpless kind! [flow,
The prince was touch'd, his tears began to
And, as his tender heart would break in two,
He sigh'd; and could not but their fate deplore,
So wretched now, so fortunate before
Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew,
And raising one by one the suppliant crew,
To comfort each, full solemnly he swore,
That by the faith which knights to knighthood
bore,

And whate'er else to chivalry belongs,
He would not cease, till he reveng'd their
wrongs:
[clar'd;
That Greece should see perform'd what he de-
And cruel Creon find his just reward.
He said no more, but, shunning all delay,
Rode on; nor enter'd Athens on his way;
But left his sister and his queen behind,
And wav'd his royal banner in the wind:
Where in an argent field the god of war
Was drawn triumphant on his iron car ;
Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire,
And all the godhead seem'd to glow with fire;
E'en the ground glitter'd where the standard
flew,

And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue,
High on his pointed lance his pennon bore
His Cretan fight, the conquer'd Minotaure :
The soldiers shout around with generous rage,
And in that victory their own presage.
He prais'd their ardour; inly pleased to see
His host the flower of Grecian chivalry.
All day he march'd, and all the ensuing night,
And saw the city with returning light,

The process of the war I need not tell,
How Theseus conquer'd, and how Creon fell:
Or after, how by storm the walls were won,
Or how the victor sack'd and burn'd the town
How to the ladies he restor❜d again
The bodies of their lords in battle slain:
And with what ancient rites they were interr'd,
All these to fitter times shall be deferr'd:
I spare the widows' tears, their woful cries,
And howling at their husbands' obsequies;
How Theseus at these funerals did assist,
And with what gifts the mourning dames dis
miss'd.

Thus when the victor chief had Creon slain, And conquer'd Thebes, he pitch'd upon the plain

His mighty camp, and, when the day return'd,
The country wasted, and the hamlets burn'd,
And left the pillagers, to rapine bred,
Without control to strip and spoil the dead.

There, in a heap of siain, among the rest Two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppress'd

[sent, Of slaughter'd foes, whom first to death they The trophies of their strength, a bloody mo

He to his city sent as prisoners of the war,
Hopeless of ransom, and condemn'd to lie
In durance doom'd a ling'ring death to die.
This done, he march'd away with warlike
sound,

And to his Athens turn'd with laurels crown'd, Where happy long he liv'd, much lov'd, and more renown'd.

But in a tower, and never to be loos'd,
The woful captive kinsmen are inclos'd: [day,

Thus year by year they pass, and day by Till once, 't was on the morn of cheerful May,