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10 This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.
PLAYFUL POEMS, (by various authors)
EDITED AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION
CHAUCER'S MANCIPLE'S TALE OF PHOEBUS AND THE CROW
Modernised by LEIGH HUNT.
CHAUCER'S RIME OF SIR THOPAS
Modernised by Z. A. Z.
CHAUCER'S FRIAR'S TALE; OR, THE SUMNER AND THE DEVIL
Modernised by LEIGH HUNT.
CHAUCER'S REVE'S TALE
Modernised by R. H. HORNE.
CHAUCER'S POEM OF THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE
Modernised by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
GOWER'S TREASURE TROVE
Modernised from the fifth book of the CONFESSIO AMANTIS.
LYDGATE'S LONDON LICKPENNY
LYDGATE'S BICORN AND CHICHEVACHE
DUNBAR'S BEST TO BE BLYTH
DRAYTON'S DOWSABELL
DRAYTON'S NYMPHIDIA
POPE'S RAPE OF THE LOCK
COWPER'S JOHN GILPIN
BURNS'S TAM O'SHANTER
HOOD'S DEMON SHIP
HOOD'S TALE OF A TRUMPET
GLOSSARY
NOTES
THE GAME OF OMBRE
INTRODUCTION
The last volume of these "Companion Poets" contained some of
Chaucer's Tales as they were modernised by Dryden. This volume
contains more of his Tales as they were modernised by later poets.
In 1841 there was a volume published entitled, "The Poems of
Geoffrey Chaucer Modernized." Of this volume, when it was first
projected, Wordsworth wrote to Moxon, his publisher, on the 24th of
February 1840: "Mr. Powell, my friend, has some thought of
preparing for publication some portion of Chaucer modernised, as far
and no farther than is done in my treatment of 'The Prioress' Tale.'
That would, in fact, be his model. He will have coadjutors, among
whom, I believe, will be Mr. Leigh Hunt, a man as capable of doing
the work well as any living writer. I have placed at my friend Mr.
Powell's disposal three other pieces which I did long ago, but
revised the other day. They are 'The Manciple's Tale,' 'The Cuckoo
and the Nightingale,' and twenty-four stanzas of 'Troilus and
Cressida.' This I have done mainly out of my love and reverence for
Chaucer, in hopes that, whatever may be the merits of Mr. Powell's
attempt, the attention of other writers may be drawn to the subject;
and a work hereafter produced, by different persons, which will
place the treasures of one of the greatest of poets within the reach
of the multitude, which now they are not. I mention all this to you
because, though I have not given Mr. Powell the least encouragement
to do so, he may sound you as to your disposition to undertake the
publication. I have myself nothing further to do with it than I
have stated. Had the thing been suggested to me by any number of
competent persons twenty years ago, I would have undertaken the
editorship and done much more myself, and endeavoured to improve the
several contributions where they seemed to require it. But that is
now out of the question."
Wordsworth had made his versions of Chaucer in the year 1801. "The
Prioress's Tale" had been published in 1820, so that only the three
pieces he had revised for his friend's use were available, and of
these the Manciple's Tale was withdrawn, the version by Leigh Hunt
(which is among the pieces here reprinted) being used. The volume
was published in 1841, not by Moxon but by Whitaker. Wordsworth's
versions of "The Cuckoo and the Nightingale" (here reprinted), and
of a passage taken from "Troilus and Cressida," were included in it.
Leigh Hunt contributed versions of the Manciple's Tale and the
Friar's Tale (both here reprinted), and of the Squire's Tale.
Elizabeth A. Barrett, afterwards Mrs. Browning, contributed a
version of "Queen Annelida and False Arcite." Richard Hengist Horne
entered heartily into the venture, modernised the Prologue to the
Canterbury Tales, the Reve's Tale, and the Franklin's, and wrote an
Introduction of more than a hundred pages, to which Professor
Leonhard Schmitz added thirty-two pages of a Life of Chaucer.
Robert Bell, to whom we were afterwards indebted for an "Annotated
Edition of the English Poets," modernised the Complaint of Mars and
Venus. Thomas Powell, the editor, contributed his version of the
Legends of Ariadne, Philomene, and Phillis, and of "The Flower and
the Leaf," and a friend, who signed only as Z. A. Z, dealt with "The
Rime of Sir Thopas."
After the volume had appeared, Wordsworth thus wrote of it to
Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia: "There has recently been
published in London a volume of some of Chaucer's tales and poems
modernised; this little specimen originated in what I attempted with
'The Prioress' Tale,' and if the book should find its way to America
you will see in it two further specimens from myself. I had no
further connection with the publication than by making a present of
these to one of the contributors. Let me, however, recommend to
your notice the Prologue and the Franklin's Tale. They are both by
Mr. Horne, a gentleman unknown to me, but are--the latter in
particular--very well done. Mr. Leigh Hunt has not failed in the
Manciple's Tale, which I myself modernised many years ago; but
though I much admire the genius of Chaucer as displayed in this
performance, I could not place my version at the disposal of the
editor, as I deemed the subject somewhat too indelicate for pure
taste to be offered to the world at this time of day. Mr. Horne has
much hurt this publication by not abstaining from the Reve's Tale.
This, after making all allowance for the rude manners of Chaucer's
age, is intolerable; and by indispensably softening down the
incidents, he has killed the spirit of that humour, gross and
farcical, that pervades the original. When the work was first
mentioned to me, I protested as strongly as possible against
admitting any coarseness and indelicacy, so that my conscience is
clear of countenancing aught of that kind. So great is my
admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my reverence for
him. . . for spreading the light of Literature through his native
land, that, notwithstanding the defects and faults in this
publication, I am glad of it, as a means for making many acquainted
with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything
about him but his name."
Wordsworth's objection to the Manciple's Tale from Ovid's
Metamorphoses was an afterthought. He had begun by offering his
version of it for publication in this volume. His objection to
Horne's treatment of the Reve's Tale was reasonable enough. The
original tale was the sixth novel in the ninth day of the Decameron,
and probably was taken by Chaucer from a Fabliau by Jean de Boves,
"De Gombert et des Deux Clercs." The same story has been imitated
in the "Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," and in the "Berceau" of La
Fontaine. Horne's removal from the tale of everything that would
offend a modern reader was designed to enable thousands to find
pleasure in an old farcical piece that would otherwise be left
unread.
Chaucer's "Rime of Sir Thopas" was a playful jest on the long-winded
story-telling of the old romances, and had specially in mind Thomas
Chestre's version of Launfal from Marie of France, and the same
rhymer's romance of "Ly Beaus Disconus," who was Gingelein, a son of
Gawain, called by his mother, for his beauty, only Beaufis (handsome
son); but when he offered himself in that name to be knighted by
King Arthur, he was knighted and named by him Li Beaus Disconus (the
fair unknown). This is the method of the tediousness, in which it
showed itself akin to many a rhyming tale.
"And for love of his fair vis
His mother cleped him Beaufis,
And none other name;
And himselve was full nis,
He ne axed nought y-wis
What he hight at his dame.
"As it befel upon a day,
To wood he went on his play
Of deer to have his game;
He found a knight, where he lay
In armes that were stout and gay,
Y-slain and made full tame.
"That child did off the knightes wede,
And anon he gan him schrede
In that rich armour.
When he hadde do that dede,
To Glastenbury he gede,
There lay the King Arthour.
"He knelde in the hall
Before the knightes all,
And grette hem with honour,
And said: 'Arthour, my lord,
Grant me to speak a word,
I pray thee, par amour.
"'I am a child uncouth,
And come out of the south,
And would be made a knight,
Lord, I pray thee nouthe,
With thy merry mouthe,
Grant me anon right.'
"Then said Arthour the king,
'Anon, without dwelling,
Tell me thy name aplight!
For sethen I was ybore,
Ne found I me before
None so fair of sight.'
"That child said, 'By Saint Jame,
I not what is my name;
I am the more nis;
But while I was at hame
My mother, in her game,
Cleped me Beaufis.'
"Then said Arthour the king,
'This is a wonder thing
By God and Saint Denis!
When he that would be knight
Ne wot not what he hight,
And is so fair of vis.
"'Now will I give him a name
Before you all in same,
For he is so fair and free,
By God and by Saint Jame,
So cleped him ne'er his dame,
What woman so it be.
"'Now clepeth him all of us,
Li Beaus Disconus,
For the love of me!
Then may ye wite a rowe,
"'The Faire Unknowe,'
Certes, so hatte he"
John Gower's "Confessio Amantis" was a story book, like the
Canterbury Tales, with a contrivance of its own for stringing the
tales together, and Gower was at work on it nearly about the time
when his friend Chaucer was busy with his Pilgrims. The story here
extracted was an old favourite. It appeared in Greek about the year
800, in the romance of Barlaam and Josaphat. It was told by Vincent
of Beauvais in the year 1290 in his "Speculum Historiale;" and it
was used by Boccaccio for the first tale of the tenth day of his
"Decameron."
Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate were the old poetical triumvirate, though
Lydgate, who was about thirty years old when Chaucer died, has
slipped much out of mind. His verses on the adventures of the
Kentish rustic who came to London to get justice in the law courts,
and his words set to the action of an old piece of rustic mumming,
"Bicorn and Chichevache," here represent his vein of playfulness.
He was a monk who taught literature at Bury St. Edmunds, and was
justly looked upon as the chief poet of the generation who lived
after Chaucer's death.
Next follows in this volume a scrap of wise counsel to take life
cheerfully, from the Scottish poet, William Dunbar. He lived at the
Scottish Court of James the Fourth when Henry the Seventh reigned in
England, and who was our greatest poet of the north country before
Burns.
Next we come to the poets "who so did please Eliza and our James,"
and represent their playfulness by Drayton's "Dowsabell," and that
most exquisite of fairy pieces, his "Nymphidia," where Oberon
figures as the mad Orlando writ small, and Drayton earned his claim
to be the Fairies' Laureate, though Herrick, in the same vein,
followed close upon him. Michael Drayton, nearly of an age with
Shakespeare, was, like Shakespeare, a Warwickshire man. Empty
tradition says that Shakespeare died of a too festive supper shared
with his friend Drayton, who came to visit him.
Then follows in this volume the playful treatment of a quarrel
between friends, in Pope's "Rape of the Lock." Lord Petre, aged
twenty, audaciously cut from the head of Miss Arabella Fermor,
daughter of Mr. Fermor of Tusmore, a lock of her hair while she was
playing cards in the Queen's rooms at Hampton Court. Pope's friend,
Mr. Caryll, suggested to him that a mock heroic treatment of the
resulting quarrel might restore peace, and Pope wrote a poem in two
cantos, which was published in a Miscellany in 1712, Pope's age then
being twenty-four. But as epic poems required supernatural
machinery, Pope added afterwards to his mock epic the machinery of
sylphs and gnomes, suggested to him by the reading of a French
story, "Le Comte de Gabalis," by the Abbe Villars. Here there were
sylphs of the air and gnomes of the earth, little spirits who would
be in right proportion to the substance of his poem, which was
refashioned into five cantos, and republished as we have it now in
February 1714.
"John Gilpin" was written by William Cowper in the year 1782, when
Lady Austin was lodging in the Vicarage at Olney, and spent every
evening with Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, cheering Cowper greatly by her
liveliness. One evening she told the story of John Gilpin's ride in
a way that tickled the poet's fancy, set him laughing when he woke
up in the night, and obliged him to turn it next day into ballad
rhyme. Mrs. Unwin's son sent it to the Public Advertiser, for the
poet's corner. It was printed in that newspaper, and thought no
more of until about three years later. Then it was suggested to a
popular actor named Henderson, who gave entertainments of his own,
that this piece would tell well among his recitations. He
introduced it into his entertainments, and soon all the town was
running after John Gilpin as madly as the six gentlemen and the
post-boy.
John Gilpin's flight is followed in this volume by the flight of Tam
o' Shanter. Burns wrote "Tam o' Shanter" at Elliesland, and himself
considered it the best of all his poems. He told the story to
Captain Grose, as it was current among the people in his part of the
country, its scene laid almost on the spot where he was born.
Captain Grose, the antiquary, who was collecting materials for his
"Antiquities of Scotland," published in 1789-91, got Burns to
versify it and give it to him. The poem made its first appearance,
therefore, in Captain Grose's book. Mrs. Burns told of it that it
was the work of a day. Burns was most of the day on his favourite
walk by the river, where his wife and some of the children joined
him in the afternoon. Mrs. Burns saw that her husband was busily
engaged "crooning to himsell," and she loitered behind with the
little ones among the broom. Presently she was attracted by the
poet's strange and wild gesticulations; he seemed agonised with an
ungovernable joy. He was reciting very loud. Every circumstance
suggested to heighten the impression of fear in the lines following,
"By this time he was 'cross the ford
Where in the snaw the chapman smoored," etc.,
was taken from local tradition. Shanter was the real name of a farm
near Kirkoswald, then occupied by a Douglas Grahame, who was much of
Tam's character, and was well content to be called by his country
neighbours Tam o' Shanter for the rest of his life, after Burns had
made the name of the farm immortal.
