But as our kind is of a softer mould,
And cannot blood without a sigh behold.
I grant thee life; reserving still the power
To take the forfeit when I see my hour:
Unless thy answer to my next demand
Shall set thee free from our avenging hand.
The question whose solution I require,
Is, what the sex of women most desire ?"
In this dispute thy judges are at strife;
Beware; for on thy wit depends thy life.
Yet, lest surprised, unknowing what to say,
Thou damn thyself, we give thee further day:
A year is thine to wander at thy will;
And learn from others, if thou want'st the skill
But, not to hold our proffer turn'd in scorn,
Good sureties will we have for thy return:
That at the time prefix'd thou shalt obey,
And at thy pledges' peril keep thy day."""
Wo was the knight at this severe command;
But well he knew 'twas bootless to withstand:
The terms accepted as the fair ordain,
He put in bail for his return again,
And promised answer at the day assign'd,
The best, with Heaven's assistance, he could find.
His leave thus taken, on his way he went
With heavy heart, and full of discontent;
Misdoubting much, and fearful of th' event.
'Twas hard the truth of such a point to find,
As was not yet agreed among the kind.
Thus on he went; still anxious more and more,
Ask'd all be met, and knock'd at every door,
Inquired of men; but made his chief request
To learn from women what they loved the best.
They answer'd each according to her mind
To please herself, not all the female kind.
One was for wealth, another was for place;
Crones, old and ugly, wish'd a better face:
The widow's wish was oftentimes to wed;
The wanton maids were all for sport a-bed.
Some said the sex were pleased with handsome lies,
And some gross flattery loved without disguise;
"Truth is (says one), he seldom fails to win.
Who flatters well, for that's our darling sin;
But long attendance, and a duteous mind,
Will work even with the wisest of the kind."
One thought the sex's prime felicity
Was from the bonds of wedlock to be free!
Their pleasures, hours, and actions all their own,
And uncontrol'd to give account to none.
Some wish a husband-fool; but such are cursed,
For fools perverse of husbands are the worst:
All women would be counted chaste and wise,
Nor should our spouses see but with our eyes;
For fools will prate, and though they want the wit
To find close faults, yet open blots will hit:
Though better for their ease to hold their tongue,
For womankind was never in the wrong.
So noise ensues, and quarrels last for life;
The wife abhors the fool, the fool the wife,
And some men say that great delight have we,
To be for truth extoll'd, and secrecy ;
And constant in one purpose still to dwell:
And not our husband's counsel to reveal.
But that's a fable, for our sex is frail,
Inventing rather than not tell a tale.
Like leaky sieves no secrets we can hold,
Witness the famous tale that Ovid told.
"Midas the king, as in his book appears,
By Phoebus was endow'd with ass's ears,
Which under his long locks he well conceal'd,
As monarchs' vices must not be reveal'd,
For fear the people have them in the wind,
Who long ago were neither dumb nor blind;
Nor apt to think from heaven their title springs,
Since Jove and Mars left off begetting kings.
This Midas knew; and durst communicate
To none but to his wife his ears of state:
One must be trusted, and he thought her fit,
As passing prudent, and a parlous wit.
To this sagacious confessor he went,
And told her what a gift the gods had sent:
But told it under matrimonial seal,
With strict injunction never to reveal.
The secret heard, she plighted him her troth
(And sacred sure is every woman's oath),
The royal malady should rest unknown,
Both for her husband's honour and her own;
But ne'ertheless she pined with discontent,
The counsel rumbled till it found a vent.
The thing she knew she was obliged to hide;
By interest and by oath the wife was tied;
But if she told it not, the woman died.
Loath to betray a husband and a prince,
But she must burst or blab: and no pretence
Of honour tied her tongue from self-defence.
A marshy ground commodiously was near;
Thither she ran, and held her breath for fear,
Lest if a word she spoke of any thing.
That word might be the secret of the king.
