The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPlayful Poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPlayful PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Playful PoemsEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6332]Most recently updated: March 29, 2015Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYFUL POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Playful PoemsEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6332]Most recently updated: March 29, 2015Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset

Title: Playful Poems

Editor: Henry Morley

Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6332]Most recently updated: March 29, 2015

Language: English

Credits: This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYFUL POEMS ***

This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.

Companion Poets

EDITEDAND WITH AN INTRODUCTION

HENRY MORLEY.EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE ANDLITERATURE AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGELONDON

Decorative graphic

LONDONGEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS,LimitedBroadway,Ludgate HillGLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK1891

PAGES

Introduction

7–15

Chaucer’s Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow

Modernised byLeigh Hunt.

17–27

Chaucer’s Rime of Sir Thopas

Modernised byZ. A. Z.

29–37

Chaucer’s Friar’s Tale; or, The Sumner and the Devil

Modernised byLeigh Hunt.

39–48

Chaucer’s Reve’s Tale

Modernised byR. H.Horne.

49–62

Chaucer’s Poem of the Cuckoo and the Nightingale

Modernised byWilliam Wordsworth.

63–73

Gower’s Treasure Trove

Modernised from the fifth book of theConfessio Amantis.

75–80

Lydgate’s London Lickpenny

81–84

Lydgate’s Bicorn and Chichevache

85–89

Dunbar’s Best to be Blyth

91, 92

Drayton’s Dowsabell

93–96

Drayton’s Nymphidia

97–116

Pope’s Rape of the Lock

117–137

Cowper’s John Gilpin

139–146

Burns’s Tam O’Shanter

147–153

Hood’s Demon Ship

155–158

Hood’s Tale of a Trumpet

159–180

Note.—The Game of Ombre

181–187

Glossary

188–192

Thelast volume of these “Companion Poets” contained some of Chaucer’s Tales as they were modernised by Dryden. This volume contains more of his Tales as they were modernised by later poets. In 1841 there was a volume published entitled, “The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernized.” Of this volume, when it was first projected, Wordsworth wrote to Moxon, his publisher, on the 24th of February 1840: “Mr. Powell, my friend, has some thought of preparing for publication some portion of Chaucer modernised, as far and no farther than is done in my treatment of ‘The Prioress’ Tale.’ That would, in fact, be his model. He will have coadjutors, among whom, I believe, will be Mr. Leigh Hunt, a man as capable of doing the work well as any living writer. I have placed at my friend Mr. Powell’s disposal three other pieces which I did long ago, but revised the other day. They are ‘The Manciple’s Tale,’ ‘The Cuckoo and the Nightingale,’ and twenty-four stanzas of ‘Troilus and Cressida.’ This I have done mainly out of my love and reverence for Chaucer, in hopes that, whatever may be the merits of Mr. Powell’s attempt, the attention of other writers may be drawn to the subject; and a work hereafter produced, by different persons, which will place the treasures of one of the greatest of poets within the reach of the multitude, which now they are not. I mention all this to you because, though I have not given Mr. Powell the least encouragement to do so, he may sound you as to your disposition to undertake the publication. I have myself nothing further to do with it than I have stated. Had the thing been suggested to me by any number of competent persons twenty years ago, I would have undertaken the editorship and done much more myself, and endeavoured to improve the several contributions where they seemed to require it. But that is now out of the question.”

Wordsworth had made his versions of Chaucer in the year 1801. “The Prioress’s Tale” had been published in 1820, so that only the three pieces he had revised for his friend’s use were available, and of these the Manciple’s Tale was withdrawn, the version by Leigh Hunt (which is among the pieces here reprinted) being used. The volume was published in 1841, not by Moxon but by Whitaker. Wordsworth’s versions of “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale” (here reprinted), and of a passage taken from “Troilus and Cressida,” were included in it. Leigh Hunt contributed versions of the Manciple’s Tale and the Friar’s Tale (both here reprinted), and of the Squire’s Tale. Elizabeth A. Barrett, afterwards Mrs. Browning, contributed a version of “Queen Annelida and False Arcite.” Richard Hengist Horne entered heartily into the venture, modernised the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the Reve’s Tale, and the Franklin’s, and wrote an Introduction of more than a hundred pages, to which Professor Leonhard Schmitz added thirty-two pages of a Life of Chaucer. Robert Bell, to whom we were afterwards indebted for an “Annotated Edition of the English Poets,” modernised the Complaint of Mars and Venus. Thomas Powell, the editor, contributed his version of the Legends of Ariadne, Philomene, and Phillis, and of “The Flower and the Leaf,” and a friend, who signed only as Z. A. Z, dealt with “The Rime of Sir Thopas.”

After the volume had appeared, Wordsworth thus wrote of it to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia: “There has recently been published in London a volume of some of Chaucer’s tales and poems modernised; this little specimen originated in what I attempted with ‘The Prioress’ Tale,’ and if the book should find its way to America you will see in it two further specimens from myself. I had no further connection with the publication than by making a present of these to one of the contributors. Let me, however, recommend to your notice the Prologue and the Franklin’s Tale. They are both by Mr. Horne, a gentleman unknown to me, but are—the latter in particular—very well done. Mr. Leigh Hunt has not failed in the Manciple’s Tale, which I myself modernised many years ago; but though I much admire the genius of Chaucer as displayed in this performance, I could not place my version at the disposal of the editor, as I deemed the subject somewhat too indelicate for pure taste to be offered to the world at this time of day. Mr. Horne has much hurt this publication by not abstaining from the Reve’s Tale. This, after making all allowance for the rude manners of Chaucer’s age, is intolerable; and by indispensably softening down the incidents, he has killed the spirit of that humour, gross and farcical, that pervades the original. When the work was first mentioned to me, I protested as strongly as possible against admitting any coarseness and indelicacy, so that my conscience is clear of countenancing aught of that kind. So great is my admiration of Chaucer’s genius, and so profound my reverence for him. . . for spreading the light of Literature through his native land, that, notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication, I am glad of it, as a means for making many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about him but his name.”

