Three random poems from PoetryDB
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well, She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse, --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find... Ah God, I know not, I!... Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, oflapis lazuli_, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast... Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa, with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church, so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables ... but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie thro' centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. Alllapis_, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul. Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no morelapis_ to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch, at leisure if he leers-- Old Gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!
Of that sort of Dramatic Poem which is call'd Tragedy. TRAGEDY, as it was antiently compos'd, hath been ever held the gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other Poems: therefore said by Aristotle to be of power by raising pity and fear, or terror, to purge the mind of those and such like passions, that is to temper and reduce them to just measure with a kind of delight, stirr'd up by reading or seeing those passions well imitated. Nor is Nature wanting in her own effects to make good his assertion: for so in Physic things of melancholic hue and quality are us'd against melancholy, sowr against sowr, salt to remove salt humours. Hence Philosophers and other gravest Writers, as Cicero, Plutarch and others, frequently cite out of Tragic Poets, both to adorn and illustrate thir discourse. The Apostle Paul himself thought it not unworthy to insert a verse of Euripides into the Text of Holy Scripture, I Cor. 15. 33. and Paraeus commenting on the Revelation, divides the whole Book as a Tragedy, into Acts distinguisht each by a Chorus of Heavenly Harpings and Song between. Heretofore Men in highest dignity have labour'd not a little to be thought able to compose a Tragedy. Of that honour Dionysius the elder was no less ambitious, then before of his attaining to the Tyranny. Augustus Caesar also had begun his Ajax, but unable to please his own judgment with what he had begun. left it unfinisht. Seneca the Philosopher is by some thought the Author of those Tragedies (at lest the best of them) that go under that name. Gregory Nazianzen a Father of the Church, thought it not unbeseeming the sanctity of his person to write a Tragedy which he entitl'd, Christ suffering. This is mention'd to vindicate Tragedy from the small esteem, or rather infamy, which in the account of many it undergoes at this day with other common Interludes; hap'ning through the Poets error of intermixing Comic stuff with Tragic sadness and gravity; or introducing trivial and vulgar persons, which by all judicious hath bin counted absurd; and brought in without discretion, corruptly to gratifie the people. And though antient Tragedy use no Prologue, yet using sometimes, in case of self defence, or explanation, that which Martial calls an Epistle; in behalf of this Tragedy coming forth after the antient manner, much different from what among us passes for best, thus much before-hand may be Epistl'd; that Chorus is here introduc'd after the Greek manner, not antient only but modern, and still in use among the Italians. In the modelling therefore of this Poem with good reason, the Antients and Italians are rather follow'd, as of much more authority and fame. The measure of Verse us'd in the Chorus is of all sorts, call'd by the Greeks Monostrophic, or rather Apolelymenon, without regard had to Strophe, Antistrophe or Epod, which were a kind of Stanza's fram'd only for the Music, then us'd with the Chorus that sung; not essential to the Poem, and therefore not material; or being divided into Stanza's or Pauses they may be call'd Allaeostropha. Division into Act and Scene referring chiefly to the Stage (to which this work never was intended) is here omitted. It suffices if the whole Drama be found not produc't beyond the fift Act, of the style and uniformitie, and that commonly call'd the Plot, whether intricate or explicit, which is nothing indeed but such oeconomy, or disposition of the fable as may stand best with verisimilitude and decorum; they only will best judge who are not unacquainted with Aeschulus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the three Tragic Poets unequall'd yet by any, and the best rule to all who endeavour to write Tragedy. The circumscription of time wherein the whole Drama begins and ends, is according to antient rule, and best example, within the space of 24 hours. The ARGUMENT. Samson made Captive, Blind, and now in the Prison at Gaza, there to labour as in a common work-house, on a Festival day, in the general cessation from labour, comes forth into the open Air, to a place nigh, somewhat retir'd there to sit a while and bemoan his condition. Where he happens at length to be visited by certain friends and equals of his tribe, which make the Chorus, who seek to comfort him what they can ; then by his old Father Manoa, who endeavours the like, and withal tells him his purpose to procure his liberty by ransom; lastly, that this Feast was proclaim'd by the Philistins as a day of Thanksgiving for thir deliverance from the hands of Samson, which yet more troubles him. Manoa then departs to prosecute his endeavour with the Philistian Lords for Samson's redemption; who in the mean while is visited by other persons; and lastly by a publick Officer to require coming to the Feast before the Lords and People, to play or shew his strength in thir presence; he at first refuses, dismissing the publick officer with absolute denyal to come; at length perswaded inwardly that this was from God, he yields to go along with him, who came now the second time with great threatnings to fetch him; the Chorus yet remaining on the place, Manoa returns full of joyful hope, to procure e're long his Sons deliverance: in the midst of which discourse an Ebrew comes in haste confusedly at first; and afterward more distinctly relating the Catastrophe, what Samson had done to the Philistins, and by accident to himself; wherewith the Tragedy ends. The Persons Samson. Manoa the father of Samson. Dalila his wife. Harapha of Gath. Publick Officer. Messenger. Chorus of Danites The Scene before the Prison in Gaza. Sam: A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on; For yonder bank hath choice of Sun or shade, There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toyl, Daily in the common Prison else enjoyn'd me, Where I a Prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw The air imprison'd also, close and damp, Unwholsom draught: but here I feel amends, The breath of Heav'n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet, With day-spring born; here leave me to respire. This day a solemn Feast the people hold To Dagon thir Sea-Idol, and forbid Laborious works, unwillingly this rest Thir Superstition yields me; hence with leave Retiring from the popular noise, I seek This unfrequented place to find some ease, Ease to the body some, none to the mind From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm Of Hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging, and present Times past, what once I was, and what am now. O wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold Twice by an Angel, who at last in sight Of both my Parents all in flames ascended From off the Altar, where an Off'ring burn'd, As in a fiery column charioting His Godlike presence, and from some great act Or benefit reveal'd to Abraham's race? Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd As of a person separate to God, Design'd for great exploits; if I must dye Betray'd, Captiv'd, and both my Eyes put out, Made of my Enemies the scorn and gaze; To grind in Brazen Fetters under task With this Heav'n-gifted strength? O glorious strength Put to the labour of a Beast, debas't Lower then bondslave! Promise was that I Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver; Ask for this great Deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves, Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke; Yet stay, let me not rashly call in doubt Divine Prediction; what if all foretold Had been fulfilld but through mine own default, Whom have I to complain of but my self? Who this high gift of strength committed to me, In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me, Under the Seal of silence could not keep, But weakly to a woman must reveal it O'recome with importunity and tears. O impotence of mind, in body strong! But what is strength without a double share Of wisdom, vast, unwieldy, burdensom, Proudly secure, yet liable to fall By weakest suttleties, not made to rule, But to subserve where wisdom bears command. God, when he gave me strength, to shew withal How slight the gift was, hung it in my Hair. But peace, I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein Happ'ly had ends above my reach to know: Suffices that to me strength is my bane, And proves the sourse of all my miseries; So many, and so huge, that each apart Would ask a life to wail, but chief of all, O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! Blind among enemies, O worse then chains, Dungeon, or beggery, or decrepit age! Light the prime work of God to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eas'd, Inferiour to the vilest now become Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me, They creep, yet see, I dark in light expos'd To daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong, Within doors, or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more then half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total Eclipse Without all hope of day! O first created Beam, and thou great Word, Let there be light, and light was over all; Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree? The Sun to me is dark And silent as the Moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true That light is in the Soul, She all in every part; why was the sight To such a tender ball as th' eye confin'd? So obvious and so easie to be quench't, And not as feeling through all parts diffus'd, That she might look at will through every pore? Then had I not been thus exil'd from light; As in the land of darkness yet in light, To live a life half dead, a living death, And buried; but O yet more miserable! My self, my Sepulcher, a moving Grave, Buried, yet not exempt By priviledge of death and burial From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs, But made hereby obnoxious more To all the miseries of life, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes. But who are these? for with joint pace I hear The tread of many feet stearing this way; Perhaps my enemies who come to stare At my affliction, and perhaps to insult, Thir daily practice to afflict me more. Chor: This, this is he; softly a while, Let us not break in upon him; O change beyond report, thought, or belief! See how he lies at random, carelessly diffus'd, With languish't head unpropt, As one past hope, abandon'd And by himself given over; In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds O're worn and soild; Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be hee, That Heroic, that Renown'd, Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast could withstand; Who tore the Lion, as the Lion tears the Kid, Ran on embattelld Armies clad in Iron, And weaponless himself, Made Arms ridiculous, useless the forgery Of brazen shield and spear, the hammer'd Cuirass, Chalybean temper'd steel, and frock of mail Adamantean Proof; But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanc't, In scorn of thir proud arms and warlike tools, Spurn'd them to death by Troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his Lion ramp, old Warriors turn'd Thir plated backs under his heel; Or grovling soild thir crested helmets in the dust. Then with what trivial weapon came to Hand, The Jaw of a dead Ass, his sword of bone, A thousand fore-skins fell, the flower of Palestin In Ramath-lechi famous to this day: Then by main force pull'd up, and on his shoulders bore The Gates of Azza, Post, and massie Bar Up to the Hill by Hebron, seat of Giants old, No journey of a Sabbath day, and loaded so; Like whom the Gentiles feign to bear up Heav'n. Which shall I first bewail, Thy Bondage or lost Sight, Prison within Prison Inseparably dark? Thou art become (O worst imprisonment!) The Dungeon of thy self; thy Soul (Which Men enjoying sight oft without cause complain) Imprison'd now indeed, In real darkness of the body dwells, Shut up from outward light To incorporate with gloomy night; For inward light alas Puts forth no visual beam. O mirror of our fickle state, Since man on earth unparallel'd! The rarer thy example stands, By how much from the top of wondrous glory, Strongest of mortal men, To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fall'n. For him I reckon not in high estate Whom long descent of birth Or the sphear of fortune raises; But thee whose strength, while vertue was her mate Might have subdu'd the Earth, Universally crown'd with highest praises. Sam: I hear the sound of words, thir sense the air Dissolves unjointed e're it reach my ear. Chor: Hee speaks, let us draw nigh. Matchless in might, The glory late of Israel, now the grief; We come thy friends and neighbours not unknown From Eshtaol and Zora's fruitful Vale To visit or bewail thee, or if better, Counsel or Consolation we may bring, Salve to thy Sores, apt