Thus full of counsel to the fen she went,
Griped all the way, and longing for a vent.
Arrived, by pure necessity compell'd,
On her majestic marrow-bones she kneel'd:
Then to the water's brink she laid her head,
And, as a bittern bumps within a reed,
'To thee alone, O lake! (she said), I tell,
And, as thy queen, command thee to concea!
Beneath his lock the king my husband wears
A goodly royal pair of ass's ears!---
Now I have eased my bosom of the pain,
Till the next longing fit return again.'
Thus through a woman was the secret known;
Tell us, and in effect you tell the town.
But to my tale:-The knight in heavy cheer,
Wandering in vain had now comsumed the year;
One day was only left to solve the doubt,
Yet knew no more than when he first set out.
But home he must: and, as the award had been,
Yield up his body captive to the queen.
In this despairing state he happ'd to ride,
As fortune led him, by a forest side:
Lonely the vale and full of horror stood,
Brown with the shade of a religious wood;
When full before him at the noon of night
(The moon was up and shot a gleamy light),
He saw a quire of ladies in a round,
That, featly footing, seem'd to skim the ground:
Thus dancing hand in hand, so light they were,
He knew not where they trod, on earth or air.
At speed he drove, and came a sudden guest,
In hope where many women were, at least
Some one by chance might answer his request.
But faster than his horse the ladies flew,
And in a trice were vanish'd out of view.
One only hag remain'd: but fouler far
Than grandame apes in Indian forests are:
Against a wither'd oak she lean'd her weight,
Propp'd on her trusty staff, not half upright,
And dropp'd an awkward curtsy to the knight.
Then said, "What make you, sir, so late abroad
Without a guide, and this no beaten road?
Or want you aught that here you hope to find,
Or travel for some trouble in your mind?
The last I guess; and, if I read aright,
Those of our sex are bound to serve a knight :
Perhaps good counsel may your grief assuage,
Then tell your pain; for wisdom is in age."
To this the knight; "Good mother, would you know
The secret cause and spring of all my woe?
My life must with to-morrow's light expire,
Unless I tell what women most desire:
Now could you help me at this hard essay,
Or for your inborn goodness or for pay;
Yours is my life, redeem'd by your advice,
Ask what you please, and I will pay the price."
"Plight me thy faith (quoth she), that what I ask,
Thy danger over and perform'd the task,
That shalt thou give for hire of thy demand,
Here take thy oath, and seal it on my hand;
I warrant thee, on peril of my life,
Thy words shall please both widow, maid, and
The proudest kerchief of the court shall rest
Well satisfied of what they love the best."
More words there needed not, to move the knight To take her offer, and his truth to plight. With that she spread her mantle on the ground, And, first inquiring whither he was bound, Bade him not fear, though long and rough the way, At court he should arrive ere break of day; His horse should find the way without a guide, She said: with fury they began to ride; He on the midst, the beldam at the side. The horse what devil drove, I cannot tell, But only this, they sped their journey well: And all the way the crone inform'd the knight, How he should answer the demand aright.
To court they came: the news was quickly spread
Of his returning to redeem his head.
The female senate was assembled soon,
With all the mob of women in the town.
The queen sat lord-chief justice of the hall,
And bade the crier cite the criminal.
The knight appear'd, and silence they proclaim;
Then first the culprit answer'd to his name:
And after forms of law, was last required
To name the thing that women most desired.
Th' offender, taught his lesson by the way,
And by his counsel order'd what to say,
Thus bold began: "My lady liege (said he),
What all your sex desire is Sovereignty!
The wife affects her husband to command;
All must be hers, both money, house, and land.
The maids are mistresses even in their naine;
And of their servants full dominion claim.
This, at the peril of my head, I say,
A blunt plain truth,-the sex aspires to sway;
You, to rule all; while we, like slaves, obey."
There was not one, or widow, maid, or wife,
But said the knight had well deserved his life.
