Part 17

* * * * * * * * * *

For priests with prayers and other godly gear, Have made the merry goblins disappear; And where they played their merry pranks before Have sprinkled holy water on the floor; And friars that through the wealthy regions run Thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun, Resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls, And exorcise the beds, and cross the walls: This makes the fairy choirs forsake the place When once 'tis hallowed with the rites of grace.

He sometimes carries his innovations further, and the splendour of his paraphrase entirely eclipses the primitive idea. Chaucer says, in the tale of the Nun's Priest, that

Swevens be but vanities and japes. Men dream all day of owles and of apes, And eke of many a mase therewithall; Men dream of thinges that never be shall.

Chaucer's hint, which is scarcely more than if the speaker had said in plain prose, "I have no faith in dreams, for they are wild visions which never come true," is transformed by Dryden into this exquisite passage:

Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes; When monarch-reason sleeps this mimic wakes; Compounds a medley of disjointed things, A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings: Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad; Both are the reasonable soul run mad; And many monstrous forms in sleep we see, That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be. Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind; The nurse's legends are for truths received, And the man dreams but what the boy believed. Sometimes we but rehearse a former play; } The night restores our actions done by day, } As hounds in sleep will open for their prey. }

Among the characteristics of the "poor parson" Chaucer mentions that

He was a shepherd, and no mercenary,

which is the only warrant the text afforded for these beautiful lines in the paraphrase of Dryden:

The prelate for his holy life he prized; The worldly pomp of prelacy despised. His Saviour came not with a gaudy show, Nor was his kingdom of the world below. Patience in want, and poverty of mind, } These marks of church and churchmen he designed, } And living taught, and dying left behind. } The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn; In purple he was crucified, not born. They who contend for place and high degree, Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.

Having gained so much from the masculine and buoyant genius of Dryden, the newly fashioned tales took their rank as independent works, and were rather valued for their want of resemblance to Chaucer than because they were a true reflection of him. There are defects in the modern version. The language is sometimes too colloquial, and there are many careless lines; but in the main the verse bounds and dances along with equal strength, facility, and grace, exhibiting one of the most wonderful specimens in literature of the power, spirit, and abundance of the simplest English when moulded by a master. The Flower and the Leaf, which might have been written in the fairy land it describes, is pre-eminent above the rest for its bright unceasing flow of delicious poetry, for its chaste yet luxuriant diction, for its sustained and various melody, for its lovely pictures both earthly and ethereal, for its pure, refined, and elevating sentiment.

"By Dryden's Fables," says Johnson, "which had then been not long published, and were much in the hands of poetical readers, Pope was tempted to try his own skill in giving Chaucer a more fashionable appearance, and put January and May, and the Prologue of the Wife of Bath into modern English." January and May, which the poet says was translated when he was sixteen or seventeen, was not published till he was nearly twenty-one, having first appeared on May 2, 1709, in the sixth volume of Tonson's Miscellany. He imitated Dryden in abridging Chaucer, but his only addition of any moment to the Merchant's Tale is in the description of the fairies, which was borrowed from Dryden himself. His attempt was substantially limited to epitomising the original in refined language, and musical numbers. In this he succeeded, and more could not be expected of a youth. If he had aspired higher he could not at twenty have competed with his mighty predecessor. Dryden's tales are the productions of a great poetic genius. The January of Pope is the production of a clever versifier. The relative position which their respective translations of Chaucer occupy in their works accords with the difference in their execution. The adaptations of Dryden are commonly numbered among his choicest effusions. The versions of Pope hold a subordinate place among his writings, and are hardly taken into account in the estimate of his powers. The result vindicates the opinion of Lord Leicester, that in the conversion of Chaucer into modern English the loss exceeds the gain. Pope was not insensible to the dramatic qualities of his author. "I read him still," he said to Spence, "with as much pleasure as almost any of our poets. He is a master of manners, of description, and the first tale-teller in the true enlivened natural way." But in polishing him, something of the nature and liveliness was inevitably obliterated. He was, in many of his stories, an admirable novelist in verse, and he adopted a familiar style which permitted him to relate in rhyme, with the freedom of prose, the common talk of common men. His traits are in the highest degree colloquial, individual, and life-like, and his strong strokes are weakened, and his dramatic vivacity tamed down, when he is turned into smooth, harmonious, elegant poetry. The refinement in the form is not a compensation for the sacrifices in the substance, especially when the antique form is itself essential to teach us how our forefathers spoke, thought, and acted five hundred years ago. Every touch which renders the picture more modern, makes it less true. The translation of Pope is skilfully executed, but it is inferior in raciness and interest to an original which can be read by any educated Englishman. A few gratuitous defects have been imported into the modernised January and May. "Chaucer," says Dryden, "followed nature everywhere, but was never so bold to go beyond her." Pope has sometimes overstepped the limits. He has here and there exaggerated his original, and the truth and keeping of the characters are invariably injured by the change.