words have power to swage The tumors of a troubl'd mind, And are as Balm to fester'd wounds. Sam: Your coming, Friends, revives me, for I learn Now of my own experience, not by talk, How counterfeit a coin they are who friends Bear in their Superscription (of the most I would be understood) in prosperous days They swarm, but in adverse withdraw their head Not to be found, though sought. Wee see, O friends. How many evils have enclos'd me round; Yet that which was the worst now least afflicts me, Blindness, for had I sight, confus'd with shame, How could I once look up, or heave the head, Who like a foolish Pilot have shipwrack't, My Vessel trusted to me from above, Gloriously rigg'd; and for a word, a tear, Fool, have divulg'd the secret gift of God To a deceitful Woman : tell me Friends, Am I not sung and proverbd for a Fool In every street, do they not say, how well Are come upon him his deserts? yet why? Immeasurable strength they might behold In me, of wisdom nothing more then mean; This with the other should, at least, have paird, These two proportiond ill drove me transverse. Chor: Tax not divine disposal, wisest Men Have err'd, and by bad Women been deceiv'd; And shall again, pretend they ne're so wise. Deject not then so overmuch thy self, Who hast of sorrow thy full load besides; Yet truth to say, I oft have heard men wonder Why thou shouldst wed Philistian women rather Then of thine own Tribe fairer, or as fair, At least of thy own Nation, and as noble. Sam: The first I saw at Timna, and she pleas'd Mee, not my Parents, that I sought to wed, The daughter of an Infidel: they knew not That what I motion'd was of God; I knew From intimate impulse, and therefore urg'd The Marriage on; that by occasion hence I might begin Israel's Deliverance, The work to which I was divinely call'd; She proving false, the next I took to Wife (O that I never had! fond wish too late) Was in the Vale of Sorec, Dalila, That specious Monster, my accomplisht snare. I thought it lawful from my former act, And the same end; still watching to oppress Israel's oppressours: of what now I suffer She was not the prime cause, but I my self, Who vanquisht with a peal of words (O weakness!) Gave up my fort of silence to a Woman. Chor: In seeking just occasion to provoke The Philistine, thy Countries Enemy, Thou never wast remiss, I hear thee witness: Yet Israel still serves with all his Sons. Sam: That fault I take not on me, but transfer On Israel's Governours, and Heads of Tribes, Who seeing those great acts which God had done Singly by me against their Conquerours Acknowledg'd not, or not at all consider'd Deliverance offerd : I on th' other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds, The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the dooer; But they persisted deaf, and would not seem To count them things worth notice, till at length Thir Lords the Philistines with gather'd powers Enterd Judea seeking mee, who then Safe to the rock of Etham was retir'd, Not flying, but fore-casting in what place To set upon them, what advantag'd best; Mean while the men of Judah to prevent The harrass of thir Land, beset me round; I willingly on some conditions came Into thir hands, and they as gladly yield me To the uncircumcis'd a welcom prey, Bound with two cords; but cords to me were threds Toucht with the flame: on thir whole Host I flew Unarm'd, and with a trivial weapon fell'd Thir choicest youth; they only liv'd who fled. Had Judah that day join'd, or one whole Tribe, They had by this possess'd the Towers of Gath, And lorded over them whom now they serve; But what more oft in Nations grown corrupt, And by thir vices brought to servitude, Then to love Bondage more then Liberty, Bondage with ease then strenuous liberty; And to despise, or envy, or suspect Whom God hath of his special favour rais'd As thir Deliverer; if he aught begin, How frequent to desert him, and at last To heap ingratitude on worthiest deeds? Chor: Thy words to my remembrance bring How Succoth and the Fort of Penuel Thir great Deliverer contemn'd, The matchless Gideon in pursuit Of Madian and her vanquisht Kings; And how ingrateful Ephraim Not worse then by his shield and spear Had dealt with Jephtha, who by argument, Defended Israel from the Ammonite, Had not his prowess quell'd thir pride In that sore battel when so many dy'd Without Reprieve adjudg'd to death, For want of well pronouncing Shibboleth. Sam: Of such examples adde mee to the roul, Mee easily indeed mine may neglect, But Gods propos'd deliverance not so. Chor: Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to Men; Unless there be who think not God at all, If any be, they walk obscure; For of such Doctrine never was there School, But the heart of the Fool, And no man therein Doctor but himself. Yet more there be who doubt his ways not just, As to his own edicts, found contradicting, Then give the rains to wandring thought, Regardless of his glories diminution; Till by thir own perplexities involv'd They ravel more, still less resolv'd, But never find self-satisfying solution. As if they would confine th' interminable, And tie him to his own prescript, Who made our Laws to bind us, not himself, And hath full right to exempt Whom so it pleases him by choice From National obstriction, without taint Of sin, or legal debt; For with his own Laws he can best dispence. He would not else who never wanted means, Nor in respect of the enemy just cause To set his people free, Have prompted this Heroic Nazarite, Against his vow of strictest purity, To seek in marriage that fallacious Bride, Unclean, unchaste. Down Reason then, at least vain reasonings down, Though Reason here aver That moral verdit quits her of unclean : Unchaste was subsequent, her stain not his. But see here comes thy reverend Sire With careful step, Locks white as doune, Old Manoah: advise Forthwith how thou oughtst to receive him. Sam: Ay me, another inward grief awak't, With mention of that name renews th' assault. Man: Brethren and men of Dan, for such ye seem, Though in this uncouth place; if old respect, As I suppose, towards your once gloried friend, My Son now Captive, hither hath inform'd Your younger feet, while mine cast back with age Came lagging after; say if he be here. Chor: As signal now in low dejected state, As earst in highest; behold him where be lies. Man: O miserable change! is this the man, That invincible Samson, far renown'd, The dread of Israel's foes, who with a strength Equivalent to Angels walk'd thir streets, None offering fight; who single combatant Duell'd thir Armies rank't in proud array, Himself an Army, now unequal match To save himself against a coward arm'd At one spears length. O ever failing trust In mortal strength! and oh what not in man Deceivable and vain! Nay what thing good Pray'd for, but often proves our woe, our bane? I pray'd for Children, and thought barrenness In wedlock a reproach; I gain'd a Son, And such a Son as all Men hail'd me happy; Who would be now a Father in my stead? O wherefore did God grant me my request, And as a blessing with such pomp adorn'd? Why are his gifts desirable, to tempt Our earnest Prayers, then giv'n with solemn hand As Graces, draw a Scorpions tail behind? For this did the Angel twice descend? for this Ordain'd thy nurture holy, as of a Plant; Select, and Sacred, Glorious for a while, The miracle of men: then in an hour Ensnar'd, assaulted, overcome, led bound, Thy Foes derision, Captive, Poor, and Blind Into a Dungeon thrust, to work with Slaves? Alas methinks whom God hath chosen once To worthiest deeds, if he through frailty err, He should not so o'rewhelm, and as a thrall Subject him to so foul indignities, Be it but for honours sake of former deeds. Sam: Appoint not heavenly disposition, Father, Nothing of all these evils hath befall'n me But justly; I my self have brought them on, Sole Author I, sole cause: if aught seem vile, As vile hath been my folly, who have profan'd The mystery of God giv'n me under pledge Of vow, and have betray'd it to a woman, A Canaanite, my faithless enemy. This well I knew, nor was at all surpris'd, But warn'd by oft experience: did not she Of Timna first betray me, and reveal The secret wrested from me in her highth Of Nuptial Love profest, carrying it strait To them who had corrupted her, my Spies, And Rivals? In this other was there found More Faith? who also in her prime of love, Spousal embraces, vitiated with Gold, Though offer'd only, by the sent conceiv'd Her spurious first-born; Treason against me? Thrice she assay'd with flattering prayers and sighs, And amorous reproaches to win from me My capital secret, in what part my strength Lay stor'd in what part summ'd, that she might know: Thrice I deluded her, and turn'd to sport Her importunity, each time perceiving How openly, and with what impudence She purpos'd to betray me, and (which was worse Then undissembl'd hate) with what contempt She sought to make me Traytor to my self; Yet the fourth time, when mustring all her wiles, With blandisht parlies, feminine assaults, Tongue-batteries, she surceas'd not day nor night To storm me over-watch't, and wearied out. At times when men seek most repose and rest, I yielded, and unlock'd her all my heart, Who with a grain of manhood well resolv'd Might easily have shook off all her snares : But foul effeminacy held me yok't Her Bond-slave; O indignity, O blot To Honour and Religion! servil mind Rewarded well with servil punishment! The base degree to which I now am fall'n, These rags, this grinding, is not yet so base As was my former servitude, ignoble, Unmanly, ignominious, infamous, True slavery, and that blindness worse then this, That saw not how degeneratly I serv'd. Man: I cannot praise thy Marriage choises, Son, Rather approv'd them not; but thou didst plead Divine impulsion prompting how thou might'st Find some occasion to infest our Foes. I state not that; this I am sure; our Foes Found soon occasion thereby to make thee Thir Captive, and thir triumph; thou the sooner Temptation found'st, or over-potent charms To violate the sacred trust of silence Deposited within thee; which to have kept Tacit, was in thy power; true; and thou hear'st Enough, and more the burden of that fault; Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains, This day the Philistines a popular Feast Here celebrate in Gaza, and proclaim Great Pomp, and Sacrifice, and Praises loud To Dagon, as their God who hath deliver'd Thee Samson bound and blind into thir hands, Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain. So Dagon shall be magnifi'd, and God, Besides whom is no God, compar'd with Idols, Disglorifi'd, blasphem'd, and had in scorn By th' Idolatrous rout amidst thir wine; Which to have come to pass by means of thee, Samson, of all thy sufferings think the heaviest, Of all reproach the most with shame that ever Could have befall'n thee and thy Fathers house. Sam: Father, I do acknowledge and confess That I this honour, I this pomp have brought To Dagon, and advanc'd his praises high Among the Heathen round; to God have brought Dishonour, obloquie, and op't the mouths Of Idolists, and Atheists; have brought scandal To Israel diffidence of God, and doubt In feeble hearts, propense anough before To waver, or fall off and joyn with Idols: Which is my chief affliction, shame and sorrow, The anguish of my Soul, that suffers not Mine eie to harbour sleep, or thoughts to rest. This only hope relieves me, that the strife With me hath end; all the contest is now 'Twixt God and Dagon; Dagon hath presum'd, Me overthrown, to enter lists with God, His Deity comparing and preferring Before the God of Abraham. He, he sure, Will not connive, or linger, thus provok'd, But will arise and his great name assert: Dagon must stoop, and shall e're long receive Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him Of all these boasted Trophies won on me, And with confusion blank his Worshippers. Man: With cause this hope relieves thee, and these words I as a Prophecy receive: for God, Nothing more certain, will not long defer To vindicate the glory of his name Against all competition, nor will long Endure it, doubtful whether God be Lord, Or Dagon. But for thee what shall be done? Thou must not in the mean while here forgot Lie in this miserable loathsom plight Neglected. I already have made way To some Philistian Lords, with whom to treat About thy ransom: well they may by this Have satisfi'd thir utmost of revenge By pains and slaveries, worse then death inflicted On thee, who now no more canst do them harm. Sam: Spare that proposal, Father, spare the trouble Of that sollicitation; let me here, As I deserve, pay on my punishment; And expiate, if possible, my crime, Shameful garrulity. To have reveal'd Secrets of men, the secrets of a friend, How hainous had the fact been, how deserving Contempt, and scorn of all, to be excluded All friendship, and avoided as a blab, The mark of fool set on his front? But I Gods counsel have not kept, his holy secret Presumptuously have publish'd, impiously, Weakly at least, and shamefully: A sin That Gentiles in thir Parables condemn To thir abyss and horrid pains confin'd. Man: Be penitent and for thy fault contrite, But act not in thy own affliction, Son, Repent the sin, but if the punishment Thou canst avoid, selfpreservation bids; Or th' execution leave to high disposal, And let another hand, not thine, exact Thy penal forfeit from thy self; perhaps God will relent, and quit thee all his debt; Who evermore approves and more accepts (Best pleas'd with humble and filial submission) Him who imploring mercy sues for life, Then who selfrigorous chooses death as due; Which argues overjust, and self-displeas'd For