Even fair Geneura, with a blush, confess'd
The man had found what women love the best.
Upstarts the beldam, who was there unseen,
And, reverence made, accosted thus the queen:
"My liege (said she), before the court arise,
May I, poor wretch, find favour in your eyes,
To grant my just request: 'twas I who taught
The knight this answer, and inspired his thought.
None but a woman could a man direct
To tell us women what we most affect.
But first I swore him on his knightly troth
(And here demand performance of his oath),
To grant the boon that next I should desire;
He gave his faith, and I expect my hire:
My promise is fulfill'd: I saved his life,
And claim his debt-to take me for his wife."
The knight was ask'd, nor could his oath deny,
But hoped they would not force him to comply.
The women, who would rather wrest the laws
Than let a sister-plaintiff lose the cause
(As judges on the bench more gracious are,
And more attent to brothers of the bar),
Cried, one and all, the suppliant should have right,
And to the grandame-hag adjudged the knight.
In vain he sigh'd, and oft with tears desired
Some reasonable suit might be required.
But still the crone was constant to her note,
The more he spoke, the more she stretch'd her
throat:
In vain he proffer'd all his goods, to save
His body, destined to that living grave.
The liquorish hag rejects the pelf with scorn,
And nothing but the man would serve her turn.
"Nor all the wealth of eastern kings (said she)
Have power to part my plighted love and me:
And, old and ugly as I am, and poor,
Yet never will I break the faith I swore;
For mine thou art by promise during life,
And I, thy loving and obedient wife."
"My love! nay, rather my damnation thou
(Said he); nor am I bound to keep my vow:
The fiend, thy sire, has sent thee from below,
Else how couldst thou my secret sorrows know?
Avaunt, old witch! for I renounce thy bed:
The queen may take the forfeit of my head,
Ere any of my race so foul a crone shall wed!"
Both heard; the judge pronounced against the
So was he married in his own despite; [knight;
And all day after hid him as an owl,
Not able to sustain a sight so foul.
Perhaps the reader thinks I do him wrong,
To pass the marriage feast and nuptial song:
Mirth there was none, the man was a-la-mort,
And little courage had to make his court.
To bed they went, the bridegroom and the bride:
Was never such an ill pair'd couple tied.
Restless he toss'd and tumbled to and fro,
And roll'd, and wriggled further off, for wo.
The good old wife lay smiling by his side,
And caught him in her quivering arms, and cried,
"When you my ravish'd predecessor saw,
You were not then become this man of straw;
Had you been such, you might have scaped the law.
Is this the custom of king Arthur's court?
Are all round table knights of such a sort?
Remember I am she who saved your life,
Your loving, lawful, and complying wife:
Not thus you swore in your unhappy hour,
Nor I for this return employ'd my power.
In time of need I was your faithful friend;
Nor did I since, nor ever will, offend.
Believe me, my loved lord, 'tis much unkind;
What fury has possess'd your alter'd mind?
Thus on my wedding night-without pretence-
Come turn this way, or tell me my offence.
If not your wife, let reason's rule persuade,
Name but my fault, amends shall soon be made.
"Amends! nay that's impossible (said he);
What change of age or ugliness can be!
Or could Medea's magic mend thy face,
Thou art descended from so mean a race
That never knight was match'd with such disgrace
What wonder, madam, if I move my side,
When, if I turn, I turn to such a bride."
"And is this all that troubles you so sore!" "And what the devil couldst thou wish me more?" "Ah, benedicite! (replied the crone)
Then cause of just complaining have you none.
The remedy to this were soon applied,
Would you be like the bridegroom to the bride;
But, for you say a long-descended race,
And wealth, and dignity, and power, and place,
Make gentlemen; and that your high degree
Is much disparaged to be match'd with me;
Know this my lord, nobility of blood
Is but a glittering and fallacious good:
The nobleman is he whose noble mind
Is fill'd with inborn worth, unborrow'd from his kind.
The King of Heaven was in a manger laid;
And took his earth but from an humble maid;
Then what can birth or mortal men bestow,
Since floods no higher than their fountains flow?
We, who for name and empty honour strive,
Our true nobility from him derive.
Your ancestors, who puff your mind with pride,
And vast estates to mighty titles tied,
Did not your honour, but their own, advance;
For virtue comes not by inheritance.
If you tralineate from your father's mind,
What are you else but of a bastard kind?
Do as your great progenitors have done.
And by their virtues prove yourself their son.
No father can infuse or wit or grace;
A mother comes across, and mars the race:
A grandsire or a grandame taints the blood,
And seldom three descents continue good.
Were virtue by descent, a noble name
Could never villanize his father's fame:
But as the first, the last of all the line.
Would, like the sun, even in descending, shine.
Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house,
Betwixt King Arthur's court and Caucasus;
If you depart, the flame shall still remain,
And the bright blaze enlighten all the plain :
Nor, till the fuel perish, can decay,
By nature forin'd on things combustible to prey.
Such is not man, who, mixing better seed
With worse, begets a base degenerate breed:
The bad corrupts the good, and leaves behind
No trace of all the great begetter's mind.
The father sinks within his son, we see,
And often rises in the third degree;
If better luck a better mother give:
Chance gave us being, and by chance we live.
Such as our atoms were, even such are we,
Or call it chance or strong necessity;
Thus loaded with dead weight, the will is free.
And thus it needs must be: for seed conjoin'd
Lets into nature's work th' imperfect kind:
But fire, th' enlivener of the general frame,
Is one, its operation still the same.
Its principle is in itself: while ours
Works, as confederates war, with mingled powers
Or man or woman, whichsoever fails;
And oft the vigour of the worse prevails.
Ether with sulphur blended alters hue,
And casts a dusky gleam of Sodom blue.
Thus in a brute their ancient honour ends,
And the fair mermaid in the fish descends;
The line is gone-no longer duke or earl,
But, by himself degraded, turns a churl.
Nobility of blood is but renown
Of thy great fathers by their virtue known,
And a long trail of light to thee descending down
If in thy smoke it ends, their glories shine:
But infamy and villanage are thine.
Then what I said before is plainly show'd,
The true nobility proceeds from God:
Not left us by inheritance, but given
By bounty of our stars, and grace of heaven.
Thus from a captive Servius Tullus rose,
Whom for his virtues the first Romans chose ;
Fabricius from their walls repell'd the foe,
Whose noble hands had exercised the plough,
From hence, my lord and love, I thus conclude,
That though my homely ancestors were rude,
Mean as I am, yet I may have the grace
To make you father of a generous race;
And noble then am I, when I begin,
In virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin.
If poverty be my upbraided crime,
And you believe in heaven, there was a time
When He, the great controller of our fate,
Deign'd to be man, and lived in low estate:
Which He who had the world at his dispose,
If poverty were vice, had never chose.
Philosophers have said, and poets sing,
That a glad poverty's an honest thing:
Content is wealth, the riches of the mind,
And happy he who can that treasure find:
But the base miser starves amidst his store,
Broods on his gold, and griping still at more,
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.
The ragged beggar, though he wants relief,
Has not to lose, and sings before the thief.
Want is a bitter and a hateful good,
Because its virtues are not understood:
Yet many things, impossible to thought,
Have been by need to full perfection brought:
The daring of the soul proceeds from thence,
Sharpness of wit, and active diligence:
Prudence at once, and fortitude, it gives,
And, if in patience taken, mends our lives:
For even that indigence that brings me low,
Makes me myself, and Him above, to know;
A good which none would challenge, few would
A fair posession, which mankind refuse.
"If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend, If I am old and ugly, well for you,
No lewd adulterer will my love pursue;
Nor jealousy, the bane of married life,
Shall haunt you for a wither'd homely wife:
For age and ugliness, as all agree,
Are the best guards of female chastity.
