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And when, defcending to the plaintive found,
She comes confefs'd with all her Graces round;
O, plead my cause! in that aufpicious hour,
Propitiate with thy vows the vengeful power.
Nor cease thy fuit, till with a fimiling air
She cries, I give my Phaon to thy prayer :
And, from his crime abfolv'd, with all his charms
He long fhall five, and die in Sappho's arms.---
Then fwift, and gentle as her gentlest dove,
I'll seek thy breast, and equal all thy love :
Hymen fhall clap his purple wings, and spread
Inceffant raptures o'er the nuptial bed.

And while in pomp at Cytherea's fhrine,
With choral fong and dance, our vows we join ;
Her flaming altar with religious fear

I'll touch, and proftrate on the marble, swear
That zeal and love for ever fhall divide

My heart, between the goddess and the bride.

A

TA L

E,

Devised in the plefaunt Manere of

GENTIL MAISTER JEOFFREY CHAUCER.

W Hylom in Kent there dwelt a clerke,

Who wyth grete cheer, and litil werke,

Upfwalen was with venere :

For meagre Lent ne recked he,

Ne faincts daies had in remembraunce,
Mo will had he to daliaunce.

To ferchen out a bellamie,

He had a sharp and licorous eie;
But it wold bett abide a leke,

Or onion, than the fight of Greke :
Wherefore, God yeve him fhame, Boccace
Serv'd him for Bafil and Ignace,

His vermeil cheke that fhon wyth mirth,
Spake him the blitheft prieft on yearth:
At chyrch, to fhew his lillied hond,
Full fetoufly he prank'd his bond;
Sleke weren his flaxen locks ykempt,
And Ifaac Wever was he nempt.

Thilke clerke, echaufed in the groyne,
For a young damofell did pyne,
Born in Eaft-Cheap; who, by my fay,
Ypert was as a popinjay :

Ne wit ne wordes did the waunt,
Wele cond fhe many a romaunt;
Ore mufcadine, or spiced ale,
She carrold foote as nightingale:
And for the nonce couth rowle her eyne,
Withouten fpeche; a speciall figne

She lack'd fomdele of what ech dame
Holds dere as life, yet dredes to name :
So was eftfoons by Ifaac won,

To blifsful confummation.

Here mought I now tellen the feftes,

Who yave the bryde, how bibb'd the ghefics;

But withouten fuch gawdes, I trow
Myne legend is prolix ynow.
Ryghte wele arceds Dan Prior's fong,
A tale fhold never be too long;
And fikerly in fayre Englond
None bett doeth taling understond.

She now, algates full fad to chaunge
The citee for her husbond's graunge,
To Kent mote; for fhe wele did knowe
'Twas vaine ayenft the ftreme to rowe.
Sa wend they on one steed yfere,
Ech cleping toder life and dere;
Heven fhilde hem fro myne Bromley hoft,
Or many a groat theyr meel woll cost.
Deem next ye maistress Wever fene
Yclad in fable bombafine;

The frankeleins wyves accoft her blythe,
Curteis to guilen hem of tythe;
And yeve honour parochiall
In pew, and eke at feftivall.

Worfchip and wealth her husbond hath;
Ne poor in aught, fave werks and faith:
Kepes bull. bore, ftallion, to difpence
Large pennorths of benevolence.
His berne ycrammed was, and store
Of poultrie cackled at the dore;
His wyf grete joie to fede hem toke,
And was aftonied at the cocke;
That, in his portaunce debonair,
On everich hienn beftow’d a fhare

Of

Of plefaunce, yet no genitours
She faw, to thrill his paramours :
Oftfithes fhe mokel mus'd theron,
Yet nift the howgates it was don.
One night, ere they to fleepen went,
Her Ifaac in her arms the hent,
As was her ufage; and did faie,
Of charite I mote thee praie,
To techen myne unconnyng wit
One thing it comprehendeth niet:
And maie the foul fiend harrow thee,
If in myne queft thou falfen me.

Our Chaunticlere loves everich hen,
Ne fewer kepes our yerd than ten ;
Yet romps he ore beth grete and fmall,
Ne ken I what he fwinks wythall.
But on ech leg a wepon is,
Yperfent, and full starke I wys;
Doth he with hem at Pertelote play?
In footh theres werk inough for tway.
Qd. Ifaac, certes by Sainct Poule,
Myne lief thou art a simple soule;
Foules fro the egle to the wren,
Bin harness'd othergife than men :
For the inales engins of delite,
Ferre in theyr entrails are empight;

Els, par
mifchaunce, theyr merriment
Emong the breers mought fore be shent.
Thus woxen hote, they much avaunce
Love of venereal jouifaunce :

Ang

And in one month, the trouth to fayne,
Swink mo than manhode in yeres twaine.
O Benedicite! qd. the,

If kepyng hote fo kindlych be,
Hie in thyne boweles trufs thyne gere,
And eke the fkrippe that daungleth here.
Ne dame, he anfwerd, mote that bene;
For as I hope to be a dene,

Thilke Falstaffe-bellie rownd and big,
Was built for corny ale and pig:
Ne in it is a chink for thefe,

Ne for a wheat-ftraw, and tway pease.
Pardie, qd. fhe, fyth theres nat room,
Swete Nykin! chafe hem in myne woom.

то M R.

POPE.

AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM IN HOMER.

In which the poet fuppofeth Apollo to have given this answer to one who enquired who was the author of the Iliad,

Ἤειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν, ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖ©- Ομηρθ. Hæc modulabar ego, fcripfit divinus Homerus.

WHEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious Maids,

Of old affembled in the Thefpian fhades,

What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befits thefe harps to found, and thee to hear

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