Three random poems from PoetryDB
FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON. SCENE 1: ENTER CYPRIAN, DRESSED AS A STUDENT; CLARIN AND MOSCON AS POOR SCHOLARS, WITH BOOKS. CYPRIAN: In the sweet solitude of this calm place, This intricate wild wilderness of trees And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, Leave me; the books you brought out of the house To me are ever best society. And while with glorious festival and song, Antioch now celebrates the consecration Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, And bears his image in loud jubilee To its new shrine, I would consume what still Lives of the dying day in studious thought, Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my friends, Go, and enjoy the festival; it will Be worth your pains. You may return for me When the sun seeks its grave among the billows Which, among dim gray clouds on the horizon, Dance like white plumes upon a hearse;-- and here I shall expect you. MOSCON: I cannot bring my mind, Great as my haste to see the festival Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without Just saying some three or four thousand words. How is it possible that on a day Of such festivity, you can be content To come forth to a solitary country With three or four old books, and turn your back On all this mirth? CLARIN: My master's in the right; There is not anything more tiresome Than a procession day, with troops, and priests, And dances, and all that. MOSCON: From first to last, Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer; You praise not what you feel but what he does;-- Toadeater! CLARIN: You lie--under a mistake-- For this is the most civil sort of lie That can be given to a man's face. I now Say what I think. CYPRIAN: Enough, you foolish fellows! Puffed up with your own doting ignorance, You always take the two sides of one question. Now go; and as I said, return for me When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide This glorious fabric of the universe. MOSCON: How happens it, although you can maintain The folly of enjoying festivals, That yet you go there? CLARIN: Nay, the consequence Is clear:--who ever did what he advises Others to do?-- MOSCON: Would that my feet were wings, So would I fly to Livia. [EXIT.] CLARIN: To speak truth, Livia is she who has surprised my heart; But he is more than half-way there.--Soho! Livia, I come; good sport, Livia, soho! [EXIT.] CYPRIAN: Now, since I am alone, let me examine The question which has long disturbed my mind With doubt, since first I read in Plinius The words of mystic import and deep sense In which he defines God. My intellect Can find no God with whom these marks and signs Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth Which I must fathom. [CYPRIAN READS; THE DAEMON, DRESSED IN A COURT DRESS, ENTERS.] DAEMON: Search even as thou wilt, But thou shalt never find what I can hide. CYPRIAN: What noise is that among the boughs? Who moves? What art thou?-- DAEMON: 'Tis a foreign gentleman. Even from this morning I have lost my way In this wild place; and my poor horse at last, Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain, And feeds and rests at the same time. I was Upon my way to Antioch upon business Of some importance, but wrapped up in cares (Who is exempt from this inheritance?) I parted from my company, and lost My way, and lost my servants and my comrades. CYPRIAN: 'Tis singular that even within the sight Of the high towers of Antioch you could lose Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths Of this wild wood there is not one but leads, As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch; Take which you will, you cannot miss your road. DAEMON: And such is ignorance! Even in the sight Of knowledge, it can draw no profit from it. But as it still is early, and as I Have no acquaintances in Antioch, Being a stranger there, I will even wait The few surviving hours of the day, Until the night shall conquer it. I see Both by your dress and by the books in which You find delight and company, that you Are a great student;--for my part, I feel Much sympathy in such pursuits. CYPRIAN: Have you Studied much? DAEMON: No,--and yet I know enough Not to be wholly ignorant. CYPRIAN: Pray, Sir, What science may you know?-- DAEMON: Many. CYPRIAN: Alas! Much pains must we expend on one alone, And even then attain it not;--but you Have the presumption to assert that you Know many without study. DAEMON: And with truth. For in the country whence I come the sciences Require no learning,--they are known. CYPRIAN: Oh, would I were of that bright country! for in this The more we study, we the more discover Our ignorance. DAEMON: It is so true, that I Had so much arrogance as to oppose The chair of the most high Professorship, And obtained many votes, and, though I lost, The attempt was still more glorious, than the failure Could be dishonourable. If you believe not, Let us refer it to dispute respecting That which you know the best, and although I Know not the opinion you maintain, and though It be the true one, I will take the contrary. CYPRIAN: The offer gives me pleasure. I am now Debating with myself upon a passage Of Plinius, and my mind is racked with doubt To understand and know who is the God Of whom he speaks. DAEMON: It is a passage, if I recollect it right, couched in these words 'God is one supreme goodness, one pure essence, One substance, and one sense, all sight, all hands.' CYPRIAN: 'Tis true. DAEMON: What difficulty find you here? CYPRIAN: I do not recognize among the Gods The God defined by Plinius; if he must Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter Is not supremely good; because we see His deeds are evil, and his attributes Tainted with mortal weakness; in what manner Can supreme goodness be consistent with The passions of humanity? DAEMON: The wisdom Of the old world masked with the names of Gods The attributes of Nature and of Man; A sort of popular philosophy. CYPRIAN: This reply will not satisfy me, for Such awe is due to the high name of God That ill should never be imputed. Then, Examining the question with more care, It follows, that the Gods would always will That which is best, were they supremely good. How then does one will one thing, one another? And that you may not say that I allege Poetical or philosophic learning:-- Consider the ambiguous responses Of their oracular statues; from two shrines Two armies shall obtain the assurance of One victory. Is it not indisputable That two contending wills can never lead To the same end? And, being opposite, If one be good, is not the other evil? Evil in God is inconceivable; But supreme goodness fails among the Gods Without their union. DAEMON: I deny your major. These responses are means towards some end Unfathomed by our intellectual beam. They are the work of Providence, and more The battle's loss may profit those who lose, Than victory advantage those who win. CYPRIAN: That I admit; and yet that God should not (Falsehood is incompatible with deity) Assure the victory; it would be enough To have permitted the defeat. If God Be all sight,--God, who had beheld the truth, Would not have given assurance of an end Never to be accomplished: thus, although The Deity may according to his attributes Be well distinguished into persons, yet Even in the minutest circumstance His essence must be one. DAEMON: To attain the end The affections of the actors in the scene Must have been thus influenced by his voice. CYPRIAN: But for a purpose thus subordinate He might have employed Genii, good or evil,-- A sort of spirits called so by the learned, Who roam about inspiring good or evil, And from whose influence and existence we May well infer our immortality. Thus God might easily, without descent To a gross falsehood in his proper person, Have moved the affections by this mediation To the just point. DAEMON: These trifling contradictions Do not suffice to impugn the unity Of the high Gods; in things of great importance They still appear unanimous; consider That glorious fabric, man,--his workmanship Is stamped with one conception. CYPRIAN: Who made man Must have, methinks, the advantage of the others. If they are equal, might they not have risen In opposition to the work, and being All hands, according to our author here, Have still destroyed even as the other made? If equal in their power, unequal only In opportunity, which of the two Will remain conqueror? DAEMON: On impossible And false hypothesis there can be built No argument. Say, what do you infer From this? CYPRIAN: That there must be a mighty God Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, Without an equal and without a rival, The cause of all things and the effect of nothing, One power, one will, one substance, and one essence. And, in whatever persons, one or two, His attributes may be distinguished, one Sovereign power, one solitary essence, One cause of all cause. [THEY RISE.] DAEMON: How can I impugn So clear a consequence? CYPRIAN: Do you regret My victory? DAEMON: Who but regrets a check In rivalry of wit? I could reply And urge new difficulties, but will now Depart, for I hear steps of men approaching, And it is time that I should now pursue My journey to the city. CYPRIAN: Go in peace! DAEMON: Remain in peace!