The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer modernis'd by several hands. Publsh'd by Mr. Oggle |
 | I. |
 | II. |
PROLOGUE, TO THE Man of Law's TALE. |
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 | The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer |  |
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PROLOGUE, TO THE Man of Law's TALE.
By Mr. OGLE.
Our Host, who view'd the Progress of the Sun,
Judg'd to a Point how far he had to run;
Found, they had us'd, to light them on their Way
A Fourth and more of his Diurnal Ray:
Whence, tho' not deep expert in learned Lore,
No sage Astronomer cou'd gather more.
Of April this he knew the eighteenth Day,
April, the show'ry Messenger of May!
And well he mark'd, that ev'ry Tree display'd,
Proportion'd to it's Rise, a Fall of Shade;
Whose Length was just in Quantity the same,
As was erect the Body, whence it came.
Hence cou'd he count, (nor vainly I admit,
Tho' from a Shadow he assum'd his Wit)
That now the Sun, who shone so clear and bright,
Had reach'd his forty-fifth Degree of Height;
And that the Hour was Ten, cou'd plain descry,
No Astrolabe consulting, but his Eye.
So suddenly, about he turns his Steed;
“Proceed, he cries, for sake of Heav'n, proceed!
“I warn you all, by Christ and by Saint John,
“A Fourth already of the Day is gone.
“It pains me to observe the Time you waste;
“The Time, that flies away with winged Haste;
“Can ought retard her, or in Durance keep?
“She passes, tho' we wake, or tho' we sleep.
“Swift as the Stream, that ne'er returns again,
“Descending from the Mountain to the Plain.
“'Tis wise, what one, call'd Seneca, has told;
“That Loss of Time is worse than Loss of Gold!
“Your Steed, tho' stole, again you may re-see!
“The Day, that was, clos'd never more to Be!
“No more to Be! than Malkin's Virgin Flow'r!
“Shou'd Malkin lose it in a careless Hour.
Judg'd to a Point how far he had to run;
Found, they had us'd, to light them on their Way
A Fourth and more of his Diurnal Ray:
Whence, tho' not deep expert in learned Lore,
No sage Astronomer cou'd gather more.
Of April this he knew the eighteenth Day,
April, the show'ry Messenger of May!
And well he mark'd, that ev'ry Tree display'd,
Proportion'd to it's Rise, a Fall of Shade;
Whose Length was just in Quantity the same,
As was erect the Body, whence it came.
98
Tho' from a Shadow he assum'd his Wit)
That now the Sun, who shone so clear and bright,
Had reach'd his forty-fifth Degree of Height;
And that the Hour was Ten, cou'd plain descry,
No Astrolabe consulting, but his Eye.
So suddenly, about he turns his Steed;
“Proceed, he cries, for sake of Heav'n, proceed!
“I warn you all, by Christ and by Saint John,
“A Fourth already of the Day is gone.
“It pains me to observe the Time you waste;
“The Time, that flies away with winged Haste;
“Can ought retard her, or in Durance keep?
“She passes, tho' we wake, or tho' we sleep.
“Swift as the Stream, that ne'er returns again,
“Descending from the Mountain to the Plain.
“'Tis wise, what one, call'd Seneca, has told;
“That Loss of Time is worse than Loss of Gold!
“Your Steed, tho' stole, again you may re-see!
“The Day, that was, clos'd never more to Be!
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“Shou'd Malkin lose it in a careless Hour.
“Then let us use Dispatch. Sir Man of Law,
“Give us a Tale, a Tale without a Flaw!
“Acquit you of your Word, to join our Sport,
“And think my Sentence, a Decree of Court.
“You promis'd by my Judgment to abide.”
‘Brother, agreed! the Sergeant strait reply'd.
‘To break the Rule, I never once inclin'd;
‘A Word is binding, as a Parchment sign'd!
‘A Promise is an Obligation strong,
‘And may be term'd a Debt; a Debt of Tongue!
‘Besides such Law for others as we make
‘In Equity, from others we shou'd take.
‘This is my full Opinion on the Case;
‘This! tho' the Proof may bring me to Disgrace.
‘For not in Company to seem precise,
‘What pleasing Tale of Love should I devise?
‘Full, in my Way, our Chaucer stands alone,
‘All Ovid's Heroins has he made his own.
‘And if you miss them, I affirm it, Brother,
‘In one Book, you will find them in another.
‘Nay, many a Dame he adds to Ovid's Store,
‘Full many a gentle Dame that sigh'd of Yore!
‘New is the Language, tho' the Story old;
‘Nor will I tell again, what he has told.
“Give us a Tale, a Tale without a Flaw!
“Acquit you of your Word, to join our Sport,
“And think my Sentence, a Decree of Court.
“You promis'd by my Judgment to abide.”
‘Brother, agreed! the Sergeant strait reply'd.
‘To break the Rule, I never once inclin'd;
‘A Word is binding, as a Parchment sign'd!
‘A Promise is an Obligation strong,
‘And may be term'd a Debt; a Debt of Tongue!
‘Besides such Law for others as we make
‘In Equity, from others we shou'd take.
‘This is my full Opinion on the Case;
‘This! tho' the Proof may bring me to Disgrace.
‘For not in Company to seem precise,
‘What pleasing Tale of Love should I devise?
‘Full, in my Way, our Chaucer stands alone,
‘All Ovid's Heroins has he made his own.
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‘In one Book, you will find them in another.
‘Nay, many a Dame he adds to Ovid's Store,
‘Full many a gentle Dame that sigh'd of Yore!
‘New is the Language, tho' the Story old;
‘Nor will I tell again, what he has told.
‘Alcyone, in Youth, he made his Theme,
‘Warn'd of the Fate of Ceyx in a Dream.
‘And, grown to Age, he drew with bolder Pen,
‘The Praise of Women, wrong'd by faithless Men.
‘A large Collection, if you chuse to read!
‘Of injur'd Females, that lament, or bleed.
‘There may you see, how chaste Lucretia died,
‘The deadly Dagger plunging in her Side!
‘How Thisbe breath'd her Passion thro' the Wall,
‘And fell, since Pyramus was doom'd to fall!
‘How Dido rag'd, when false Æneas fled,
‘His Sword the sad Companion of her Bed!
‘Her Plaint how Phillis to Demophoon sends,
‘And high in Air her beauteous Form suspends!
‘The poison'd Gift how Deianira blam'd,
‘Nor wou'd have kill'd Alcides, but reclaim'd!
‘How wail'd Hermione her luckless Fates,
‘Forc'd, from the Man she loves, by him she hates.
‘Her golden Locks how Ariadne tore,
‘By Theseus left, on Naxos' desert Shore!
‘How Helen own'd a Pain, that damp'd her Joy,
‘The double Ill she brought to Greece and Troy!
‘Her Lord, how meek Briseis to reprove,
‘For that his Wrath was stronger than his Love!
‘How great Hypsipile makes humble Moan,
‘By Jason scorn'd, for all her Lemnian Throne;
‘Whose Heart Medea failing to retain,
‘She left him to deplore their Children slain.
‘How Hero plac'd the Love-alluring Light,
‘Thy Guide, Leander, thro' the stormy Night;
‘But when she spy'd thee, breathless on the Wave,
‘Down from her Tow'r she sought one wat'ry Grave!
‘How Laodamia urg'd her forceful Plea,
‘Care of thy self, oh! take, 'tis Care of me!
‘How Hypermnestra spar'd her Husband's Life,
‘And nobly lost the Daughter in the Wife!
‘How sage Penelope her Spouse incites,
‘He comes, who loves; Ulysses comes, not writes!
‘And how her Life Alcestes greatly ends,
‘To save her Lord, deserted by his Friends!
‘For virtuous Wives, as all the Fair attest,
‘Our Bard displays, and praises with the Best.
‘Warn'd of the Fate of Ceyx in a Dream.
‘And, grown to Age, he drew with bolder Pen,
‘The Praise of Women, wrong'd by faithless Men.
‘A large Collection, if you chuse to read!
‘Of injur'd Females, that lament, or bleed.
‘There may you see, how chaste Lucretia died,
‘The deadly Dagger plunging in her Side!
‘How Thisbe breath'd her Passion thro' the Wall,
‘And fell, since Pyramus was doom'd to fall!
‘How Dido rag'd, when false Æneas fled,
‘His Sword the sad Companion of her Bed!
‘Her Plaint how Phillis to Demophoon sends,
‘And high in Air her beauteous Form suspends!
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‘Nor wou'd have kill'd Alcides, but reclaim'd!
‘How wail'd Hermione her luckless Fates,
‘Forc'd, from the Man she loves, by him she hates.
‘Her golden Locks how Ariadne tore,
‘By Theseus left, on Naxos' desert Shore!
‘How Helen own'd a Pain, that damp'd her Joy,
‘The double Ill she brought to Greece and Troy!
‘Her Lord, how meek Briseis to reprove,
‘For that his Wrath was stronger than his Love!
‘How great Hypsipile makes humble Moan,
‘By Jason scorn'd, for all her Lemnian Throne;
‘Whose Heart Medea failing to retain,
‘She left him to deplore their Children slain.
‘How Hero plac'd the Love-alluring Light,
‘Thy Guide, Leander, thro' the stormy Night;
‘But when she spy'd thee, breathless on the Wave,
‘Down from her Tow'r she sought one wat'ry Grave!
‘How Laodamia urg'd her forceful Plea,
‘Care of thy self, oh! take, 'tis Care of me!
102
‘And nobly lost the Daughter in the Wife!
‘How sage Penelope her Spouse incites,
‘He comes, who loves; Ulysses comes, not writes!
‘And how her Life Alcestes greatly ends,
‘To save her Lord, deserted by his Friends!
‘For virtuous Wives, as all the Fair attest,
‘Our Bard displays, and praises with the Best.
‘Yet never wou'd he write, nor cou'd approve,
‘How Canace indulg'd fraternal Love!
‘How Tereus rob'd a Sister of her Tongue;
‘Well by his Wife dismember'd for the Wrong.
‘How his own Tyro curst Salmoneus try'd;
‘How Byblis Caunus woo'd, too-near ally'd!
‘By Stealth how Myrrha with her Father lay,
‘But scarce escap'd his Rage at Dawn of Day!
‘How from Antiochus his Daughter fled,
‘Drag'd by the Hair to his incestuous Bed!
‘How Canace indulg'd fraternal Love!
‘How Tereus rob'd a Sister of her Tongue;
‘Well by his Wife dismember'd for the Wrong.
‘How his own Tyro curst Salmoneus try'd;
‘How Byblis Caunus woo'd, too-near ally'd!
‘By Stealth how Myrrha with her Father lay,
‘But scarce escap'd his Rage at Dawn of Day!
‘How from Antiochus his Daughter fled,
‘Drag'd by the Hair to his incestuous Bed!
These he omits, as Loves unworthy Praise;
‘Abominations foul of ancient Days!
‘What, from the Pen of easy Ovid, scapes,
‘Where, various Bodies change, to various Shapes;
‘Where ev'ry Age, is search'd, and ev'ry Clime,
‘To bring Creation down to Cæsar's Time.
‘Nor mean I here such Scandal to reherse,
‘Nor stain with such Impurity my Verse.
‘Verse, did I say, unpractis'd to compose!
‘My Prose accept, or Verse ally'd to Prose!
‘A Man of Law with Ease you will excuse,
‘If rude his Rhyme; Astrœa, is his Muse.
‘Little, she knows, to Periods what belongs,
‘Nor aims at Strains as soft as Ovid's Songs.
‘Yet shall she try, no Matter tho' she fail,
‘To tell of Love, a not dishonest Tale;
‘So, as when Philomela leaves to sing,
‘The Thrush presumes to hail the common Spring!’
Then smiling on our Host, with sober Cheer,
He thus began, as you shall after hear.
‘Abominations foul of ancient Days!
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‘Where, various Bodies change, to various Shapes;
‘Where ev'ry Age, is search'd, and ev'ry Clime,
‘To bring Creation down to Cæsar's Time.
‘Nor mean I here such Scandal to reherse,
‘Nor stain with such Impurity my Verse.
‘Verse, did I say, unpractis'd to compose!
‘My Prose accept, or Verse ally'd to Prose!
‘A Man of Law with Ease you will excuse,
‘If rude his Rhyme; Astrœa, is his Muse.
‘Little, she knows, to Periods what belongs,
‘Nor aims at Strains as soft as Ovid's Songs.
‘Yet shall she try, no Matter tho' she fail,
‘To tell of Love, a not dishonest Tale;
‘So, as when Philomela leaves to sing,
‘The Thrush presumes to hail the common Spring!’
Then smiling on our Host, with sober Cheer,
He thus began, as you shall after hear.
End of the Prologue.
| The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer | |