The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS,
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
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DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS,
MODERNIZED FROM CHAUCER.
Three drunken ruffians, madly believing Death to be an embodied person, go out to kill him. They meet him in the shape of an old man, who tells them where Death is to be found; and they find him accordingly.
In Flanders there was once a desperate set
Of three young spendthrifts, fierce with drink and debt,
Who, haunting every sink of foul repute,
And giddy with the din of harp and lute,
Went dancing and sat gambling day and night,
And swill'd and gorg'd beyond their natures' might,
And thus upon the devil's own altar laid
The bodies and the souls that God had made.
Of three young spendthrifts, fierce with drink and debt,
Who, haunting every sink of foul repute,
And giddy with the din of harp and lute,
Went dancing and sat gambling day and night,
And swill'd and gorg'd beyond their natures' might,
And thus upon the devil's own altar laid
The bodies and the souls that God had made.
So horribly they swore with every word,
They seem'd to think the Jews had spar'd our Lord,
That rent his body; and the worse they swore,
And scoff'd, and sinn'd, they did but laugh the more.
They seem'd to think the Jews had spar'd our Lord,
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And scoff'd, and sinn'd, they did but laugh the more.
Their doors were ever turning on the pin
To let their timbrellers and tumblers in,
Sellers of cakes and such-like;—every one
A devil's own help to see his business done,
And blow up fires, far better, Sirs, made less,
Out of th' accursed fuel of excess.
To let their timbrellers and tumblers in,
Sellers of cakes and such-like;—every one
A devil's own help to see his business done,
And blow up fires, far better, Sirs, made less,
Out of th' accursed fuel of excess.
These wretches, having lost one night at play,
Were drinking still by the sad dawn of day,
When hearing a bell go for some one dead,
They curs'd, and call'd the vintner's boy, and said,
“Who's he that has been made cold meat to-night?
Ask the fool's name, and see you bring it right?”
Were drinking still by the sad dawn of day,
When hearing a bell go for some one dead,
They curs'd, and call'd the vintner's boy, and said,
“Who's he that has been made cold meat to-night?
Ask the fool's name, and see you bring it right?”
The boy who had been sick, and in whose head
Something had put strange and grave matter, said,
“Nay, Sirs, 'twas Hob the smith. You knew him well;
A big-mouth'd, red-hair'd man; you call'd him Hell.
Last evening he was sitting, bolt upright,
Too drunk to speak, when in there came a wight
Whom men call Death, that slayeth high and low;
And with his staff Death fell'd him at a blow,
And so, without one word, betook him hence.
He hath slain heaps during the pestilence.
And, Sirs, they say, the boldest man had best
Beware how he invites so grim a guest,
Or be prepar'd to meet him, night and day.
'Tis what, long since, I've heard my mother say.”
Something had put strange and grave matter, said,
“Nay, Sirs, 'twas Hob the smith. You knew him well;
A big-mouth'd, red-hair'd man; you call'd him Hell.
Last evening he was sitting, bolt upright,
Too drunk to speak, when in there came a wight
Whom men call Death, that slayeth high and low;
And with his staff Death fell'd him at a blow,
And so, without one word, betook him hence.
He hath slain heaps during the pestilence.
And, Sirs, they say, the boldest man had best
Beware how he invites so grim a guest,
Or be prepar'd to meet him, night and day.
'Tis what, long since, I've heard my mother say.”
“Ay,” quoth the vinter, “every word you hear
Is true as gospel. He hath slain this year,
And barely with his presence, half the place.
God grant we meet not with his dreadful face.”
Is true as gospel. He hath slain this year,
And barely with his presence, half the place.
God grant we meet not with his dreadful face.”
“God grant a fig's end,” exclaim'd one. “Who's he
Goes blasting thus fool's eyes? Let's forth, we three,
And hunt him out, and punch the musty breath
Out of his bones, and be the death of Death.”
Goes blasting thus fool's eyes? Let's forth, we three,
And hunt him out, and punch the musty breath
Out of his bones, and be the death of Death.”
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'Twixt rage and liquor staggering forth they flung,
And on their impious oaths their changes rung,
And then would pause, and gathering all the breath
Their shouts had left them, cry out, “Death to Death!”
And on their impious oaths their changes rung,
And then would pause, and gathering all the breath
Their shouts had left them, cry out, “Death to Death!”
They had not gone a furlong, when they met,
Beside a bridge that cross'd a rivulet,
A poor old man, who meekly gave them way,
And bow'd, and said, “God save ye, Sirs, I pray.”
Beside a bridge that cross'd a rivulet,
A poor old man, who meekly gave them way,
And bow'd, and said, “God save ye, Sirs, I pray.”
The foremost swaggerer, prouder for the bow,
Said, “Well, old crawler, what art canting now?
Why art thou thus wrapp'd up, all save thy face?
Why liv'st so long, in such a sorry case?”
Said, “Well, old crawler, what art canting now?
Why art thou thus wrapp'd up, all save thy face?
Why liv'st so long, in such a sorry case?”
The old man began looking steadfastly
Into the speaker's visage, eye to eye,
And said, “Because I cannot find the man,
Nor could, though I had walk'd since time began,
No, not the poorest man, nor the least sage,
Who would exchange his youth for mine old age:
And therefore must I keep mine old age still,
As long as it shall please th' Almighty's will.
Death will not rid me of this aching breast;
And thus I walk, because I cannot rest,
And on the ground, my mother Nature's gate,
I knock with mine old staff, early and late,
And say to her,—Dear mother, let me in.
Lo! how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin.
When shall I sleep for good? Oh, mother dear,
The coffin which has stood this many a year
By my bedside, full gladly would I give
For a bare shroud, so I might cease to live;—
And yet she will not do me, Sirs, that grace;
For which full pale and wrinkled is my face.
Into the speaker's visage, eye to eye,
And said, “Because I cannot find the man,
Nor could, though I had walk'd since time began,
No, not the poorest man, nor the least sage,
Who would exchange his youth for mine old age:
And therefore must I keep mine old age still,
As long as it shall please th' Almighty's will.
Death will not rid me of this aching breast;
And thus I walk, because I cannot rest,
And on the ground, my mother Nature's gate,
I knock with mine old staff, early and late,
And say to her,—Dear mother, let me in.
Lo! how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin.
When shall I sleep for good? Oh, mother dear,
The coffin which has stood this many a year
By my bedside, full gladly would I give
For a bare shroud, so I might cease to live;—
And yet she will not do me, Sirs, that grace;
For which full pale and wrinkled is my face.
“But, Sirs, in you it is no courtesy
To mock an old man, whosoe'er he be,
Much less a harmless man in deed and word.
The Scripture, as in church ye may have heard,
Saith,—‘To an old man, hoar upon his head,
Ye shall bow down.’ Therefore let this be said
By poor me now—Unto an old man do
Nought which in age ye'd not have done to you.—
And so God guard ye, Sirs, in weal or woe.
I must go onward, where I have to go.”
To mock an old man, whosoe'er he be,
Much less a harmless man in deed and word.
The Scripture, as in church ye may have heard,
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Ye shall bow down.’ Therefore let this be said
By poor me now—Unto an old man do
Nought which in age ye'd not have done to you.—
And so God guard ye, Sirs, in weal or woe.
I must go onward, where I have to go.”
“Nay,” t'other cried, “Old Would-be-Dead and Gone,
Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.
Thou spak'st but now of that false villain Death,
Who stoppeth here a world of honest breath:
Where doth he bide? Tell us, or by the Lord,
And Judas, and the jump in hempen cord,
As surely as thou art his knave and spy,
We'll hang thee out, for thine old rheums to dry.
Thou art his privy nipper, thou old thief,
Blighting and blasting all in the green leaf.”
Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.
Thou spak'st but now of that false villain Death,
Who stoppeth here a world of honest breath:
Where doth he bide? Tell us, or by the Lord,
And Judas, and the jump in hempen cord,
As surely as thou art his knave and spy,
We'll hang thee out, for thine old rheums to dry.
Thou art his privy nipper, thou old thief,
Blighting and blasting all in the green leaf.”
“Sirs,” quoth the old man, “spare, I pray, your breaths:
Death ye would find, and this your road is Death's.
Ye see yon spread of oaks, down by the brook;
There doth he lie, sunn'd in a flowery nook.”
Death ye would find, and this your road is Death's.
Ye see yon spread of oaks, down by the brook;
There doth he lie, sunn'd in a flowery nook.”
Death sunning in a flowery nook! How flies
Each drunkard o'er the sward, to smite him as he lies!
Each drunkard o'er the sward, to smite him as he lies!
They reach the nook: and what behold they there!
No Death, but yet a sight to make them stare;
To make them stare, not out of mortal dread,
But only for huge bliss and stounded head;
To wit, pour'd forth, countless and deep and broad,
As if some cart had there discharg'd its load,
A bank of florins of fine gold,—all bright,
Fresh from the mint, plump, ponderous. What a sight!
They laugh'd, they leapt, they flung to earth, and roll'd
Their souls and bodies in the glorious gold;
And then they sat and commun'd; and the worst
Of all the three was he that spoke the first.
No Death, but yet a sight to make them stare;
To make them stare, not out of mortal dread,
But only for huge bliss and stounded head;
To wit, pour'd forth, countless and deep and broad,
As if some cart had there discharg'd its load,
A bank of florins of fine gold,—all bright,
Fresh from the mint, plump, ponderous. What a sight!
They laugh'd, they leapt, they flung to earth, and roll'd
Their souls and bodies in the glorious gold;
And then they sat and commun'd; and the worst
Of all the three was he that spoke the first.
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“God's life!” quoth he; “here's treasure! here's a day!
Hush;—look about. Now hark to what I say.
This store that luck hath sent us, boys,—ho! ho!
As freely as it came, shall it not go?
By G---, it shall: and precious nights we'll spend.
Who thought friend Death would make so good an end?
This is a wizard's work, to 'scape us, hey?
No matter. 'Tis hard gold, and well shall pay.
But how to store it, Sirs, to get it hous'd?
Help must be shunn'd. Men's marvel would be rous'd.
Wherefore I hold that we draw lots, and he
To whom it falls betake him suddenly
To town, and bring us victuals here, and wine,
Two keeping watch till all the three can dine;
And then at night we'll get us spades, and here,
In its own ground, the gold shall disappear.”
Hush;—look about. Now hark to what I say.
This store that luck hath sent us, boys,—ho! ho!
As freely as it came, shall it not go?
By G---, it shall: and precious nights we'll spend.
Who thought friend Death would make so good an end?
This is a wizard's work, to 'scape us, hey?
No matter. 'Tis hard gold, and well shall pay.
But how to store it, Sirs, to get it hous'd?
Help must be shunn'd. Men's marvel would be rous'd.
Wherefore I hold that we draw lots, and he
To whom it falls betake him suddenly
To town, and bring us victuals here, and wine,
Two keeping watch till all the three can dine;
And then at night we'll get us spades, and here,
In its own ground, the gold shall disappear.”
The lots are drawn, the youngest thief sets off;
And then the first, after a little cough,
Resum'd—“I say,—we two are of one mind;
Thou know'st it well; and he but a mean hind.
'Twas always so. We were the merry men,
And he the churl and sot. Well, mark me then.
This heap of money, ravishing to see,
The fool supposes must be shar'd by three.
But—hey? Just so. You think, as wise men do,
That three men's shares are better shar'd by two.”
And then the first, after a little cough,
Resum'd—“I say,—we two are of one mind;
Thou know'st it well; and he but a mean hind.
'Twas always so. We were the merry men,
And he the churl and sot. Well, mark me then.