"I have confined my choice," said Dryden, "to such tales of Chaucer as savour nothing of immodesty. If I had desired more to please than to instruct, the Reeve, the Miller, the Shipman, the Merchant, the Sumner, and above all the Wife of Bath, in the prologue to her tale, would have procured me as many friends and readers, as there are beaus and ladies of pleasure in town. But I will no more offend against good manners. I am sensible as I ought to be of the scandal I have given by my loose writings, and make what reparation I am able by this public acknowledgment." Both the pieces which Pope selected were among the number which Dryden put under a ban, and the younger poet, perhaps, considered that when he had purified them from part of their coarseness, the objection would no longer apply. The apology which Chaucer urged for his plain speaking was that in telling a tale he must repeat it correctly, and not surrender truth to delicacy. "Yet if a man," replies Dryden, "should have enquired of him what need he had of introducing such characters where obscene words were proper in their mouths, but very indecent to be heard, I know not what answer he could have made." None was possible. The offence, nevertheless, was not what Dryden assumes. The same Chaucer who, in his carefulness to keep to nature, will have all his dramatis personæ talk according to their rank and callings, assuredly did not violate nature when he represented the religious and refined prioress, together with the other high-bred and decorous members of the party, as willing auditors of the broad and uncompromising language of their ruder companions. The presence of ladies and ecclesiastics was not the slightest check upon the tongues of the pilgrims, and it is evident that in ordinary social life, there was hardly any limit to the freedom of expression. But in every age a latitude is allowed in conversation which would be condemned in books, and Chaucer merely excused himself for recording in poetry the common colloquial terms of his day. Usage had rendered them inoffensive, and in themselves they argued no more impurity of thought than the equivalent circumlocutions of our own generation. The greater or less plainness of speech which has prevailed at different eras is often rather a question of manners than of morality. If Pope or Dryden had retained, in this particular, the phraseology of Chaucer, the adherence to the letter of the original would have completely falsified its spirit, just as words which are uttered with innocence by rustics in a cottage would be an evidence of the utmost depravity when spoken by a man of education in a drawing-room. The intention influences the effect, and the grossness of our early writers has not the taint to a reader of the present day which would attach to similar language when employed by corrupt minds in civilized times. All the expurgations of Pope were insufficient to make his version as little exceptionable in the eighteenth century as was the original of Chaucer to the world of the fourteenth century. A merchant in the reign of Queen Anne would not have ventured to recite the modernised story in a mixed company, where ladies like the prioress and the nuns were present. The tone of the work is even lowered in places. In the looser literature of Pope's youth, and especially in comedies, adultery in a wife only furnished food for laughter against the husband. This is the aspect which is imparted to the translation of January and May, and it cannot be denied that Chaucer himself in some of his other stories, is open to the charge of treating vice as a jest. But he did not fall into the error in the Merchant's Tale, where the supposed narrator, in accordance with his character, reprobates the criminal conduct of the treacherous squire and the faithless wife, at the same time that he exposes the doating folly of the amorous knight.

JANUARY AND MAY:

OR, THE

MERCHANT'S TALE.