"Yet since I see your mind is worldly bent,
I'll do my best to further your content:
And therefore of two gifts in my dispose,
Think, ere you speak, I grant you leave to choose;
Would you I should be still deform'd and old,
Nauseous to touch, and loathsome to behold;
On this condition, to remain for life,
A careful, tender, and obedient wife,
In all I can contribute to your ease,
And not in deed, or word, or thought, displease?
Or would you rather have me young and fair,
And take the chance that happens to your share?
Temptations are in beauty and in youth,
And how can you depend upon my truth?
Now weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss,
And thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss."
Sore sigh'd the knight, who this long sermon
heard:
At length, considering all, his heart he cheer'd;
And thus replied: "My lady and my wife,
To your wise conduct I resign my life;
Choose you for me, for well you understand
The future good and ill on either hand:
But if an humble husband may request,
Provide and order all things for the best;
Yours be the care to profit and to please,
And let your subject servant take his ease."
"Then thus in peace (quoth she) concludes the
strife,
Since I am turn'd the husband, you the wife:
The matrimonial victory is mine,
Which, having fairly gain'd, I will resign.
Forgive, if I have said or done amiss,
And seal the bargain with a friendly kiss:
I promised you but one content to share,
But now I will become both good and fair.
No nuptial quarrel shall disturb your ease,
The business of my life shall be to please:
And for my beauty, that, as time shall try,
But draw the curtain first, and cast your eye."
He look'd and saw a creature heavenly fair,
In bloom of youth, and of a charming air:
With joy he turn'd, and seized her ivory arm,
And, like Pygmalion, found the statue warm.
Small arguments there needed to prevail;
A storm of kisses pour'd as thick as hail.
Thus long in mutual bliss they lay embraced,
And their first love continued to the last :
One sunshine was their life, no cloud between,
Nor ever was a kinder couple seen.
And so may all our lives like theirs be led; [bed; Heaven send the maids young husbands, fresh in
May widows wed as often as they can,
And ever for the better change their man.
And some devouring plague pursue their lives
Who will not well be govern'd by their wives!
A GOOD PARSON.
A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God had clothed his own ambassador);
For such on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense,
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere:
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see,
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity;
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd,
Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher
charm'd.
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky:
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears
(A music more melodious than the spheres):
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and, after him, he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look, [spoke.
But sweetly temper'd awe, and soften'd all he
Ile preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell,
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell."
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw:
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard:
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder (Heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before th' Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there!
The tithes his parish freely paid, he took,
But never sued, or cursed with bell and book:
With patience bearing wrong, but offering none,
Since every man is free to lose his own.
The country churls, according to their kind
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind),
The less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more;
And praised a priest contented to be poor.
Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare:
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
"True priests," he said, "and preachers of the
Were only stewards of their Sovereign Lord;
Nothing was theirs, but all the public store,
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor;
Who, should they steal for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief."
Wide was his parish, not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distress'd,
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.
All this the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none:
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold:
But duly watch'd his flock by night and day,
And from the prowling wolf redeem'd the prey,
And hungry sent the wily fox away.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd, Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought
(A living sermon of the truths he taught):
For this by rules severe his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard:
"For priests," he said, "are patterns for the rest
(The gold of Heaven, who bear the God im-
press'd):
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul, on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust."
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 design'd,
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.
Not but he knew the signs of earthly power
Might well become Saint Peter's successor :
The holy father holds a double reign;
The prince may keep his pomp-the fisher must be plain.
Such was the saint, who shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face. God saw his image lively was express'd, And his own work, as in creation, bless'd.
The tempter saw him too with envious eye,
And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.
He took the time when Richard was deposed,
And high and low with happy Harry closed.
This prince though great in arms, the priest with-
stood:
Near though he was, yet not the next of blood:
Had Richard unconstrain'd resign'd the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own,
The title stood entail'd, had Richard had a son.
Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside;
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by Providence
Was, by a flattering priest, invented since,
And lasts no longer than the present sway,
But justifies the next who comes in play.
The people's right remains; let those who dare Dispute their power, when they the judges are.
He join'd not in their choice, because he knew Worse might, and often did, from change ensue; Much to himself he thought, but little spoke, And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.
Now, through the land, his cure of souls he
stretch'd,
And like a primitive apostle preach'd:
Still cheerful, ever constant to his call;
By many follow'd, loved by most, admired by all.
With what he begg'd his brethren he relieved,
And gave the charities himself received:
Gave, while he taught, and edified the more,
Because he show'd by proof, 'twas easy to be poor,
He went not with the crowd to see a shrine;
But fed us by the way with food divine.
In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To show you what the rest in orders were:
This brilliant is so spotless and so bright,
He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.
THE TALE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST. THERE lived, as authors tell, in days of yore, A widow somewhat old, and very poor: Deep in a dell her cottage lonely stood, Well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood.
This dowager, on whom my tale I found, Since last she laid her husband in the ground, A simple sober life in patience led, And had but just enough to buy her bread: But housewifing the little Heaven had lent, She duly paid a groat for quarter-rent; And pinch'd her belly with her daughters two, To bring the year about with much ado.
The cattle in her homestead were three sows, A ewe call'd Mally, and three brinded cows.
Her parlour-window stuck with herbs around,
Of savoury smell; and rushes strew'd the ground.
A maple-dresser in her hall she had,
On which full many a slender meal she made,
For no delicious morsel pass'd her throat;
According to her cloth she cut her coat:
No poignant sauce she knew, nor costly treat,
Her hunger gave a relish to her meat:
A sparing diet did her health assure;
Or sick, a pepper-posset was her cure.
Before the day was done, her work she sped,
And never went by candlelight to bed:
With exercise she sweat ill humours out,
Her dancing was not hinder'd by the gout,
Her poverty was glad; her heart content;
Nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant.
Of wine she never lasted through the year,
But white and black was all her homely cheer;
Brown bread, and milk (but first she skimm'd
her bowls),
And rashers of singed bacon on the coals.
On holidays, an egg, or two at most;
But her ambition never reach'd to roast.
A yard she had with pales enclosed about,
Some high, some low, and a dry ditch without.
Within this homestead lived, without a peer,
For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer:
So hight her cock, whose singing did surpass
The merry notes of organs at the mass.
More certain was the crowing of a cock
To number hours than is an abbey clock:
And sooner than the matin-bell was rung,
He clapp'd his wings upon his roost, and sung:
For when degrees fifteen ascended right,
By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night.
High was his comb, and coral-red withal,
In dents embattled like a castle wall:
His bill was raven-black, and shone like jet;
Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet,
White were his nails, like silver to behold,
His body glittering like the burnish'd gold.
This gentle cock, for solace of his life,
[good,
Six misses had, beside his lawful wife;
Scandal, that spares no king, though ne'er so
Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood;
His sisters both by sire and mother's side,
And sure their likeness show'd them near allied.
But make the worst, the monarch did no more
Than all the Ptolemies had done before:
When incest is for interest of a nation,
"I is made no sin by holy dispensation.
Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone,
Which by their common ugliness are known.
But passing this, as from our tale apart, Dame Partlet was the sovereign of his heart: Ardent in love, outrageous in his play, He feather'd her a hundred times a day: And she, that was not only passing fair, But was withal discreet and debonair, Resolved the passive doctrine to fulfil, Though loath, and let him work his wicked will. At board and bed was affable and kind, According as their marriage vow did bind, And as the church's precept had enjoin'd. E'en since she was a se'nnight old, they say, Was chaste and humble to her dying day; Nor, chick nor hen, was known to disobey.