This heap of money, ravishing to see,
The fool supposes must be shar'd by three.
But—hey? Just so. You think, as wise men do,
That three men's shares are better shar'd by two.”
“Yet how?” said t'other.
“How!” said he:—“'tis done,
As easily as counting two to one.
He sitteth down; thou risest as in jest,
And while thou tumblest with him, breast to breast,
I draw my dirk, and thrust him in the side:
Thine follows mine; and then we two divide
The lovely gold. What say'st thou, dearest friend?
Lord! of our lusty life were seen no end.”
As easily as counting two to one.
He sitteth down; thou risest as in jest,
And while thou tumblest with him, breast to breast,
I draw my dirk, and thrust him in the side:
Thine follows mine; and then we two divide
The lovely gold. What say'st thou, dearest friend?
Lord! of our lusty life were seen no end.”
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The bond was made. The journeyer to the town
Meantime had in his heart roll'd up and down
The beauty of the florins, hard and bright.
“Christ Lord!” thought he, “what if I had the right
To all this treasure, my own self alone!
There's not a living man beneath the throne
Of God that should be half so blest as I.”
And thus he ponder'd, till the Enemy,
The Fiend, who found his nature nothing loth,
Whisper'd him, “Poison them. They're villains both.
Always they cheat thee; sometimes beat thee; oft
Carp at thy brains. Prove now whose brains are soft.”
Meantime had in his heart roll'd up and down
The beauty of the florins, hard and bright.
“Christ Lord!” thought he, “what if I had the right
To all this treasure, my own self alone!
There's not a living man beneath the throne
Of God that should be half so blest as I.”
And thus he ponder'd, till the Enemy,
The Fiend, who found his nature nothing loth,
Whisper'd him, “Poison them. They're villains both.
Always they cheat thee; sometimes beat thee; oft
Carp at thy brains. Prove now whose brains are soft.”
With speed a shop he seeketh, where is sold
Poison for vermin; and a tale hath told
Of rats and polecats that molest his fowl.
“Sir,” quoth the shopman, “God so guard my soul,
As thou shalt have a drug so pure and strong
To slay the knaves that do thy poultry wrong,
That were the hugest creature on God's earth
To taste it, stricken would be all his mirth
From out his heart, and life from out his sense,
Ere he could drag his body a mile hence.”
Poison for vermin; and a tale hath told
Of rats and polecats that molest his fowl.
“Sir,” quoth the shopman, “God so guard my soul,
As thou shalt have a drug so pure and strong
To slay the knaves that do thy poultry wrong,
That were the hugest creature on God's earth
To taste it, stricken would be all his mirth
From out his heart, and life from out his sense,
Ere he could drag his body a mile hence.”
The cursed wretch, too happy to delay,
Grasping the box of poison, takes his way
To the next street, and buys three flasks of wine.
Two he drugs well against his friends shall dine,
And with a mark secures the harmless one,
To drink at night-time till his work be done;
For all that night he looks to have no sleep,
So well he means to hide his golden heap.
And thus thrice arm'd, and full of murderous glee,
Back to the murderous two returneth he.
Grasping the box of poison, takes his way
To the next street, and buys three flasks of wine.
Two he drugs well against his friends shall dine,
And with a mark secures the harmless one,
To drink at night-time till his work be done;
For all that night he looks to have no sleep,
So well he means to hide his golden heap.
And thus thrice arm'd, and full of murderous glee,
Back to the murderous two returneth he.
What needeth more? for even as their plan
Had shaped his death, right so hath died the man;
And even as the flasks in train were set,
His heirs and scorners fall into his net.
Had shaped his death, right so hath died the man;
And even as the flasks in train were set,
His heirs and scorners fall into his net.
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“Ace thrown,” quoth one, smiling a smile full grim;
Now for his wine, and then we'll bury him.”
Now for his wine, and then we'll bury him.”
And seizing the two flasks, each held his breath
With eyes to heav'n, and deep he drank his death.
With eyes to heav'n, and deep he drank his death.
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