There lived in Lombardy, as authors write, In days of old, a wise and worthy knight; Of gentle manners, as of gen'rous race, Blest with much sense, more riches, and some grace. Yet led astray by Venus' soft delights 5 He scarce could rule some idle appetites: For long ago, let priests say what they could, Weak sinful laymen were but flesh and blood. But in due time, when sixty years were o'er, He vowed to lead this vicious life no more; 10 Whether pure holiness inspired his mind, Or dotage turned his brain, is hard to find; But his high courage pricked him forth to wed, And try the pleasures of a lawful bed. This was his nightly dream, his daily care, 15 And to the heav'nly pow'rs his constant prayer, Once, ere he died, to taste the blissful life Of a kind husband and a loving wife. These thoughts he fortified with reasons still, For none want reasons to confirm their will. 20 Grave authors say, and witty poets sing, That honest wedlock is a glorious thing: But depth of judgment most in him appears, Who wisely weds in his maturer years. Then let him chuse a damsel young and fair, 25 To bless his age, and bring a worthy heir; To sooth his cares, and free from noise and strife, Conduct him gently to the verge of life. Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore, Full well they merit all they feel, and more: 30 Unawed by precepts, human or divine, Like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join: Nor know to make the present blessing last, To hope the future, or esteem the past: But vainly boast the joys they never tried, 35 And find divulged the secrets they would hide. The married man may bear his yoke with ease, Secure at once himself and heav'n to please; And pass his inoffensive hours away, In bliss all night, and innocence all day: 40 Though fortune change, his constant spouse remains, Augments his joys, or mitigates his pains. But what so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libelled all the fair. With matchless impudence they style a wife 45 The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life; A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night invasion, and a mid-day devil. Let not the wise these sland'rous words regard, But curse the bones of ev'ry lying bard. 50 All other goods by fortune's hand are giv'n, A wife is the peculiar gift of heav'n. Vain fortune's favours, never at a stay, Like empty shadows, pass, and glide away; One solid comfort, our eternal wife, 55 Abundantly supplies us all our life; This blessing lasts, if those who try, say true, As long as heart can wish--and longer too. Our grandsire Adam, ere of Eve possessed, Alone, and ev'n in Paradise unblessed, 60 With mournful looks the blissful scenes surveyed, And wandered in the solitary shade. The Maker saw, took pity, and bestowed Woman, the last, the best reserve of God. A wife! ah gentle deities, can he, 65 That has a wife, e'er feel adversity? Would men but follow what the sex advise, All things would prosper, all the world grow wise. 'Twas by Rebecca's aid that Jacob won His father's blessing from an elder son: 70 Abusive Nabal owed his forfeit life To the wise conduct of a prudent wife: Heroic Judith, as old Hebrews show, Preserved the Jews, and slew th' Assyrian foe: At Hester's suit, the persecuting sword 75 Was sheathed, and Israel lived to bless the Lord. These weighty motives, January the sage Maturely pondered in his riper age; And charmed with virtuous joys, and sober life, Would try that christian comfort, called a wife. 80 His friends were summoned on a point so nice, To pass their judgment, and to give advice; But fixed before, and well resolved was he, As men that ask advice are wont to be. My friends, he cried (and cast a mournful look 85 Around the room, and sighed before he spoke): Beneath the weight of threescore years I bend, And, worn with cares, am hast'ning to my end; How I have lived, alas! you know too well, In worldly follies, which I blush to tell; 90 But gracious heav'n has ope'd my eyes at last, With due regret I view my vices past, And, as the precept of the church decrees, Will take a wife, and live in holy ease. But since by counsel all things should be done, 95 And many heads are wiser still than one, Chuse you for me, who best shall be content When my desire's approved by your consent. One caution yet is needful to be told, To guide your choice; this wife must not be old: 100 There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said, Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed. My soul abhors the tasteless, dry embrace Of a stale virgin with a winter face: In that cold season love but treats his guest 105 With bean-straw, and tough forage at the best No crafty widows shall approach my bed; Those are too wise for bachelors to wed. As subtle clerks by many schools are made, Twice married dames are mistresses o' th' trade: 110 But young and tender virgins ruled with ease, We form like wax, and mould them as we please. Conceive me, sirs, nor take my sense amiss; 'Tis what concerns my soul's eternal bliss; Since if I found no pleasure in my spouse, 115 As flesh is frail, and who, God help me, knows? Then should I live in lewd adultery, And sink downright to Satan when I die. Or were I cursed with an unfruitful bed, The righteous end were lost for which I wed; 120 To raise up seed to bless the pow'rs above, And not for pleasure only, or for love. Think not I doat; 'tis time to take a wife, When vig'rous blood forbids a chaster life: Those that are blest with store of grace divine, 125 May live like saints, by heav'n's consent, and mine. And since I speak of wedlock, let me say, (As, thank my stars, in modest truth I may,) My limbs are active, still I'm sound at heart, And a new vigour springs in ev'ry part. 130 Think not my virtue lost, though time has shed These rev'rend honours on my hoary head: Thus trees are crowned with blossoms white as snow, The vital sap then rising from below. Old as I am, my lusty limbs appear 135 Like winter greens, that flourish all the year. Now, sirs, you know, to what I stand inclined, Let ev'ry friend with freedom speak his mind. He said; the rest in diff'rent parts divide; The knotty point was urged on either side: 140 Marriage, the theme on which they all declaimed, Some praised with wit, and some with reason blamed, Till, what with proofs, objections, and replies, Each wond'rous positive, and wond'rous wise, There fell between his brothers a debate, 145 Placebo this was called, and Justin that. First to the knight Placebo thus begun, (Mild were his looks, and pleasing was his tone,) Such prudence, sir, in all your words appears, As plainly proves, experience dwells with years; 150 Yet you pursue sage Solomon's advice, To work by counsel when affairs are nice: But, with the wise man's leave, I must protest, } So may my soul arrive at ease and rest, } As still I hold your own advice the best. } 155 Sir, I have lived a courtier all my days, And studied men, their manners, and their ways; And have observed this useful maxim still, To let my betters always have their will. Nay, if my lord affirmed that black was white, 160 My word was this, "Your honour's in the right." Th' assuming wit, who deems himself so wise, As his mistaken patron to advise, Let Tirm not dare to vent his dang'rous thought, A noble fool was never in a fault. 165 This, sir, affects not you, whose ev'ry word Is weighed with judgment, and befits a lord: Your will is mine; and is, I will maintain, Pleasing to God, and should be so to man; At least your courage all the world must praise, 170 Who dare to wed in your declining days. Indulge the vigour of your mounting blood, And let grey fools be indolently good, Who, past all pleasure, damn the joys of sense, With rev'rend dulness and grave impotence. 175 Justin, who silent sat, and heard the man, Thus, with a philosophic frown, began: A heathen author, of the first degree, Who, though not faith, had sense as well as we, Bids us be certain our concerns to trust 180 To those of gen'rous principles, and just. The venture's greater, I'll presume to say, To give your person, than your goods away: And therefore, sir, as you regard your rest, First learn your lady's qualities at least: 185 Whether she's chaste or rampant, proud or civil; Meek as a saint, or haughty as the devil; Whether an easy, fond, familiar fool, Or such a wit as no man e'er can rule. 'Tis true, perfection none must hope to find 190 In all this world, much less in woman-kind; But if her virtues prove the larger share, Bless the kind fates, and think your fortune rare. Ah, gentle sir, take warning of a friend, Who knows too well the state you thus commend; 195 And spite of all its praises must declare, All he can find is bondage, cost, and care. Heav'n knows, I shed full many a private tear, And sigh in silence, lest the world should hear: While all my friends applaud my blissful life, 200 And swear no mortal's happier in a wife; Demure and chaste as any vestal nun, The meekest creature that beholds the sun! But, by th' immortal powers, I feel the pain, And he that smarts has reason to complain. 205 Do what you list, for me; you must be sage, And cautious sure; for wisdom is in age: But at these years to venture on the fair! By him, who made the ocean, earth, and air, To please a wife, when her occasions call, 210 Would busy the most vig'rous of us all. And trust me, sir, the chastest you can chuse Will ask observance, and exact her dues. If what I speak my noble lord offend, My tedious sermon here is at an end. 215 'Tis well, 'tis wond'rous well, the knight replies, Most worthy kinsman, faith you're mighty wise! We, sirs, are fools; and must resign the cause To heath'nish authors, proverbs, and old saws. He spoke with scorn, and turned another way:-- 220 What does my friend, my dear Placebo, say? I say, quoth he, by heav'n the man's to blame, To slander wives, and wedlock's holy name. At this the council rose, without delay; Each, in his own opinion, went his way; 225 With full consent, that, all disputes appeased, The knight should marry, when and where he pleased. Who now but January exults with joy? The charms of wedlock all his soul employ: Each nymph by turns his wav'ring mind possessed, 230 And reigned the short-lived tyrant of his breast; Whilst fancy pictured ev'ry lively part, And each bright image wandered o'er his heart. Thus, in some public forum fixed on high, A mirror shows the figures moving by; 235 Still one by one, in swift succession, pass The gliding shadows o'er the polished glass. This lady's charms the nicest could not blame, But vile suspicions had aspersed her fame; That was with sense, but not with virtue, blest: 240 And one had grace, that wanted all the rest. Thus doubting long what nymph he should obey, He fixed at last upon the youthful May. Her faults he knew not, love is always blind, But ev'ry charm revolved within his mind: 245 Her tender age, her form divinely fair, Her easy motion, her attractive air, Her sweet behaviour, her enchanting face, Her moving softness, and majestic grace. Much in his prudence did our knight rejoice, 250 And thought no mortal could dispute his choice: Once more in haste he summoned ev'ry friend, And told them all, their pains were at an end. Heav'n, that (said he) inspired me first to wed, Provides a consort worthy of my bed: 255 Let none oppose th' election, since on this Depends my quiet, and my future bliss. A dame there is, the darling of my eyes, Young, beauteous, artless, innocent, and wise; Chaste, though not rich; and though not nobly born, 260 Of honest parents, and may serve my turn. Her will I wed, if gracious heav'n so please; To pass my age in sanctity and ease; And thank the pow'rs, I may possess alone The lovely prize, and share my bliss with none! 265 If you, my friends, this virgin can procure, My joys are full, my happiness is sure. One only doubt remains: Full oft, I've heard, By casuists grave, and deep divines averred; That 'tis too much for human race to know 270 The bliss of heav'n above, and earth below. Now should the nuptial pleasures prove so great, To match the blessings of the future state, Those endless joys were ill exchanged for these; Then clear this doubt, and set my mind at ease. 275 This Justin heard, nor could his spleen controul, Touched to the quick, and tickled at the soul. Sir knight, he cried, if this be all your dread, Heav'n put it past your doubt, whene'er you wed; And to my fervent prayers so far consent, 280 That ere the rites are o'er, you may repent! Good heav'n, no doubt, the nuptial state approves, Since it chastises still what best it loves. Then be not, sir, abandoned to despair; } Seek, and perhaps you'll find among the fair, } 285 One, that may do your business to a hair; } Not ev'n in wish, your happiness delay, But prove the scourge to lash you on your way: Then to the skies your mounting soul shall go, Swift as an arrow soaring from the bow! 290 Provided still, you moderate your joy, Nor in your pleasures all your might employ; Let reason's rule your strong desires abate, Nor please too lavishly your gentle mate. Old wives there are, of judgment most acute, 295 Who solve these questions beyond all dispute; Consult with those, and be of better cheer; Marry, do penance, and dismiss your fear. So said, they rose, no more the work delayed; The match was offered, the proposals made 300 The parents, you may think, would soon comply; The old have int'rest ever in their eye. Nor was it hard to move the lady's mind; When fortune favours, still the fair are kind. I pass each previous settlement and deed, 305 Too long for me to write, or you to read; Nor will with quaint impertinence display The pomp, the pageantry, the proud array. The time approached, to church the parties went, At once with carnal and devout intent: 310 Forth came the priest, and bade th' obedient wife Like Sarah or Rebecca lead her life: Then prayed the pow'rs the fruitful bed to bless, And made all sure enough with holiness. And now the palace-gates are opened wide, } 315 The guests appear in order, side by side, } And placed in state, the bridegroom and the bride. } The breathing flute's soft notes are heard around, And the shrill trumpets mix their silver sound; The vaulted roofs with echoing music ring, 320 These touch the vocal stops, and those the trembling string. Not thus Amphion tuned the warbling lyre, Nor Joab the sounding clarion could inspire, Nor fierce Theodomas, whose sprightly strain Could swell the soul to rage, and fire the martial train. 325 Bacchus himself, the nuptial feast to grace, (So poets sing) was present on the place: And lovely Venus, goddess of delight, } Shook high her flaming torch in open sight, } And danced around, and smiled on ev'ry knight: } 330 Pleased her best servant would his courage try, No less in wedlock, than in liberty. Full many an age old Hymen had not spied So kind a bridegroom, or so bright a bride. Ye bards! renowned among the tuneful throng 335 For gentle lays, and joyous nuptial song, Think not your softest numbers can display The matchless glories of this blissful day; The joys are such, as far transcend your rage, When tender youth has wedded stooping age. 340 The beauteous dame sate smiling at the board, And darted am'rous glances at her lord. Not Hester's self, whose charms the Hebrews sing, E'er looked so lovely on her Persian king: Bright as the rising sun, in summer's day, 345 And fresh and blooming as the month of May! The joyful knight surveyed her by his side, Nor envied Paris with his Spartan bride; Still as his mind revolved with vast delight Th' entrancing raptures of th' approaching night, 350 Restless he sate, invoking ev'ry pow'r To speed his bliss, and haste the happy hour. Mean time the vig'rous dancers beat the ground, And songs were sung, and flowing bowls went round. With od'rous spices they perfumed the place, 355 And mirth and pleasure shone in ev'ry face. Damian alone, of all the menial train, Sad in the midst of triumphs, sighed for pain; Damian alone, the knight's obsequious squire, Consumed at heart, and fed a secret fire. 360 His lovely mistress all his soul possest, He looked, he languished, and could take no rest: His task performed, he sadly went his way, Fell on his bed, and loathed the light of day. There let him lie; till his relenting dame 365 Weep in her turn, and waste in equal flame. The weary sun, as learned poets write, Forsook th' horizon, and rolled down the light; While glitt'ring stars his absent beams supply, And night's dark mantle overspread the sky. 370 Then rose the guests; and as the time required, Each paid his thanks, and decently retired. The foe once gone, our knight prepared t' undress, So keen he was, and eager to possess: But first thought fit th' assistance to receive, 375 Which grave physicians scruple not to give; Satyrion near, with hot eringos stood, Cantharides, to fire the lazy blood, Whose use old bards describe in luscious rhymes, And critics learn'd explain to modern times. 380 By this the sheets were spread, the bride undressed, The room was sprinkled, and the bed was blessed. What next ensued beseems not me to say; 'Tis sung, he laboured till the dawning day, Then briskly sprung from bed, with heart so light, } 385 As all were nothing he had done by night; } And sipped his cordial as he sat upright. } He kissed his balmy spouse with wanton play, And feebly sung a lusty roundelay; Then on the couch his weary limbs he cast; 390 For ev'ry labour must have rest at last. But anxious cares the pensive squire oppressed, Sleep fled his eyes, and peace forsook his breast; The raging flames that in his bosom dwell, He wanted art to hide, and means to tell. 395 Yet hoping time th' occasion might betray, Composed a sonnet to the lovely May; Which writ and folded with the nicest art, He wrapped in silk, and laid upon his heart. When now the fourth revolving day was run, 400 ('Twas June, and Cancer had received the sun) Forth from her chamber came the beauteous bride, The good old knight moved slowly by her side. High mass was sung; they feasted in the hall; The servants round stood ready at their call. 405 The squire alone was absent from the board, And much his sickness grieved his worthy lord, Who prayed his spouse, attended with her train, To visit Damian, and divert his pain. Th' obliging dames obeyed with one consent; 410 They left the hall, and to his lodging went. The female tribe surround him as he lay, And close beside him sat the gentle May: Where, as she tried his pulse, he softly drew A heaving sigh, and cast a mournful view! 415 Then gave his bill, and bribed the pow'rs divine, With secret vows, to favour his design. Who studies now but discontented May? On her soft couch uneasily she lay: The lumpish husband snored away the night, 420 Till coughs awaked him near the morning light. What then he did, I'll not presume to tell, Nor if she thought herself in heav'n or hell: Honest and dull in nuptial bed they lay, Till the bell tolled, and all arose to pray. 425 Were it by forceful destiny decreed, Or did from chance, or nature's power proceed; Or that some star, with aspect kind to love, Shed its selectest influence from above; Whatever was the cause, the tender dame 430 Felt the first motions of an infant flame; Received th' impressions of the love-sick squire, And wasted in the soft infectious fire. Ye fair, draw near, let May's example move Your gentle minds to pity those who love! 435 Had some fierce tyrant in her stead been found, The poor adorer sure had hanged, or drowned: But she, your sex's mirrour, free from pride, Was much too meek to prove a homicide. But to my tale: Some sages have defined 440 Pleasure the sov'reign bliss of human-kind: Our knight (who studied much, we may suppose) Derived his high philosophy from those; For, like a prince, he bore the vast expense Of lavish pomp, and proud magnificence: 445 His house was stately, his retinue gay, Large was his train, and gorgeous his array. His spacious garden made to yield to none, Was compassed round with walls of solid stone; Priapus could not half describe the grace 450 (Though god of gardens) of this charming place: A place to tire the rambling wits of France In long descriptions, and exceed romance: Enough to shame the gentlest bard that sings Of painted meadows, and of purling springs. 455 Full in the centre of the flow'ry ground, } A crystal fountain spread its streams around, } The fruitful banks with verdant laurels crowned: } About this spring, if ancient fame say true, The dapper elves their moonlight sports pursue: 460 Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen, In circling dances gambolled on the green, While tuneful sprites a merry concert made, And airy music warbled through the shade. Hither the noble knight would oft repair, 465 (His scene of pleasure, and peculiar care) For this he held it dear, and always bore The silver key that locked the garden door. To this sweet place in summer's sultry heat, He used from noise and bus'ness to retreat; 470 And here in dalliance spend the live-long day, Solus cum sola, with his sprightly May. For whate'er work was undischarged a-bed, The duteous knight in this fair garden sped. But ah! what mortal lives of bliss secure, 475 How short a space our worldly joys endure! O Fortune, fair, like all thy treach'rous kind, But faithless still, and way'ring as the wind! O painted monster, formed mankind to cheat, With pleasing poison, and with soft deceit! 480 This rich, this am'rous, venerable knight, Amidst his ease, his solace, and delight, Struck blind by thee, resigns his days to grief, And calls on death, the wretch's last relief. The rage of jealousy then seized his mind, 485 For much he feared the faith of woman-kind. His wife, not suffered from his side to stray, } Was captive kept, he watched her night and day, } Abridged her pleasures, and confined her sway. } Full oft in tears did hapless May complain, 490 And sighed full oft; but sighed and wept in vain; She looked on Damian with a lover's eye; For oh, 'twas fixed, she must possess or die! Nor less impatience vexed her am'rous squire, Wild with delay, and burning with desire. 495 Watched as she was, yet could he not refrain By secret writing to disclose his pain; The dame by signs revealed her kind intent, Till both were conscious what each other meant. Ah, gentle knight, what would thy eyes avail, 500 Though they could see as far as ships can sail? 'Tis better, sure, when blind, deceived to be, Than be deluded when a man can see! Argus himself, so cautious and so wise, Was over-watched, for all his hundred eyes: 505 So many an honest husband may, 'tis known, Who, wisely, never thinks the case his own. The dame at last, by diligence and care, Procured the key her knight was wont to bear; She took the wards in wax before the fire, 510 And gave th' impression to the trusty squire. By means of this, some wonder shall appear, Which, in due place and season, you may hear. Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore, What sleight is that, which love will not explore? 515 And Pyramus and Thisbe plainly show The feats true lovers, when they list, can do: Though watched and captive, yet in spite of all, They found the art of kissing through a wall. But now no longer from our tale to stray; } 520 It happed that once upon a summer's day, } Our rev'rend knight was urged to am'rous play: } He raised his spouse ere matin-bell was rung, And thus his morning canticle he sung. Awake, my love, disclose thy radiant eyes; 525 Arise, my wife, my beauteous lady, rise! Hear how the doves with pensive notes complain, And in soft murmurs tell the trees their pain: The winter's past; the clouds and tempests fly; The sun adorns the fields, and brightens all the sky. 530 Fair without spot, whose ev'ry charming part My bosom wounds, and captivates my heart; Come, and in mutual pleasures let's engage, Joy of my life, and comfort of my age. This heard, to Damian straight a sign she made, 535 To haste before; the gentle squire obeyed: Secret and undescried he took his way, And, ambushed close, behind an arbour lay, It was not long ere January came, And, hand in hand with him his lovely dame; 540 Blind as he was, not doubting all was sure, He turned the key, and made the gate secure. Here let us walk, he said, observed by none, Conscious of pleasures to the world unknown: So may my soul have joy, as thou my wife 545 Art far the dearest solace of my life; And rather would I chuse, by heav'n above, To die this instant, than to lose thy love. Reflect what truth was in my passion shown, } When, unendowed, I took thee for my own, } 550 And sought no treasure but thy heart alone. } Old as I am, and now deprived of sight, } Whilst thou art faithful to thy own true knight, } Nor age, nor blindness, rob me of delight. } Each other loss with patience I can bear, 555 The loss of thee is what I only fear. Consider then, my lady and my wife, The solid comforts of a virtuous life. As first, the love of Christ himself you gain; Next, your own honour undefiled maintain; 560 And lastly, that which sure your mind must move, My whole estate shall gratify your love: Make your own terms, and ere to-morrow's sun Displays his light, by heav'n it shall be done. I seal the contract with a holy kiss, 565 And will perform, by this--my dear, and this. Have comfort, spouse, nor think thy lord unkind; 'Tis love, not jealousy, that fires my mind. For when thy charms my sober thoughts engage, And joined to them my own unequal age, 570 From thy dear side I have no pow'r to part, Such secret transports warm my melting heart. For who that once possessed those heav'nly charms, Could live one moment absent from thy arms? He ceased, and May with modest grace replied; 575 (Weak was her voice, as while she spoke she cried;) Heav'n knows (with that a tender sigh she drew) I have a soul to save as well as you; And, what no less you to my charge commend, My dearest honour, will to death defend. 580 To you in holy church I gave my hand, And joined my heart in wedlock's sacred band: Yet, after this, if you distrust my care, Then hear, my lord, and witness what I swear: First may the yawning earth her bosom rend, 585 And let me hence to hell alive descend; Or die the death I dread no less than hell, Sewed in a sack, and plunged into a well, Ere I my fame by one lewd act disgrace, Or once renounce the honour of my race. 590 For know, sir knight, of gentle blood I came, I loath a whore, and startle at the name. But jealous men on their own crimes reflect, And learn from thence their ladies to suspect: Else why these needless cautions, sir, to me? 595 These doubts and fears of female constancy! This chime still rings in ev'ry lady's ear, The only strain a wife must hope to hear. Thus while she spoke, a sidelong glance she cast Where Damian, kneeling, worshipped as she passed: 600 She saw him watch the motions of her eye, And singled out a pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charged with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was ev'ry bough. Thither th' obsequious squire addressed his pace, 605 And climbing, in the summit took his place; The knight and lady walked beneath in view, Where let us leave them, and our tale pursue. 'Twas now the season when the glorious sun His heav'nly progress through the Twins had run; 610 And Jove, exalted, his mild influence yields, To glad the glebe, and paint the flow'ry fields: Clear was the day, and Phoebus rising bright, Had streaked the azure firmament with light; He pierced the glitt'ring clouds with golden streams, 615 And warmed the womb of earth with genial beams. It so befel, in that fair morning tide, } The fairies sported on the garden side, } And in the midst their monarch and his bride. } So featly tripped the light-foot ladies round, } 620 The knights so nimbly o'er the green-sward bound, } That scarce they bent the flow'rs, or touched the ground. } The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies searched the flow'ry plain; While on a bank reclined of rising green, 625 Thus, with a frown, the king bespoke his queen: 'Tis too apparent, argue what you can, The treachery you women use to man: A thousand authors have this truth made out, And sad experience leaves no room for doubt. 630 Heav'n rest thy spirit, noble Solomon, A wiser monarch never saw the sun: All wealth, all honours, the supreme degree Of earthly bliss, was well bestowed on thee! For sagely hast thou said: Of all mankind, 635 One only just, and righteous, hope to find: But should'st thou search the spacious world around, Yet one good woman is not to be found. Thus says the king who knew your wickedness; The son of Sirach testifies no less. 640 So may some wildfire on your bodies fall, Or some devouring plague consume you all; As well you view the lecher in the tree, And well this honourable knight you see: But since he's blind and old (a helpless case) 645 His squire shall cuckold him before your face. Now by my own dread majesty I swear, And by this awful sceptre which I bear, No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunished long, That in my presence offers such a wrong. 650 I will this instant undeceive the knight, And, in the very act, restore his sight: And set the strumpet here in open view, } A warning to these ladies, and to you, } And all the faithless sex, for ever to be true. } 655 And will you so, replied the queen, indeed? } Now, by my mother's soul it is decreed, } She shall not want an answer at her need. } For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage, And all the sex in each succeeding age; 660 Art shall be theirs to varnish an offence, And fortify their crimes with confidence. Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace, Seen with both eyes, and pinioned on the place; All they shall need is to protest and swear, 665 Breathe a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear; Till their wise husbands, gulled by arts like these, Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geese. What though this sland'rous Jew, this Solomon, Called women fools, and knew full many a one; 670 The wiser wits of later times declare, How constant, chaste, and virtuous women are: Witness the martyrs, who resigned their breath, Serene in torments, unconcerned in death; And witness next what Roman authors tell, 675 How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell. But since the sacred leaves to all are free, And men interpret texts, why should not we? By this no more was meant, than to have shown, } That sov'reign goodness dwells in him alone } 680 Who only Is, and is but only One. } But grant the worst; shall women then be weighed By ev'ry word that Solomon has said? What though this king (as ancient story boasts) Built a fair temple to the Lord of Hosts; 685 He ceased at last his Maker to adore, And did as much for idol gods, or more. Beware what lavish praises you confer On a rank lecher and idolater; Whose reign indulgent God, says Holy Writ, 690 Did but for David's righteous sake permit; David, the monarch after heav'n's own mind, Who loved our sex, and honoured all our kind. Well, I'm a woman, and as such must speak; Silence would swell me, and my heart would break. 695 Know then, I scorn your dull authorities, Your idle wits, and all their learned lies. By heav'n, those authors are our sex's foes, Whom, in our right, I must and will oppose. Nay, quoth the king, dear madam, be not wroth: 700 I yield it up; but since I gave my oath, That this much injured knight again should see, It must be done--I am a king, said he, And one whose faith has ever sacred been. And so has mine, she said, I am a queen: 705 Her answer she shall have, I undertake; And thus an end of all dispute I make. Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord, It is not in our sex to break our word. We leave them here in this heroic strain, 710 And to the knight our story turns again; Who in the garden, with his lovely May, Sung merrier than the cuckoo or the jay: This was his song; "Oh kind and constant be, Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee." 715 Thus singing as he went, at last he drew By easy steps, to where the pear-tree grew: The longing dame looked up, and spied her love, Full fairly perched among the boughs above. She stopped, and sighing: Oh, good gods, she cried, 720 What pangs, what sudden shoots distend my side? Oh for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green; Help, for the love of heav'n's immortal queen; Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife! 725 Sore sighed the knight to hear his lady's cry, But could not climb, and had no servant nigh: Old as he was, and void of eye-sight too, What could, alas! a helpless husband do? And must I languish then, she said, and die, 730 Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye? At least, kind sir, for charity's sweet sake, Vouchsafe the trunk between your arms to take; Then from your back I might ascend the tree; Do you but stoop, and leave the rest to me. 735 With all my soul, he thus replied again, I'd spend my dearest blood to ease thy pain. With that, his back against the trunk he bent, She seized a twig, and up the tree she went. Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all! 740 Nor let on me your heavy anger fall: 'Tis truth I tell, though not in phrase refined, Though blunt my tale, yet honest is my mind. What feats the lady in the tree might do, I pass as gambols never known to you; 745 But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore, Than in her life she ever felt before. In that nice moment, lo! the wond'ring knight Looked out, and stood restored to sudden sight. Straight on the tree his eager eyes he bent, 750 As one whose thoughts were on his spouse intent; But when he saw his bosom-wife so dressed, His rage was such as cannot be expressed: Not frantic mothers when their infants die, With louder clamours rend the vaulted sky: 755 He cried, he roared, he stormed, he tore his hair; Death! hell! and furies! what dost thou do there! What ails my lord? the trembling dame replied; I thought your patience had been better tried; Is this your love, ungrateful, and unkind, 760 This my reward for having cured the blind? Why was I taught to make my husband see, By struggling with a man upon a tree? Did I for this the pow'r of magic prove? Unhappy wife, whose crime was too much love! 765 If this be struggling, by this holy light, 'Tis struggling with a vengeance, quoth the knight; So heav'n preserve the sight it has restored, As with these eyes I plainly saw thee whored; Whored by my slave--perfidious wretch! may hell 770 As surely seize thee, as I saw too well. Guard me, good angels! cried the gentle May, Pray heav'n this magic work the proper way! Alas, my love! 'tis certain, could you see, You ne'er had used these killing words to me: 775 So help me, fates, as 'tis no perfect sight, But some faint glimm'ring of a doubtful light. What I have said, quoth he, I must maintain, For by th' immortal pow'rs it seemed too plain. By all those pow'rs, some frenzy seized your mind, } 780 Replied the dame, are these the thanks I find? } Wretch that I am, that e'er I was so kind! } She said; a rising sigh expressed her woe, The ready tears apace began to flow, And as they fell she wiped from either eye 785 The drops; for women, when they list, can cry. The knight was touched; and in his looks appeared Signs of remorse, while thus his spouse he cheered: Madam, 'tis past, and my short anger o'er! Come down, and vex your tender heart no more; 790 Excuse me, dear, if aught amiss was said, For, on my soul, amends shall soon be made: Let my repentance your forgiveness draw, By heav'n, I swore but what I thought I saw. Ah, my loved lord! 'twas much unkind, she cried, 795 On bare suspicion thus to treat your bride. But till your sight's established, for awhile, Imperfect objects may your sense beguile. Thus when from sleep we first our eyes display, } The balls are wounded with the piercing ray, } 800 And dusky vapours rise, and intercept the day: } So just recov'ring from the shades of night, } Your swimming eyes are drunk with sudden light, } Strange phantoms dance around, and skim before your sight. } Then, sir, be cautious, nor too rashly deem; 805 Heav'n knows how seldom things are what they seem! Consult your reason, and you soon shall find 'Twas you were jealous, not your wife unkind: Jove ne'er spoke oracle more true than this, None judge so wrong as those who think amiss. 810 With that she leaped into her lord's embrace With well-dissembled virtue in her face. He hugged her close, and kissed her o'er and o'er, Disturbed with doubts and jealousies no more: Both, pleased and blessed, renewed their mutual vows, 815 A fruitful wife and a believing spouse. Thus ends our tale, whose moral next to make, Let all wise husbands hence example take; And pray, to crown the pleasure of their lives, To be so well deluded by their wives. 820

FOOTNOTES:

We wedded men live in sorwe and care; Assay it whoso will, and he shall find That I say sooth, by Saint Thomas of Inde, As for the more part; I say not all; God shielde that it shoulde so befall.

The host begs that since the merchant knows so much of the trials of matrimony, he will instruct the company in some of them.

Gladly, quoth he, but of mine owne sore For sorry heart I telle may no more.

He accordingly relates the adventures of January and May in illustration of the misfortunes of the wedded state, and commences with the panegyric of January upon its unmixed blessings. The merchant then adds,

Thus said this olde knight that was so wise,

which is an ironical comment on what the narrator of the tale considers a delusive dream, and a proof of the credulous folly of the speaker. The idea of ascribing genuine sense and wisdom to the knight, notwithstanding that he was weak enough, at the age of sixty, to marry a girl, is confined to the version of Pope, and is not in itself unnatural; but the character, upon the whole, is better preserved in Chaucer, since the entire talk and conduct of January indicate a feeble mind.]

And when that he was passed sixty year, Were it for holiness or for dotage, I cannot say, but such a great courage Hadde this knight to be a wedded man, That day and night he doth all that he can Taspye where that he might wedded be; Praying our Lord to grante him that he Might ones knowen of that blissful life, That is betwixt a husband and his wife.]

And certainly, as sooth as God is king, To take a wife it is a glorious thing; And namely when a man is old and hoar, Then is a wife the fruit of his tresor.

This is another instance that the merchant's remarks are sarcastic; for no rational person would gravely assert that to wed was especially wise in old age, when a man was married for his money alone. The whole purport of the tale was to prove that such an alliance ended in discomfiture. The vein of satire is continued through the subsequent reflections. The merchant represents January as imagining wives to be models of obedience and fidelity, who will cleave to a husband through weal and woe, and will never be weary of loving and serving him, though he is bed-ridden all his days. The example of May, to which the description is a preface, shows that the praises are meant to be interpreted in an adverse sense.]

This entent and an hundred sithe worse Writeth this man; there God his bones curse.