self-offence, more then for God offended. Reject not then what offerd means, who knows But God hath set before us, to return thee Home to thy countrey and his sacred house, Where thou mayst bring thy off'rings, to avert His further ire, with praiers and vows renew'd. Sam: His pardon I implore; but as for life, To what end should I seek it? when in strength All mortals I excell'd, and great in hopes With youthful courage and magnanimous thoughts Of birth from Heav'n foretold and high exploits, Full of divine instinct, after some proof Of acts indeed heroic, far beyond The Sons of Anac, famous now and blaz'd, Fearless of danger, like a petty God I walk'd about admir'd of all and dreaded On hostile ground, none daring my affront. Then swoll'n with pride into the snare I fell Of fair fallacious looks, venereal trains, Softn'd with pleasure and voluptuous life; At length to lay my head and hallow'd pledge Of all my strength in the lascivious lap Of a deceitful Concubine who shore me Like a tame Weather, all my precious fleece, Then turn'd me out ridiculous, despoil'd, Shav'n, and disarm'd among my enemies. Chor. Desire of wine and all delicious drinks, Which many a famous Warriour overturns, Thou couldst repress, nor did the dancing Rubie Sparkling; out-pow'rd, the flavor, or the smell, Or taste that cheers the heart of Gods and men, Allure thee from the cool Crystalline stream. Sam. Where ever fountain or fresh current flow'd Against the Eastern ray, translucent, pure, With touch aetherial of Heav'ns fiery rod I drank, from the clear milkie juice allaying Thirst, and refresht; nor envy'd them the grape Whose heads that turbulent liquor fills with fumes. Chor. O madness, to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God with these forbid'n made choice to rear His mighty Champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook. Sam. But what avail'd this temperance, not compleat Against another object more enticing? What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe Effeminatly vanquish't? by which means, Now blind, disheartn'd, sham'd, dishonour'd, quell'd, To what can I be useful, wherein serve My Nation, and the work from Heav'n impos'd, But to sit idle on the houshold hearth, A burdenous drone; to visitants a gaze, Or pitied object, these redundant locks Robustious to no purpose clustring down, Vain monument of strength; till length of years And sedentary numness craze my limbs To a contemptible old age obscure. Here rather let me drudge and earn my bread, Till vermin or the draff of servil food Consume me, and oft-invocated death Hast'n the welcom end of all my pains. Man. Wilt thou then serve the Philistines with that gift Which was expresly giv'n thee to annoy them? Better at home lie bed-rid, not only idle, Inglorious, unimploy'd, with age out-worn. But God who caus'd a fountain at thy prayer From the dry ground to spring, thy thirst to allay After the brunt of battel, can as easie Cause light again within thy eies to spring, Wherewith to serve him better then thou hast; And I perswade me so; why else this strength Miraculous yet remaining in those locks? His might continues in thee not for naught, Nor shall his wondrous gifts be frustrate thus. Sam: All otherwise to me my thoughts portend, That these dark orbs no more shall treat with light, Nor th' other light of life continue long, But yield to double darkness nigh at hand: So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In all her functions weary of herself; My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest. Man. Believe not these suggestions which proceed From anguish of the mind and humours black, That mingle with thy fancy. I however Must not omit a Fathers timely care To prosecute the means of thy deliverance By ransom or how else: mean while be calm, And healing words from these thy friends admit. Sam. O that torment should not be confin'd To the bodies wounds and sores With maladies innumerable In heart, head, brest, and reins; But must secret passage find To th' inmost mind, There exercise all his fierce accidents, And on her purest spirits prey, As on entrails, joints, and limbs, With answerable pains, but more intense, 'Though void of corporal sense. My griefs not only pain me As a lingring disease, But finding no redress, ferment and rage, Nor less then wounds immedicable Ranckle, and fester, and gangrene, To black mortification. Thoughts my Tormenters arm'd with deadly stings Mangle my apprehensive tenderest parts, Exasperate, exulcerate, and raise Dire inflammation which no cooling herb Or rnedcinal liquor can asswage, Nor breath of Vernal Air from snowy Alp. Sleep hath forsook and giv'n me o're To deaths benumming Opium as my only cure. Thence faintings, swounings of despair, And sense of Heav'ns desertion. I was his nursling once and choice delight, His destin'd from the womb, Promisd by Heavenly message twice descending. Under his special eie Abstemious I grew up and thriv'd amain; He led me on to mightiest deeds Above the nerve of mortal arm Against the uncircumcis'd, our enemies. But now hath cast me off as never known, And to those cruel enemies, Whom I by his appointment had provok't, Left me all helpless with th' irreparable loss Of sight, reserv'd alive to be repeated The subject of thir cruelty, or scorn. Nor am I in the list of them that hope; Hopeless are all my evils, all remediless; This one prayer yet remains, might I be heard, No long petition, speedy death, The close of all my miseries, and the balm. Chor: Many are the sayings of the wise In antient and in modern books enroll'd; Extolling Patience as the truest fortitude; And to the bearing well of all calamities, All chances incident to mans frail life Consolatories writ With studied argument, and much perswasion sought Lenient of grief and anxious thought, But with th' afflicted in his pangs thir sound Little prevails, or rather seems a tune, Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint, Unless he feel within Some sourse of consolation from above; Secret refreshings, that repair his strength, And fainting spirits uphold. God of our Fathers, what is man! That thou towards him with hand so various, Or might I say contrarious, Temperst thy providence through his short course, Not evenly, as thou rul'st The Angelic orders and inferiour creatures mute, Irrational and brute. Nor do I name of men the common rout, That wandring loose about Grow up and perish, as the summer flie, Heads without name no more rememberd, But such as thou hast solemnly elected, With gifts and graces eminently adorn'd To some great work, thy glory, And peoples safety, which in part they effect: Yet toward these thus dignifi'd, thou oft Amidst thir highth of noon, Changest thy countenance, and thy hand with no regard Of highest favours past From thee on them, or them to thee of service. Nor only dost degrade them, or remit To life obscur'd, which were a fair dismission, But throw'st them lower then thou didst exalt them high, Unseemly falls in human eie, Too grievous for the trespass or omission, Oft leav'st them to the hostile sword Of Heathen and prophane, thir carkasses To dogs and fowls a prey, or else captiv'd: Or to the unjust tribunals, under change of times, And condemnation of the ingrateful multitude. If these they scape, perhaps in poverty With sickness and disease thou bow'st them down, Painful diseases and deform'd, In crude old age; Though not disordinate, yet causless suffring The punishment of dissolute days, in fine, Just or unjust, alike seem miserable, For oft alike, both come to evil end. So deal not with this once thy glorious Champion, The Image of thy strength, and mighty minister. What do I beg? how hast thou dealt already? Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn His labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end. But who is this, what thing of Sea or Land? Femal of sex it seems, That so bedeckt, ornate, and gay, Comes this way sailing Like a stately Ship Of Tarsus, bound for th' Isles Of Javan or Gadier With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails fill'd, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play, An Amber sent of odorous perfume Her harbinger, a damsel train behind; Some rich Philistian Matron she may seem, And now at nearer view, no other certain Than Dalila thy wife. Sam: My Wife, my Traytress, let her not come near me. Cho: Yet on she moves, now stands & eies thee fixt, About t'have spoke, but now, with head declin'd Like a fair flower surcharg'd with dew, she weeps And words addrest seem into tears dissolv'd, Wetting the borders of her silk'n veil: But now again she makes address to speak. Dal: With doubtful feet and wavering resolution I came, still dreading thy displeasure, Samson, Which to have merited, without excuse, I cannot but acknowledge; yet if tears May expiate (though the fact more evil drew In the perverse event then I foresaw) My penance hath not slack'n'd, though my pardon No way assur'd. But conjugal affection Prevailing over fear, and timerous doubt Hath led me on desirous to behold Once more thy face, and know of thy estate. If aught in my ability may serve To light'n what thou suffer'st, and appease Thy mind with what amends is in my power, Though late, yet in some part to recompense My rash but more unfortunate misdeed. Sam: Out, out Hyaena; these are thy wonted arts, And arts of every woman false like thee, To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray, Then as repentant to submit, beseech, And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse, Confess, and promise wonders in her change, Not truly penitent, but chief to try Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears, His vertue or weakness which way to assail: Then with more cautious and instructed skill Again transgresses, and again submits; That wisest and best men full oft beguil'd With goodness principl'd not to reject The penitent, but ever to forgive, Are drawn to wear out miserable days, Entangl'd with a poysnous bosom snake, If not by quick destruction soon cut off As I by thee, to Ages an example. Dal: Yet hear me Samson; not that I endeavour To lessen or extenuate my offence, But that on th' other side if it be weigh'd By it self, with aggravations not surcharg'd, Or else with just allowance counterpois'd I may, if possible, thy pardon find The easier towards me, or thy hatred less. First granting, as I do, it was a weakness In me, but incident to all our sex, Curiosity, inquisitive, importune Of secrets, then with like infirmity To publish them, both common female faults: Was it not weakness also to make known For importunity, that is for naught, Wherein consisted all thy strength and safety? To what I did thou shewdst me first the way. But I to enemies reveal'd, and should not. Nor shouldst thou have trusted that to womans frailty E're I to thee, thou to thy self wast cruel. Let weakness then with weakness come to parl So near related, or the same of kind, Thine forgive mine; that men may censure thine The gentler, if severely thou exact not More strength from me, then in thy self was found. And what if Love, which thou interpret'st hate, The jealousie of Love, powerful of sway In human hearts, nor less in mine towards thee, Caus'd what I did? I saw thee mutable Of fancy, feard lest one day thou wouldst leave me As her at Timna, sought by all means therefore How to endear, and hold thee to me firmest: No better way I saw then by importuning To learn thy secrets, get into my power Thy key of strength and safety: thou wilt say, Why then reveal'd? I was assur'd by those Who tempted me, that nothing was design'd Against thee but safe custody, and hold: That made for me, I knew that liberty Would draw thee forth to perilous enterprises, While I at home sate full of cares and fears Wailing thy absence in my widow'd bed; Here I should still enjoy thee day and night Mine and Loves prisoner, not the Philistines, Whole to my self, unhazarded abroad, Fearless at home of partners in my love. These reasons in Loves law have past for good, Though fond and reasonless to some perhaps: And Love hath oft, well meaning, wrought much wo, Yet always pity or pardon hath obtain'd. Be not unlike all others, not austere As thou art strong, inflexible as steel. If thou in strength all mortals dost exceed, In uncompassionate anger do not so. Sam: How cunningly the sorceress displays Her own transgressions, to upbraid me mine! That malice not repentance brought thee hither, By this appears : I gave, thou say'st, th' example, I led the way; bitter reproach, but true, I to my self was false e're thou to me, Such pardon therefore as I give my folly, Take to thy wicked deed: which when thou seest Impartial, self-severe, inexorable, Thou wilt renounce thy seeking, and much rather Confess it feign'd, weakness is thy excuse, And I believe it, weakness to resist Philistian gold: if weakness may excuse, What Murtherer, what Traytor, Parricide, Incestuous, Sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness : that plea therefore With God or Man will gain thee no remission. But Love constrain'd thee; call it furious rage To satisfie thy lust: Love seeks to have Love; My love how couldst thou hope, who tookst the way To raise in me inexpiable hate, Knowing, as needs I must, by thee betray'd ? In vain thou striv'st to cover shame with shame, Or by evasions thy crime uncoverst more. Dal: Since thou determinst weakness for no plea In man or woman, though to thy own condemning, Hear what assaults I had, what snares besides, What sieges girt me round, e're I consented; Which might have aw'd the best resolv'd of men, The constantest to have yielded without blame. It was not gold, as to my charge thou lay'st, That wrought