The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer modernis'd by several hands. Publsh'd by Mr. Oggle |
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PROLOGUE TO THE Merchant's TALE. |
 | The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer |  |
PROLOGUE TO THE Merchant's TALE.
By Mr. OGLE.
Well clos'd! (The Merchant thus applauds the Squire)
Your Tale is full of Fancy and of Fire.
You show, (He adds) to say no more than Truth,
A most surprizing Genius, for a Youth.
To cloath each Image in it's proper Dress,
And to design as well as to express,
Inclines my sober Judgement to presage,
You will not find your Match in riper Age.
If but so long your Thread of Life be spun,
And you persist to end as You begun;
In Glory you must set (so Heav'n dispose
Your Future Fate) in Splendor as You rose.
Now by the Holy Trinity I swear,
Blest, cou'd I die this Hour, in such an Heir.
More Blest, than if this Hour I cou'd command
Ten Thousand Marks a-year, in solid Land.
Not that I want—some Fortune I have made—
And all the World esteems me rich in Trade.
But 'tis a Pain to live at large Expence,
For One, that Spirit wants as well as Sense.
Such is my Son! Whom, heartily I hate!
What, is the Man, (quoth I) not what, is his Estate?
Your Tale is full of Fancy and of Fire.
You show, (He adds) to say no more than Truth,
A most surprizing Genius, for a Youth.
To cloath each Image in it's proper Dress,
And to design as well as to express,
Inclines my sober Judgement to presage,
You will not find your Match in riper Age.
If but so long your Thread of Life be spun,
And you persist to end as You begun;
In Glory you must set (so Heav'n dispose
Your Future Fate) in Splendor as You rose.
2
Blest, cou'd I die this Hour, in such an Heir.
More Blest, than if this Hour I cou'd command
Ten Thousand Marks a-year, in solid Land.
Not that I want—some Fortune I have made—
And all the World esteems me rich in Trade.
But 'tis a Pain to live at large Expence,
For One, that Spirit wants as well as Sense.
Such is my Son! Whom, heartily I hate!
What, is the Man, (quoth I) not what, is his Estate?
It joy'd Me, when I turn'd Him Boy to School;
It griev'd me sore, when He return'd a Fool.
But Scholars flourish thro' a Lucky Sign;
And rare to meet, as Layman or Divine!
Well! Soldier He shall be. I bought Him Lace;
The Rest He had, a Person, and a Face!
And soon He learn'd the Military Art,
And soon He lost his Post, for Want of Heart!
This sham'd Me much, and robb'd Me of my Wife;
Love of my Youth! And Comfort of my Life!
I join'd Him then, my Commerce to attend;
He join'd Me, but to dissipate, and spend.
Now, that my Turn is Frugal, I admit;
Yet I am something gen'rous, for a Cit.
Plain as I go, or when I walk, or ride;
The Lord, that owes Me Money, gives me Pride.
And had I such a Son, as cou'd but write,
As Authors wrote; as Soldiers fought, wou'd fight;
Cit as I am, that Son I wou'd support.—
But Mine, will drink with Footmen of the Court.
With Knaves, at Dice, All I cou'd save, wou'd waste,
Nor knows one Man of Sense, or Man of Taste.
It griev'd me sore, when He return'd a Fool.
But Scholars flourish thro' a Lucky Sign;
And rare to meet, as Layman or Divine!
Well! Soldier He shall be. I bought Him Lace;
The Rest He had, a Person, and a Face!
And soon He learn'd the Military Art,
And soon He lost his Post, for Want of Heart!
3
Love of my Youth! And Comfort of my Life!
I join'd Him then, my Commerce to attend;
He join'd Me, but to dissipate, and spend.
Now, that my Turn is Frugal, I admit;
Yet I am something gen'rous, for a Cit.
Plain as I go, or when I walk, or ride;
The Lord, that owes Me Money, gives me Pride.
And had I such a Son, as cou'd but write,
As Authors wrote; as Soldiers fought, wou'd fight;
Cit as I am, that Son I wou'd support.—
But Mine, will drink with Footmen of the Court.
With Knaves, at Dice, All I cou'd save, wou'd waste,
Nor knows one Man of Sense, or Man of Taste.
I doubt, not much is gain'd, (return'd our Host)
By that same Sense, and Taste, tho' much is lost.
But, Merchant, let me mind You of your Tale;
My Bill is drawn on Sight! You will not fail?
By that same Sense, and Taste, tho' much is lost.
But, Merchant, let me mind You of your Tale;
My Bill is drawn on Sight! You will not fail?
4
Not (quoth the Merchant) tho' You take Me hors'd,
Suppose it but accepted and indors'd.
The Squire will well excuse me what was said;
I only wish'd my Son, so turn'd, and bred!
Suppose it but accepted and indors'd.
The Squire will well excuse me what was said;
I only wish'd my Son, so turn'd, and bred!
In that (rejoin'd our Host) the Man is right;
But Cits grow tedious, as they grow Polite:
The Twine will break, too nicely that You spin.
Begin! Enough of this! Enough! Begin!—
But Cits grow tedious, as they grow Polite:
The Twine will break, too nicely that You spin.
Begin! Enough of this! Enough! Begin!—
The Merchant, then. Your Mandate I obey;
Sir Host! I hold you Sov'reign for the Day.
