Singers with harpés, baudés,1 waferers,2
Which be the very devil's officers,
To kindle and blow the fire of 'luxury,'
That is annexéd unto gluttony.
The holy writ take I to my witness
That luxury' is in wine and drunkenness.
O! wist a man how many maladies
Followen of excesse and of gluttonies,
He wouldé be the moré measuráble
Of his diete, sitting at his table.
Alas! the shorté throat, the tender mouth,
Maketh that east and west, and north and south,
In earth, in air, in water, men to swink3
To get a glutton dainty meat and drink.
A'likerous' thing is wine, and drunkenness
Is full of striving and of wretchedness.
O drunken man! disfigur'd is thy face,
Sour is thy breath, foul art thou to embrace;
And through thy drunken nose seemeth the soun
As though thou saidést aye Sampsoun! Sampsoun!
And yet, Got wot, Sampsoun drunk ne'er no wine:
Thou fallest as it were a stickéd swine;

Thy tongue is lost, and all thine honest cure,4
For drunkenness is very sépulture
Of mannes wit and his discretión.

In whom that drink hath dominatión

He can no counsel keep, it is no drede.5

Now keep you from the white and from the rede,
And namely from the white wine of Lepe,7
That is to sell in Fish Street and in Cheap.
This wine of Spain creepeth subtlely
In other winés growing fasté by,

Of which there riseth such fumosity,8
That when a man hath drunken draughtés three,
And weeneth that he be at home in Cheap,
He is in Spain, right at the town of Lepe,
Not at the Rochelle, or at Bordeaux town,
And thenné will he say Sampsoun! Sampsoun!
And now that I have spoke of gluttony,
Now will I you defenden hazardry.11
Hazard is very mother of leasings,
And of deccits and cursed forswearings,
Blaspheming of Christ, manslaughter', and waste also

Of cattle, and of time; and furthermo
It is reproof, and contrary' of honour
For to be held a common hazardour,
And ever the higher he is of estate
The more he is holden desolate.
If that a princé useth hazardry,
In allé governance and policy
He is, as by common opinión,
Yhold the less in reputatión.

Now will I speak of oathés false and great
A word or two, as oldé bookés treat.
Great swearing is a thing abominable,
And false swearing is yet more reprovable.
The highé God forbade swearing at all,
Witness on Mathew; but in special
Of swearing saith the holy Jeremie,
Thou shalt swear soth12 thine oathés and not lie,
And swear in doom, 13 and eke in righteousness,
But idle swearing is a cursedness.

These riotourés three of which I tell,
Long erst14 ere primé rung of any bell,
Were set them in a tavern for to drink,
And as they sat they heard a bellé clink
Before a corpse was carried to his grave;
That one of them 'gan callen to his knave;15
'Go bet,'16 quod he, 'and aské readily
What corpse is this that passeth here forth by,

And look that thou report his name well.'
'Sir,' quod this boy, 'it needeth never a deal;
It was me told ere ye came here two hours;
He was pardé an old felláw of yours,
And suddenly he was yslain to-night,
Fordrunk as he sat on his bench upright;
There came a privy thief men clepen Death,
That in this country all the people slay'th,
And with his spear he smote his heart atwo,
And went his way withouten wordés mo.
He hath a thousand slain this pestilence;
And, master, ere ye come in his presence,
Me thinketh that it were full necessary
For to beware of such an adversary:
Be ready for to meet him evermore;
Thus taughté me my dame; I say no more."

By Sainté Mary,' said this tavernere,
'The child saith soth, for he hath slain this year,
Hence over a mile, within a great villáge,
Both man and woman, child, and hind and page;
I trow his habitatión be there:
To be aviséd3 great wisdom it were
Ere that he did a man a dishonour."

'Yea, Goddés armés!' quod this rioter,
'Is it such peril with him for to meet ?
I shall him seek by stile and eke by street,
I make a vow by Goddés digné bones.
Hearkeneth, fellaws, we three been alle ones
Let each of us hold up his hand to other,
And each of us becomen other's brother,
And we will slay this falsé traitour Death:
He shall be slain, he that so many slay'th,
By Goddés dignity, ere it be night.'

Together have these three their truthés plight
To live and dien each of them for other,
As though he were his owen boren6 brother.
And up they start all drunken in this rage,
And forth they gone towardés that villáge
Of which the taverner had spoke beforen,
And many a grisly7 oath then have they sworn,
And Christés blessed body they to-rent,8
'Death shall be dead, if that we may him hent.9

When they had gone not fully half a mile,
Right as they would have trodden o'er a stile,
An old man and a pooré with them met:
This olde man full meekely them gret, 10
And saidé thus: 'Now, Lordés, God you see !"II

The proudest of these riotourés three
Answer'd again: 'What? churl, with sorry grace,
Why art thou all forwrapped save thy face!
Why livest thou so long in so great age?"