with me: thou know'st the Magistrates And Princes of my countrey came in person, Sollicited, commanded, threatn'd, urg'd, Adjur'd by all the bonds of civil Duty And of Religion, press'd how just it was, How honourable, how glorious to entrap A common enemy, who had destroy'd Such numbers of our Nation : and the Priest Was not behind, but ever at my ear, Preaching how meritorious with the gods It would be to ensnare an irreligious Dishonourer of Dagon : what had I To oppose against such powerful arguments? Only my love of thee held long debate; And combated in silence all these reasons With hard contest: at length that grounded maxim So rife and celebrated in the mouths Of wisest men; that to the public good Private respects must yield; with grave authority' Took full possession of me and prevail'd; Vertue, as I thought, truth, duty so enjoyning. Sam: I thought where all thy circling wiles would end; In feign'd Religion, smooth hypocrisie. But had thy love, still odiously pretended, Bin, as it ought, sincere, it would have taught thee Far other reasonings, brought forth other deeds. I before all the daughters of my Tribe And of my Nation chose thee from among My enemies, lov'd thee, as too well thou knew'st, Too well, unbosom'd all my secrets to thee, Not out of levity, but over-powr'd By thy request, who could deny thee nothing; Yet now am judg'd an enemy. Why then Didst thou at first receive me for thy husband? Then, as since then, thy countries foe profest: Being once a wife, for me thou wast to leave Parents and countrey; nor was I their subject, Nor under their protection but my own, Thou mine, not theirs: if aught against my life Thy countrey sought of thee, it sought unjustly, Against the law of nature, law of nations, No more thy countrey, but an impious crew Of men conspiring to uphold thir state By worse than hostile deeds, violating the ends For which our countrey is a name so dear; Not therefore to be obey'd. But zeal mov'd thee; To please thy gods thou didst it; gods unable To acquit themselves and prosecute their foes But by ungodly deeds, the contradiction Of their own deity, Gods cannot be: Less therefore to be pleas'd, obey'd, or fear'd, These false pretexts and varnish'd colours failing, Bare in thy guilt how foul must thou appear? Dal: In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause. Sam: For want of words no doubt, or lack of breath, Witness when I was worried with thy peals. Dal: I was a fool, too rash, and quite mistaken In what I thought would have succeeded best. Let me obtain forgiveness of thee, Samson, Afford me place to shew what recompence Towards thee I intend for what I have misdone, Misguided: only what remains past cure Bear not too sensibly, nor still insist To afflict thy self in vain: though sight be lost, Life yet hath many solaces, enjoy'd Where other senses want not their delights At home in leisure and domestic ease, Exempt from many a care and chance to which Eye-sight exposes daily men abroad. I to the Lords will intercede, not doubting Thir favourable ear, that I may fetch thee From forth this loathsom prison-house, to abide With me, where my redoubl'd love and care With nursing diligence, to me glad office, May ever tend about thee to old age With all things grateful chear'd, and so suppli'd, That what by me thou hast lost thou least shalt miss. Sam: No, no, of my condition take no care; It fits not; thou and I long since are twain; Nor think me so unwary or accurst To bring my feet again into the snare Where once I have been caught; I know thy trains Though dearly to my cost, thy ginns, and toyls; Thy fair enchanted cup, and warbling charms No more on me have power, their force is null'd, So much of Adders wisdom I have learn't To fence my ear against thy sorceries. If in my flower of youth and strength, when all men Lov'd, honour'd, fear'd me, thou alone could hate me Thy Husband, slight me, sell me, and forgo me; How wouldst thou use me now, blind, and thereby Deceiveable, in most things as a child Helpless, thence easily contemn'd, and scorn'd, And last neglected? How wouldst thou insult When I must live uxorious to thy will In perfet thraldom, how again betray me, Bearing my words and doings to the Lords To gloss upon, and censuring, frown or smile? This Gaol I count the house of Liberty To thine whose doors my feet shall never enter. Dal: Let me approach at least, and touch thy hand. Sam: Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint. At distance I forgive thee, go with that; Bewail thy falshood, and the pious works It hath brought forth to make thee memorable Among illustrious women, faithful wives: Cherish thy hast'n'd widowhood with the gold Of Matrimonial treason: so farewel. Dal: I see thou art implacable, more deaf To prayers, then winds and seas, yet winds to seas Are reconcil'd at length, and Sea to Shore: Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages, Eternal tempest never to be calm'd. Why do I humble thus my self, and suing For peace, reap nothing but repulse and hate? Bid go with evil omen and the brand Of infamy upon my name denounc't? To mix with thy concernments I desist Henceforth, nor too much disapprove my own. Fame if not double-fac't is double-mouth'd, And with contrary blast proclaims most deeds, On both his wings, one black, th' other white, Bears greatest names in his wild aerie flight. My name perhaps among the Circumcis'd In Dan, in Judah, and the bordering Tribes, To all posterity may stand defam'd, With malediction mention'd, and the blot Of falshood most unconjugal traduc't. But in my countrey where I most desire, In Ecron, Gaza, Asdod, and in Gath I shall be nam'd among the famousest Of Women, sung at solemn festivals, Living and dead recorded, who to save Her countrey from a fierce destroyer, chose Above the faith of wedlock-bands, my tomb With odours visited and annual flowers. Not less renown'd then in Mount Ephraim, Jael who with inhospitable guile Smote Sisera sleeping through the Temples nail'd. Nor shall I count it hainous to enjoy The public marks of honour and reward Conferr'd upon me, for the piety Which to my countrey I was judg'd to have shewn. At this who ever envies or repines I leave him to his lot, and like my own. Chor: She's gone, a manifest Serpent by her sting Discover'd in the end, till now conceal'd. Sam: So let her go, God sent her to debase me, And aggravate my folly who committed To such a viper his most sacred trust Of secresie, my safety, and my life. Chor: Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possest, nor can be easily Repuls't, without much inward passion felt And secret sting of amorous remorse. Sam: Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end, Not wedlock-trechery endangering life. Chor: It is not vertue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comliness of shape, or amplest merit That womans love can win or long inherit; But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit, (Which way soever men refer it) Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or seven, though one should musing sit; If any of these or all, the Timnian bride Had not so soon preferr'd Thy Paranymph, worthless to thee compar'd, Successour in thy bed, Nor both so loosly disally'd Thir nuptials, nor this last so trecherously Had shorn the fatal harvest of thy head. Is it for that such outward ornament Was lavish't on thir Sex, that inward gifts Were left for hast unfinish't, judgment scant, Capacity not rais'd to apprehend Or value what is best In choice, but oftest to affect the wrong? Or was too much of self-love mixt, Of constancy no root infixt, That either they love nothing, or not long? What e're it be, to wisest men and best Seeming at first all heavenly under virgin veil, Soft, modest, meek, demure, Once join'd, the contrary she proves, a thorn Intestin, far within defensive arms A cleaving mischief, in his way to vertue Adverse and turbulent, or by her charms Draws him awry enslav'd With dotage, and his sense deprav'd To folly and shameful deeds which ruin ends. What Pilot so expert but needs must wreck Embarqu'd with such a Stears-mate at the Helm? Favour'd of Heav'n who finds One vertuous rarely found, That in domestic good combines: Happy that house! his way to peace is smooth: But vertue which breaks through all opposition, And all temptation can remove, Most shines and most is acceptable above. Therefore Gods universal Law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Nor from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lowre: So shall he least confusion draw On his whole life, not sway'd By female usurpation, nor dismay'd. But had we best retire, I see a storm? Sam: Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain. Chor: But this another kind of tempest brings. Sam: Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past. Chor: Look now for no inchanting voice, nor fear The bait of honied words; a rougher tongue Draws hitherward, I know him by his stride, The Giant Harapha of Gath, his look Haughty as is his pile high-built and proud. Comes he in peace? what wind hath blown him hither I less conjecture then when first I saw The sumptuous Dalila floating this way: His habit carries peace, his brow defiance. Sam: Or peace or not, alike to me he comes. Chor: His fraught we soon shall know, he now arrives. Har: I come not Samson, to condole thy chance, As these perhaps, yet wish it had not been, Though for no friendly intent. I am of Gath, Men call me Harapha, of stock renown'd As Og or Anak and the Emims old That Kiriathaim held, thou knowst me now If thou at all art known. Much I have heard Of thy prodigious might and feats perform'd Incredible to me, in this displeas'd, That I was never present on the place Of those encounters, where we might have tri'd Each others force in camp or listed field: And now am come to see of whom such noise Hath walk'd about, and each limb to survey, If thy appearance answer loud report. Sam: The way to know were not to see but taste. Har: Dost thou already single me; I thought Gives and the Mill had tam'd thee? O that fortune Had brought me to the field where thou art fam'd To have wrought such wonders with an Asses Jaw; I should have forc'd thee soon with other arms, Or left thy carkass where the Ass lay thrown: So had the glory of Prowess been recover'd To Palestine, won by a Philistine From the unforeskinn'd race, of whom thou hear'st The highest name for valiant Acts, that honour Certain to have won by mortal duel from thee, I lose, prevented by thy eyes put out. Sam: Boast not of what thou wouldst have done, but do What then thou would'st, thou seest it in thy hand. Har: To combat with a blind man I disdain And thou hast need much washing to be toucht. Sam: Such usage as your honourable Lords Afford me assassinated and betray'd, Who durst not with thir whole united powers In fight withstand me single and unarm'd, Nor in the house with chamber Ambushes Close-banded durst attaque me, no not sleeping, Till they had hir'd a woman with their gold Breaking her Marriage Faith to circumvent me. Therefore without feign'd shifts let be assign'd Some narrow place enclos'd, where sight may give thee. Or rather flight, no great advantage on me; Then put on all thy gorgeous arms, thy Helmet And Brigandine of brass, thy broad Habergeon. Vant-brass and Greves, and Gauntlet, add thy Spear A Weavers beam, and seven-times-folded shield. I only with an Oak'n staff will meet thee, And raise such out-cries on thy clatter'd Iron, Which long shall not with-hold mee from thy head, That in a little time while breath remains thee, Thou oft shalt wish thy self at Gath to boast Again in safety what thou wouldst have done To Samson, but shalt never see Gath more. Har: Thou durst not thus disparage glorious arms Which greatest Heroes have in battel worn, Thir ornament and safety, had not spells And black enchantments, some Magicians Art Arm'd thee or charm'd thee strong, which thou from Heaven Feigndst at thy birth was giv'n thee in thy hair, Where strength can least abide, though all thy hairs Were bristles rang'd like those that ridge the back Of chaf't wild Boars, or ruffl'd Porcupines. Sam: I know no Spells, use no forbidden Arts; My trust is in the living God who gave me At my Nativity this strength, diffus'd No less through all my sinews, joints and bones, Then thine, while I preserv'd these locks unshorn, The pledge of my unviolated vow. For proof hereof, if Dagon be thy god, Go to his Temple, invocate his aid With solemnest devotion, spread before him How highly it concerns his glory now To frustrate and dissolve these Magic spells, Which I to be the power of Israel's God Avow, and challenge Dagon to the test, Offering to combat thee his Champion bold, With th' utmost of his Godhead seconded: Then thou shalt see, or rather to thy sorrow Soon feel, whose God is strongest, thine or mine. Har: Presume not on thy God, what e're he be, Thee he regards not, owns not, hath cut off Quite from his people, and delivered up Into thy Enemies hand, permitted them To put out both thine eyes, and fetter'd send thee Into the common Prison, there to grind Among the Slaves and Asses thy comrades, As good for nothing else, no better service With those, thy boyst'rous locks, no worthy match For valour to assail, nor by the sword Of noble Warriour, so to stain his honour, But by the Barbers razor best subdu'd. Sam: All these indignities, for such they are From thine, these evils I deserve and more, Acknowledge them from God inflicted on me Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon Whose ear is ever open; and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant; In confidence whereof I once again Defie thee to the trial of mortal fight, By combat to decide whose god is God, Thine or whom I with Israel's Sons adore. Har: Fair honour that thou dost thy God, in trusting He will accept thee to defend his cause, A Murtherer, a Revolter, and a Robber. Sam: Tongue-doubtie Giant, how dost thou prove me these? Har: Is not thy Nation subject to our Lords? Thir Magistrates confest it, when they took thee As a League-breaker and deliver'd bound Into our hands: for hadst thou not committed Notorious murder on those thirty men At Askalon, who never did thee harm, Then like a Robber stripdst them of thir robes? The Philistines, when thou hadst broke the league, Went up with armed powers thee only seeking, To others did no violence nor spoil. Sam: Among the Daughters of the Philistines I chose a Wife, which argu'd me no foe; And in your City held my Nuptial Feast: But your ill-meaning Politician Lords, Under pretence of Bridal friends and guests, Appointed to await me thirty spies, Who threatning cruel death constrain'd the bride To wring from me and tell to them my secret, That solv'd the riddle which I had propos'd. When I perceiv'd all set on enmity, As on my enemies, where ever chanc'd, I us'd hostility, and took thir spoil To pay my underminers in thir coin. My Nation was subjected to your Lords. It was the force of Conquest; force with force Is well ejected when the Conquer'd can. But I a private person, whom my Countrey As a league-breaker gave up bound, presum'd Single Rebellion and did Hostile Acts. I was no private but a person rais'd With strength sufficient and command from Heav'n To free my Countrey; if their servile minds Me their Deliverer sent would not receive, But to thir Masters gave me up for nought, Th' unworthier they; whence to this day they serve. I was to do my part from Heav'n assign'd, And had perform'd it if my known offence Had not disabl'd me, not all your force: These shifts refuted, answer thy appellant Though by his blindness maim'd for high attempts, Who now defies thee thrice to single fight, As a petty enterprise of small enforce. Har: With thee a Man condemn'd, a Slave enrol'd, Due by the Law to capital punishment? To fight with thee no man of arms will deign. Sam: Cam'st thou for this, vain boaster, to survey me, To descant on my strength, and give thy verdit? Come nearer, part not hence so slight inform'd; But take good heed my hand survey not thee. Har: O Baal-zebub! can my ears unus'd Hear these dishonours, and not render death? Sam: No man with-holds thee, nothing from thy hand Fear I incurable; bring up thy van, My heels are fetter'd, but my fist is free. Har: This insolence other kind of answer fits. Sam: Go baffl'd coward, lest I run upon thee, Though in these chains, bulk without spirit vast, And with one buffet lay thy structure low, Or swing thee in the Air, then dash thee down To the hazard of thy brains and shatter'd sides. Har: By Astaroth e're long thou shalt lament These braveries in Irons loaden on thee. Chor: His Giantship is gone somewhat crestfall'n, Stalking with less unconsci'nable strides, And lower looks, but in a sultrie chafe. Sam: I dread him not, nor all his Giant-brood, Though Fame divulge him Father of five Sons All of Gigantic size, Goliah chief. Chor: He will directly to the Lords, I fear, And with malitious counsel stir them up Some way or other yet further to afflict thee. Sam: He must allege some cause, and offer'd fight Will not dare mention, lest a question rise Whether he durst accept the offer or not, And that he durst not plain enough appear'd. Much more affliction then already felt They cannot well impose, nor I sustain; If they intend advantage of my labours The work of many hands, which earns my keeping With no small profit daily to my owners. But come what will, my deadliest foe will prove My speediest friend, by death to rid me hence, The worst that he can give, to me the best. Yet so it may fall out, because thir end Is hate, not help to me, it may with mine Draw thir own ruin who attempt the deed. Chor: Oh how comely it is and how reviving To the Spirits of just men long opprest! When God into the hands of thir deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour, The brute and boist'rous force of violent men Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour Truth; He all thir Ammunition And feats of War defeats With plain Heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm'd, Thir Armories and Magazins contemns, Renders them useless, while With winged expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd. But patience is more oft the exercise Of Saints, the trial of thir fortitude, Making them each his own Deliverer, And Victor over all That tyrannie or fortune can inflict, Either of these is in thy lot, Samson, with might endu'd Above the Sons of men; but sight bereav'd May chance to number thee with those Whom Patience finally must crown. This Idols day hath bin to thee no day of rest, Labouring thy mind More then the working day thy hands, And yet perhaps more trouble is behind. For I descry this way Some other tending, in his hand A Scepter or quaint staff he bears, Comes on amain, speed in his look. By his habit I discern him now A Public Officer, and now at hand. His message will be short and voluble. Off: Ebrews, the Pris'ner Samson here I seek. Chor: His manacles remark him, there he sits. Off: Samson, to thee our Lords thus bid me say; This day to Dagon is a solemn Feast, With Sacrifices, Triumph, Pomp, and Games; Thy strength they know surpassing human rate, And now some public proof thereof require To honour this great Feast, and great Assembly; Rise therefore with all speed and come along, Where I will see thee heartn'd and fresh clad To appear as fits before th' illustrious Lords. Sam: Thou knowst I am an Ebrew, therefore tell them, Our Law forbids at thir Religious Rites My presence; for that cause I cannot come. Off: This answer, be assur'd, wi
THE PROLOGUE. "SIR Clerk of Oxenford," our Hoste said, "Ye ride as still and coy, as doth a maid That were new spoused, sitting at the board: This day I heard not of your tongue a word. I trow ye study about some sophime: But Solomon saith, every thing hath time. For Godde's sake, be of better cheer, It is no time for to study here. Tell us some merry tale, by your fay; For what man that is entered in a play, He needes must unto that play assent. But preache not, as friars do in Lent, To make us for our olde sinnes weep, Nor that thy tale make us not to sleep. Tell us some merry thing of aventures. Your terms, your coloures, and your figures, Keep them in store, till so be ye indite High style, as when that men to kinges write. Speake so plain at this time, I you pray, That we may understande what ye say." This worthy Clerk benignely answer'd; "Hoste," quoth he, "I am under your yerd, Ye have of us as now the governance, And therefore would I do you obeisance, As far as reason asketh, hardily: I will you tell a tale, which that I Learn'd at Padova of a worthy clerk, As proved by his wordes and his werk. He is now dead, and nailed in his chest, I pray to God to give his soul good rest. Francis Petrarc', the laureate poet, Highte this clerk, whose rhetoric so sweet Illumin'd all Itale of poetry, As Linian did of philosophy, Or law, or other art particulere: But death, that will not suffer us dwell here But as it were a twinkling of an eye, Them both hath slain, and alle we shall die. "But forth to tellen of this worthy man, That taughte me this tale, as I began, I say that first he with high style inditeth (Ere he the body of his tale writeth) A proem, in the which describeth he Piedmont, and of Saluces the country, And speaketh of the Pennine hilles high, That be the bounds of all West Lombardy: And of Mount Vesulus in special, Where as the Po out of a welle small Taketh his firste springing and his source, That eastward aye increaseth in his course T'Emilia-ward, to Ferraro, and Venice, The which a long thing were to devise. And truely, as to my judgement, Me thinketh it a thing impertinent, Save that he would conveye his mattere: But this is the tale, which that ye shall hear." THE TALE. Pars Prima. There is, right at the west side of Itale, Down at the root of Vesulus the cold, A lusty plain, abundant of vitaille; There many a town and tow'r thou may'st behold, That founded were in time of fathers old, And many another delectable sight; And Saluces this noble country hight. A marquis whilom lord was of that land, As were his worthy elders him before, And obedient, aye ready to his hand, Were all his lieges, bothe less and more: Thus in delight he liv'd, and had done yore, Belov'd and drad, through favour of fortune, Both of his lordes and of his commune. Therewith he was, to speak of lineage, The gentilest y-born of Lombardy, A fair person, and strong, and young of age, And full of honour and of courtesy: Discreet enough his country for to gie, Saving in some things that he was to blame; And Walter was this younge lordes name. I blame him thus, that he consider'd not In time coming what might him betide, But on his present lust was all his thought, And for to hawk and hunt on every side; Well nigh all other cares let he slide, And eke he would (that was the worst of all) Wedde no wife for aught that might befall. Only that point his people bare so sore, That flockmel on a day to him they went, And one of them, that wisest was of lore (Or elles that the lord would best assent That he should tell him what the people meant, Or elles could he well shew such mattere), He to the marquis said as ye shall hear. "O noble Marquis! your humanity Assureth us and gives us hardiness, As oft as time is of necessity, That we to you may tell our heaviness: Accepte, Lord, now of your gentleness, What we with piteous heart unto you plain, And let your ears my voice not disdain. "All have I nought to do in this mattere More than another man hath in this place, Yet forasmuch as ye, my Lord so dear, Have always shewed me favour and grace, I dare the better ask of you a space Of audience, to shewen our request, And ye, my Lord, to do right as you lest. "For certes, Lord, so well us like you And all your work, and ev'r have done, that we Ne coulde not ourselves devise how We mighte live in more felicity: Save one thing, Lord, if that your will it be, That for to be a wedded man you lest; Then were your people in sovereign hearte's rest. "Bowe your neck under the blissful yoke Of sovereignty, and not of service, Which that men call espousal or wedlock: And thinke, Lord, among your thoughtes wise, How that our dayes pass in sundry wise; For though we sleep, or wake, or roam, or ride, Aye fleeth time, it will no man abide. "And though your greene youthe flow'r as yet, In creepeth age always as still as stone, And death menaceth every age, and smit In each estate, for there escapeth none: And all so certain as we know each one That we shall die, as uncertain we all Be of that day when death shall on us fall. "Accepte then of us the true intent, That never yet refused youre hest, And we will, Lord, if that ye will assent, Choose you a wife, in short time at the lest, Born of the gentilest and of the best Of all this land, so that it ought to seem Honour to God and you, as we can deem. "Deliver us out of all this busy dread, And take a wife, for highe Godde's sake: For if it so befell, as God forbid, That through your death your lineage should slake, And that a strange successor shoulde take Your heritage, oh! woe were us on live: Wherefore we pray you hastily to wive." Their meeke prayer and their piteous cheer Made the marquis for to have pity. "Ye will," quoth he, "mine owen people dear, To that I ne'er ere thought constraine me. I me rejoiced of my liberty, That seldom time is found in rnarriage; Where I was free, I must be in servage! "But natheless I see your true intent, And trust upon your wit, and have done aye: Wherefore of my free will I will assent To wedde me, as soon as e'er I may. But whereas ye have proffer'd me to-day To choose me a wife, I you release That choice, and pray you of that proffer cease. "For God it wot, that children often been Unlike their worthy elders them before, Bounte comes all of God, not of the strene Of which they be engender'd and y-bore: I trust in Godde's bounte, and therefore My marriage, and mine estate and rest, I him betake; he may do as him lest. "Let me alone in choosing of my wife; That charge upon my back I will endure: But I you pray, and charge upon your life, That what wife that I take, ye me assure To worship her, while that her life may dure, In word and work both here and elleswhere, As she an emperore's daughter were. "And farthermore this shall ye swear, that ye Against my choice shall never grudge nor strive. For since I shall forego my liberty At your request, as ever may I thrive, Where as mine heart is set, there will I live And but ye will assent in such mannere, I pray you speak no more of this mattere." With heartly will they sworen and assent To all this thing, there said not one wight nay: Beseeching him of grace, ere that they went, That he would grante them a certain day Of his espousal, soon as e'er he rnay, For yet always the people somewhat dread Lest that the marquis woulde no wife wed. He granted them a day, such as him lest, On which he would be wedded sickerly, And said he did all this at their request; And they with humble heart full buxomly, Kneeling upon their knees full reverently, Him thanked all; and thus they have an end Of their intent, and home again they wend. And hereupon he to his officers Commanded for the feaste to purvey. And to his privy knightes and squiers Such charge he gave, as him list on them lay: And they to his commandement obey, And