Wordsworth’s objection to the Manciple’s Tale from Ovid’s Metamorphoses was an afterthought. He had begun by offering his version of it for publication in this volume. His objection to Horne’s treatment of the Reve’s Tale was reasonable enough. The original tale was the sixth novel in the ninth day of the Decameron, and probably was taken by Chaucer from a Fabliau by Jean de Boves, “De Gombert et des Deux Clercs.” The same story has been imitated in the “Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,” and in the “Berceau” of La Fontaine. Horne’s removal from the tale of everything that would offend a modern reader was designed to enable thousands to find pleasure in an old farcical piece that would otherwise be left unread.

Chaucer’s “Rime of Sir Thopas” was a playful jest on the long-winded story-telling of the old romances, and had specially in mind Thomas Chestre’s version of Launfal from Marie of France, and the same rhymer’s romance of “Ly Beaus Disconus,” who was Gingelein, a son of Gawain, called by his mother, for his beauty, only Beaufis (handsome son); but when he offered himself in that name to be knighted by King Arthur, he was knighted and named by him Li Beaus Disconus (the fair unknown). This is the method of the tediousness, in which it showed itself akin to many a rhyming tale.

“And for love of his fair visHis mother clepéd him Beaufis,And none other name;And himselvé was full nis,He ne axéd nought y-wisWhat he hight at his dame.

“As it befel upon a day,To wood he went on his playOf deer to have his game;He found a knight, where he layIn armés that were stout and gay,Y-slain and made full tame.

“That child did off the knightés wede,And anon he gan him schredeIn that rich armoúr.When he haddé do that dede,To Glasténburý he gede,There lay the King Arthoúr.

“He knelde in the hallBefore the knightés all,And grette hem with honoúr,And said: ‘Arthoúr, my lord,Grant me to speak a word,I pray thee, par amour.

“‘I am a child uncouth,And come out of the south,And would be made a knight,Lord, I pray thee nouthe,With thy merry mouthe,Grant me anon right.’

“Then said Arthoúr the king,‘Anon, without dwelling,Tell me thy name aplight!For sethen I was ybore,Ne found I me beforeNone so fair of sight.’

“That child said, ‘By Saint Jame,I not what is my name;I am the moré nis;But while I was at hameMy mother, in her game,Clepéd me Beaufis.’

“Then said Arthoúr the king,‘This is a wonder thingBy God and Saint Denis!When he that would be knightNe wot not what he hight,And is so fair of vis.

“‘Now will I give him a nameBefore you all in same,For he is so fair and free,By God and by Saint Jame,So clepéd him ne’er his dame,What woman so it be.

“‘Now clepéth him all of us,Li Beaus Disconus,For the love of me!Then may ye wite a rowe,‘The Faire Unknowe,’Certes, so hatté he.”

John Gower’s “Confessio Amantis” was a story book, like the Canterbury Tales, with a contrivance of its own for stringing the tales together, and Gower was at work on it nearly about the time when his friend Chaucer was busy with his Pilgrims. The story here extracted was an old favourite. It appeared in Greek about the year 800, in the romance of Barlaam and Josaphat. It was told by Vincent of Beauvais in the year 1290 in his “Speculum Historiale;” and it was used by Boccaccio for the first tale of the tenth day of his “Decameron.”

Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate were the old poetical triumvirate, though Lydgate, who was about thirty years old when Chaucer died, has slipped much out of mind. His verses on the adventures of the Kentish rustic who came to London to get justice in the law courts, and his words set to the action of an old piece of rustic mumming, “Bicorn and Chichevache,” here represent his vein of playfulness. He was a monk who taught literature at Bury St. Edmunds, and was justly looked upon as the chief poet of the generation who lived after Chaucer’s death.

Next follows in this volume a scrap of wise counsel to take life cheerfully, from the Scottish poet, William Dunbar. He lived at the Scottish Court of James the Fourth when Henry the Seventh reigned in England, and who was our greatest poet of the north country before Burns.

Next we come to the poets “who so did please Eliza and our James,” and represent their playfulness by Drayton’s “Dowsabell,” and that most exquisite of fairy pieces, his “Nymphidia,” where Oberon figures as the mad Orlando writ small, and Drayton earned his claim to be the Fairies’ Laureate, though Herrick, in the same vein, followed close upon him. Michael Drayton, nearly of an age with Shakespeare, was, like Shakespeare, a Warwickshire man. Empty tradition says that Shakespeare died of a too festive supper shared with his friend Drayton, who came to visit him.

Then follows in this volume the playful treatment of a quarrel between friends, in Pope’s “Rape of the Lock.” Lord Petre, aged twenty, audaciously cut from the head of Miss Arabella Fermor, daughter of Mr. Fermor of Tusmore, a lock of her hair while she was playing cards in the Queen’s rooms at Hampton Court. Pope’s friend, Mr. Caryll, suggested to him that a mock heroic treatment of the resulting quarrel might restore peace, and Pope wrote a poem in two cantos, which was published in a Miscellany in 1712, Pope’s age then being twenty-four. But as epic poems required supernatural machinery, Pope added afterwards to his mock epic the machinery of sylphs and gnomes, suggested to him by the reading of a French story, “Le Comte de Gabalis,” by the Abbé Villars. Here there were sylphs of the air and gnomes of the earth, little spirits who would be in right proportion to the substance of his poem, which was refashioned into five cantos, and republished as we have it now in February 1714.

“John Gilpin” was written by William Cowper in the year 1782, when Lady Austin was lodging in the Vicarage at Olney, and spent every evening with Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, cheering Cowper greatly by her liveliness. One evening she told the story of John Gilpin’s ride in a way that tickled the poet’s fancy, set him laughing when he woke up in the night, and obliged him to turn it next day into ballad rhyme. Mrs. Unwin’s son sent it to thePublic Advertiser, for the poet’s corner. It was printed in that newspaper, and thought no more of until about three years later. Then it was suggested to a popular actor named Henderson, who gave entertainments of his own, that this piece would tell well among his recitations. He introduced it into his entertainments, and soon all the town was running after John Gilpin as madly as the six gentlemen and the post-boy.