This olde man 'gan look in his visage,
And saidé thus: 'For I ne cannot find
A man, though that I walked into Ind,
Neither in city nor in no village,
That wouldé change his youthé for mine age;
And therefore must I have mine agé still
As longé time as it is Goddés will.

Ne Death, alas! ne will not have my life:
Thus walk I, like a restéless caitiff, 12
And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,
I knocké with my staff early and late,
And say to her, "Level3 mother, let me in.
Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin.
Alas! when shall my bonés be at rest ?
Mother, with you would I change my chest,
That in my chamber longé time hath be,
Yea, for an hairy clout to wrap in me."
But yet to me she will not do that grace,
For which full pale and welked14 is my face.

'But, Sirs, to you it is no courtesy
To speak unto an old man villainy,
But hel trespass in word or else in deed.
In holy writ ye may yourselven read;
"Against an old man, hoar upon his hede,
Ye should arise:" therefore I give you rede
Ne do'th unto an old man none harm now,
No more than that ye would a man did you
In age, if that ye may so long abide;
And God be with you whe'r3 ye go or ride:
I must go thither as I have to go.'

Nay, oldé churl, by God thou shalt not so,'
Saidé this other hazardour anon;
Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.
Thou spake right now of thilké traitour Death,
That in this country all our friendés slay'th;
Have here my truth, as thou art his espy,
Tell where he is, or thou shalt it aby,6
By God and by the holy sacrament,
For sothly thou art one of his assent
To slay us youngé folk, thou falsé thief."

'Now, Sirs,' quod he, 'if it be you so lief7
To finden Death, turn up this crooked way;
For in that grove I left him, by my fay,
Under a tree, and there he will abide,
Nor for your boast he will him nothing hide.
See ye that oak? right there ye shall him find.
God save you that bought again mankind,
And you amend!' Thus said this oldé man.

And evereach of these riotourés ran

Till they came to the tree, and there they found
Of florins fine of gold ycoinéd round
Well nigh an eighté bushels, as them thought;
No longer then after Death they sought,
But each of them so glad was of the sight,
For that the florins been so fair and bright,
That down they set them by the precious hoard:
The worst of them he spake the firsté word.

'Brethren,' quod he, 'take keep what I shall say;
My wit is great, though that I bourdes and play.
This treasure hath Fortúne unto us given,
In mirth and jollity our life to liven,

And lightly as it com'th so will we spend,
Ey! Goddés precious dignity! who ween'd9
To-day that we should have so fair a grace!
But might this gold be carried from this place
Home to my house, or ellés unto yours,

(For well I wot that all this gold is ours)
Thenné were we in high felicity;

But truely by day it may not be ;-
Men woulden say that we were thievés strong,
And for our owen treasure done us hong.10
This treasure must ycarried be by night
As wisely and as slyly as it might;
Wherefore I redell that cute among us all
We draw, and let see where the cut will fall;
And he that hath the cut, with hearté blithe,
Shall runnen to the town, and that full swith, 13
And bring us bread and wine full privily;
And two of us shall keepen subtlely
This treasure well; and if he will not tarrien,
When it is night we will this treasure carrien
By one assent where as us thinketh best.'

That one of them the cut brought in his fist, And bade them draw, and look where it would

fall,

And it fell on the youngest of them all;
And forth toward the town he went anon:

And all so soon as that he was agone,

That one of them spake thus unto that other;

'Thou wottest well thou art my sworen brother,

Thy profit will I tell thee right anon.
Thou wott'st well that our fellow is agone;
And here is gold, and that full great plentý,
That shall departed be among us three;
But nathéless, less, if I can shape it so
That it departed were among us two,
Had I not done a friendés turn to thee??

That other answer'd: 'I n'ot1 how that may be : He wot well that the gold is with us tway. What shall we do? what shall we to him say?? Shall it be counsel? said the firsté shrew,2 'And I shall tellen thee in wordés few What shall we do, and bring it well about." 'I granté, quod that other, 'out of doubt, That by my truth I will thee not betray.' 'Now,' quod the first, 'thou wott'st well we be tway;

And tway of us shall stronger be than one.
Look, when that he is set, thou right anon
Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play,
And I shall rive him through the sides tway:
While that thou strugglest with him as in game;
And with thy dagger look thou do the same;
And then shall all this gold departed be,
My dearé friend! betwixen thee and me;
Then may we both our lustés all fulfil,
And play at dice right at our owen will."
And thus accorded been these shrewés tway
To slay the third, as ye have heard ine say.
This youngest, which that wenté to the town,
Full oft in heart he rolleth up and down
The beauty of these florins new and bright.
'O Lord!' quod he, 'if so were, that I might
Have all this treasure to myself alone,
There is no man that liv'th under the throne
Of God that shouldé live so merry' as I.'
And at the last, the fiend, our enemy,

Put in his thought that he should poison buy
With which he mighté slay his fellows tway:
For why? the fiend found him in such living,
That he had leve3 to sorrow him to bring;
For this was utterly his full intent,
To slay them both and never to repent.
And forth he go'th, no longer would he tarry,
Into the town unto a 'pothecary,

And prayed him that he him wouldé sell
Some poison, that he might his ratouns quell;
And eke there was a polecat in his haw5
That, as he said, his capons had yslaw;6
And fain he would him wreaken7 if he might,
Of vermin that destroyed them by night.