--Since thus it profits him To study, I will wrap his senses up In sweet oblivion of all thought but of A piece of excellent beauty; and, as I Have power given me to wage enmity Against Justina's soul, I will extract From one effect two vengeances. [ASIDE AND EXIT.] CYPRIAN: I never Met a more learned person. Let me now Revolve this doubt again with careful mind. [HE READS.] [FLORO AND LELIO ENTER.] LELIO: Here stop. These toppling rocks and tangled boughs, Impenetrable by the noonday beam, Shall be sole witnesses of what we-- FLORO: Draw! If there were words, here is the place for deeds. LELIO: Thou needest not instruct me; well I know That in the field, the silent tongue of steel Speaks thus,-- [THEY FIGHT.] CYPRIAN: Ha! what is this? Lelio,--Floro, Be it enough that Cyprian stands between you, Although unarmed. LELIO: Whence comest thou, to stand Between me and my vengeance? FLORO: From what rocks And desert cells? [ENTER MOSCON AND CLARIN.] MOSCON: Run! run! for where we left My master. I now hear the clash of swords. CLARIN: I never run to approach things of this sort But only to avoid them. Sir! Cyprian! sir! CYPRIAN: Be silent, fellows! What! two friends who are In blood and fame the eyes and hope of Antioch, One of the noble race of the Colalti, The other son o' the Governor, adventure And cast away, on some slight cause no doubt, Two lives, the honour of their country? LELIO: Cyprian! Although my high respect towards your person Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst not Restore it to the slumber of the scabbard: Thou knowest more of science than the duel; For when two men of honour take the field, No counsel nor respect can make them friends But one must die in the dispute. FLORO: I pray That you depart hence with your people, and Leave us to finish what we have begun Without advantage.-- CYPRIAN: Though you may imagine That I know little of the laws of duel, Which vanity and valour instituted, You are in error. By my birth I am Held no less than yourselves to know the limits Of honour and of infamy, nor has study Quenched the free spirit which first ordered them; And thus to me, as one well experienced In the false quicksands of the sea of honour, You may refer the merits of the case; And if I should perceive in your relation That either has the right to satisfaction From the other, I give you my word of honour To leave you. LELIO: Under this condition then I will relate the cause, and you will cede And must confess the impossibility Of compromise; for the same lady is Beloved by Floro and myself. FLORO: It seems Much to me that the light of day should look Upon that idol of my heart--but he-- Leave us to fight, according to thy word. CYPRIAN: Permit one question further: is the lady Impossible to hope or not? LELIO: She is So excellent, that if the light of day Should excite Floro's jealousy, it were Without just cause, for even the light of day Trembles to gaze on her. CYPRIAN: Would you for your Part, marry her? FLORO: Such is my confidence. CYPRIAN: And you? LELIO: Oh! would that I could lift my hope So high, for though she is extremely poor, Her virtue is her dowry. CYPRIAN: And if you both Would marry her, is it not weak and vain, Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand To slur her honour? What would the world say If one should slay the other, and if she Should afterwards espouse the murderer? [THE RIVALS AGREE TO REFER THEIR QUARREL TO CYPRIAN; WHO IN CONSEQUENCE VISITS JUSTINA, AND BECOMES ENAMOURED OF HER; SHE DISDAINS HIM, AND HE RETIRES TO A SOLITARY SEA-SHORE.] SCENE 2. CYPRIAN: O memory! permit it not That the tyrant of my thought Be another soul that still Holds dominion o'er the will, That would refuse, but can no more, To bend, to tremble, and adore. Vain idolatry!--I saw, And gazing, became blind with error; Weak ambition, which the awe Of her presence bound to terror! So beautiful she was--and I, Between my love and jealousy, Am so convulsed with hope and fear, Unworthy as it may appear;-- So bitter is the life I live, That, hear me, Hell! I now would give To thy most detested spirit My soul, for ever to inherit, To suffer punishment and pine, So this woman may be mine. Hear'st thou, Hell! dost thou reject it? My soul is offered! DAEMON (UNSEEN): I accept it. [TEMPEST, WITH THUNDER AND LIGHTNING.] CYPRIAN: What is this? ye heavens for ever pure, At once intensely radiant and obscure! Athwart the aethereal halls The lightning's arrow and the thunder-balls The day affright, As from the horizon round, Burst with earthquake sound, In mighty torrents the electric fountains;-- Clouds quench the sun, and thunder-smoke Strangles the air, and fire eclipses Heaven. Philosophy, thou canst not even Compel their causes underneath thy yoke: From yonder clouds even to the waves below The fragments of a single ruin choke Imagination's flight; For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light, The ashes of the desolation, cast Upon the gloomy blast, Tell of the footsteps of the storm; And nearer, see, the melancholy form Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, Drives miserably! And it must fly the pity of the port, Or perish, and its last and sole resort Is its own raging enemy. The terror of the thrilling cry Was a fatal prophecy Of coming death, who hovers now Upon that shattered prow, That they who die not may be dying still. And not alone the insane elements Are populous with wild portents, But that sad ship is as a miracle Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast It seems as if it had arrayed its form With the headlong storm. It strikes--I almost feel the shock,-- It stumbles on a jagged rock,-- Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast. [A TEMPEST.] ALL EXCLAIM [WITHIN]: We are all lost! DAEMON [WITHIN]: Now from this plank will I Pass to the land and thus fulfil my scheme. CYPRIAN: As in contempt of the elemental rage A man comes forth in safety, while the ship's Great form is in a watery eclipse Obliterated from the Oceans page, And round its wreck the huge sea-monsters sit, A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave Is heaped over its carcase, like a grave. [THE DAEMON ENTERS, AS ESCAPED FROM THE SEA.] DAEMON [ASIDE]: It was essential to my purposes To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean, That in this unknown form I might at length Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture Sustained upon the mountain, and assail With a new war the soul of Cyprian, Forging the instruments of his destruction Even from his love and from his wisdom.--O Beloved earth, dear mother, in thy bosom I seek a refuge from the monster who Precipitates itself upon me. CYPRIAN: Friend, Collect thyself; and be the memory Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow But as a shadow of the past,--for nothing Beneath the circle of the moon, but flows And changes, and can never know repose. DAEMON: And who art thou, before whose feet my fate Has prostrated me? CYPRIAN: One who, moved with pity, Would soothe its stings. DAEMON: Oh, that can never be! No solace can my lasting sorrows find. CYPRIAN: Wherefore? DAEMON: Because my happiness is lost. Yet I lament what has long ceased to be The object of desire or memory, And my life is not life. CYPRIAN: Now, since the fury Of this earthquaking hurricane is still, And the crystalline Heaven has reassumed Its windless calm so quickly, that it seems As if its heavy wrath had been awakened Only to overwhelm that vessel,--speak, Who art thou, and whence comest thou? DAEMON: Far more My coming hither cost, than thou hast seen Or I can tell. Among my misadventures This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou hear? CYPRIAN: Speak. DAEMON: Since thou desirest, I will then unveil Myself to thee;--for in myself I am A world of happiness and misery; This I have lost, and that I must lament Forever. In my attributes I stood So high and so heroically great, In lineage so supreme, and with a genius Which penetrated with a glance the world Beneath my feet, that, won by my high merit, A king--whom I may call the King of kings, Because all others tremble in their pride Before the terrors of His countenance, In His high palace roofed with brightest gems Of living light--call them the stars of Heaven-- Named me His counsellor. But the high praise Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose In mighty competition, to ascend His seat and place my foot triumphantly Upon His subject thrones. Chastised, I know The depth to which ambition falls; too mad Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now Repentance of the irrevocable deed:-- Therefore I chose this ruin, with the glory Of not to be subdued, before the shame Of reconciling me with Him who reigns By coward cession.