John Gilpin’s flight is followed in this volume by the flight of Tam o’ Shanter. Burns wrote “Tam o’ Shanter” at Elliesland, and himself considered it the best of all his poems. He told the story to Captain Grose, as it was current among the people in his part of the country, its scene laid almost on the spot where he was born. Captain Grose, the antiquary, who was collecting materials for his “Antiquities of Scotland,” published in 1789–91, got Burns to versify it and give it to him. The poem made its first appearance, therefore, in Captain Grose’s book. Mrs. Burns told of it that it was the work of a day. Burns was most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where his wife and some of the children joined him in the afternoon. Mrs. Burns saw that her husband was busily engaged “crooning to himsell,” and she loitered behind with the little ones among the broom. Presently she was attracted by the poet’s strange and wild gesticulations; he seemed agonised with an ungovernable joy. He was reciting very loud. Every circumstance suggested to heighten the impression of fear in the lines following,

“By this time he was ’cross the fordWhere in the snaw the chapman smoored,” etc.,

was taken from local tradition. Shanter was the real name of a farm near Kirkoswald, then occupied by a Douglas Grahame, who was much of Tam’s character, and was well content to be called by his country neighbours Tam o’ Shanter for the rest of his life, after Burns had made the name of the farm immortal.

Our selection ends with two pieces by Thomas Hood, whose “Tale of a Trumpet” is luxuriant with play of wit that has its earnest side. Hood died in 1845.

A Note upon the Game of Ombre is added, which is founded upon the description of the game in a little book—“The Court Gamester”—which instructed card-players in the reigns of the first Georges. In the “Rape of the Lock” there is a game of ombre played through to the last trick. That note will enable any reader to follow Belinda’s play. It will also enable any one who may care to do so to restore to a place among our home amusements a game which carried all before it in Queen Anne’s day, and which is really, when cleared of its gambling details, as good a domestic game for three players as cribbage or piquet is for two. My “Court Gamester,” which was in its fifth edition in 1728, after devoting its best energies to ombre, contented its readers in fewer pages with the addition only of piquet and chess.

Obsolete words and words of Scottish dialect, with a few more as to the meaning of which some readers might be uncertain, will be found explained in the Glossary that ends this volume.

MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.

The reader is to understand,that all the persons previously described in the“Prologue to the Canterbury Tales”are now riding on their way to that city,and each of them telling his tale respectively,which is preceded by some little bit of incident or conversation on the road.The agreement,suggested by the Host of the Tabard,was,first,that each pilgrim should tell a couple of tales while going to Canterbury,and another couple during the return to London;secondly,that the narrator of the best one of all should sup at the expense of the whole party;and thirdly,that the Host himself should be gratuitous guide on the journey,and arbiter of all differences by the way,with power to inflict the payment of travelling expenses upon any one who should gainsay his judgment.During the intervals of the stories he is accordingly the most prominent person.—Leigh Hunt.

Wottest[17]thou, reader, of a little town,Which thereabouts they call Bob-up-and-down,Under the Blee, in Canterbury way?Well, there our host began to jest and play,And said, “Hush, hush now: Dun is in the mire.What, sirs? will nobody, for prayer or hire,Wake our good gossip, sleeping here behind?Here were a bundle for a thief to find.See, how he noddeth! by St. Peter, see!He’ll tumble off his saddle presently.Is that a cook of London, red flames take him!He knoweth the agreement—wake him, wake him:We’ll have his tale, to keep him from his nap,Although the drink turn out not worth the tap.Awake, thou cook,” quoth he; “God say thee nay;What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day?Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk?Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk,And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?”

This cook that was full pale, and nothing red,Stared up, and said unto the host, “God blessMy soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness,I know not why, that I would rather sleepThan drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap.”

“Well,” quoth the Manciple, “if it might easeThine head, Sir Cook, and also none displeaseOf all here riding in this company,And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,Till thou art better, and so tellmytale;For in good faith thy visage is full pale;Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am,Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram,Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter:Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I’ll not flatter.See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight;He’ll swallow us all up before he’ll bite;Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father’s kin;The fiend himself now set his foot therein,And stop it up, for ’twill infect us all;Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall.Ah—see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing;Take heed—he’s bent on tilting at the ring:He’s the shape, isn’t he? to tilt and ride!Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide.”

Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black,And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack!So mumbling something, from his horse fell he,And where he fell, there lay he patiently,Till pity on his shame his fellows took.Here was a pretty horseman of a cook!Alas! that he had held not by his ladle!And ere again they got him on his saddle,There was a mighty shoving to and froTo lift him up, and muckle care and woe,So heavy was this carcase of a ghost.Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:—“Since drink upon this man hath domination,By nails! and as I reckon my salvation,I trow he would have told a sorry tale;For whether it be wine, or it be ale,That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose,And sneezeth much, and he hath got thepose,[19]And also hath given us business enowTo keep him on his horse, out of the slough;He’ll fall again, if he be driven to speak,And then, where are we, for a second week?Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse!Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse.Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too niceThus openly to chafe him for his vice.Perchance some day he’ll do as much for thee,And bring thy baker’s bills in jeopardy,Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher’s matters,And whether they square nicely with thy platters.”

“Mine,” quoth the Manciple, “were then the mire!Much rather would I pay his horse’s hire,And that will be no trifle, mud and all,Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall.I did but jest. Score not, ye’ll be not scored.And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,A draught of wine, better was never tasted,And with this cook’s ladle will I be basted,If he don’t drink of it, right lustily.Upon my life he’ll not say nay. Now see.”