The 'pothecary answer'd: 'Thou shalt have

A thing, as wisly God my soulé save,
In all this world there n'is no creáture
That eat or drunk hath of this cónfecture
Not but the mountance of a corn of wheat,
That he ne shall his life anon forlet, 10
Yea, starvell he shall, and that in lesse while
Than thou wilt go a pace not but a mile;
This poison is so strong and violent.'

This cursed man hath in his hand yhent12
This poison in a box, and swith13 he ran
Into the nexté street unto a man,

And borrowed of him largé bottles three,
And in the two the poison pouréd he;
The third he kepté cleané for his drink,
For all the night he shope him for to swink14
In carrying of the gold out of that place.
And when this rioter with sorry grace15
Hath filled with wine his greaté bottles three,
To his fellows again repaireth he.

13 Immediately.

What needeth it thereof to sermon more? For right as they had cast his death before, Right so they have him slain, and that anon. And when that this was done thus spake that

one:

'Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,
And afterward we will his body bury.'
And with that word it happen'd him par cas1
To take the bottle where the poison was,
And drank, and gave his fellow drink also,
For which anon they storven? bothé two.

But certés I suppose that Avicenne
Wrote never in no canon ne' in no fenne3
More wonder signés of empoisoning
Than had these wretches two, or their ending.
Thus ended been these homicidés two,
And eke the false empoisoner also.

[The Good Parson.]

*

*

A true good man there was there of religion,
Pious and poor-the parson of a town.
But rich he was in holy thought and work;
And thereto a right learned man; a clerk
That Christ's pure gospel would sincerely preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,
And in adversity full patient,

As proven oft; to all who lack'd a friend.
Loth for his tithes to ban or to contend,
At every need much rather was he found
Unto his poor parishioners around
Of his own substance and his dues to give :
Content on little, for himself, to live.

Wide was his cure; the houses far asunder,
Yet never fail'd he, or for rain or thunder,
Whenever sickness or mischance might call,
The most remote to visit, great or small,
And, staff in hand, on foot, the storm to brave.

This noble ensample to his flock he gave,
That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
The word of life he from the gospel caught;
And well this comment added he thereto,
If that gold rusteth what should iron do ?
And if the priest be foul on whom we trust,
What wonder if the unletter'd layman lust?
And shame it were in him the flock should keep,
To see a sullied shepherd, and clean sheep.
For sure a priest the sample ought to give
By his own cleanness how his sheep should live.

He never set his benefice to hire,
Leaving his flock acomber'd in the mire,
And ran to London cogging at St Poul's,
To seek himself a chauntery for souls,
Or with a brotherhood to be enroll'd;
But dwelt at home, and guarded well his fold,
So that it should not by the wolf miscarry.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.

Tho holy in himself, and virtuous,
He still to sinful men was mild and piteous:
Not of reproach imperious or malign;
But in his teaching soothing and benign.
To draw them on to heaven, by reason fair
And good example, was his daily care.
But were there one perverse and obstinate,
Were he of lofty or of low estate,

Him would he sharply with reproof astound.
A better priest is no where to be found.

He waited not on pomp or reverence,
Nor made himself a spiced conscience.
The lore of Christ and his apostles twelve
He taught: but, first, he followed it himselve.

[An Ironical Ballad on the Duplicity of Women.]

This world is full of variance

In everything, who taketh heed,

That faith and trust, and all constance,

Exiléd be, this is no drede,1

And save only in womanhead,
I can ysee no sikerness;2

But for all that yet, as I read,
Beware alway of doubleness.

Also that the fresh summer flowers,
The white and red, the blue and green,
Be suddenly with winter showers,
Made faint and fade, withouten ween,3
That trust is none, as ye may seen,
In no thing, nor no steadfastness,
Except in women, thus I mean;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

The crooked moon, (this is no tale),
Some while isheen and bright of hue,
And after that full dark and pale,
And every moneth changeth new,
That who the very sothés knew
All thing is built on brittleness,
Save that women alway be true;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

The lusty freshé summer's day,
And Phœbus with his beamés clear,
Towardés night they draw away,
And no longer list t' appear,
That in this present life now here
Nothing abideth in his fairness,
Save women aye be found entere,7
And devoid of all doubleness.