--Nor was I alone, Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone; And there was hope, and there may still be hope, For many suffrages among His vassals Hailed me their lord and king, and many still Are mine, and many more, perchance shall be. Thus vanquished, though in fact victorious, I left His seat of empire, from mine eye Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my words With inauspicious thunderings shook Heaven, Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong, And imprecating on His prostrate slaves Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then I sailed Over the mighty fabric of the world,-- A pirate ambushed in its pathless sands, A lynx crouched watchfully among its caves And craggy shores; and I have wandered over The expanse of these wide wildernesses In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved In the light breathings of the invisible wind, And which the sea has made a dustless ruin, Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests I seek a man, whom I must now compel To keep his word with me. I came arrayed In tempest, and although my power could well Bridle the forest winds in their career, For other causes I forbore to soothe Their fury to Favonian gentleness; I could and would not; [ASIDE.] (thus I wake in him A love of magic art). Let not this tempest, Nor the succeeding calm excite thy wonder; For by my art the sun would turn as pale As his weak sister with unwonted fear; And in my wisdom are the orbs of Heaven Written as in a record; I have pierced The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres And know them as thou knowest every corner Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee That I boast vainly; wouldst thou that I work A charm over this waste and savage wood, This Babylon of crags and aged trees, Filling its leafy coverts with a horror Thrilling and strange? I am the friendless guest Of these wild oaks and pines--and as from thee I have received the hospitality Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit Of years of toil in recompense; whate'er Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought As object of desire, that shall be thine. ... And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 'Twixt thee and me be, that neither Fortune, The monstrous phantom which pursues success, That careful miser, that free prodigal, Who ever alternates, with changeful hand, Evil and good, reproach and fame; nor Time, That lodestar of the ages, to whose beam The winged years speed o'er the intervals Of their unequal revolutions; nor Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars Rule and adorn the world, can ever make The least division between thee and me, Since now I find a refuge in thy favour. SCENE 3. THE DAEMON TEMPTS JUSTINA, WHO IS A CHRISTIAN. DAEMON: Abyss of Hell! I call on thee, Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy! From thy prison-house set free The spirits of voluptuous death, That with their mighty breath They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts; Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, Till her guiltless fantasy Full to overflowing be! And with sweetest harmony, Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all things move To love, only to love. Let nothing meet her eyes But signs of Love's soft victories; Let nothing meet her ear But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow, So that from faith no succour she may borrow, But, guided by my spirit blind And in a magic snare entwined, She may now seek Cyprian. Begin, while I in silence bind My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast began. A VOICE [WITHIN]: What is the glory far above All else in human life? ALL: Love! love! [WHILE THESE WORDS ARE SUNG, THE DAEMON GOES OUT AT ONE DOOR, AND JUSTINA ENTERS AT ANOTHER.] THE FIRST VOICE: There is no form in which the fire Of love its traces has impressed not. Man lives far more in love's desire Than by life's breath, soon possessed not. If all that lives must love or die, All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, With one consent to Heaven cry That the glory far above All else in life is-- ALL: Love! oh, Love! JUSTINA: Thou melancholy Thought which art So flattering and so sweet, to thee When did I give the liberty Thus to afflict my heart? What is the cause of this new Power Which doth my fevered being move, Momently raging more and more? What subtle Pain is kindled now Which from my heart doth overflow Into my senses?-- ALL: Love! oh, Love! JUSTINA: 'Tis that enamoured Nightingale Who gives me the reply; He ever tells the same soft tale Of passion and of constancy To his mate, who rapt and fond, Listening sits, a bough beyond. Be silent, Nightingale--no more Make me think, in hearing thee Thus tenderly thy love deplore, If a bird can feel his so, What a man would feel for me. And, voluptuous Vine, O thou Who seekest most when least pursuing,-- To the trunk thou interlacest Art the verdure which embracest, And the weight which is its ruin,-- No more, with green embraces, Vine, Make me think on what thou lovest,-- For whilst thus thy boughs entwine I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist, How arms might be entangled too. Light-enchanted Sunflower, thou Who gazest ever true and tender On the sun's revolving splendour! Follow not his faithless glance With thy faded countenance, Nor teach my beating heart to fear, If leaves can mourn without a tear, How eyes must weep! O Nightingale, Cease from thy enamoured tale,-- Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower, Restless Sunflower, cease to move,-- Or tell me all, what poisonous Power Ye use against me-- ALL: Love! Love! Love! JUSTINA: It cannot be!--Whom have I ever loved? Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, Floro and Lelio did I not reject? And Cyprian?-- [SHE BECOMES TROUBLED AT THE NAME OF CYPRIAN.] Did I not requite him With such severity, that he has fled Where none has ever heard of him again?-- Alas! I now begin to fear that this May be the occasion whence desire grows bold, As if there were no danger. From the moment That I pronounced to my own listening heart, 'Cyprian is absent!'