And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;Down went the drink out of the gourd,fluff,fluff:Alas! the man had had enough before:And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore,His nose said something,—grace for what he had;And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad.

Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight,And said, “Well, I perceive it’s necessary,Where’er we go, good wine with us to carry.What needeth in this world more strifes befall?Good wine’s the doctor to appease them all.O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,That thus canst turn our earnest into game.Worship and thanks be to thy deity.So on this head ye get no more from me.Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.”

“Well, sire,” quoth he, “now hark to what I say.”

WhenPhœbus dwelt with men, in days of yore,He was the very lustiest bachelorOf all the world; and shot in the best bow.’Twas he, as the old books of stories show,That shot the serpent Python, as he laySleeping against the sun, upon a day:And many another noble worthy deedHe did with that same bow, as men may read.

He played all kinds of music: and so clearHis singing was, and such a heaven to hear,Men might not speak during his madrigal.Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wallAbout the city with his melody,Certainly sang not half so well as he.And add to this, he was the seemliest manThat is, or has been, since the world began.What needs describe his beauty? since there’s noneWith which to make the least comparison.In brief, he was the flower ofgentilesse,[21]Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:And yet, take note, for all this mastery,This Phœbus was of cheer so frank and free,That for his sport, and to commend the gloryHe gat him o’er the snake (so runs the story),He used to carry in his hand a bow.

Now this same god had in his house a crow,Which in a cage he fostered many a day,And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay.White was the crow; as is a snow-white swan,And could repeat a tale told by a man,And sing. No nightingale, down in a dell,Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well.

Now had this Phœbus in his house a wifeWhich that he loved beyond his very life:And night and day did all his diligenceTo please her well, and do her reverence;Save only, to speak truly,inter nos,Jealous he was, and would have kept her close:He wished not to be treated monstrously:Neither does any man, no more than he;Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought;—A good wife, that is clean of work and thought,No man would dream of hindering such a way.And just as bootless is it, night or day,Hindering a shrew; for it will never be.I hold it for a very foppery,Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives,Old writers always say so, in their Lives.

But to my story, as it first began.This worthy Phœbus doeth all he canTo please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her,That she, for her part, would herself bestirDiscreetly, so as not to lose his grace;But, Lord he knows, there’s no man shall embraceA thing so close, as to restrain what NatureHath naturally set in any creature.

Take any bird, and put it in a cage,And do thy best and utmost to engageThe bird to love it; give it meat and drink,And every dainty housewives can bethink,And keep the cage as cleanly as you may,And let it be with gilt never so gay,Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold,Rather be in a forest wild and cold,And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness;Yea, ever will he tax his whole addressTo get out of the cage when that he may:—His liberty the bird desireth aye.

So, take a cat, and foster her with milkAnd tender meat, and make her bed of silk,Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall,The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all,And every dainty that is in the house;Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination,And appetite renounceth education.

A she-wolf likewise hath a villain’s kind:The worst and roughest wolf that she can find,Or least of reputation, will she wed,When the time comes to make her marriage-bed.

But misinterpret not my speech, I pray;All this of men, not women, do I say;For men it is, that come and spoil the livesOf such, as but for them, would make good wives.They leave their own wives, be they never so fair,Never so true, never so debonair,And take the lowest they may find, for change.Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range,It never will continue, long together,Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather.

This Phœbus, while on nothing ill thought he,Jilted he was, for all his jollity;For under him, his wife, at her heart’s-root,Another had, a man of small repute,Not worth a blink of Phœbus; more’s the pity;Too oft it falleth so, in court and city.This wife, when Phœbus was from home one day,Sent for her lemman then, without delay.Her lemman!—a plain word, I needs must own;Forgive it me; for Plato hath laid down,The word must suit according with the deed;Word is work’s cousin-german, ye may read:I’m a plain man, and what I say is this:Wife high, wife low, if bad, both do amiss:But because one man’s wench sitteth above,She shall be called his Lady and his Love;And because t’other’s sitteth low and poor,She shall be called,—Well, well, I say no more;Only God knoweth, man, mine own dear brother,One wife is laid as low, just, as the other.

Right so betwixt a lawless, mighty chiefAnd a rude outlaw, or an arrant thief,Knight arrant or thief arrant, all is one;Difference, as Alexander learnt, there’s none;But for the chief is of the greater might,By force of numbers, to slay all outright,And burn, and waste, and make as flat as floor,Lo, therefore is he clept a conqueror;And for the other hath his numbers less,And cannot work such mischief and distress,Nor be by half so wicked as the chief,Men clepen him an outlaw and a thief.

However, I am no text-spinning man;So to my tale I go, as I began.

Now with her lemman is this Phœbus’ wife;The crow he sayeth nothing, for his life;Caged hangeth he, and sayeth not a word;But when that home was come Phœbus the lord,He singeth out, and saith,—“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”“Hey!” crieth Phœbus, “here be something new;Thy song was wont to cheer me. What is this?”“By Jove!” quoth Corvus, “I sing not amiss.Phœbus,” quoth he; “for all thy worthiness,For all thy beauty and all thy gentilesse,For all thy song and all thy minstrelsy,And all thy watching, blearéd is thine eye;Yea, and by one no worthier than a gnat,Compared with him should boast to wear thine hat.”

What would you more? the crow hath told him all;This woful god hath turned him to the wallTo hide his tears: he thought ’twould burst his heart;He bent his bow, and set therein a dart,And in his ire he hath his wife yslain;He hath; he felt such anger and such pain;For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,Both harp and lute, gittern and psaltery,And then he brake his arrows and his bow,And after that, thus spake he to the crow:—

“Traitor,” quoth he, “behold what thou hast done;Made me the saddest wretch beneath the sun:Alas! why was I born! O dearest wife,Jewel of love and joy, my only life,That wert to me so steadfast and so true,There liest thou dead; why am not I so too?Full innocent thou wert, that durst I swear;O hasty hand, to bring me to despair!O troubled wit, O anger without thought,That unadviséd smitest, and for nought:O heart of little faith, full of suspicion,Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion?O every man, hold hastiness in loathing;Believe, without strong testimony, nothing;Smite not too soon, before ye well know why;And be adviséd well and soberlyBefore ye trust yourselves to the commissionOf any ireful deed upon suspicion.Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ireFoully foredone, and brought into the mire.Alas! I’ll kill myself for misery.”

And to the crow, “O thou false thief!” said he,“I’ll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale;Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale,Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go,Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow;Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again;Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain;Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black,And ever shall their voices crone and crackAnd be a warning against wind and rain,In token that by thee my wife was slain.”

So to the crow he started, like one mad,And tore out every feather that he had,And made him black, and reft him of his storesOf song and speech, and flung him out of doorsUnto the devil; whence never come he back,Say I. Amen. And hence all crows are black.

Lordings, by this example I you prayTake heed, and be discreet in what you say;And above all, tell no man, for your life,How that another man hath kissed his wife.He’ll hate you mortally; be sure of that;Dan Solomon, in teacher’s chair that sat,Bade us keep all our tongues close as we can;But, as I said, I’m no text-spinning man,Only, I must say, thus taught me my dame;[26]My son, think on the crow in God his name;My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend;A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend;My son, a fiend’s a thing for to keep down;My son, God in his great discretionWalléd a tongue with teeth, and eke with lips,That man may think, before his speech out slips.A little speech spoken advisedlyBrings none in trouble, speaking generally.My son, thy tongue thou always shouldst restrain,Save only at such times thou dost thy painTo speak of God in honour and in prayer;The chiefest virtue, son, is to bewareHow thou lett’st loose that endless thing, thy tongue;This every soul is taught, when he is young:My son, of muckle speaking ill-advised,And where a little speaking had sufficed,Com’th muckle harm. This was me told and taught,—In muckle speaking, sinning wanteth nought.Know’st thou for what a tongue that’s hasty serveth?Right as a sword forecutteth and forecarvethAn arm in two, my dear son, even soA tongue clean-cutteth friendship at a blow.A jangler is to God abominable:Read Solomon, so wise and honourable;Read David in his Psalms, read Seneca;My son, a nod is better than a say;Be deaf, when folk speak matter perilous;Small prate, sound pate,—guardeth the Fleming’s house.My son, if thou no wicked word hast spoken,Thou never needest fear a pate ybroken;But he that hath missaid, I dare well say,His fingers shall find blood thereon, some day.Thing that is said, is said; it may not backBe called, for all your “Las!” and your “Alack!”And he is that man’s thrall to whom ’twas said;Cometh the bond some day, and will be paid.My son, beware, and be no author newOf tidings, whether they be false or true:Go wheresoe’er thou wilt, ’mongst high or low,Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow.

MODERNISED BY Z. A. Z.

Nowwhen the Prioress had done, each manSo serious looked, ’twas wonderful to see!Till our good host to banter us began,And then at last he cast his eyes on me,And jeering said, “What man art thou?” quoth he,“That lookest down as thou wouldst find a hare,For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.

“Approach me near, and look up merrily!Now make way, sirs! and let this man have place.He in the waist is shaped as well as I:This were a poppet in an arm’s embrace,For any woman, small and fair of face.He seemeth elf-like by his countenance,For with no wight holdeth he dalliance.

“Say somewhat now, since other folks have said;Tell us a tale o’ mirth, and that anon.”“Host,” quoth I then, “be not so far misled,For other tales except this know I none;A little rime I learned in years agone.”“Ah! that is well,” quoth he; “now we shall hearSome dainty thing, methinketh, by thy cheer.”

Listen, lordlings, in good intent,And I will tell youveramentOf mirth and chivalry,About a knight on glory bent,In battle and in tournament;Sir Thopas named was he.

And he was born in a far countréy,In Flanders, all beyond the sea,At Popering in the place;His father was a man full free,And of that country lord was he,Enjoyed by holy grace.

Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,Fair was his face aspain de Maine,His lips were red as rose;His ruddy cheeks like scarlet grain;And I tell you in good certaine,He had a seemly nose.

His hair and beard like saffron shone,And to his girdle fell adown;His shoes of leather bright;Of Bruges were his hose so brown,His robe it was of ciclatoun—He was a costly wight:

Well could he hunt the strong wild deer,And ride a hawking for his cheerWith grey goshawk on hand;His archery filled the woods with fear,In wrestling eke he had no peer,—No man ’gainst him could stand.

Full many a maiden bright in bowerWas sighing for himpar amourBetween her prayers and sleep,But he was chaste, beyond their power,And sweet as is the bramble flowerThat beareth the red hip.

And so it fell upon a day,Forsooth, as I now sing and say,Sir Thopas went to ride;He rode upon his courser grey,And in his hand a lance so gay,A long sword by his side.

He rode along a forest fair,Many a wild beast dwelling there;(Mercy in heaven defend!)And there was also buck and hare;And as he went, he very nearMet with a sorry end.

And herbs sprang up, or creeping ran;The liquorice, and valerian,Clove-gillyflowers, sun-dressed;And nutmeg, good to put in ale,Whether it be moist or stale,—Or to lay sweet in chest,

10.

The birds all sang, as tho’ ’twere May;The spearhawk,[32]and the popinjay,It was a joy to hear;The throstle cock made eke his lay,The wood-dove sung upon the spray,With note full loud and clear.

11.

Sir Thopas fell in love-longingAll when he heard the throstle sing,And spurred his horse like mad,So that all o’er the blood did spring,And eke the white foam you might wring:The steed in foam seemed clad.

12.

Sir Thopas eke so weary wasOf riding on the fine soft grass,While love burnt in his breast,That down he laid him in that placeTo give his courser some soláce,Some forage and some rest.

13.

Saint Mary! benedicite!What meaneth all this love in me,That haunts me in the wood?This night, in dreaming, did I seeAn elf queen shall my true love be,And sleep beneath my hood.

14.

An elf queen will I love, I wis,For in this world no woman isWorthy to be my bride;All other damsels I forsake,And to an elf queen will I take,By grove and streamlet’s side.

15.

Into his saddle be clomb anon,And pricketh over stile and stone,An elf queen to espy;Till he so long had ridden and gone,That he at last upon a mornThe fairy land came nigh.

16.

Therein he sought both far and near,And oft he spied in daylight clearThrough many a forest wild;But in that wondrous land I ween,No living wight by him was seen,Nor woman, man, nor child.

17.

At last there came a giant gaunt,And he was named Sir Oliphaunt,A perilous man of deed:And he said, “Childe, by Termagaunt,If thou ride not from this my haunt,Soon will I slay thy steedWith this victorious mace;For here’s the lovely Queen of Faery,With harp and pipe and symphony,A-dwelling in this place.”

18.

Childe Thopas said right haughtily,“To-morrow will I combat theeIn armour bright as flower;And then I promise ‘par ma fay’That thou shalt feel this javelin gay,And dread its wondrous power.To-morrow we shall meet again,And I will pierce thee, if I may,Upon the golden prime of day;—And here you shall be slain.”

19.

Sir Thopas drew aback full fast;The giant at him huge stones cast,Which from a staff-sling fly;But well escaped the Childe Thopás,And it was all through God’s good grace,And through his bearing high.

20.

Still listen, gentles, to my tale,Merrier than the nightingale;—For now I must relate,How that Sir Thopas rideth o’erHill and dale and bright sea-shore,E’en to his own estate.

21.

His merry men commandeth heTo make for him the game and glee;For needs he must soon fightWith a giant fierce, with strong heads three,For paramour and jollity,And chivalry so bright.

22.

“Come forth,” said he, “my minstrels fair,And tell me tales right debonair,While I am clad and armed;Romances, full of real tales,Of dames, and popes, and cardinals,And maids by wizards charmed.”

23.

They bore to him the sweetest wineIn silver cup; the muscadine,With spices rare of Ind;Fine gingerbread, in many a slice,With cummin seed, and liquorice,And sugar thrice refined.

24.

Then next to his white skin he wareA cloth of fleecy wool, as fair,Woven into a shirt;Next that he put a cassock on,And over that an habergeon,[35]To guard right well his heart.

25.

And over that a hauberk wentOf Jews’ work, and most excellent;Full strong was every plate;And over that his coat armoúre,As white as is the lily flower,In which he would debate.

26.

His shield was all of gold so red,And thereon was a wild boar’s head,A carbuncle beside;And then he swore on ale and bread,How that the giant should be dead,Whatever should betide!

27.

His boots were glazed right curiously,His sword-sheath was of ivory,His helm all brassy bright;His saddle was of jet-black bone,His bridle like the bright sun shone,Or like the clear moons light,

28.

His spear was of the cypress tree,That bodeth battle right and free;The point full sharp was ground;His steed it was a dapple grey,That goeth an amble on the way,Full softly and full round.

29.

Lo! lordlings mine, here ends one fytteOf this my tale, a gallant strain;And if ye will hear more of it,I’ll soon begin again.

Now hold your speech for charity,Both gallant knight and lady free,And hearken to my songOf battle and of chivalry,Of ladies’ love and minstrelsy,All ambling thus along.

Men speak much of old tales, I know;Of Hornchild, Ipotis, alsóOf Bevis and Sir Guy;Of Sire Libeaux, and Pleindamour;But Sire Thopas, he is the flowerOf real chivalry.

Now was his gallant steed bestrode,And forth upon his way he rode,As spark flies from a brand;Upon his crest he bare a tower,And therein stuck a lily flower:Save him from giant hand.

He was a knight in battle bred,And in no house would seek his bed,But laid him in the wood;His pillow was his helmet bright,—His horse grazed by him all the nightOn herbs both fine and good.

And he drank water from the well,As did the knight Sir Percival,So worthy under weed;Till on a day—

[Here Chaucer is interrupted in his Rime.]

“No more of this, for Heaven’s high dignity!”Quoth then our Host, “for, lo! thou makest meSo weary of thy very simpleness,That all so wisely may the Lord me bless,My very ears, with thy dull rubbish, ache.Now such a rime at once let Satan take.This may be well called ‘doggrel rime,’” quoth he.“Why so?” quoth I; “why wilt thou not let meTell all my tale, like any other man,Since that it is the best rime that I can?”“Mass!” quoth our Host, “if that I hear aright,Thy scraps of rhyming are not worth a mite;Thou dost nought else but waste away our time:—Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme.”

MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.

Therelived, sirs, in my country, formerly,A wondrous great archdeacon,—who but he?Who boldly did the work of his high stationIn punishing improper conversation,And all the slidings thereunto belonging;Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wrongingOf holy Church, by blinking of her duesIn sacraments and contracts, wills and pews;Usury furthermore, and simony;But people of ill lives most loathéd he:Lord! how he made them sing if they were caught.And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taughtNever to venture on the like again;To the last farthing would he rack and strain.For stinted tithes, or stinted offering,He made the people piteously to sing.He left no leg for the good bishop’s crook;Down went the black sheep in his own black book;For when the name gat there, such derelictionCame, you must know, sirs, in his jurisdiction.

He had a Sumner ready to his hand;A slyer bully filched not in the land;For in all parts the villain had his spiesTo let him know where profit might arise.Well could he spare ill livers, three or four,To help his net to four-and-twenty more.’Tis truth. Your Sumner may stare hard for me;I shall not screen, not I, his villainy;For heaven be thanked,laudetur Dominus,They have no hold, these cursed thieves, on us;Nor never shall have, let ’em thieve till doom.

[“No,” cried the Sumner, starting from his gloom,“Nor have we any hold, Sir Shaven-crown,On your fine flock, the ladies of the town.”“Peace, with a vengeance,” quoth our Host, “and letThe tale be told. Say on, thou marmoset,Thou lady’s friar, and let the Sumner sniff.”]

“Well,” quoth the Friar; “this Sumner, this false thief,Had scouts in plenty ready to his hand,Like any hawks, the sharpest in the land,Watching their birds to pluck, each in his mew,Who told him all the secrets that they knew,And lured him game, and gat him wondrous profit;Exceeding little knew his master of it.Sirs, he would go, without a writ, and takePoor wretches up, feigning it for Christ’s sake,And threatening the poor people with his curse,And all the while would let them fill his purse,And to the alehouse bring him by degrees,And then he’d drink with them, and slap his kneesFor very mirth, and say ’twas some mistake.Judas carried the bag, sirs, for Christ’s sake,And was a thief; and such a thief was he;His master got but sorry share,pardie.To give due laud unto this Satan’s imp,He was a thief, a Sumner, and a pimp.

Wenches themselves were in his retinue;So whether ’twas Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh,Or Jack, or Ralph, that held the damsel dear,Come would she then, and tell it in his ear:Thus were the wench and he of one accord;And he would feign a mandate from his lord,And summon them before the court, those two,And pluck the man, and let the mawkin go.Then would he say, “Friend, for thine honest look,I save thy name, this once, from the black book;Thou hear’st no further of this case.”—But, Lord!I might not in two years his bribes record.There’s not a dog alive, so speed my soul,Knoweth a hurt deer better from a wholeThan this false Sumner knew a tainted sheep,Or where this wretch would skulk, or that would sleep,Or to fleece both was more devoutly bent;And reason good; his faith was in his rent.

And so befell, that once upon a day,This Sumner, prowling ever for his prey,Rode forth to cheat a poor old widowed soul,Feigning a cause for lack of protocol,And as he went, he saw before him rideA yeoman gay under the forest side.A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen;And he was clad in a short cloak of green,And wore a hat that had a fringe of black.

“Sir,” quoth this Sumner, shouting at his back,“Hail, and well met.”—“Well met,” like shouteth he;“Where ridest thou under the greenwood tree?Goest thou far, thou jolly boy, to-day?”This bully Sumner answered, and said, “Nay,Only hard-by, to strain a rent.”—“Hoh! hoh!Art thou a bailiff then?”—“Yea, even so.”For he durst not, for very filth and shame,Say that he was a Sumner, for the name.“Well met, in God’s name,” quoth black fringe; “why, brother,Thou art a bailiff then, and I’m another;But I’m a stranger in these parts; so, prythee,Lend me thine aid, and let me journey with thee.I’ve gold and silver, plenty, where I dwell;And if thou hap’st to come into our dell,Lord! how we’ll do our best to give thee greeting!”“Thanks,” quoth the Sumner; “merry be our meeting.”So in each other’s hand their troths they lay,And swear accord: and forth they ride and play.

This Sumner then, which was as full of stir,And prate, and prying, as a woodpecker,And ever inquiring upon everything,Said, “Brother, where is thine inhabiting,In case I come to find thee out some day?”

This yeoman dropped his speech in a soft way,And said, “Far in the north. But ere we part,[42]I trow thou shalt have learnt it so by heart,Thou mayst not miss it, be it dark as pitch.”

“Good,” quoth the Sumner. “Now, as thou art rich,Show me, dear brother, riding thus with me,Since we are bailiffs both, some subtlety,How I may play my game best, and may win:And spare not, pray, for conscience or for sin,But, as my brother, tell me how do ye.”

“Why, ’faith, to tell thee a plain tale,” quoth he,“As to my wages, they be poor enough;My lord’s a dangerous master, hard and chuff;And since my labour bringeth but abortion,I live, so please ye, brother, by extortion,I take what I can get; that is my course;By cunning, if I may; if not, by force;So cometh, year by year, my salary.”“Now certes,” quote the Sumner, “so fare I.I lay my hands on everything, God wot,Unless it be too heavy or too hot.What I may get in counsel, privily,I feel no sort of qualm thereon, not I.Extortion or starvation;—that’s my creed.Repent who list. The best of saints must feed.That’s all the stomach that my conscience knoweth.Curse on the ass that to confession goeth.Well be we met, ’Od’s heart! and by my dame!But tell me, brother dear, what is thy name?”

Now ye must know, that right in this meanwhile,This yeoman ’gan a little for to smile.“Brother,” quoth he, “my name, if I must tell—I am a fiend: my dwelling is in hell:And here I ride about my fortuning,To wot if folk will give me anything.To that sole end ride I, and ridest thou;And, without pulling rein, will I ride nowTo the world’s end, ere I will lose a prey.”

“God bless me,” quoth the Sumner, “what d’ye say?I thought ye were a yeoman verily.Ye have a man’s shape, sir, as well as I.Have ye a shape then, pray, determinateIn hell, good sir, where ye have your estate?”

“Nay, certainly,” quoth he, “there have we none;But whoso liketh it, he taketh one;And so we make folk think us what we please.Sometimes we go like apes, sometimes like bees,Like man, or angel, black dog, or black crow:—Nor is it wondrous that it should be so.A sorry juggler can bewilder thee;And ’faith, I think I know more craft than he.”