each of them doth all his diligence To do unto the feast all reverence. Pars Secunda Not far from thilke palace honourable, Where as this marquis shope his marriage, There stood a thorp, of sighte delectable, In which the poore folk of that village Hadde their beastes and their harbourage, And of their labour took their sustenance, After the earthe gave them abundance. Among this poore folk there dwelt a man Which that was holden poorest of them all; But highe God sometimes sende can His grace unto a little ox's stall; Janicola men of that thorp him call. A daughter had he, fair enough to sight, And Griseldis this younge maiden hight. But for to speak of virtuous beauty, Then was she one the fairest under sun: Full poorely y-foster'd up was she; No likerous lust was in her heart y-run; Well ofter of the well than of the tun She drank, and, for she woulde virtue please She knew well labour, but no idle ease. But though this maiden tender were of age; Yet in the breast of her virginity There was inclos'd a sad and ripe corage; And in great reverence and charity Her olde poore father foster'd she. A few sheep, spinning, on the field she kept, She woulde not be idle till she slept. And when she homeward came, she would bring Wortes, and other herbes, times oft, The which she shred and seeth'd for her living, And made her bed full hard, and nothing soft: And aye she kept her father's life on loft With ev'ry obeisance and diligence, That child may do to father's reverence. Upon Griselda, this poor creature, Full often sithes this marquis set his eye, As he on hunting rode, paraventure: And when it fell that he might her espy, He not with wanton looking of folly His eyen cast on her, but in sad wise Upon her cheer he would him oft advise; Commending in his heart her womanhead, And eke her virtue, passing any wight Of so young age, as well in cheer as deed. For though the people have no great insight In virtue, he considered full right Her bounte, and disposed that he would Wed only her, if ever wed he should. The day of wedding came, but no wight can Telle what woman that it shoulde be; For which marvail wonder'd many a man, And saide, when they were in privity, "Will not our lord yet leave his vanity? Will he not wed? Alas, alas the while! Why will he thus himself and us beguile?" But natheless this marquis had done make Of gemmes, set in gold and in azure, Brooches and ringes, for Griselda's sake, And of her clothing took he the measure Of a maiden like unto her stature, And eke of other ornamentes all That unto such a wedding shoulde fall. The time of undern of the same day Approached, that this wedding shoulde be, And all the palace put was in array, Both hall and chamber, each in its degree, Houses of office stuffed with plenty There may'st thou see of dainteous vitaille, That may be found, as far as lasts Itale. This royal marquis, richely array'd, Lordes and ladies in his company, The which unto the feaste were pray'd, And of his retinue the bach'lery, With many a sound of sundry melody, Unto the village, of the which I told, In this array the right way did they hold. Griseld' of this (God wot) full innocent, That for her shapen was all this array, To fetche water at a well is went, And home she came as soon as e'er she may. For well she had heard say, that on that day The marquis shoulde wed, and, if she might, She fain would have seen somewhat of that sight. She thought, "I will with other maidens stand, That be my fellows, in our door, and see The marchioness; and therefore will I fand To do at home, as soon as it may be, The labour which belongeth unto me, And then I may at leisure her behold, If she this way unto the castle hold." And as she would over the threshold gon, The marquis came and gan for her to call, And she set down her water-pot anon Beside the threshold, in an ox's stall, And down upon her knees she gan to fall, And with sad countenance kneeled still, Till she had heard what was the lorde's will. The thoughtful marquis spake unto the maid Full soberly, and said in this mannere: "Where is your father, Griseldis?" he said. And she with reverence, in humble cheer, Answered, "Lord, he is all ready here." And in she went withoute longer let And to the marquis she her father fet. He by the hand then took the poore man, And saide thus, when he him had aside: "Janicola, I neither may nor can Longer the pleasance of mine hearte hide; If that thou vouchesafe, whatso betide, Thy daughter will I take, ere that I wend, As for my wife, unto her life's end. "Thou lovest me, that know I well certain, And art my faithful liegeman y-bore, And all that liketh me, I dare well sayn It liketh thee; and specially therefore Tell me that point, that I have said before, -- If that thou wilt unto this purpose draw, To take me as for thy son-in-law." This sudden case the man astonied so, That red he wax'd, abash'd, and all quaking He stood; unnethes said he wordes mo', But only thus; "Lord," quoth he, "my willing Is as ye will, nor against your liking I will no thing, mine owen lord so dear; Right as you list governe this mattere." "Then will I," quoth the marquis softely, "That in thy chamber I, and thou, and she, Have a collation; and know'st thou why? For I will ask her, if her will it be To be my wife, and rule her after me: And all this shall be done in thy presence, I will not speak out of thine audience." And in the chamber while they were about The treaty, which ye shall hereafter hear, The people came into the house without, And wonder'd them in how honest mannere And tenderly she kept her father dear; But utterly Griseldis wonder might, For never erst ne saw she such a sight. No wonder is though that she be astoned, To see so great a guest come in that place, She never was to no such guestes woned; For which she looked with full pale face. But shortly forth this matter for to chase, These are the wordes that the marquis said To this benigne, very, faithful maid. "Griseld'," he said, "ye shall well understand, It liketh to your father and to me That I you wed, and eke it may so stand, As I suppose ye will that it so be: But these demandes ask I first," quoth he, "Since that it shall be done in hasty wise; Will ye assent, or elles you advise? "I say this, be ye ready with good heart To all my lust, and that I freely may, As me best thinketh, do you laugh or smart, And never ye to grudge, night nor day, And eke when I say Yea, ye say not Nay, Neither by word, nor frowning countenance? Swear this, and here I swear our alliance." Wond'ring upon this word, quaking for dread, She saide; "Lord, indigne and unworthy Am I to this honour that ye me bede, But as ye will yourself, right so will I: And here I swear, that never willingly In word or thought I will you disobey, For to be dead; though me were loth to dey." "This is enough, Griselda mine," quoth he. And forth he went with a full sober cheer, Out at the door, and after then came she, And to the people he said in this mannere: "This is my wife," quoth he, "that standeth here. Honoure her, and love her, I you pray, Whoso me loves; there is no more to say." And, for that nothing of her olde gear She shoulde bring into his house, he bade That women should despoile her right there; Of which these ladies were nothing glad To handle her clothes wherein she was clad: But natheless this maiden bright of hue From foot to head they clothed have all new. Her haires have they comb'd that lay untress'd Full rudely, and with their fingers small A crown upon her head they have dress'd, And set her full of nouches great and small: Of her array why should I make a tale? Unneth the people her knew for her fairness, When she transmuted was in such richess. The marquis hath her spoused with a ring Brought for the same cause, and then her set Upon a horse snow-white, and well ambling, And to his palace, ere he longer let With joyful people, that her led and met, Conveyed her; and thus the day they spend In revel, till the sunne gan descend. And, shortly forth this tale for to chase, I say, that to this newe marchioness God hath such favour sent her of his grace, That it ne seemed not by likeliness That she was born and fed in rudeness, -- As in a cot, or in an ox's stall, -- But nourish'd in an emperore's hall. To every wight she waxen is so dear And worshipful, that folk where she was born, That from her birthe knew her year by year, Unnethes trowed they, but durst have sworn, That to Janicol' of whom I spake before, She was not daughter, for by conjecture Them thought she was another creature. For though that ever virtuous was she, She was increased in such excellence Of thewes good, y-set in high bounte, And so discreet, and fair of eloquence, So benign, and so digne of reverence, And coulde so the people's heart embrace, That each her lov'd that looked on her face. Not only of Saluces in the town Published was the bounte of her name, But eke besides in many a regioun; If one said well, another said the same: So spread of here high bounte the fame, That men and women, young as well as old, Went to Saluces, her for to behold. Thus Walter lowly, -- nay, but royally,- Wedded with fortn'ate honestete, In Godde's peace lived full easily At home, and outward grace enough had he: And, for he saw that under low degree Was honest virtue hid, the people him held A prudent man, and that is seen full seld'. Not only this Griseldis through her wit Couth all the feat of wifely homeliness, But eke, when that the case required it, The common profit coulde she redress: There n'as discord, rancour, nor heaviness In all the land, that she could not appease, And wisely bring them all in rest and ease Though that her husband absent were or non, If gentlemen or other of that country, Were wroth, she woulde bringe them at one, So wise and ripe wordes hadde she, And judgement of so great equity, That she from heaven sent was, as men wend, People to save, and every wrong t'amend Not longe time after that this Griseld' Was wedded, she a daughter had y-bore; All she had lever borne a knave child, Glad was the marquis and his folk therefore; For, though a maiden child came all before, She may unto a knave child attain By likelihood, since she is not barren. Pars Tertia. There fell, as falleth many times mo', When that his child had sucked but a throw, This marquis in his hearte longed so To tempt his wife, her sadness for to know, That he might not out of his hearte throw This marvellous desire his wife t'asssay; Needless, God wot, he thought her to affray. He had assayed her anough before, And found her ever good; what needed it Her for to tempt, and always more and more? Though some men praise it for a subtle wit, But as for me, I say that evil it sit T'assay a wife when that it is no need, And putte her in anguish and in dread. For which this marquis wrought in this mannere: He came at night alone there as she lay, With sterne face and with full troubled cheer, And saide thus; "Griseld'," quoth he "that day That I you took out of your poor array, And put you in estate of high nobless, Ye have it not forgotten, as I guess. "I say, Griseld', this present dignity, In which that I have put you, as I trow Maketh you not forgetful for to be That I you took in poor estate full low, For any weal you must yourselfe know. Take heed of every word that I you say, There is no wight that hears it but we tway. "Ye know yourself well how that ye came here Into this house, it is not long ago; And though to me ye be right lefe and dear, Unto my gentles ye be nothing so: They say, to them it is great shame and woe For to be subject, and be in servage, To thee, that born art of small lineage. "And namely since thy daughter was y-bore These wordes have they spoken doubteless; But I desire, as I have done before, To live my life with them in rest and peace: I may not in this case be reckeless; I must do with thy daughter for the best, Not as I would, but as my gentles lest. "And yet, God wot, this is full loth to me: But natheless withoute your weeting I will nought do; but this will I," quoth he, "That ye to me assenten in this thing. Shew now your patience in your working, That ye me hight and swore in your village The day that maked was our marriage." When she had heard all this, she not amev'd Neither in word, in cheer, nor countenance (For, as it seemed, she was not aggriev'd); She saide; "Lord, all lies in your pleasance, My child and I, with hearty obeisance Be youres all, and ye may save or spill Your owen thing: work then after your will. "There may no thing, so God my soule save, Like to you, that may displease me: Nor I desire nothing for to have, Nor dreade for to lose, save only ye: This will is in mine heart, and aye shall be, No length of time, nor death, may this deface, Nor change my corage to another place." Glad was the marquis for her answering, But yet he feigned as he were not so; All dreary was his cheer and his looking When that he should out of the chamber go. Soon after this, a furlong way or two, He privily hath told all his intent Unto a man, and to his wife him sent. A manner sergeant was this private man, The which he faithful often founden had In thinges great, and eke such folk well can Do execution in thinges bad: The lord knew well, that he him loved and drad. And when this sergeant knew his lorde's will, Into the chamber stalked he full still. "Madam," he said, "ye must forgive it me, Though I do thing to which I am constrain'd; Ye be so wise, that right well knowe ye That lordes' hestes may not be y-feign'd; They may well be bewailed and complain'd, But men must needs unto their lust obey; And so will I, there is no more to say. "This child I am commanded for to take." And spake no more, but out the child