Three random poems from PoetryDB
IN TWO DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE I. _Fr_. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, And when it comes, the court see nothing in 't. You grow correct, that once with rapture writ, And are, besides, too moral for a wit. Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel-- Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal? 'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye Said, 'Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;' And taught his Romans, in much better metre, 'To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.' But, Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice; Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice: Horace would say, Sir Billy served the crown, Blunt could do business, Huggins knew the town; In Sappho touch the failings of the sex, In reverend bishops note some small neglects, And own, the Spaniard did a waggish thing, Who cropp'd our ears, and sent them to the king. His sly, polite, insinuating style Could please at court, and make Augustus smile: An artful manager, that crept between His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen. But, faith, your very friends will soon be sore; Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more-- And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought The great man never offer'd you a groat. Go see Sir Robert-- _P_. See Sir Robert!--hum-- And never laugh--for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill-exchanged for power; Seen him, uncumber'd with the venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe. Would he oblige me? let me only find, He does not think me what he thinks mankind. Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt; The only difference is, I dare laugh out. _F_. Why, yes: with Scripture still you may be free; A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty; A joke on Jekyl, or some odd old Whig Who never changed his principle, or wig: A patriot is a fool in every age, Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, And wear their strange old virtue, as they will. If any ask you, 'Who's the man, so near His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?' Why, answer, Lyttleton, and I'll engage The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage: But were his verses vile, his whisper base, You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case. Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury, But well may put some statesmen in a fury. Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes; These you but anger, and you mend not those. Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, So much the better, you may laugh the more. To vice and folly to confine the jest, Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest; Did not the sneer of more impartial men At sense and virtue, balance all again. Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule, And charitably comfort knave and fool. _P_. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth! Come, harmless characters that no one hit; Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn's wit! The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue, The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Yonge! The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence, And all the well-whipt cream of courtly sense, That first was Hervy's, Fox's next, and then The senate's, and then Hervy's once again. Oh come, that easy, Ciceronian style, So Latin, yet so English all the while, As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland, All boys may read, and girls may understand! Then might I sing, without the least offence, And all I sung should be the nation's sense; Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn, Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn, And hail her passage to the realms of rest, All parts perform'd, and all her children bless'd! So--satire is no more--I feel it die-- No gazetteer more innocent than I-- And let, a-God's-name! every fool and knave Be graced through life, and flatter'd in his grave. _F_. Why so? if satire knows its time and place, You still may lash the greatest--in disgrace: For merit will by turns forsake them all; Would you know when exactly when they fall. But let all satire in all changes spare Immortal Selkirk, and grave Delaware. Silent and soft, as saints remove to heaven, All ties dissolved, and every sin forgiven, These may some gentle ministerial wing Receive, and place for ever near a king! There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport, Lull'd with the sweet nepenthe of a court; There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace Once break their rest, or stir them from their place: But past the sense of human miseries, All tears are wiped for ever from all eyes; No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb, Save when they lose a question, or a job. _P_. Good Heaven forbid that I should blast their glory, Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory, And when three sovereigns died, could scarce be vex'd, Considering what a gracious prince was next. Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings; And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret, Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt? Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast; But shall the dignity of vice be lost? Ye gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke, Swear like a lord, or Rich out-whore a duke? A favourite's porter with his master vie, Be bribed as often, and as often lie? Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill? Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things) To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings? If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man, And so may'st thou, illustrious Passeran! But shall a printer, weary of his life, Learn from their books to hang himself and wife? This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear: Vice thus abused, demands a nation's care: This calls the Church to deprecate our sin, And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin, Let modest Foster, if he will, excel Ten metropolitans in preaching well; A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife, Outdo Landaff in doctrine,--yea, in life: Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame, Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same beloved, contented thing. Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore; Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more: Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess, Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless: In golden chains the willing world she draws, And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws, Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, And sees pale virtue carted in her stead. Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car, Old England's genius, rough with many a scar, Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round, His flag inverted trails along the ground! Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold, Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old! See thronging millions to the pagod run, And offer country, parent, wife, or son! Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim, That NOT TO BE CORRUPTED IS THE SHAME! In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, 'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more! See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves! The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, Are what ten thousand envy and adore! All, all look up with reverential awe, At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law: While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry-- 'Nothing is sacred now but villany.' Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show, there was one who held it in disdain. DIALOGUE II. _Fr_. 'Tis all a libel--Paxton (sir) will say. _P_. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow, faith, it may; And for that very cause I print to-day. How should I fret to mangle every line, In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine! Vice with such giant strides comes on amain, Invention strives to be before in vain; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rising genius sins up to my song. _F_. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; Ev'n Guthrie saves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the person, and expose the vice. _P_. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice? Come on then, Satire! general, unconfined, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all! Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall! Ye reverend atheists---- _F_. Scandal! name them, who? _P_. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who starved a sister, who forswore a debt, I never named; the town's inquiring yet. The poisoning dame---- _F_. You mean---- _P_. I don't. _F_. You do. _P_. See, now I keep the secret, and not you! The bribing statesman---- _F_. Hold, too high you go. _P_. The bribed elector---- _F_. There you stoop too low. _P_. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not? Must great offenders, once escaped the crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down? Admit, your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the 'squires? Suppose I censure--you know what I mean-- To save a bishop, may I name a dean? _F_. A dean, sir? no: his fortune is not made, You hurt a man that's rising in the trade. _P_. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country's made a job, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob. But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!) The matter's weighty, pray consider twice; Have you less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendless villain, than the great? Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. Then better, sure, it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; Still better, ministers; or, if the thing May pinch ev'n there--why lay it on a king. _F._ Stop! stop! _P._ Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. _F._ Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. _P._ Strike! why the man was hanged ten years ago: Who now that obsolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears. _F._ What, always Peter! Peter thinks you mad, You make men desperate if they once are bad: Else might he take to virtue some years hence _P._ As Selkirk, if he lives, will love the Prince. _F._ Strange spleen to Selkirk! _P._ Do I wrong the man? God knows, I praise a courtier where I can. When I confess, there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'rough name? Pleased, let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove (Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love) The scene, the master, opening to my view, I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew! Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert; Secker is decent--Rundel has a heart-- Manners with candour are to Benson given-- To Berkeley, every virtue under heaven. But does the court a worthy man remove? That instant, I declare, he has my love: I shun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine. Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat, I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great: Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, Compared, and knew their generous end the same: How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour! How shined the soul, unconquer'd in the Tower! How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget, While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit: Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield, And shake alike the senate and the field: Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, The master of our passions, and his own. Names, which I long have loved, nor loved in vain, Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their train: And if yet higher the proud list should end, Still let me say,--No follower, but a friend. Yet think not Friendship only prompts my lays; I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise: Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory. I never (to my sorrow I declare) Dined with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor. Some, in their choice of friends, (nay, look not grave) 100 Have still a secret bias to a knave: To find an honest man I beat about. And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. _F_. Then why so few commended? _P_. Not so fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise--the task can ne'er be done; Each mother asks it for her booby son, Each widow asks it for 'the best of men,' For him she weeps, and him she weds again. Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. Enough for half the greatest of these days, To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise. Are they not rich? what more can they pretend? Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. No power the Muse's friendship can command; No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line; Oh let my country's friends illumine mine! --What are you thinking? _F_. Faith, the thought's no sin-- I think your friends are out, and would be in. _P_. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about. _F_. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow? _P_. I only call those knaves who are so now. Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-- Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie. Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave, St John has ever been a wealthy fool-- But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife. But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St John! deck thy shrine? What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend? Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead. It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, To see a footman kick'd that took his pay: But when he heard the affront the fellow gave, Knew one a man of honour, one a knave, The prudent general turn'd it to a jest, And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest: Which not at present having time to do---- _F_. Hold sir! for God's-sake where 'a the affront to you? Against your worship when had Selkirk writ? Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard whose distich all commend 'In power a servant, out of power a friend,' To Walpole guilty of some venial sin; What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown, How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend? _P_. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came; Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame, Since the whole house did afterwards the same. Let courtly wits to wits afford supply, As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly; If one, through Nature's bounty, or his lord's, Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords, From him the next receives it, thick or thin, As pure a mess almost as it came in; The blessed benefit, not there confined, Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind; From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse: The last full fairly gives it to the House. _F_. This filthy simile, this beastly line Quite turns my stomach---- _P_. So does flattery mine; And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement. But hear me further--Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read, In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, Because the deed he forged was not my own? Must never patriot then declaim at gin, Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse, Without a staring reason on his brows? And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man, but God? Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures, The affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence, Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense; Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; And mine, as man, who feel for all mankind. _F_. You're strangely proud. _P_. So proud, I am no slave: So impudent, I own myself no knave: So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone. O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! To all but heaven-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal; To rouse the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall, And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings,-- All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last gazette, or the last address. When black ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star. Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's shrine, Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, And opes the temple of Eternity. There, other trophies deck the truly brave, Than such as Anstis casts into the grave; Far other stars than ---- and ---- wear, And may descend to Mordington from Stair: (Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine, Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine) Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; Let Flattery sickening see the incense rise, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies: Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, And makes immortal verse as mean as mine. Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law; Here, last of Britons! let your names be read; Are none, none living? let me praise the dead, And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line. _F_. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more 'Essays on Man.'
THE PROLOGUE. "WELL said, by corpus Domini," quoth our Host; "Now longe may'st thou saile by the coast, Thou gentle Master, gentle Marinere. God give the monk a thousand last quad year! Aha! fellows, beware of such a jape. The monk put in the manne's hood an ape, And in his wife's eke, by Saint Austin. Drawe no monkes more into your inn. But now pass over, and let us seek about, Who shall now telle first of all this rout Another tale;" and with that word he said, As courteously as it had been a maid; "My Lady Prioresse, by your leave, So that I wist I shoulde you not grieve, I woulde deeme that ye telle should A tale next, if so were that ye would. Now will ye vouchesafe, my lady dear?" "Gladly," quoth she; and said as ye shall hear. THE TALE. O Lord our Lord! thy name how marvellous Is in this large world y-spread! (quoth she) For not only thy laude precious Performed is by men of high degree, But by the mouth of children thy bounte Performed is, for on the breast sucking Sometimes showe they thy herying. Wherefore in laud, as I best can or may Of thee, and of the white lily flow'r Which that thee bare, and is a maid alway, To tell a story I will do my labour; Not that I may increase her honour, For she herselven is honour and root Of bounte, next her son, and soules' boot. O mother maid, O maid and mother free! O bush unburnt, burning in Moses' sight, That ravished'st down from the deity, Through thy humbless, the ghost that in thee light; Of whose virtue, when he thine hearte light, Conceived was the Father's sapience; Help me to tell it to thy reverence. Lady! thy bounty, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, There may no tongue express in no science: For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee, Thou go'st before, of thy benignity, And gettest us the light, through thy prayere, To guiden us unto thy son so dear. My conning is so weak, O blissful queen, For to declare thy great worthiness, That I not may the weight of it sustene; But as a child of twelvemonth old, or less, That can unnethes any word express, Right so fare I; and therefore, I you pray, Guide my song that I shall of you say. There was in Asia, in a great city, Amonges Christian folk, a Jewery, Sustained by a lord of that country, For foul usure, and lucre of villainy, Hateful to Christ, and to his company; And through the street men mighte ride and wend, For it was free, and open at each end. A little school of Christian folk there stood Down at the farther end, in which there were Children an heap y-come of Christian blood, That learned in that schoole year by year Such manner doctrine as men used there; This is to say, to singen and to read, As smalle children do in their childhead. Among these children was a widow's son, A little clergion, seven year of age, That day by day to scholay was his won, And eke also, whereso he saw th' image Of Christe's mother, had he in usage, As him was taught, to kneel adown, and say Ave Maria as he went by the way. Thus had this widow her little son y-taught Our blissful Lady, Christe's mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgot it not; For sely child will always soone lear. But aye when I remember on this mattere, Saint Nicholas stands ever in my presence; For he so young to Christ did reverence. This little child his little book learning, As he sat in the school at his primere, He Alma redemptoris hearde sing, As children learned their antiphonere; And as he durst, he drew him nere and nere, And hearken'd aye the wordes and the note, Till he the firste verse knew all by rote. Nought wist he what this Latin was tosay, For he so young and tender was of age; But on a day his fellow gan he pray To expound him this song in his language, Or tell him why this song was in usage: This pray'd he him to construe and declare, Full oftentime upon his knees bare. His fellow, which that elder was than he, Answer'd him thus: "This song, I have heard say, Was maked of our blissful Lady free, Her to salute, and eke her to pray To be our help and succour when we dey. I can no more expound in this mattere: I learne song, I know but small grammere." "And is this song y-made in reverence Of Christe's mother?" said this innocent; Now certes I will do my diligence To conne it all, ere Christemas be went; Though that I for my primer shall be shent, And shall be beaten thries in an hour, I will it conne, our Lady to honour." His fellow taught him homeward privily From day to day, till he coud it by rote, And then he sang it well and boldely From word to word according with the note; Twice in a day it passed through his throat; To schoole-ward, and homeward when he went; On Christ's mother was set all his intent. As I have said, throughout the Jewery, This little child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma redemptoris, evermo'; The sweetness hath his hearte pierced so Of Christe's mother, that to her to pray He cannot stint of singing by the way. Our firste foe, the serpent Satanas, That hath in Jewes' heart his waspe's nest, Upswell'd and said, "O Hebrew people, alas! Is this to you a thing that is honest, That such a boy shall walken as him lest In your despite, and sing of such sentence, Which is against your lawe's reverence?" From thenceforth the Jewes have conspired This innocent out of the world to chase; A homicide thereto have they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the child gan forth by for to pace, This cursed Jew him hent, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. I say that in a wardrobe he him threw, Where as the Jewes purged their entrail. O cursed folk! O Herodes all new! What may your evil intente you avail? Murder will out, certain it will not fail, And namely where th' honour of God shall spread; The blood out crieth on your cursed deed. O martyr souded to virginity, Now may'st thou sing, and follow ever-in-one The white Lamb celestial (quoth she), Of which the great Evangelist Saint John In Patmos wrote, which saith that they that gon Before this Lamb, and sing a song all new, That never fleshly woman they ne knew. This poore widow waited all that night After her little child, but he came not; For which, as soon as it was daye's light, With face pale, in dread and busy thought, She hath at school and elleswhere him sought, Till finally she gan so far espy, That he was last seen in the Jewery. With mother's pity in her breast enclosed, She went, as she were half out of her mind, To every place, where she hath supposed By likelihood her little child to find: And ever on Christ's mother meek and kind She cried, and at the laste thus she wrought, Among the cursed Jewes she him sought. She freined, and she prayed piteously To every Jew that dwelled in that place, To tell her, if her childe went thereby; They saide, "Nay;" but Jesus of his grace Gave in her thought, within a little space, That in that place after her son she cried, Where he was cast into a pit beside. O greate God, that preformest thy laud By mouth of innocents, lo here thy might! This gem of chastity, this emeraud, And eke of martyrdom the ruby bright, Where he with throat y-carven lay upright, He Alma Redemptoris gan to sing So loud, that all the place began to ring. The Christian folk, that through the streete went, In came, for to wonder on this thing: And hastily they for the provost sent. He came anon withoute tarrying, And heried Christ, that is of heaven king, And eke his mother, honour of mankind; And after that the Jewes let he bind. With torment, and with shameful death each one The provost did these Jewes for to sterve That of this murder wist, and that anon; He woulde no such cursedness observe Evil shall have that evil will deserve; Therefore with horses wild he did them draw, And after that he hung them by the law. The child, with piteous lamentation, Was taken up, singing his song alway: And with honour and great procession, They crry him unto the next abbay. His mother swooning by the biere lay; Unnethes might the people that were there This newe Rachel bringe from his bier. Upon his biere lay this innocent Before the altar while the masses last'; And, after that, th' abbot with his convent Have sped them for to bury him full fast; And when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this child, when sprinkled was the water, And sang, O Alma redemptoris mater! This abbot, which that was a holy man, As monkes be, or elles ought to be, This younger child to conjure he began, And said; "O deare child! I halse thee, In virtue of the holy Trinity; Tell me what is thy cause for to sing, Since that thy throat is cut, to my seeming." "My throat is cut unto my necke-bone," Saide this child, "and, as by way of kind, I should have died, yea long time agone; But Jesus Christ, as ye in bookes find, Will that his glory last and be in mind; And, for the worship of his mother dear, Yet may I sing O Alma loud and clear. "This well of mercy, Christe's mother sweet, I loved alway, after my conning: And when that I my life should forlete, To me she came, and bade me for to sing This anthem verily in my dying, As ye have heard; and, when that I had sung, Me thought she laid a grain upon my tongue. "Wherefore I sing, and sing I must certain, In honour of that blissful maiden free, Till from my tongue off taken is the grain. And after that thus saide she to me; 'My little child, then will I fetche thee, When that the grain is from thy tongue take: Be not aghast, I will thee not forsake.'" This holy monk, this abbot him mean I, His tongue out caught, and took away the grain; And he gave up the ghost full softely. And when this abbot had this wonder seen, His salte teares trickled down as rain: And groff he fell all flat upon the ground, And still he lay, as he had been y-bound. The convent lay eke on the pavement Weeping, and herying Christ's mother dear. And after that they rose, and forth they went, And took away this martyr from his bier, And in a tomb of marble stones clear Enclosed they his little body sweet; Where he is now, God lene us for to meet. O younge Hugh of Lincoln! slain also With cursed Jewes, -- as it is notable, For it is but a little while ago, -- Pray eke for us, we sinful folk unstable, That, of his mercy, God so merciable On us his greate mercy multiply, For reverence of his mother Mary.
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason. A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run. A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed, And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed, Whose course was ever contrary to kind: False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu. Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.
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