Our selection ends with two pieces by Thomas Hood, whose "Tale of a
Trumpet" is luxuriant with play of wit that has its earnest side.
Hood died in 1845.
A Note upon the Game of Ombre is added, which is founded upon the
description of the game in a little book--"The Court Gamester"--
which instructed card-players in the reigns of the first Georges.
In the "Rape of the Lock" there is a game of ombre played through to
the last trick. That note will enable any reader to follow
Belinda's play. It will also enable any one who may care to do so
to restore to a place among our home amusements a game which carried
all before it in Queen Anne's day, and which is really, when cleared
of its gambling details, as good a domestic game for three players
as cribbage or piquet is for two. My "Court Gamester," which was in
its fifth edition in 1728, after devoting its best energies to
ombre, contented its readers in fewer pages with the addition only
of piquet and chess.
Obsolete words and words of Scottish dialect, with a few more as to
the meaning of which some readers might be uncertain, will be found
explained in the Glossary that ends this volume.
CHAUCER'S MANCIPLE'S TALE OF PHOEBUS AND THE CROW
MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.
NOTE.
The reader is to understand, that all the persons previously
described in the "Prologue to the Canterbury Tales" are now riding
on their way to that city, and each of them telling his tale
respectively, which is preceded by some little bit of incident or
conversation on the road. The agreement, suggested by the Host of
the Tabard, was, first, that each pilgrim should tell a couple of
tales while going to Canterbury, and another couple during the
return to London; secondly, that the narrator of the best one of all
should sup at the expense of the whole party; and thirdly, that the
Host himself should be gratuitous guide on the journey, and arbiter
of all differences by the way, with power to inflict the payment of
travelling expenses upon any one who should gainsay his judgment.
During the intervals of the stories he is accordingly the most
prominent person.--LEIGH HUNT.
PROLOGUE TO THE MANCIPLE'S TALE.
Wottest thou, reader, of a little town, {17}
Which thereabouts they call Bob-up-and-down,
Under the Blee, in Canterbury way?
Well, there our host began to jest and play,
And said, "Hush, hush now: Dun is in the mire.
What, sirs? will nobody, for prayer or hire,
Wake our good gossip, sleeping here behind?
Here were a bundle for a thief to find.
See, how he noddeth! by St. Peter, see!
He'll tumble off his saddle presently.
Is that a cook of London, red flames take him!
He knoweth the agreement--wake him, wake him:
We'll have his tale, to keep him from his nap,
Although the drink turn out not worth the tap.
Awake, thou cook," quoth he; "God say thee nay;
What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day?
Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk?
Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk,
And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?"
This cook that was full pale, and nothing red,
Stared up, and said unto the host, "God bless
My soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness,
I know not why, that I would rather sleep
Than drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap."
"Well," quoth the Manciple, "if it might ease
Thine head, Sir Cook, and also none displease
Of all here riding in this company,
And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,
Till thou art better, and so tell MY tale;
For in good faith thy visage is full pale;
Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am,
Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram,
Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter:
Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I'll not flatter.
See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight;
He'll swallow us all up before he'll bite;
Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father's kin;
The fiend himself now set his foot therein,
And stop it up, for 'twill infect us all;
Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall.
Ah--see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing;
Take heed--he's bent on tilting at the ring:
He's the shape, isn't he? to tilt and ride!
Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide."
Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black,
And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack!
So mumbling something, from his horse fell he,
And where he fell, there lay he patiently,
Till pity on his shame his fellows took.
Here was a pretty horseman of a cook!
Alas! that he had held not by his ladle!
And ere again they got him on his saddle,
There was a mighty shoving to and fro
To lift him up, and muckle care and woe,
So heavy was this carcase of a ghost.
Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:-
"Since drink upon this man hath domination,
By nails! and as I reckon my salvation,
I trow he would have told a sorry tale;
For whether it be wine, or it be ale,
That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose,
And sneezeth much, and he hath got the POSE, {19}
And also hath given us business enow
To keep him on his horse, out of the slough;
He'll fall again, if he be driven to speak,
And then, where are we, for a second week?
Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse!
Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse.
Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice
Thus openly to chafe him for his vice.
Perchance some day he'll do as much for thee,
And bring thy baker's bills in jeopardy,
Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher's matters,
And whether they square nicely with thy platters."
"Mine," quoth the Manciple, "were then the mire!
Much rather would I pay his horse's hire,
And that will be no trifle, mud and all,
Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall.
I did but jest. Score not, ye'll be not scored.
