 | Chaucer's incensed Ghost |  |
CHAVCERS incensed Ghost.
From the frequented Path where Mortals tread,
Old-aged CHAVCER having long retir'd,
Now to revisit Earth at last desir'd,
Hath from the dead rais'd his impalled head,
Of purpose to converse with humane seed,
And taxe them too, for bringing him o'th Stage
In writing that He knew not in his age.
Old-aged CHAVCER having long retir'd,
Now to revisit Earth at last desir'd,
Hath from the dead rais'd his impalled head,
Of purpose to converse with humane seed,
And taxe them too, for bringing him o'th Stage
In writing that He knew not in his age.
Las; is it fit the stories of that Book,
Couch'd and compil'd in such a various forme;
Which Art and Nature joyntly did adorne,
On whose quaint Tales succeeding ages look,
Should now lie stifled in the steems of Smoak,
As if no Poets Genius could be ripe
Without the influence of Pot and Pipe?
Couch'd and compil'd in such a various forme;
Which Art and Nature joyntly did adorne,
On whose quaint Tales succeeding ages look,
Should now lie stifled in the steems of Smoak,
As if no Poets Genius could be ripe
Without the influence of Pot and Pipe?
No, no, yee English Moors, my Muse was fed
With purer substance than your Indian weede;
My breathing Nosethrils were from Vapors freede,
With Nectar and Ambrosia nourished,
While Hospitality so flourished
In Great mens Kitchins: where I now suppose,
Lesse Smoake comes from their Chimneyes than their nose.
With purer substance than your Indian weede;
My breathing Nosethrils were from Vapors freede,
With Nectar and Ambrosia nourished,
While Hospitality so flourished
In Great mens Kitchins: where I now suppose,
Lesse Smoake comes from their Chimneyes than their nose.
But I heare some prepar'd to question mee,
The reason why I am so freely bent
In such sad straines to publish my complaint;
Or what strict M{ano}thrept that man should bee,
Who h'as done Chaucer such an injurie;
Whose tongue, though weake, yet is his heart as strong,
To call them to account that did him wrong.
The reason why I am so freely bent
In such sad straines to publish my complaint;
Or what strict M{ano}thrept that man should bee,
Who h'as done Chaucer such an injurie;
Whose tongue, though weake, yet is his heart as strong,
To call them to account that did him wrong.
I'le tell it yee, and must expect redresse;
Would any of you hold it not a blot
To father such a Brat hee never got?
Or would he not ingenuously confesse,
Hee'd rather with himselfe quite issuelesse?
Conceive this well; for if it be a crime,
As sure it is, such is the case of mine.
Would any of you hold it not a blot
To father such a Brat hee never got?
Or would he not ingenuously confesse,
Hee'd rather with himselfe quite issuelesse?
Conceive this well; for if it be a crime,
As sure it is, such is the case of mine.
Downe by a secret Vault as I descended,
Pent in with darknesse save some little ray,
Which by a private cranie made his way,
By helpe where of I saw what me offended,
Yet found no meanes to have the fault amended.
Fixt to a Post, (such was poore Chaucers lot)
I found my name to that I never wrot.
Pent in with darknesse save some little ray,
Which by a private cranie made his way,
By helpe where of I saw what me offended,
Yet found no meanes to have the fault amended.
Fixt to a Post, (such was poore Chaucers lot)
I found my name to that I never wrot.
And what might be the Subject? no relation
Sad, solid, serious, morall, or divine,
Which sorted with the humours of my time,
But a late Negro's introduced fashion,
Who brought his Drugs here to corrupt our Nation.
'Gainst which, because it's used in excesse,
My Muse must mount, that she may it suppresse.
Sad, solid, serious, morall, or divine,
Which sorted with the humours of my time,
But a late Negro's introduced fashion,
Who brought his Drugs here to corrupt our Nation.
'Gainst which, because it's used in excesse,
My Muse must mount, that she may it suppresse.
Now some may well object, as many will,
This Taske addes rather glory to my name,
Than any way seemes to impaire the same;
But I say no; Chaucer would thinke it ill
To plant Tobacco on Parnassus hill;
Sacred the Synod of the Muses bee,
Nor can such Weeds spring from Apollo's tree.
This Taske addes rather glory to my name,
Than any way seemes to impaire the same;
But I say no; Chaucer would thinke it ill
To plant Tobacco on Parnassus hill;
Sacred the Synod of the Muses bee,
Nor can such Weeds spring from Apollo's tree.
Besides, what danger might Prescription bring!
For had the use of it been knowne to me,
It might have pleaded well antiquitie;
But th'Poets of my time knew no such thing,
How could they then of such a subject sing?
No; th'age we liv'd was form'd of milder stuffe,
Then to take ought, like Male contents, in snuffe.
For had the use of it been knowne to me,
It might have pleaded well antiquitie;
But th'Poets of my time knew no such thing,
How could they then of such a subject sing?
No; th'age we liv'd was form'd of milder stuffe,
Then to take ought, like Male contents, in snuffe.
Pure are the Crystall streames of Hippocrene;
Choice the dimensions which her Bards expresse;
Cleare is their heart as th'Art which they professe;
How should they relish then ought that's uncleane,
Or waste their oyle about a Smoaky dreame?
Farre bee't Minerva should consume her Taper
In giving life or lustre to a Vapor.
Choice the dimensions which her Bards expresse;
Cleare is their heart as th'Art which they professe;
How should they relish then ought that's uncleane,
Or waste their oyle about a Smoaky dreame?
Farre bee't Minerva should consume her Taper
In giving life or lustre to a Vapor.
The
TALES I told, if morally applide,
How light soe're, or wanton to the show,
Yet they in very deed were nothing so;
For were the marke they aym'd at but descride,
Even in these dayes they would be verifide;
And like Sybillas Oracles esteem'd,
Worth worlds of wealth, how light soe're they seem'd,
How light soe're, or wanton to the show,
Yet they in very deed were nothing so;
For were the marke they aym'd at but descride,
Even in these dayes they would be verifide;
And like Sybillas Oracles esteem'd,
Worth worlds of wealth, how light soe're they seem'd,
Witnesse my Miller, and my Carpenter,
The amorous stories of my wife of Bath,
Which such variety of humours hath;
My Priour, Manciple, and Almoner,
My subtile Summer, and the Messenger;
All which, though moulded in another age,
Have rais'd new Subjects both for Presse and Stage.
The amorous stories of my wife of Bath,
Which such variety of humours hath;
My Priour, Manciple, and Almoner,
My subtile Summer, and the Messenger;
All which, though moulded in another age,
Have rais'd new Subjects both for Presse and Stage.
Yet note these times disrelishing my tongue,
Whose Idioms-distaste by nicer men
Hath made me mince it like a Citizen!
Which Chaucer holds a manifest wrong,
To force him leave what he had us'd so long:
Yea, he dislikes this polishing of Art,
Which may refine the Core, but spoiles the heart.
Whose Idioms-distaste by nicer men
Hath made me mince it like a Citizen!
Which Chaucer holds a manifest wrong,
To force him leave what he had us'd so long:
Yea, he dislikes this polishing of Art,
Which may refine the Core, but spoiles the heart.
But yet in serious sadnesse I impute
This to no fate or destiny of mine,
But to the barraine Brain-wormes of this time;
Whose Muse lesse pregnant, present or acute,
Affording nought that with the age may sute,
Like to the truant Bee, or Lazie Drone,
Robbo other Bee-hives of their hony-combe.
This to no fate or destiny of mine,
But to the barraine Brain-wormes of this time;
Whose Muse lesse pregnant, present or acute,
Affording nought that with the age may sute,
Like to the truant Bee, or Lazie Drone,
Robbo other Bee-hives of their hony-combe.
And which is worse, this Worke they make their owne,
Which they have pruned, purged and refin'd,
And aptly form'd it to the Authors mind;
When I'm assured, if the truth were knowne,
They reape the Crop which was by others sowne.
Yea, these usurpers to that passe are brought,
They'l foyst in that wee neither said nor thought.
Which they have pruned, purged and refin'd,
And aptly form'd it to the Authors mind;
When I'm assured, if the truth were knowne,
They reape the Crop which was by others sowne.
Yea, these usurpers to that passe are brought,
They'l foyst in that wee neither said nor thought.
This, This it was incens'd old Chaucers Ghost,
And caus'd him vent his passion in this sort,
And for a while to leave th'Elysian Court,
Where honest Authors are esteemed most;
But such as on the Deadmans Labours boast
Excluded are, enjoyn'd by Fate to won
Vpon the scorching Banks of Phlegeton.
And caus'd him vent his passion in this sort,
And for a while to leave th'Elysian Court,
Where honest Authors are esteemed most;
But such as on the Deadmans Labours boast
Excluded are, enjoyn'd by Fate to won
Vpon the scorching Banks of Phlegeton.
Yee then, whose measures merit well the Name
And Title yee retaine, Poets, I meane,
Bedew'd with influence from Hippocrene,
As yee Professants seeme, so be the same,
And with your owne Pennes eternize your fame;
Shun these Pipe-Pageants; for there seldome come
Tobacco-Factors to Elysium.
And Title yee retaine, Poets, I meane,
Bedew'd with influence from Hippocrene,
As yee Professants seeme, so be the same,
And with your owne Pennes eternize your fame;
Shun these Pipe-Pageants; for there seldome come
Tobacco-Factors to Elysium.
FINIS.
| Chaucer's incensed Ghost | |