--O me miserable! I know not what I feel! [MORE CALMLY.] It must be pity To think that such a man, whom all the world Admired, should be forgot by all the world, And I the cause. [SHE AGAIN BECOMES TROUBLED.] And yet if it were pity, Floro and Lelio might have equal share, For they are both imprisoned for my sake. [CALMLY.] Alas! what reasonings are these? it is Enough I pity him, and that, in vain, Without this ceremonious subtlety. And, woe is me! I know not where to find him now, Even should I seek him through this wide world. [ENTER DAEMON.] DAEMON: Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. JUSTINA: And who art thou, who hast found entrance hither, Into my chamber through the doors and locks? Art thou a monstrous shadow which my madness Has formed in the idle air? DAEMON: No. I am one Called by the Thought which tyrannizes thee From his eternal dwelling; who this day Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. JUSTINA: So shall thy promise fail. This agony Of passion which afflicts my heart and soul May sweep imagination in its storm; The will is firm. DAEMON: Already half is done In the imagination of an act. The sin incurred, the pleasure then remains; Let not the will stop half-way on the road. JUSTINA: I will not be discouraged, nor despair, Although I thought it, and although 'tis true That thought is but a prelude to the deed:-- Thought is not in my power, but action is: I will not move my foot to follow thee. DAEMON: But a far mightier wisdom than thine own Exerts itself within thee, with such power Compelling thee to that which it inclines That it shall force thy step; how wilt thou then Resist, Justina? JUSTINA: By my free-will. DAEMON: I Must force thy will. JUSTINA: It is invincible; It were not free if thou hadst power upon it. [HE DRAWS, BUT CANNOT MOVE HER.] DAEMON: Come, where a pleasure waits thee. JUSTINA: It were bought Too dear. DAEMON: 'Twill soothe thy heart to softest peace. JUSTINA: 'Tis dread captivity. DAEMON: 'Tis joy, 'tis glory. JUSTINA: 'Tis shame, 'tis torment, 'tis despair. DAEMON: But how Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, If my power drags thee onward? JUSTINA: My defence Consists in God. [HE VAINLY ENDEAVOURS TO FORCE HER, AND AT LAST RELEASES HER.] DAEMON: Woman, thou hast subdued me, Only by not owning thyself subdued. But since thou thus findest defence in God, I will assume a feigned form, and thus Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. For I will mask a spirit in thy form Who will betray thy name to infamy, And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss, First by dishonouring thee, and then by turning False pleasure to true ignominy. [EXIT.] JUSTINA: I Appeal to Heaven against thee; so that Heaven May scatter thy delusions, and the blot Upon my fame vanish in idle thought, Even as flame dies in the envious air, And as the floweret wanes at morning frost; And thou shouldst never--But, alas! to whom Do I still speak?--Did not a man but now Stand here before me?--No, I am alone, And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly? Or can the heated mind engender shapes From its own fear? Some terrible and strange Peril is near. Lisander! father! lord! Livia!-- [ENTER LISANDER AND LIVIA.] LISANDER: Oh, my daughter! What? LIVIA: What! JUSTINA: Saw you A man go forth from my apartment now?-- I scarce contain myself! LISANDER: A man here! JUSTINA: Have you not seen him? LIVIA: No, Lady. JUSTINA: I saw him. LISANDER: 'Tis impossible; the doors Which led to this apartment were all locked. LIVIA [ASIDE]: I daresay it was Moscon whom she saw, For he was locked up in my room. LISANDER: It must Have been some image of thy fantasy. Such melancholy as thou feedest is Skilful in forming such in the vain air Out of the motes and atoms of the day. LIVIA: My master's in the right. JUSTINA: Oh, would it were Delusion; but I fear some greater ill. I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom My heart was torn in fragments; ay, Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame; So potent was the charm that, had not God Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, I should have sought my sorrow and my shame With willing steps.--Livia, quick, bring my cloak, For I must seek refuge from these extremes Even in the temple of the highest God Where secretly the faithful worship. LIVIA: Here. JUSTINA [PUTTING ON HER CLOAK]: In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I Quench the consuming fire in which I burn, Wasting away! LISANDER: And I will go with thee. LIVIA: When I once see them safe out of the house I shall breathe freely. JUSTINA: So do I confide In thy just favour, Heaven! LISANDER: Let us go. JUSTINA: Thine is the cause, great God! turn for my sake, And for Thine own, mercifully to me!
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE. 'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae, Te nemus omne canet; nee Phoebo gratior ulla est, Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.' VIRG. Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats, At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats, Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids! Unlock your springs, and open all your shades. Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring! What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing? The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long, Live in description, and look green in song: These, were my breast inspired with equal flame, Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, Here earth and water seem to strive again; Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused; Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree. Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display, And part admit, and part exclude the day; As some coy nymph her lover's warm address Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades, Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades. Here in full light the russet plains extend: There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend. Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes, And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise, That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn, Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn. Let India boast her plants, nor envy we The weeping amber or the balmy tree, While by our oaks the precious loads are born, And realms commanded which those trees adorn. Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, Though gods assembled grace his towering height. Than what more humble mountains offer here, Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear. See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd, Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground, Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; Rich industry sits smiling on the plains, And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns. Not thus the land appear'd in ages past, A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste, To savage beasts and savage laws a prey, And kings more furious and severe than they; Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods, The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods: Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves, (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves). What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd, And even the elements a tyrant sway'd? In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain, Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain; The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields, And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields. What wonder, then, a beast or subject slain Were equal crimes in a despotic reign? Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled, But while the subject starved, the beast was fed. Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began, A mighty hunter, and his prey was man: Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name, And makes his trembling slaves the royal game. The fields are ravish'd from the industrious swains, From men their cities, and from gods their fanes: The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er; The hollow winds through naked temples roar; Round broken columns clasping ivy twined; O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs. Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed, The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst, Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod, And served alike his vassals and his God. Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane, The wanton victims of his sport remain. But see, the man who spacious regions gave A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave! Stretch'd on the lawn, his second hope survey, At once the chaser, and at once the prey: Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart, Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart. Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries, Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise. Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed, O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread, The forests wonder'd at the unusual grain, And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain. Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years. Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood, And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset, Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net. When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds, And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds, Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds, Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds; But when the tainted gales the game betray, Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey: Secure they trust the unfaithful field beset, Till hovering o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net. Thus (if small things we may with great compare) When Albion sends her eager sons to war, Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest, Near, and more near, the closing lines invest; Sudden they seize the amazed, defenceless prize, And high in air Britannia's standard flies. See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold? Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky, The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair, And trace the mazes of the circling hare; (Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue, And learn of man each other to undo.) With slaughtering gun the unwearied fowler roves, When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves; Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade, And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade. He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky; Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death: Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, They fall, and leave their little lives in air. In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade, Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, The patient fisher takes his silent stand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed, And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains. Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car: The youth rush eager to the sylvan war, Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround, Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. The impatient courser pants in every vein, And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain: Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd, And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. See the bold youth strain up the threatening steep, Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep, Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed, And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed. Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain, The immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen, Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign, The earth's fair light, and empress of the main. Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd, And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade; Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove, Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove; Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn, Her buskin'd virgins traced the dewy lawn. Above the rest a rural nymph was famed, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named; (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast, The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last). Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known, But by the crescent and the golden zone. She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care; A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds, And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maid Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, Pan saw and loved, and, burning with desire, Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire. Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky; Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves, When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves; As from the god she flew with furious pace, Or as the god, more furious, urged the chase. Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears; Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; And now his shadow reach'd her as she run, His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun; And now his shorter breath, with sultry air, Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair. In vain on father Thames she calls for aid, Nor could Diana help her injured maid. Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain: 'Ah, Cynthia! ah--though banish'd from thy train, Let me, oh! let me, to the shades repair, My native shades--there weep, and murmur there.' She said, and melting as in tears she lay, In a soft, silver stream dissolved away. The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps, For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps; Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore, And bathes the forest where she ranged before. In her chaste current oft the goddess laves, And with celestial tears augments the waves. Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies The headlong mountains and the downward skies, The watery landscape of the pendent woods, And absent trees that tremble in the floods; In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen, And floating forests paint the waves with green, Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams, Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames. Thou, too, great Father of the British floods! With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods; Where towering oaks their growing honours rear, And future navies on thy shores appear. Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives. No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear. Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays, While led along the skies his current strays, As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes, To grace the mansion of our earthly gods: Nor all his stars above a lustre show, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His sovereign favours, and his country loves: Happy next him who to these shades retires, Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires: Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, Successive study, exercise, and ease. He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: With chemic art exalts the mineral powers, And draws the aromatic souls of flowers: Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye; Of ancient writ unlocks the learnèd store, Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er: Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood, Attends the duties of the wise and good, To observe a mean, be to himself a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end; Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes, Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies, Amid her kindred stars familiar roam, Survey the region, and confess her home! Such was the life great Scipio once admired, Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired. Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess, Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, Bear me, oh, bear me to sequester'd scenes, The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens: To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill, Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill. (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow, While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) I seem through consecrated walks to rove, I hear soft music die along the grove: Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade, By godlike poets venerable made: Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue. 270 Oh early lost! what tears the river shed, When the sad pomp along his banks was led! His drooping swans on every note expire, And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre. Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice, No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! Are these revived? or is it Granville sings? 'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats, And call the Muses to their ancient seats; To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes, To crown the forest with immortal greens, Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise, And lift her turrets nearer to the skies; To sing those honours you deserve to wear, And add new lustre to her silver star. Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage, Surrey, the Granville of a former age: Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance: In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre, To the same notes, of love and soft desire: Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now. Oh, wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore, What kings first breathed upon her winding shore, Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! With Edward's acts adorn the shining page, Stretch his long triumphs down through every age, Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field, The lilies blazing on the regal shield: Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall, And leave inanimate the naked wall, Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear, And bleed for ever under Britain's spear. Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps, And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps. Whom not the extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main, The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest, And blended lie the oppressor and the oppress'd! Make sacred Charles' tomb for ever known, (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone) Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed, Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled! She saw her sons with purple deaths expire, Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire, A dreadful series of intestine wars, Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars. At length great Anna said--'Let discord cease!' She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace! In that blest moment, from his oozy bed Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head; His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream His shining horns diffused a golden gleam: Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides His swelling waters, and alternate tides; The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd, And on their banks Augusta rose in gold. Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood, Who swell with tributary urns his flood; First the famed authors of his ancient name, The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame: The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd; The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd; Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave; And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave; The blue, transparent Vandalis appears; The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears; And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood; And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood. High in the midst, upon his urn reclined, (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind) The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore. Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise! Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold, Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the Muse's themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine, Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train; Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood: Safe on my shore each unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; The shady empire shall retain no trace Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase; The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone. Behold! the ascending villas on my side, Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide, Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase, And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace. I see, I see, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend! There mighty nations shall inquire their doom, The world's great oracle in times to come; There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen Once more to bend before a British queen. Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods, And half thy forests rush into the floods, Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display, To the bright regions of the rising day; Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll, Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole; Or under southern skies exalt their sails, Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow, The coral redden, and the ruby glow, The pearly shell its lucid globe infold, And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold. The time shall come when, free as seas or wind, Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, And seas but join the regions they divide; Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, And the new world launch forth to seek the old. Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide, And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side, And naked youths and painted chiefs admire Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore, Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more; Till the freed Indians in their native groves Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves, Peru once more a race of kings behold, And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold. Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell, In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell; Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, And mad Ambition shall attend her there: There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires, Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires: There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel, And Persecution mourn her broken wheel: There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain. Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days: The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite, And bring the scenes of opening fate to light. My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, Where Peace descending bids her olives spring, And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing. Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days, Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise; Enough for me, that to the listening swains First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
THE PROLOGUE. WHEN folk had laughed all at this nice case Of Absolon and Hendy Nicholas, Diverse folk diversely they said, But for the more part they laugh'd and play'd; And at this tale I saw no man him grieve, But it were only Osewold the Reeve. Because he was of carpenteres craft, A little ire is in his hearte laft; He gan to grudge and blamed it a lite. "So the I," quoth he, "full well could I him quite With blearing of a proude miller's eye, If that me list to speak of ribaldry. But I am old; me list not play for age; Grass time is done, my fodder is now forage. This white top writeth mine olde years; Mine heart is also moulded as mine hairs; And I do fare as doth an open-erse; That ilke fruit is ever longer werse, Till it be rotten in mullok or in stre. We olde men, I dread, so fare we; Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe; We hop away, while that the world will pipe; For in our will there sticketh aye a nail, To have an hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leek; for though our might be gone, Our will desireth folly ever-in-one: For when we may not do, then will we speak, Yet in our ashes cold does fire reek. Four gledes have we, which I shall devise, Vaunting, and lying, anger, covetise. These foure sparks belongen unto eld. Our olde limbes well may be unweld, But will shall never fail us, that is sooth. And yet have I alway a coltes tooth, As many a year as it is passed and gone Since that my tap of life began to run; For sickerly, when I was born, anon Death drew the tap of life, and let it gon: And ever since hath so the tap y-run, Till that almost all empty is the tun. The stream of life now droppeth on the chimb. The silly tongue well may ring and chime Of wretchedness, that passed is full yore: With olde folk, save dotage, is no more. When that our Host had heard this sermoning, He gan to speak as lordly as a king, And said; "To what amounteth all this wit? What? shall we speak all day of holy writ? The devil made a Reeve for to preach, As of a souter a shipman, or a leach. Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time: Lo here is Deptford, and 'tis half past prime: Lo Greenwich, where many a shrew is in. It were high time thy tale to begin." "Now, sirs," quoth then this Osewold the Reeve, I pray you all that none of you do grieve, Though I answer, and somewhat set his hove, For lawful is force off with force to shove. This drunken miller hath y-told us here How that beguiled was a carpentere, Paraventure in scorn, for I am one: And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon. Right in his churlish termes will I speak, I pray to God his necke might to-break. He can well in mine eye see a stalk, But in his own he cannot see a balk." THE TALE. At Trompington, not far from Cantebrig, There goes a brook, and over that a brig, Upon the whiche brook there stands a mill: And this is very sooth that I you tell. A miller was there dwelling many a day, As any peacock he was proud and gay: Pipen he could, and fish, and nettes bete, And turne cups, and wrestle well, and shete. Aye by his belt he bare a long pavade, And of his sword full trenchant was the blade. A jolly popper bare he in his pouch; There was no man for peril durst him touch. A Sheffield whittle bare he in his hose. Round was his face, and camuse was his nose. As pilled as an ape's was his skull. He was a market-beter at the full. There durste no wight hand upon him legge, That he ne swore anon he should abegge. A thief he was, for sooth, of corn and meal, And that a sly, and used well to steal. His name was hoten deinous Simekin A wife he hadde, come of noble kin: The parson of the town her father was. With her he gave full many a pan of brass, For that Simkin should in his blood ally. She was y-foster'd in a nunnery: For Simkin woulde no wife, as he said, But she were well y-nourish'd, and a maid, To saven his estate and yeomanry: And she was proud, and pert as is a pie. A full fair sight it was to see them two; On holy days before her would he go With his tippet y-bound about his head; And she came after in a gite of red, And Simkin hadde hosen of the same. There durste no wight call her aught but Dame: None was so hardy, walking by that way, That with her either durste rage or play, But if he would be slain by Simekin With pavade, or with knife, or bodekin. For jealous folk be per'lous evermo': Algate they would their wives wende so. And eke for she was somewhat smutterlich, She was as dign as water in a ditch, And all so full of hoker, and bismare. Her thoughte that a lady should her spare, What for her kindred, and her nortelrie That she had learned in the nunnery. One daughter hadde they betwixt them two Of twenty year, withouten any mo, Saving a child that was of half year age, In cradle it lay, and was a proper page. This wenche thick and well y-growen was, With camuse nose, and eyen gray as glass; With buttocks broad, and breastes round and high; But right fair was her hair, I will not lie. The parson of the town, for she was fair, In purpose was to make of her his heir Both of his chattels and his messuage, And strange he made it of her marriage. His purpose was for to bestow her high Into some worthy blood of ancestry. For holy Church's good may be dispended On holy Church's blood that is descended. Therefore he would his holy blood honour Though that he holy Churche should devour. Great soken hath this miller, out of doubt, With wheat and malt, of all the land about; And namely there was a great college Men call the Soler Hall at Cantebrege, There was their wheat and eke their malt y-ground. And on a day it happed in a stound, Sick lay the manciple of a malady, Men weened wisly that he shoulde die. For which this miller stole both meal and corn An hundred times more than beforn. For theretofore he stole but courteously, But now he was a thief outrageously. For which the warden chid and made fare, But thereof set the miller not a tare; He crack'd his boast, and swore it was not so. Then were there younge poore scholars two, That dwelled in the hall of which I say; Testif they were, and lusty for to play; And only for their mirth and revelry Upon the warden busily they cry, To give them leave for but a little stound, To go to mill, and see their corn y-ground: And hardily they durste lay their neck, The miller should not steal them half a peck Of corn by sleight, nor them by force bereave And at the last the warden give them leave: John hight the one, and Alein hight the other, Of one town were they born, that highte Strother, Far in the North, I cannot tell you where. This Alein he made ready all his gear, And on a horse the sack he cast anon: Forth went Alein the clerk, and also John, With good sword and with buckler by their side. John knew the way, him needed not no guide, And at the mill the sack adown he lay'th. Alein spake first; "All hail, Simon, in faith, How fares thy faire daughter, and thy wife." "Alein, welcome," quoth Simkin, "by my life, And John also: how now, what do ye here?" "By God, Simon," quoth John, "need has no peer. Him serve himself behoves that has no swain, Or else he is a fool, as clerkes sayn. Our manciple I hope he will be dead, So workes aye the wanges in his head: And therefore is I come, and eke Alein, To grind our corn and carry it home again: I pray you speed us hence as well ye may." "It shall be done," quoth Simkin, "by my fay. What will ye do while that it is in hand?" "By God, right by the hopper will I stand," Quoth John, "and see how that the corn goes in. Yet saw I never, by my father's kin, How that the hopper wagges to and fro." Alein answered, "John, and wilt thou so? Then will I be beneathe, by my crown, And see how that the meale falls adown Into the trough, that shall be my disport: For, John, in faith I may be of your sort; I is as ill a miller as is ye." This miller smiled at their nicety, And thought, "All this is done but for a wile. They weenen that no man may them beguile, But by my thrift yet shall I blear their eye, For all the sleight in their philosophy. The more quainte knackes that they make, The more will I steal when that I take. Instead of flour yet will I give them bren. The greatest clerks are not the wisest men, As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare: Of all their art ne count I not a tare." Out at the door he went full privily, When that he saw his time, softely. He looked up and down, until he found The clerkes' horse, there as he stood y-bound Behind the mill, under a levesell: And to the horse he went him fair and well, And stripped off the bridle right anon. And when the horse was loose, he gan to gon Toward the fen, where wilde mares run, Forth, with "Wehee!" through thick and eke through thin. This miller went again, no word he said, But did his note, and with these clerkes play'd, Till that their corn was fair and well y-ground. And when the meal was sacked and y-bound, Then John went out, and found his horse away, And gan to cry, "Harow, and well-away! Our horse is lost: Alein, for Godde's bones, Step on thy feet; come off, man, all at once: Alas! our warden has his palfrey lorn." This Alein all forgot, both meal and corn; All was out of his mind his husbandry. "What, which way is he gone?" he gan to cry. The wife came leaping inward at a renne, She said; "Alas! your horse went to the fen With wilde mares, as fast as he could go. Unthank come on his hand that bound him so And his that better should have knit the rein." "Alas!" quoth John, "Alein, for Christes pain Lay down thy sword, and I shall mine also. I is full wight, God wate, as is a roe. By Godde's soul he shall not scape us bathe. Why n' had thou put the capel in the lathe? Ill hail, Alein, by God thou is a fonne." These silly clerkes have full fast y-run Toward the fen, both Alein and eke John; And when the miller saw that they were gone, He half a bushel of their flour did take, And bade his wife go knead it in a cake. He said; I trow, the clerkes were afeard, Yet can a miller make a clerkes beard, For all his art: yea, let them go their way! Lo where they go! yea, let the children play: They get him not so lightly, by my crown." These silly clerkes runnen up and down With "Keep, keep; stand, stand; jossa, warderere. Go whistle thou, and I shall keep him here." But shortly, till that it was very night They coulde not, though they did all their might, Their capel catch, he ran alway so fast: Till in a ditch they caught him at the last. Weary and wet, as beastes in the rain, Comes silly John, and with him comes Alein. "Alas," quoth John, "the day that I was born! Now are we driv'n till hething and till scorn. Our corn is stol'n, men will us fonnes call, Both the warden, and eke our fellows all, And namely the miller, well-away!" Thus plained John, as he went by the way Toward the mill, and Bayard in his hand. The miller sitting by the fire he fand. For it was night, and forther might they not, But for the love of God they him besought Of herberow and ease, for their penny. The miller said again," If there be any, Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part. Mine house is strait, but ye have learned art; Ye can by arguments maken a place A mile broad, of twenty foot of space. Let see now if this place may suffice, Or make it room with speech, as is your guise." "Now, Simon," said this John, "by Saint Cuthberd Aye is thou merry, and that is fair answer'd. I have heard say, man shall take of two things, Such as he findes, or such as he brings. But specially I pray thee, hoste dear, Gar us have meat and drink, and make us cheer, And we shall pay thee truly at the full: With empty hand men may not hawkes tull. Lo here our silver ready for to spend." This miller to the town his daughter send For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose, And bound their horse, he should no more go loose: And them in his own chamber made a bed. With sheetes and with chalons fair y-spread, Not from his owen bed ten foot or twelve: His daughter had a bed all by herselve, Right in the same chamber by and by: It might no better be, and cause why, There was no roomer herberow in the place. They suppen, and they speaken of solace, And drinken ever strong ale at the best. Aboute midnight went they all to rest. Well had this miller varnished his head; Full pale he was, fordrunken, and nought red. He yoxed, and he spake thorough the nose, As he were in the quakke, or in the pose. To bed he went, and with him went his wife, As any jay she light was and jolife, So was her jolly whistle well y-wet. The cradle at her beddes feet was set, To rock, and eke to give the child to suck. And when that drunken was all in the crock To bedde went the daughter right anon, To bedde went Alein, and also John. There was no more; needed them no dwale. This miller had, so wisly bibbed ale, That as a horse he snorted in his sleep, Nor of his tail behind he took no keep. His wife bare him a burdoun, a full strong; Men might their routing hearen a furlong. The wenche routed eke for company. Alein the clerk, that heard this melody, He poked John, and saide: "Sleepest thou? Heardest thou ever such a song ere now? Lo what a compline is y-mell them all. A wilde fire upon their bodies fall, Who hearken'd ever such a ferly thing? Yea, they shall have the flow'r of ill ending! This longe night there tides me no rest. But yet no force, all shall be for the best. For, John," said he, "as ever may I thrive, If that I may, yon wenche will I swive. Some easement has law y-shapen us For, John, there is a law that sayeth thus, That if a man in one point be aggriev'd, That in another he shall be relievd. Our corn is stol'n, soothly it is no nay, And we have had an evil fit to-day. And since I shall have none amendement Against my loss, I will have easement: By Godde's soul, it shall none, other be." This John answer'd; Alein, avise thee: The miller is a perilous man," he said, "And if that he out of his sleep abraid, He mighte do us both a villainy." Alein answer'd; "I count him not a fly. And up he rose, and by the wench he crept. This wenche lay upright, and fast she slept, Till he so nigh was, ere she might espy, That it had been too late for to cry: And, shortly for to say, they were at one. Now play, Alein, for I will speak of John. This John lay still a furlong way or two, And to himself he made ruth and woe. "Alas!" quoth he, "this is a wicked jape; Now may I say, that I is but an ape. Yet has my fellow somewhat for his harm; He has the miller's daughter in his arm: He auntred him, and hath his needes sped, And I lie as a draff-sack in my bed; And when this jape is told another day, I shall be held a daffe or a cockenay I will arise, and auntre it, by my fay: Unhardy is unsely, as men say." And up he rose, and softely he went Unto the cradle, and in his hand it hent, And bare it soft unto his beddes feet. Soon after this the wife her routing lete, And gan awake, and went her out to piss And came again and gan the cradle miss And groped here and there, but she found none. "Alas!" quoth she, "I had almost misgone I had almost gone to the clerkes' bed. Ey! Benedicite, then had I foul y-sped." And forth she went, till she the cradle fand. She groped alway farther with her hand And found the bed, and thoughte not but good Because that the cradle by it stood, And wist not where she was, for it was derk; But fair and well she crept in by the clerk, And lay full still, and would have caught a sleep. Within a while this John the Clerk up leap And on this goode wife laid on full sore; So merry a fit had she not had full yore. He pricked hard and deep, as he were mad. This jolly life have these two clerkes had, Till that the thirde cock began to sing. Alein wax'd weary in the morrowing, For he had swonken all the longe night, And saide; "Farewell, Malkin, my sweet wight. The day is come, I may no longer bide, But evermore, where so I go or ride, I is thine owen clerk, so have I hele." "Now, deare leman," quoth she, "go, fare wele: But ere thou go, one thing I will thee tell. When that thou wendest homeward by the mill, Right at the entry of the door behind Thou shalt a cake of half a bushel find, That was y-maked of thine owen meal, Which that I help'd my father for to steal. And goode leman, God thee save and keep." And with that word she gan almost to weep. Alein uprose and thought, "Ere the day daw I will go creepen in by my fellaw:" And found the cradle with his hand anon. "By God!" thought he, "all wrong I have misgone: My head is totty of my swink to-night, That maketh me that I go not aright. I wot well by the cradle I have misgo'; Here lie the miller and his wife also." And forth he went a twenty devil way Unto the bed, there as the miller lay. He ween'd t' have creeped by his fellow John, And by the miller in he crept anon, And caught him by the neck, and gan him shake, And said; "Thou John, thou swines-head, awake For Christes soul, and hear a noble game! For by that lord that called is Saint Jame, As I have thries in this shorte night Swived the miller's daughter bolt-upright, While thou hast as a coward lain aghast." "Thou false harlot," quoth the miller, "hast? Ah, false traitor, false clerk," quoth he, "Thou shalt be dead, by Godde's dignity, Who durste be so bold to disparage My daughter, that is come of such lineage?" And by the throate-ball he caught Alein, And he him hent dispiteously again, And on the nose he smote him with his fist; Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast: And in the floor with nose and mouth all broke They wallow, as do two pigs in a poke. And up they go, and down again anon, Till that the miller spurned on a stone, And down he backward fell upon his wife, That wiste nothing of this nice strife: For she was fall'n asleep a little wight With John the clerk, that waked had all night: And with the fall out of her sleep she braid. "Help, holy cross of Bromeholm," she said; "In manus tuas! Lord, to thee I call. Awake, Simon, the fiend is on me fall; Mine heart is broken; help; I am but dead: There li'th one on my womb and on mine head. Help, Simkin, for these false clerks do fight" This John start up as fast as e'er he might, And groped by the walles to and fro To find a staff; and she start up also, And knew the estres better than this John, And by the wall she took a staff anon: And saw a little shimmering of a light, For at an hole in shone the moone bright, And by that light she saw them both the two, But sickerly she wist not who was who, But as she saw a white thing in her eye. And when she gan this white thing espy, She ween'd the clerk had wear'd a volupere; And with the staff she drew aye nere and nere, And ween'd to have hit this Alein at the full, And smote the miller on the pilled skull; That down he went, and cried," Harow! I die." These clerkes beat him well, and let him lie, And greithen them, and take their horse anon, And eke their meal, and on their way they gon: And at the mill door eke they took their cake Of half a bushel flour, full well y-bake. Thus is the proude miller well y-beat, And hath y-lost the grinding of the wheat; And payed for the supper every deal Of Alein and of John, that beat him well; His wife is swived, and his daughter als; Lo, such it is a miller to be false. And therefore this proverb is said full sooth, "Him thar not winnen well that evil do'th, A guiler shall himself beguiled be:" And God that sitteth high in majesty Save all this Company, both great and smale. Thus have I quit the Miller in my tale.
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