And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,
A draught of wine, better was never tasted,
And with this cook's ladle will I be basted,
If he don't drink of it, right lustily.
Upon my life he'll not say nay. Now see.
And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;
Down went the drink out of the gourd, FLUFF, FLUFF:
Alas! the man had had enough before:
And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore,
His nose said something,--grace for what he had;
And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad.
Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,
And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight,
And said, "Well, I perceive it's necessary,
Where'er we go, good wine with us to carry.
What needeth in this world more strifes befall?
Good wine's the doctor to appease them all.
O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,
That thus canst turn our earnest into game.
Worship and thanks be to thy deity.
So on this head ye get no more from me.
Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray."
"Well, sire," quoth he, "now hark to what I say."
THE MANCIPLE'S TALE OF PHOEBUS AND THE CROW.
When Phoebus dwelt with men, in days of yore,
He was the very lustiest bachelor
Of all the world; and shot in the best bow.
'Twas he, as the old books of stories show,
That shot the serpent Python, as he lay
Sleeping against the sun, upon a day:
And many another noble worthy deed
He did with that same bow, as men may read.
He played all kinds of music: and so clear
His singing was, and such a heaven to hear,
Men might not speak during his madrigal.
Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall
About the city with his melody,
Certainly sang not half so well as he.
And add to this, he was the seemliest man
That is, or has been, since the world began.
What needs describe his beauty? since there's none
With which to make the least comparison.
In brief, he was the flower of gentilesse, {21}
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:
And yet, take note, for all this mastery,
This Phoebus was of cheer so frank and free,
That for his sport, and to commend the glory
He gat him o'er the snake (so runs the story),
He used to carry in his hand a bow.
Now this same god had in his house a crow,
Which in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay.
White was the crow; as is a snow-white swan,
And could repeat a tale told by a man,
And sing. No nightingale, down in a dell,
Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife
Which that he loved beyond his very life:
And night and day did all his diligence
To please her well, and do her reverence;
Save only, to speak truly, inter nos,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her close:
He wished not to be treated monstrously:
Neither does any man, no more than he;
Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought; -
A good wife, that is clean of work and thought,
No man would dream of hindering such a way.
And just as bootless is it, night or day,
Hindering a shrew; for it will never be.
I hold it for a very foppery,
Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives,
Old writers always say so, in their Lives.
But to my story, as it first began.
This worthy Phoebus doeth all he can
To please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her,
That she, for her part, would herself bestir
Discreetly, so as not to lose his grace;
But, Lord he knows, there's no man shall embrace
A thing so close, as to restrain what Nature
Hath naturally set in any creature.
Take any bird, and put it in a cage,
And do thy best and utmost to engage
The bird to love it; give it meat and drink,
And every dainty housewives can bethink,
And keep the cage as cleanly as you may,
And let it be with gilt never so gay,
Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold,
Rather be in a forest wild and cold,
And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness;
Yea, ever will he tax his whole address
To get out of the cage when that he may:-
His liberty the bird desireth aye.
So, take a cat, and foster her with milk
And tender meat, and make her bed of silk,
Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall,
The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all,
And every dainty that is in the house;
Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.
Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination,
And appetite renounceth education.
A she-wolf likewise hath a villain's kind:
The worst and roughest wolf that she can find,
Or least of reputation, will she wed,
When the time comes to make her marriage-bed.
But misinterpret not my speech, I pray;
All this of men, not women, do I say;
For men it is, that come and spoil the lives
Of such, as but for them, would make good wives.
They leave their own wives, be they never so fair,
Never so true, never so debonair,
And take the lowest they may find, for change.
Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range,
It never will continue, long together,
Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather.
This Phoebus, while on nothing ill thought he,
Jilted he was, for all his jollity;
For under him, his wife, at her heart's-root,
Another had, a man of small repute,
Not worth a blink of Phoebus; more's the pity;
Too oft it falleth so, in court and city.
This wife, when Phoebus was from home one day,
Sent for her lemman then, without delay.
Her lemman!--a plain word, I needs must own;
Forgive it me; for Plato hath laid down,
The word must suit according with the deed;
Word is work's cousin-german, ye may read:
I'm a plain man, and what I say is this:
Wife high, wife low, if bad, both do amiss:
But because one man's wench sitteth above,
She shall be called his Lady and his Love;
And because t'other's sitteth low and poor,
She shall be called,--Well, well, I say no more;
Only God knoweth, man, mine own dear brother,
One wife is laid as low, just, as the other.
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