he hent Dispiteously, and gan a cheer to make As though he would have slain it ere he went. Griseldis must all suffer and consent: And as a lamb she sat there meek and still, And let this cruel sergeant do his will Suspicious was the diffame of this man, Suspect his face, suspect his word also, Suspect the time in which he this began: Alas! her daughter, that she loved so, She weened he would have it slain right tho, But natheless she neither wept nor siked, Conforming her to what the marquis liked. But at the last to speake she began, And meekly she unto the sergeant pray'd, So as he was a worthy gentle man, That she might kiss her child, ere that it died: And in her barme this little child she laid, With full sad face, and gan the child to bless, And lulled it, and after gan it kiss. And thus she said in her benigne voice: Farewell, my child, I shall thee never see; But since I have thee marked with the cross, Of that father y-blessed may'st thou be That for us died upon a cross of tree: Thy soul, my little child, I him betake, For this night shalt thou dien for my sake. I trow that to a norice in this case It had been hard this ruthe for to see: Well might a mother then have cried, "Alas!" But natheless so sad steadfast was she, That she endured all adversity, And to the sergeant meekely she said, "Have here again your little younge maid. "Go now," quoth she, "and do my lord's behest. And one thing would I pray you of your grace, But if my lord forbade you at the least, Bury this little body in some place, That neither beasts nor birdes it arace." But he no word would to that purpose say, But took the child and went upon his way. The sergeant came unto his lord again, And of Griselda's words and of her cheer He told him point for point, in short and plain, And him presented with his daughter dear. Somewhat this lord had ruth in his mannere, But natheless his purpose held he still, As lordes do, when they will have their will; And bade this sergeant that he privily Shoulde the child full softly wind and wrap, With alle circumstances tenderly, And carry it in a coffer, or in lap; But, upon pain his head off for to swap, That no man shoulde know of his intent, Nor whence he came, nor whither that he went; But at Bologna, to his sister dear, That at that time of Panic' was Countess, He should it take, and shew her this mattere, Beseeching her to do her business This child to foster in all gentleness, And whose child it was he bade her hide From every wight, for aught that might betide. The sergeant went, and hath fulfill'd this thing. But to the marquis now returne we; For now went he full fast imagining If by his wife's cheer he mighte see, Or by her wordes apperceive, that she Were changed; but he never could her find, But ever-in-one alike sad and kind. As glad, as humble, as busy in service, And eke in love, as she was wont to be, Was she to him, in every manner wise; And of her daughter not a word spake she; No accident for no adversity Was seen in her, nor e'er her daughter's name She named, or in earnest or in game. Pars Quarta In this estate there passed be four year Ere she with childe was; but, as God wo'ld, A knave child she bare by this Waltere, Full gracious and fair for to behold; And when that folk it to his father told, Not only he, but all his country, merry Were for this child, and God they thank and hery. When it was two year old, and from the breast Departed of the norice, on a day This marquis caughte yet another lest To tempt his wife yet farther, if he may. Oh! needless was she tempted in as say; But wedded men not connen no measure, When that they find a patient creature. "Wife," quoth the marquis, "ye have heard ere this My people sickly bear our marriage; And namely since my son y-boren is, Now is it worse than ever in all our age: The murmur slays mine heart and my corage, For to mine ears cometh the voice so smart, That it well nigh destroyed hath mine heart. "Now say they thus, 'When Walter is y-gone, Then shall the blood of Janicol' succeed, And be our lord, for other have we none:' Such wordes say my people, out of drede. Well ought I of such murmur take heed, For certainly I dread all such sentence, Though they not plainen in mine audience. "I woulde live in peace, if that I might; Wherefore I am disposed utterly, As I his sister served ere by night, Right so think I to serve him privily. This warn I you, that ye not suddenly Out of yourself for no woe should outraie; Be patient, and thereof I you pray." "I have," quoth she, "said thus, and ever shall, I will no thing, nor n'ill no thing, certain, But as you list; not grieveth me at all Though that my daughter and my son be slain At your commandement; that is to sayn, I have not had no part of children twain, But first sickness, and after woe and pain. "Ye be my lord, do with your owen thing Right as you list, and ask no rede of me: For, as I left at home all my clothing When I came first to you, right so," quoth she, "Left I my will and all my liberty, And took your clothing: wherefore I you pray, Do your pleasance, I will your lust obey. "And, certes, if I hadde prescience Your will to know, ere ye your lust me told, I would it do withoute negligence: But, now I know your lust, and what ye wo'ld, All your pleasance firm and stable I hold; For, wist I that my death might do you ease, Right gladly would I dien you to please. "Death may not make no comparisoun Unto your love." And when this marquis say The constance of his wife, he cast adown His eyen two, and wonder'd how she may In patience suffer all this array; And forth he went with dreary countenance; But to his heart it was full great pleasance. This ugly sergeant, in the same wise That he her daughter caught, right so hath he (Or worse, if men can any worse devise,) Y-hent her son, that full was of beauty: And ever-in-one so patient was she, That she no cheere made of heaviness, But kiss'd her son, and after gan him bless. Save this she prayed him, if that he might, Her little son he would in earthe grave, His tender limbes, delicate to sight, From fowles and from beastes for to save. But she none answer of him mighte have; He went his way, as him nothing ne raught, But to Bologna tenderly it brought. The marquis wonder'd ever longer more Upon her patience; and, if that he Not hadde soothly knowen therebefore That perfectly her children loved she, He would have ween'd that of some subtilty, And of malice, or for cruel corage, She hadde suffer'd this with sad visage. But well he knew, that, next himself, certain She lov'd her children best in every wise. But now of women would I aske fain, If these assayes mighte not suffice? What could a sturdy husband more devise To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness, And he continuing ev'r in sturdiness? But there be folk of such condition, That, when they have a certain purpose take, Thiey cannot stint of their intention, But, right as they were bound unto a stake, They will not of their firste purpose slake: Right so this marquis fully hath purpos'd To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos'd. He waited, if by word or countenance That she to him was changed of corage: But never could he finde variance, She was aye one in heart and in visage, And aye the farther that she was in age, The more true (if that it were possible) She was to him in love, and more penible. For which it seemed thus, that of them two There was but one will; for, as Walter lest, The same pleasance was her lust also; And, God be thanked, all fell for the best. She shewed well, for no worldly unrest, A wife as of herself no thinge should Will, in effect, but as her husbaud would. The sland'r of Walter wondrous wide sprad, That of a cruel heart he wickedly, For he a poore woman wedded had, Had murder'd both his children privily: Such murmur was among them commonly. No wonder is: for to the people's ear There came no word, but that they murder'd were. For which, whereas his people therebefore Had lov'd him well, the sland'r of his diffame Made them that they him hated therefore. To be a murd'rer is a hateful name. But natheless, for earnest or for game, He of his cruel purpose would not stent; To tempt his wife was set all his intent. When that his daughter twelve year was of age, He to the Court of Rome, in subtle wise Informed of his will, sent his message, Commanding him such bulles to devise As to his cruel purpose may suffice, How that the Pope, for his people's rest, Bade him to wed another, if him lest. I say he bade they shoulde counterfeit The Pope's bulles, making mention That he had leave his firste wife to lete, To stinte rancour and dissension Betwixt his people and him: thus spake the bull, The which they have published at full. The rude people, as no wonder is, Weened full well that it had been right so: But, when these tidings came to Griseldis. I deeme that her heart was full of woe; But she, alike sad for evermo', Disposed was, this humble creature, Th' adversity of fortune all t' endure; Abiding ever his lust and his pleasance, To whom that she was given, heart and all, As to her very worldly suffisance. But, shortly if this story tell I shall, The marquis written hath in special A letter, in which he shewed his intent, And secretly it to Bologna sent. To th' earl of Panico, which hadde tho Wedded his sister, pray'd he specially To bringe home again his children two In honourable estate all openly: But one thing he him prayed utterly, That he to no wight, though men would inquere, Shoulde not tell whose children that they were, But say, the maiden should y-wedded be Unto the marquis of Saluce anon. And as this earl was prayed, so did he, For, at day set, he on his way is gone Toward Saluce, and lorde's many a one In rich array, this maiden for to guide, -- Her younge brother riding her beside. Arrayed was toward her marriage This freshe maiden, full of gemmes clear; Her brother, which that seven year was of age, Arrayed eke full fresh in his mannere: And thus, in great nobless, and with glad cheer, Toward Saluces shaping their journey, From day to day they rode upon their way. Pars Quinta. Among all this, after his wick' usage, The marquis, yet his wife to tempte more To the uttermost proof of her corage, Fully to have experience and lore If that she were as steadfast as before, He on a day, in open audience, Full boisterously said her this sentence: "Certes, Griseld', I had enough pleasance To have you to my wife, for your goodness, And for your truth, and for your obeisance, Not for your lineage, nor for your richess; But now know I, in very soothfastness, That in great lordship, if I well advise, There is great servitude in sundry wise. "I may not do as every ploughman may: My people me constraineth for to take Another wife, and cryeth day by day; And eke the Pope, rancour for to slake, Consenteth it, that dare I undertake: And truely, thus much I will you say, My newe wife is coming by the way. "Be strong of heart, and void anon her place; And thilke dower that ye brought to me, Take it again, I grant it of my grace. Returne to your father's house," quoth he; "No man may always have prosperity; With even heart I rede you to endure The stroke of fortune or of aventure." And she again answer'd in patience: "My Lord," quoth she, "I know, and knew alway, How that betwixte your magnificence And my povert' no wight nor can nor may Make comparison, it is no nay; I held me never digne in no mannere To be your wife, nor yet your chamberere. "And in this house, where ye me lady made, (The highe God take I for my witness, And all so wisly he my soule glade), I never held me lady nor mistress, But humble servant to your worthiness, And ever shall, while that my life may dure, Aboven every worldly creature. "That ye so long, of your benignity, Have holden me in honour and nobley, Where as I was not worthy for to be, That thank I God and you, to whom I pray Foryield it you; there is no more to say: Unto my father gladly will I wend, And with him dwell, unto my lifes end, "Where I was foster'd as a child full small, Till I be dead my life there will I lead, A widow clean in body, heart, and all. For since I gave to you my maidenhead, And am your true wife, it is no dread, God shielde such a lordes wife to take Another man to husband or to make. "And of your newe wife, God of his grace So grant you weal and all prosperity: For I will gladly yield to her my place, In which that I was blissful wont to be. For since it liketh you, my Lord," quoth she, "That whilom weren all mine hearte's rest, That I shall go, I will go when you lest. "But whereas ye me proffer such dowaire As I first brought, it is well in my mind, It was my wretched clothes, nothing fair, The which to me were hard now for to find. O goode God! how gentle and how kind Ye seemed by your speech and your visage, The day that maked was our marriage! "But sooth is said, -- algate I find it true, For in effect it proved is on me, -- Love is not old as when that it is new. But certes, Lord, for no adversity, To dien in this case, it shall not be That e'er in word or work I shall repent That I you gave mine heart in whole intent. "My Lord, ye know that in my father's place Ye did me strip out of my poore weed, And richely ye clad me of your grace; To you brought I nought elles, out of dread, But faith, and nakedness, and maidenhead; And here again your clothing I restore, And eke your wedding ring for evermore. "The remnant of your jewels ready be Within your chamber, I dare safely sayn: Naked out of my father's house," quoth she, "I came, and naked I must turn again. All your pleasance would I follow fain: But yet I hope it be not your intent That smockless I out of your palace went. "Ye could not do so dishonest a thing, That thilke womb, in which your children lay, Shoulde before the people, in my walking, Be seen all bare: and therefore I you pray, Let me not like a worm go by the way: Remember you, mine owen Lord so dear, I was your wife, though I unworthy were. "Wherefore, in guerdon of my maidenhead, Which that I brought and not again I bear, As vouchesafe to give me to my meed But such a smock as I was wont to wear, That I therewith may wrie the womb of her That was your wife: and here I take my leave Of you, mine owen Lord, lest I you grieve." "The smock," quoth he, "that thou hast on thy back, Let it be still, and bear it forth with thee." But well unnethes thilke word he spake, But went his way for ruth and for pity. Before the folk herselfe stripped she, And in her smock, with foot and head all bare, Toward her father's house forth is she fare. The folk her follow'd weeping on her way, And fortune aye they cursed as they gon: But she from weeping kept her eyen drey, Nor in this time worde spake she none. Her father, that this tiding heard anon, Cursed the day and time, that nature Shope him to be a living creature. For, out of doubt, this olde poore man Was ever in suspect of her marriage: For ever deem'd he, since it first began, That when the lord fulfill'd had his corage, He woulde think it were a disparage To his estate, so low for to alight, And voide her as soon as e'er he might. Against his daughter hastily went he (For he by noise of folk knew her coming), And with her olde coat, as it might be, He cover'd her, full sorrowfully weeping: But on her body might he it not bring, For rude was the cloth, and more of age By dayes fele than at her marriage. Thus with her father for a certain space Dwelled this flow'r of wifely patience, That neither by her words nor by her face, Before the folk nor eke in their absence, Ne shewed she that her was done offence, Nor of her high estate no remembrance Ne hadde she, as by her countenance. No wonder is, for in her great estate Her ghost was ever in plein humility; No tender mouth, no hearte delicate, No pomp, and no semblant of royalty; But full of patient benignity, Discreet and prideless, aye honourable, And to her husband ever meek and stable. Men speak of Job, and most for his humbless, As clerkes, when them list, can well indite, Namely of men; but, as in soothfastness, Though clerkes praise women but a lite, There can no man in humbless him acquite As women can, nor can be half so true As women be, but it be fall of new. Pars Sexta From Bologn' is the earl of Panic' come, Of which the fame up sprang to more and less; And to the people's eares all and some Was know'n eke, that a newe marchioness He with him brought, in such pomp and richess That never was there seen with manne's eye So noble array in all West Lombardy. The marquis, which that shope and knew all this, Ere that the earl was come, sent his message For thilke poore sely Griseldis; And she, with humble heart and glad visage, Nor with no swelling thought in her corage, Came at his hest, and on her knees her set, And rev'rently and wisely she him gret. "Griseld'," quoth he, "my will is utterly, This maiden, that shall wedded be to me, Received be to-morrow as royally As it possible is in my house to be; And eke that every wight in his degree Have his estate in sitting and service, And in high pleasance, as I can devise. "I have no women sufficient, certain, The chambers to array in ordinance After my lust; and therefore would I fain That thine were all such manner governance: Thou knowest eke of old all my pleasance; Though thine array be bad, and ill besey, Do thou thy devoir at the leaste way." "Not only, Lord, that I am glad," quoth she, "To do your lust, but I desire also You for to serve and please in my degree, Withoute fainting, and shall evermo': Nor ever for no weal, nor for no woe, Ne shall the ghost within mine hearte stent To love you best with all my true intent." And with that word she gan the house to dight, And tables for to set, and beds to make, And pained her to do all that she might, Praying the chambereres for Godde's sake To hasten them, and faste sweep and shake, And she the most serviceable of all Hath ev'ry chamber arrayed, and his hall. Aboute undern gan the earl alight, That with him brought these noble children tway; For which the people ran to see the sight Of their array, so richely besey; And then at erst amonges them they say, That Walter was no fool, though that him lest To change his wife; for it was for the best. For she is fairer, as they deemen all, Than is Griseld', and more tender of age, And fairer fruit between them shoulde fall, And more pleasant, for her high lineage: Her brother eke so fair was of visage, That them to see the people hath caught pleasance, Commending now the marquis' governance. "O stormy people, unsad and ev'r untrue, And undiscreet, and changing as a vane, Delighting ev'r in rumour that is new, For like the moon so waxe ye and wane: Aye full of clapping, dear enough a jane, Your doom is false, your constance evil preveth, A full great fool is he that you believeth." Thus saide the sad folk in that city, When that the people gazed up and down; For they were glad, right for the novelty, To have a newe lady of their town. No more of this now make I mentioun, But to Griseld' again I will me dress, And tell her constancy and business. Full busy was Griseld' in ev'ry thing That to the feaste was appertinent; Right nought was she abash'd of her clothing, Though it were rude, and somedeal eke to-rent; But with glad cheer unto the gate she went With other folk, to greet the marchioness, And after that did forth her business. With so glad cheer his guestes she receiv'd And so conningly each in his degree, That no defaulte no man apperceiv'd, But aye they wonder'd what she mighte be That in so poor array was for to see, And coude such honour and reverence; And worthily they praise her prudence. In all this meane while she not stent This maid, and eke her brother, to commend With all her heart in full benign intent, So well, that no man could her praise amend: But at the last, when that these lordes wend To sitte down to meat, he gan to call Griseld', as she was busy in the hall. "Griseld'," quoth he, as it were in his play, "How liketh thee my wife, and her beauty?" "Right well, my Lord," quoth she, "for, in good fay, A fairer saw I never none than she: I pray to God give you prosperity; And so I hope, that he will to you send Pleasance enough unto your lives end. "One thing beseech I you, and warn also, That ye not pricke with no tormenting This tender maiden, as ye have done mo: For she is foster'd in her nourishing More tenderly, and, to my supposing, She mighte not adversity endure As could a poore foster'd creature." And when this Walter saw her patience, Her gladde cheer, and no malice at all, And he so often had her done offence, And she aye sad and constant as a wall, Continuing ev'r her innocence o'er all, The sturdy marquis gan his hearte dress To rue upon her wifely steadfastness. "This is enough, Griselda mine," quoth he, "Be now no more aghast, nor evil paid, I have thy faith and thy benignity As well as ever woman was, assay'd, In great estate and poorely array'd: Now know I, deare wife, thy steadfastness;" And her in arms he took, and gan to kiss. And she for wonder took of it no keep; She hearde not what thing he to her said: She far'd as she had start out of a sleep, Till she out of her mazedness abraid. "Griseld'," quoth he, "by God that for us died, Thou art my wife, none other I have, Nor ever had, as God my soule save. "This is thy daughter, which thou hast suppos'd To be my wife; that other faithfully Shall be mine heir, as I have aye dispos'd; Thou bare them of thy body truely: At Bologna kept I them privily: Take them again, for now may'st thou not say That thou hast lorn none of thy children tway. "And folk, that otherwise have said of me, I warn them well, that I have done this deed For no malice, nor for no cruelty, But to assay in thee thy womanhead: And not to slay my children (God forbid), But for to keep them privily and still, Till I thy purpose knew, and all thy will." When she this heard, in swoon adown she falleth For piteous joy; and after her swooning, She both her younge children to her calleth, And in her armes piteously weeping Embraced them, and tenderly kissing, Full like a mother, with her salte tears She bathed both their visage and their hairs. O, what a piteous thing it was to see Her swooning, and her humble voice to hear! "Grand mercy, Lord, God thank it you," quoth she, That ye have saved me my children dear; Now reck I never to be dead right here; Since I stand in your love, and in your grace, No force of death, nor when my spirit pace. "O tender, O dear, O young children mine, Your woeful mother weened steadfastly That cruel houndes, or some foul vermine, Had eaten you; but God of his mercy, And your benigne father tenderly Have done you keep:" and in that same stound All suddenly she swapt down to the ground. And in her swoon so sadly holdeth she Her children two, when she gan them embrace, That with great sleight and great difficulty The children from her arm they can arace, O! many a tear on many a piteous face Down ran of them that stoode her beside, Unneth' aboute her might they abide. Walter her gladdeth, and her sorrow slaketh: She riseth up abashed from her trance, And every wight her joy and feaste maketh, Till she hath caught again her countenance. Walter her doth so faithfully pleasance, That it was dainty for to see the cheer Betwixt them two, since they be met in fere. The ladies, when that they their time sey, Have taken her, and into chamber gone, And stripped her out of her rude array, And in a cloth of gold that brightly shone, And with a crown of many a riche stone Upon her head, they into hall her brought: And there she was honoured as her ought. Thus had this piteous day a blissful end; For every man and woman did his might This day in mirth and revel to dispend, Till on the welkin shone the starres bright: For more solemn in every mannes sight This feaste was, and greater of costage, Than was the revel of her marriage. Full many a year in high prosperity Lived these two in concord and in rest; And richely his daughter married he Unto a lord, one of the worthiest Of all Itale; and then in peace and rest His wife's father in his court he kept, Till that the soul out of his body crept. His son succeeded in his heritage, In rest and peace, after his father's day: And fortunate was eke in marriage, All he put not his wife in great assay: This world is not so strong, it is no nay, As it hath been in olde times yore; And hearken what this author saith, therefore; This story is said, not for that wives should Follow Griselda in humility, For it were importable though they would; But for that every wight in his degree Shoulde be constant in adversity, As was Griselda; therefore Petrarch writeth This story, which with high style he inditeth. For, since a woman was so patient Unto a mortal man, well more we ought Receiven all in gree that God us sent. For great skill is he proved that he wrought: But he tempteth no man that he hath bought, As saith Saint James, if ye his 'pistle read; He proveth folk all day, it is no dread. And suffereth us, for our exercise, With sharpe scourges of adversity Full often to be beat in sundry wise; Not for to know our will, for certes he, Ere we were born, knew all our frailty; And for our best is all his governance; Let us then live in virtuous sufferance. But one word, lordings, hearken, ere I go: It were full hard to finde now-a-days In all a town Griseldas three or two: For, if that they were put to such assays, The gold of them hath now so bad allays With brass, that though the coin be fair at eye, It woulde rather break in two than ply. For which here, for the Wife's love of Bath, -- Whose life and all her sex may God maintain In high mast'ry, and elles were it scath, -- I will, with lusty hearte fresh and green, Say you a song to gladden you, I ween: And let us stint of earnestful mattere. Hearken my song, that saith in this mannere. L'Envoy of Chaucer. "Griseld' is dead, and eke her patience, And both at once are buried in Itale: For which I cry in open audience, No wedded man so hardy be t' assail His wife's patience, in trust to find Griselda's, for in certain he shall fail. "O noble wives, full of high prudence, Let no humility your tongues nail: Nor let no clerk have cause or diligence To write of you a story of such marvail, As of Griselda patient and kind, Lest Chichevache you swallow in her entrail. "Follow Echo, that holdeth no silence, But ever answereth at the countertail; Be not bedaffed for your innocence, But sharply take on you the governail; Imprinte well this lesson in your mind, For common profit, since it may avail. "Ye archiwives, stand aye at defence, Since ye be strong as is a great camail, Nor suffer not that men do you offence. And slender wives, feeble in battail, Be eager as a tiger yond in Ind; Aye clapping as a mill, I you counsail. "Nor dread them not, nor do them reverence; For though thine husband armed be in mail, The arrows of thy crabbed eloquence Shall pierce his breast, and eke his aventail; In jealousy I rede eke thou him bind, And thou shalt make him couch as doth a quail. "If thou be fair, where folk be in presence Shew thou thy visage and thine apparail: If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence; To get thee friendes aye do thy travail: Be aye of cheer as light as leaf on lind, And let him care, and weep, and wring, and wail."
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