The sea eke with his sterné wawes
Each day yfloweth new again,
And by the concourse of his lawes
The ebbe floweth in certain;
After great drought there cometh rain;
That farewell here all stableness,
Save that women be whole and plein
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

Fortunés wheel go'th round about
A thousand timés day and night,
Whose course standeth ever in doubt
For to transmuel she is so light,
For which adverteth in your sight
Th' untrust of worldly fickleness,
Save women, which of kindly right11
Ne hath no touch of doubleness.

What man ymay the wind restrain,
Or holden a snake by the tail?
Who may a slipper eel constrain
That it will void withouten fail?
Or who can driven so a nail
To make sure newfangleness, 12
Save women, that can giel3 their sail
To row their boat with doubleness!

At every haven they can arrive
Whereas they wot is good passáge;
Of innocence they cannot strive
With wawés, nor no rockés rage;
So happy is their lodemanagel
With needle' and stone their course to dress, 15
That Solomon was not so sage

sequently Lyndsay, to denominate its author "the moral Gower;" he is, however, considerably inferior to the author of the Canterbury Tales, in almost all the qualifications of a true poet.

Gower.

Mr Warton has happily selected a few passages from Gower, which convey a lively expression of natural feeling, and give a favourable impression of the author. Speaking of the gratification which his passion receives from the sense of hearing, he says, that to hear his lady speak is more delicious than to feast on all the dainties that could be compounded by a cook of Lombardy. These are not so restorative

As bin the wordes of hir mouth ;
For as the wyndes of the south
Ben most of all debonnaire,
So when her list1 to speak faire
The vertue of her goodly speche
Is verily myne hartes leche.2

He adds (reduced spelling)

Full oft time it falleth so
My ear with a good pittance3
Is fed, with reading of romance
Of Isodyne and Amadas,

That whilom were in my case;
And eke of other many a score,
That loved long ere I was bore:
For when I of their loves read,
Mine ear with the tale I feed;
And with the lust of their histoire
Sometime I draw into memoire,
How sorrow may not ever last,
And so hope cometh in at last.

That when her list on nights wake,4
In chamber, as to carol and dance,
Methink I may me more avance,
If I may gone upon her hond,
Than if I win a king's lond.
For when I may her hand beclip,
With such gladness I dance and skip,
Methinketh I touch not the floor;
The roe which runneth on the moor,
Is then nought so light as I.

When she chooses. 2 Physician. 3 A dainty dish.
When she chooses to have a merry-making at night.

[Episode of Rasiphele.]

[Rosiphele, princess of Armenia, a lady of surpassing beauty, but insensible to the power of love, is represented by the poet as reduced to an obedience to Cupid, by a vision which befell her on a May-day ramble. The opening of this episode is as follows:-]

When come was the month of May,
She would walk upon a day,
And that was ere the sun arist,
Of women but a few it wist ;1
And forth she went privily,
Unto a park was fast by,
All soft walkand on the grass,
Till she came there the land was,
Through which ran a great river,
It thought her fair; and said, here
I will abide under the shaw ;2
And bade her women to withdraw:
And there she stood alone still,
To think what was in her will,
She saw the sweet flowers spring,
She heard glad fowls sing,
She saw beasts in their kind,
The buck, the doe, the hart, the hind,
The males go with the female;
And so began there a quarrel
Between love and her own heart,
Fro which she could not astart.
And as she cast her eye about,
She saw clad in one suit, a rout
Of ladies, where they comen ride
Along under the woode side;
On fair ambuland horse they set,
That were all white, fair, and great;
And everich one ride on side.

The saddles were of such a pride,
So rich saw she never none;
With pearls and gold so well begone,
In kirtles and in copes rich
They were clothed all alich,
Departed even of white and blue,
With all lusts that she knew,
They were embroidered over all:
Their bodies weren long and small,
The beauty of their fair face
There may none earthly thing deface:
Crowns on their heads they bare,
As each of them a queen were;
That all the gold of Cresus' hall
The least coronal of all

Might not have bought, after the worth:
Thus comen they ridand forth.

[In the rear of this splendid troop of ladies, the princess beheld one, mounted on a miserable steed, wretchedly adorned in everything excepting the bridle. On questioning this straggler why she was so unlike her companions, the visionary lady replied that the latter were receiving the bright reward of having loved faithfully, and that she herself was suffering punishment for cruelty to her admirers. The reason that the bridle alone resembled those of her companions was, that for the last fortnight she had been sincerely in love, and a change for the better was in consequence beginning to show itself in her accoutrements. The parting words of the dame are-]

Now have ye heard mine answer;
To God, madam, I you betake,
And warneth all for my sake,
Of love that they be not idle.
And bid them think of my bridle.