By this her husband's heart she did obtain; What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain! She was his only joy, and he her pride, She, when she walk'd, went pecking by his side; If, spurning on the ground, he sprung a corn, The tribute in his bill to her was borne. But oh what joy it was to hear him sing In summer, when the day began to spring: Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat Solus cum sola, then was all his note. For, in the days of yore, the birds of parts Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal It happ'd, that, perching on the parlour beam Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream, Just at the dawn; and sigh'd, and groan'd so fast, As every breath he drew would be his last. Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his side, Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cried For help from gods and men: and sore aghast She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last, "Dear heart," said she, " for love of heaven, de
Your pain, and make me partner of your care.
You groan, Sir, ever since the morning light,
As something had disturb'd your noble spright."
"And, madam, well I might," said Chanticleer,
"Never was Shrovetide cock in such a fear
Even still I run all over in a sweat,
My princely senses not recover'd yet,
For such a dream I had of dire portent,
That much I fear my body will be shent:
It bodes I shall have wars and woful strife,
Or in a loathsome dungeon end my life.
Know, dame, I dream'd within my troubled breast
That in our yard I saw a murderous beast,
That on my body would have made arrest.
With waking eyes I ne'er beheld his fellow,
His colour was betwixt a red and yellow,
Tipp'd was his tail, and both his pricking ears,
With black, and much unlike his other hairs:
The rest, in shape a beagle's whelp throughout,
With broader forehead, and a sharper snout.
Deep in his front were sunk his glowing eyes;
That yet methinks I see him with surprise.
Reach out your hand, I drop with clammy sweat,
And lay it to my heart, and feel it beat."
"Now, fie for shame!" quoth she, "by heaven
Thou hast for ever lost thy lady's love; [above,
No woman can endure a recreant knight,
He must be bold by day, and free by night.
Our sex desires a husband, or a friend,
Who can our honour and his own defend;
Wise, hardy, secret, liberal of his purse:
A fool is nauseous, but a coward worse:
No bragging coxcomb, yet no baffled knight.
How darest thou talk of love, and darest not fight?
How darest thou tell thy dame thou art afeard;
Hast thou no manly heart, and hast a beard?
"If aught from fearful dreams may be divined,
They signify a cock of dunghill kind.
All dreams, as in old Galen I have read,
Are from repletion and complexion bred;
From rising fumes of indigested food,
And noxious humours that infect the blood:
And sure, my lord, if I can read aright,
These foolish fancies you have had to-night
Are certain symptoms (in the canting style)
Of boiling choler, and abounding bile:
This yellow gall that in your stomach floats
Engenders all these visionary thoughts.
When choler overflows, then dreams are bred
Of flames, and all the family of red;
Red dragons and red beasts in sleep we view :
For humours are distinguish'd by their hue,
From hence we dream of wars and warlike things,
And wasps and hornets with their double wings.
Choler adust congeals our blood with fear;
Then black bulls toss us, and black devils tear.
In sanguine airy dreams aloft we bound,
With rheums oppress'd, we sink in rivers drown'd.
"More I could say, but thus conclude my theme:
The dominating humour makes the dream.
Cato was in his time accounted wise,
And he condemns them all for empty lies.
Take my advice, and when we fly to ground,
With laxatives preserve your body sound,
And purge the peccant humours that abound.
I should be loath to lay you on a bier ;
And though there lives no pothecary near,
I dare for once prescribe for your disease,
And save long bills, and a damn'd doctor's fees.
"Two sovereign herbs, which I by practice know,
And both at hand (for in our yard they grow),
On peril of my soul shall rid you wholly
Of yellow choler, and of melancholy:
You must both purge and vomit; but obey,
And for the love of heaven make no delay.
Since hot and dry in your complexion join,
Beware the sun when in a vernal sign;
For when he mounts exalted in the ram,
If then he finds your body in a flame,
Replete with choler I dare lay a groat,
A tertian ague is at least your lot:
Perhaps a fever (which the gods forefend !)
May bring your youth to some untimely end.
And therefore, Sir, as you desire to live,
A day or two before your laxative,
Take just three worms, nor under nor above,
Because the gods unequal numbers love.
These digestives prepare you for your purge,
Of fumatory, centaury, and spurge,
And of groundivy add a leaf or two,
All which within our yard or garden grow;
Eat these, and be, my lord, of better cheer;
Your father's son was never born to fear."
"Madam," quoth he, "gramercy for your care;
But Cato, whom you quoted, you may spare.
'Tis true, a wise and worthy man he seems, And (as you say) gave no belief to dreams: But other men of more authority,
And, by th' immortal powers! as wise as he,
Maintain, with sounder sense, that dreams fore-
For Homer plainly says they come from God. [bode;
Nor Cato said it: but some modern fool
Imposed in Cato's name on boys at school.
Believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow
Th' events of things, and future weal or wo:
Some truths are not by reason to be tried,
But we have sure experience for our guide.
An ancient author, equal with the best,
Relates this tale of dreams among the rest:
"Two friends, or brothers, with devout intent, On some far pilgrimage together went. It happen'd so that when the sun was down, They just arrived by twilight at a town; That day had been the baiting of a bull, 'Twas at a feast, and every inn so full That no void room in chamber, or on ground, And but one sorry bed was to be found; And that so little it would hold but one, Though till this hour they never lay alone. "So were they forced to part; one stay'd behind,
His fellow sought what lodging he could find:
At last he found a stall where oxen stood,
And that he rather chose than lie abroad.
'Twas in a further yard without a door,
But for his ease, well litter'd was the floor.
"His fellow, who the narrow bed had kept,
Was weary, and without a rocker slept :
Supine he snored; but, in the dead of night,
He dream'd his friend appear'd before his sight,
Who, with a ghastly look and doleful cry,
Said, "Help me, brother, or this night I die!
Arise, and help, before all help is vain,
Or in an ox's stall I shall be slain!"
"Roused from his rest, he waken'd in a start, Shivering with horror, and with aching heart: At length to cure himself by reason tries: 'Twas but a dream, and what are dreams but
So thinking, changed his side, and closed his eyes.
His dream returns; his friend appears again,
'''he murderers come: now help, or I am slain !'
'Twas but a vision still, and visions are but vain.
He dream'd the third; but now his friend appear'd
Pale, naked, pierced with wounds, with blood
besmear'd:
'Thrice warn'd, awake!' said he, relief is late,
The deed is done, but thou revenge my fate!
Tardy of aid, unseal thy heavy eyes,
Awake, and with the dawning day arise:
Take to the western gate thy ready way,
For by that passage they my corpse convey:
My corpse is in a tumbril laid, among
The filth and ordure, and enclosed with dung.
That cart arrest, and raise a common cry:
For sacred hunger of my gold I die!"
Then show'd his grisly wound; and last he drew
A piteous sigh; and took a long adieu!
The frighted friend arose by break of day, And found the stall where late his fellow lay. Then of his impious host inquiring more, Was answer'd that his guest was gone before: "Muttering he went," said he, "by morning light, And much complain'd of his ill rest by night." This raised suspicion in the pilgrim's mind; Because all hosts are of an evil kind,
And oft, to share the spoil, with robbers join'd.
"His dream confirm'd his thought: with troubled
look
Straight to the western gate his way he took;
There, as his dream foretold, a cart he found,
That carried compost forth to dung the ground.
This when the pilgrim saw, he stretch'd his throat,
And cried out "Murder!" with a yelling note;
"My murder'd fellow in this cart lies dead,
Vengeance and justice on the villain's head!
You, magistrates, who sacred laws dispense,
On you I call to punish this offence!"
"The word thus given, within a little space,
The mob came roaring out, and throng'd the place.
All in a trice they cast the cart to ground,
And in the dung the murder'd body found,
Though breathless, warm, and reeking from the
Cicero: in his treatise De Divinatione.
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