“But why,” inquired the Sumner, “must ye donSo many shapes, when ye might stick to one?”“We suit the bait unto the fish,” quoth he.“And why,” quoth t’other, “all this slavery?”“For many a cause, Sir Sumner,” quoth the fiend;“But time is brief—the day will have an end;And here jog I, with nothing for my ride;Catch we our fox, and let this theme abide:For, brother mine, thy wit it is too smallTo understand me, though I told thee all;And yet, as toucheth that same slavery,A devil must do God’s work, ’twixt you and me;For without Him, albeit to our loathing,Strong as we go, we devils can do nothing;Though to our prayers, sometimes, He giveth leaveOnly the body, not the soul, to grieve.Witness good Job, whom nothing could make wrath;And sometimes have we power to harass both;And, then again, soul only is possest,And body free; and all is for the best.Full many a sinner would have no salvation,Gat it he not by standing our temptation:Though God He knows, ’twas far from our intentTo save the man:—his howl was what we meant.Nay, sometimes we be servants to our foes:Witness the saint that pulled my master’s nose;And to the apostle servant eke was I.”“Yet tell me,” quoth this Sumner, “faithfully,Are the new shapes ye take for your intentsFresh every time, and wrought of elements?”“Nay,” quoth the fiend, “sometimes they be disguises;And sometimes in a corpse a devil rises,And speaks as sensibly, and fair, and well,As did the Pythoness to Samuel:And yet will some men say, it was not he!Lord help, say I, this world’s divinity.Of one thing make thee sure; that thou shalt know,Before we part, the shapes we wear below.Thou shalt—I jest thee not—the Lord forbid!Thou shalt know more than ever Virgil did,Or Dante’s self. So let us on, sweet brother,And stick, like right warm souls, to one another:I’ll never quit thee, till thou quittest me.”

“Nay,” quoth the Sumner, “that can never be;I am a man well known, respectable;And though thou wert the very lord of hell,Hold thee I should as mine own plighted brother:Doubt not we’ll stick right fast, each to the other:And, as we think alike, so will we thrive:We twain will be the merriest devils alive.Take thou what’s given; for that’s thy mode, God wot;And I will take, whether ’tis given or not.And if that either winneth more than t’other,Let him be true, and share it with his brother.”

“Done,” quoth the fiend, whose eyes in secret glowed;And with that word they pricked along the road:And soon it fell, that entering the town’s end,To which this Sumner shaped him for to wend,They saw a cart that loaded was with hay,The which a carter drove forth on his way.Deep was the mire, and sudden the cart stuck:The carter, like a madman, smote and struck,And cried, “Heit, Scot; heit, Brock! What! is’t the stones?The devil clean fetch ye both, body and bones:Must I do nought but bawl and swinge all day?Devil take the whole—horse, harness, cart, and hay.”

The Sumner whispered to the fiend, “I’ faith,We have it here. Hear’st thou not what he saith?Take it anon, for he hath given it thee,Live stock and dead, hay, cart, and horses three!”

“Nay,” quoth the fiend, “not so;—the deuce a bit.He sayeth; but, alas! not meaneth it:Ask him thyself, if thou believ’st not me;Or else be still awhile, and thou shalt see.”

Thwacketh the man his horses on the croup,And they begin to draw now, and to stoop.“Heitthere,” quoth he; “heit,heit; ah,matthywo.Lord love their hearts! how prettily they go!That was well twitched, methinks, mine own grey boy:I pray God save thy body, and Saint Eloy.Now is my cart out of the slough,pardie.”

“There,” quoth the fiend unto the Sumner; “see,I told thee how ’twould fall. Thou seest, dear brother,The churl spoke one thing, but he thought another.Let us prick on, for we take nothing here.”

And when from out the town they had got clear,The Sumner said, “Here dwelleth an old witch,That had as lief be tumbled in a ditchAnd break her neck, as part with an old penny.Nathless her twelve pence is as good as any,And I will have it, though she lose her wits;Or else I’ll cite her with a score of writs:And yet, God wot, I know of her no vice.So learn of me, Sir Fiend: thou art too nice.”

The Sumner clappeth at the widow’s gate.“Come out,” he saith, “thou hag, thou quiver-pate:I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee.”“Who clappeth?” said this wife; “ah, what say ye?God save ye, masters: what is your sweet will?”“I have,” said he, “of summons here a bill:Take care, on pain of cursing, that thou beTo-morrow morn, before the Archdeacon’s knee,To answer to the court of certain things.”

“Now, Lord,” quoth she, “sweet Jesu, King of kings,So help me, as I cannot, sirs, nor may:I have been sick, and that full many a day.I may not walk such distance, nay, nor ride,But I be dead, so pricketh it my side.La! how I cough and quiver when I stir!—May I not ask some worthy officerTo speak for me, to what the bill may say?”

“Yea, certainly,” this Sumner said, “ye may,On paying—let me see—twelve pence anon.Small profit cometh to myself thereon:My master hath the profit, and not I.Come—twelve pence, mother—count it speedily,And let me ride: I may no longer tarry.”

“Twelve pence!” quoth she; “now may the sweet Saint MarySo wisely help me out of care and sin,As in this wide world, though I sold my skin,I could not scrape up twelve pence, for my life.Ye know too well I am a poor old wife:Give alms, for the Lord’s sake, to me, poor wretch.”

“Nay, if I quit thee then,” quoth he, “devil fetchMyself, although thou starve for it, and rot.”“Alas!” quoth she, “the pence I have ’em not.”“Pay me,” quoth he, “or by the sweet Saint Anne,I’ll bear away thy staff and thy new panFor the old debt thou ow’st me for that fee,Which out of pocket I discharged for thee,When thou didst make thy husband an old stag.”“Thou liest,” quoth she; “so leave me never a rag,As I was never yet, widow nor wife,Summonsed before your court in all my life,Nor never of my body was untrue.Unto the devil, rough and black of hue,Give I thy body, and the pan to boot.”

And when this devil heard her give the bruteThus in his charge, he stooped into her ear,And said, “Now, Mabily, my mother dear,Is this your will in earnest that ye say?”“The devil,” quoth she, “so fetch him cleanaway,Soul, pan, and all, unless that he repent.”“Repent!” the Sumner cried; “pay up your rent,Old fool; and don’t stand preaching here to me.I would I had thy whole inventory,The smock from off thy back, and every cloth.”

“Now, brother,” quoth the devil, “be not wroth;Thy body and this pan be mine by right,And thou shalt straight to hell with me to-night,Where thou shalt know what sort of folk we be,Better than Oxford university.”

And with that word the fiend him swept below,Body and soul. He went where Sumners go.

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