Playful Poems | Page 9

him the sweetest wine
In 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 ware
A 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 went
Of Jews' work, and most
excellent;
Full strong was every plate;
And over that his coat
armoure,
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 fytte
Of this my tale, a gallant
strain;
And if ye will hear more of it,

I'll soon begin again.
FYTTE THE SECOND.
1.
Now hold your speech for charity,
Both gallant knight and lady
free,
And hearken to my song
Of battle and of chivalry,
Of ladies'
love and minstrelsy,
All ambling thus along.

2.
Men speak much of old tales, I know;
Of Hornchild, Ipotis, also

Of Bevis and Sir Guy;
Of Sire Libeaux, and Pleindamour;
But
Sire Thopas, he is the flower
Of real chivalry.
3.
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.
4.
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 night
On herbs both fine and good.
5.
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.]
EPILOGUE TO RIME.
"No more of this, for Heaven's high dignity!"
Quoth then our Host,
"for, lo! thou makest me
So 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 me
Tell 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."
CHAUCER'S FRIAR'S TALE; or, THE SUMNER AND THE DEVIL

MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.
There lived, sirs, in my country, formerly,
A wondrous great
archdeacon,--who but he?
Who boldly did the work of his high

station
In punishing improper conversation,
And all the slidings
thereunto belonging;
Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wronging

Of holy Church, by blinking of her dues
In sacraments and
contracts, wills and pews;
Usury furthermore, and simony;
But
people of ill lives most loathed he:
Lord! how he made them sing if
they were caught.
And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taught

Never 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 dereliction
Came, 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 spies
To 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 let
The 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 take
Poor wretches up, feigning it for Christ's sake,

And threatening the poor