Gracious, receive, what humbly is addrest,
So pleasing One, I hope to please the Rest.
Sir Host! I hold you Sov'reign for the Day.
Gracious, receive, what humbly is addrest,
So pleasing One, I hope to please the Rest.
Yet grant Me, first to wail, if not atone,
A greater Ill; a Folly of my own!
For Store of Rancor, Malice, Spleen, and Spite,
Have I, from ev'ry Morn, to ev'ry Night!
No Peace at Table, and no Rest in Bed!
The Case of most, so hardy, as to wed;
For mine, I trow, is not a single Case:
Ev'n here are More, that wear the Marry'd Face.
Yet am I One of Those, supremely curst,
Plague'd with a Wife, of wicked Wives, the Worst!
Yok'd to the Fiend, the Foremost to rebel;
My Help-mate wou'd out-devil, the Devil in Hell.
To blame Her, here or there, wou'd be to wrong
The Compass of her Temper, or her Tongue!
Nor This, nor That, her special Vice I call;
Her, First, or Last! She is a Shrew at All!
A greater Ill; a Folly of my own!
For Store of Rancor, Malice, Spleen, and Spite,
Have I, from ev'ry Morn, to ev'ry Night!
5
The Case of most, so hardy, as to wed;
For mine, I trow, is not a single Case:
Ev'n here are More, that wear the Marry'd Face.
Yet am I One of Those, supremely curst,
Plague'd with a Wife, of wicked Wives, the Worst!
Yok'd to the Fiend, the Foremost to rebel;
My Help-mate wou'd out-devil, the Devil in Hell.
To blame Her, here or there, wou'd be to wrong
The Compass of her Temper, or her Tongue!
Nor This, nor That, her special Vice I call;
Her, First, or Last! She is a Shrew at All!
Long is the Distance, and the Diff'rence wide,
'Twixt humble Grizild, and my haughty Bride!
Unfetter'd once, so may I trade and thrive,
As Nought shou'd teach my Heart again to wive.
Cage'd, soon as caught in the Connubial Snare,
We dance one Round of Slav'ry, and of Care.
Who takes a Wife, will find it to his Cost;
The Freedom, and the Ease of Life is lost.
Try, he that will, the Matrimonial State,
This, will He own a Truth, or soon, or late.
By holy Thomas, the good Saint of Inde,
Deceitful is the Sex; a slipp'ry Kind.
This, of the greater Part, I mean to say;
For One-and-All, wou'd be the Devil-to-pay!
'Twixt humble Grizild, and my haughty Bride!
Unfetter'd once, so may I trade and thrive,
As Nought shou'd teach my Heart again to wive.
Cage'd, soon as caught in the Connubial Snare,
We dance one Round of Slav'ry, and of Care.
6
The Freedom, and the Ease of Life is lost.
Try, he that will, the Matrimonial State,
This, will He own a Truth, or soon, or late.
By holy Thomas, the good Saint of Inde,
Deceitful is the Sex; a slipp'ry Kind.
This, of the greater Part, I mean to say;
For One-and-All, wou'd be the Devil-to-pay!
Here, shou'd You ask me, my right honest Host,
How long since I was shipwreck'd on the Coast?
With this my Second Choice what Time has past?
(Peace to my First of Wives, for this my Last!)
How long? You scarce will take it on my Word,
Two Months are past, We enter on a Third.
For slightly here to touch, not fully paint,
This marry'd Fiend of an unmarry'd Saint,
Who caught me with the Farce of Love she play'd,
But singly priz'd me for my Stock in Trade;
This Scold of Mine, keeps one Eternal Round,
Sure, never Youth to Age in Wedlock bound,
In Course of Years indur'd such Noise and Strife!
Her Lesson of an Hour wou'd marr his Life!
How long since I was shipwreck'd on the Coast?
With this my Second Choice what Time has past?
(Peace to my First of Wives, for this my Last!)
How long? You scarce will take it on my Word,
Two Months are past, We enter on a Third.
For slightly here to touch, not fully paint,
This marry'd Fiend of an unmarry'd Saint,
Who caught me with the Farce of Love she play'd,
But singly priz'd me for my Stock in Trade;
7
Sure, never Youth to Age in Wedlock bound,
In Course of Years indur'd such Noise and Strife!
Her Lesson of an Hour wou'd marr his Life!
We will not doubt your Word, (our Host reply'd.)
Yet some their Talents in a Napkin hide.
Now you that are a Master of the Art,
Conceal not all your Knowledge, but impart.
Yet some their Talents in a Napkin hide.
Now you that are a Master of the Art,
Conceal not all your Knowledge, but impart.
Sir, (says the Merchant) 'tis the Thing I mean!
The Thing You seek; a Matrimonial Scene!
Not that my proper Farce I will disclose,
But laugh, as Others laugh, at Other's Woes;
None but the Fool his own Concern reveals;
For Who feels Pain for what his Neighbour feels?
The Thing You seek; a Matrimonial Scene!
Not that my proper Farce I will disclose,
But laugh, as Others laugh, at Other's Woes;
None but the Fool his own Concern reveals;
For Who feels Pain for what his Neighbour feels?
End of the Prologue.
| The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer | |