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This sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun,
Was never trompe of half so great a soun.
This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax,
But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax:
By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde,
And therwith he his shulders overspradde.
Ful thinne it lay, by culpons2 on and on,
But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non,
For it was trussed up in his wallet.
Him thought he rode al of the newe get,
Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare.
Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare.
A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe.
His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe,
Bret-ful of pardon come from Rome al hote.
A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote.
No berde hadde he, ne never non shulde have,
As smothe it was as it were newe shave;
I trowe he were a gelding or a mare.

But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware,
Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere.
For in his male he hadde a pilwebere,5
Which, as he saide, was oure ladies veil :
He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl
Thatte seint Peter had, whan that he went
Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent."
He had a crois of laton ful of stones,
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.
But with these relikes, whanne that he fond
A poure persone dwelling up on lond,
Upon a day he gat him more moneie
Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie.
And thus with fained flattering and japes,
He made the persone, and the peple, his apes.
But trewely to tellen atte at last,

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast.
Wel coude he rede a lesson or a storie,
But alderbest he sang an offertorie:
For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,
He muste preche, and wel afile his tonge,
To winne silver, as he right wel coude:
Therfore he sang the merier and loude.

Now have I told you shortly in a clause,
Th' estat, th' araie, the nombre, and eke the cause
Why that assembled was this compagnie
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrie,
That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.
But now is time to you for to telle,
How that we baren us that ilke night,
Whan we were in that hostelrie alight.
And after wol I telle of our viage,
And all the remenant of our pilgrimage.

But firste I praie you of your curtesie,
That ye ne arette 10 it not my vilanie,
Though that I plainly speke in this matere,
To tellen you hir wordes and hir chere;
Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely.
For this ye knowen al so wel as I,
Who so shall telle a tale after a man,

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He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can,
Everich word, if it be in his charge,
All speke he never so rudely and so large;
Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
Or feinin thinges, or finden wordes newe.
He may not spare, although he were his brother.
He moste as wel sayn o 1 word, as an other.
Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ,
And wel ye wote no vilanie is it.

Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede,
The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede.
Also I praie you to forgive it me,
All have I not 12 sette folk in hir degree,
Here in this tale, as that they shulden stonde.
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Gret chere made oure hoste us everich on, And to the souper sette he us anon: And served us with vitaille of the beste. Strong was the win, and wel to drinke us leste.13 A semely man our hoste was with alle For to han ben a marshal in an halle. A large man he was with eyen stepe, A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe: Bold of his speche, and wise and wel ytaught, And of manhood him lacked righte naught. Eke therto was he right a mery man, And after souper plaien he began, And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, Whan that we hadden made our rekeninges; And saide thus; Now, lordinges, trewely Ye ben to me welcome right hertily: For by my trouthe, if that I shal not lie, I saw nat this yere swiche a compagnie At ones in this herberwe,14 as is now. Fayn wolde I do you mirthe, and I wiste how. And of a mirthe I am right now bethought, To don you ese, and it shall coste you nought. Ye gon to Canterbury; God you spede, The blisful martyr quite you your mede; And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way, Ye shapen you to talken and to play: For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non, To riden by the way dombe as the ston: And therfore wold I maken you disport, As I said erst, and don you some comfort. And if you liketh alle by on assent Now for to stonden at my jugement: And for to werchen 15 as I shal you say To-morwe, whan ye riden on the way, Now by my faders soule that is ded, But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed. Hold up your hondes withouten more speche. Our conseil was not longe for to seche: Us thought it was not worth to make it wise, 16 And granted him withouten more avise, And bad him say his verdit, as him leste. Lordinges, (quod he) now herkeneth for the

beste;

But take it nat, I pray you, in disdain;
This is the point, to speke it plat and plain,
That eche of you to shorten with youre way,
In this viage, shal tellen tales tway,
To Canterbury ward, I mene it so,
And homeward he shall tellen other two,

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Of aventures that whilom han befalle.
And which of you that bereth him best of alle,
That is to sayn, that telleth in this cas
Tales of best sentence and most solas,1
Shal have a souper at youre aller cost
Here in this place sitting by this post,
Whan that ye comen agen from Canterbury.
And for to maken you the more mery,
I wol myselven gladly with you ride,
Right at min owen cost, and be your gide,
And who that wol my jugement withsay,
Shall pay for alle we spenden by the way.
And if ye vouchesauf that it be so,
Telle me anon withouten wordes mo,
And I wol erly shapen me therfore.

This thing was granted, and our othes swore?
With ful glad herte, and praiden him also,
That he wold vouchesauf for to don so,
And that he wolde ben our governour,
And of our tales juge and reportour,
And sette a souper at a certain pris;
And we wol reuled ben at his devise,

In highe and lowe: and thus by on assent,
We ben accorded to his jugement.
And therupon the win was fette anon.
We dronken, and to reste wenten eche on,
Withouten any lenger tarying.

A-morwe whan the day began to spring,
Up rose our hoste, and was our aller cok,3
And gaderd us togeder in a flok,
And forth we riden a litel more than pas,

1 Comfort, pleasure.

I. e., we swore our oaths, and prayed him. Our author too frequently omits the governing pronoun before the verb.

Le., acted as cock for us all, woke us in time.

Unto the watering of Seint Thomas :
And ther our hoste began his hors arest,
And saide; lordes, herkeneth if you lest.
Ye wete your forword, and I it record.
If even-song and morwe-song accord,
Let se now who shal telle the first tale.
As ever mote I drinken win or ale,
Who so is rebel to my jugement,

Shal pay for alle that by the way is spent.
Now draweth 5 cutte, or that ye forther twinne.6
He which that hath the shortest shal beginne.

Sire knight, (quod he) my maister and my lord,
Now draweth cutte, for that is min accord.
Cometh nere, (quod he) my lady prioresse,
And ye, sire clerk, let be your shamefastnesse,
Ne studieth nought, lay hand to, every man.
Anon to drawen every wight began,
And shortly for to tellen as it was,
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas,

The sothe is this, the cutte felle on the knight,
Of which ful blith and glad was every wight;
And tell he must his tale as was reson,
But forword, and by composition,

As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?
And whan this good man saw that it was so,
As he that wise was and obedient
To kepe his forword by his free assent,
He saide; sithen I shal begin this game,
What? welcome be the cutte a goddes name.
Now let us ride, and herkeneth what I say.

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And with that word we riden forth our way; And he began with right a mery chere His tale anon, and saide as ye shul here.

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EDMUND SPENSER.

EDMUND SPENSER, one of the greatest of English poets, was born in London, near the Tower, probably in 1553, and was educated at Cambridge University, which gave him the degree of A. M. in 1576. He lived awhile with some friends in the north of England, where he wrote his poem called "The Shepherd's Calendar." In 1578 he went to London, and was introduced to the famous Sir Philip Sidney, who invited him to become his guest, and treated him For the always with distinguished kindness. next ten years little is known of Spenser's life. He was occasionally employed on inferior missions of state, went to the Continent about 1580, and soon after was sent to Ireland as secretary to Lord Grey, of Wilton, who was appointed lorddeputy of that country. He returned from Ireland after two years, and in 1586 obtained a grant of three thousand acres of the forfeited lands of the rebellious Earl of Desmond in the county of Cork. The condition of the grant was that he should reside on the estate, and he therefore took up his abode in Kilcolman Castle, near Doneraile, where he composed a large part of his upon which great poem, "The Faerie Queene,' he had been engaged for several years. There he lived, with occasional visits to England, nearly eleven years, and there he was visited in 1589 by Sir Walter Raleigh, a kindred spirit, who persuaded him to return to London to arrange for the publication of his poem. The first three books appeared in 1590, in a small quarto, dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, and with a letter to 66 a continued Raleigh, explaining the work as allegory or dark conceit." He next published in succession "Colin Clout's Come Home Again" (1591); "Complaints " (1591); a series of poems on his courtship and marriage, which took place in 1594, the chief of which was the "Epithalamium "(1595); four hymns (1596); and, finally, the fourth, fifth, and sixth books of "The Faerie Queene" (1596). He returned to Ireland in 1591, and in 1596 he was again in London, and presented to the queen a prose work, entitled "A View of the State of Ireland," in which he advocated severe and arbitrary measures for the government of that country. He was hated by the natives, and in October, 1598, when an insurrection against the English broke out in Munster, his castle of Kilcolman was sacked and burnt, and an infant child, which had somehow been left behind when the poet and his wife saved themselves by a hasty flight, perished in the flames. Ruined and broken-hearted, Spenser reached London, and died in about three months, on the 16th of January, 1599. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, near the tomb of Chaucer, his funeral expenses being defrayed by the Earl of Essex; while the chief poets of the day, Shakespeare probably among them, threw elegies and poems, along with the pens that wrote them, into his grave. Of his

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personal appearance we know only from Aubrey
a little man, who wore short hair,
He was fifty-five
that he was
a little band, and little cuffs."
years of age at the time of his death.

Spenser's great poem, "The Faerie Queene,"
on which his fame chiefly rests, is unfinished,
only six of the twelve books of which it was to
consist having been published. Each book, how-
ever, contains twelve cantos of considerable
length; and the poem, even in its incomplete
state, is one of the longest in existence. It has
long been recognized as one of the masterpieces
of English literature. The stanza in which it is
It is a modifi-
written seems to have been an invention of the
author, and now bears his name.
cation of the Italian ottavo rima, the stanza of
Pulci, Boiardo, Tasso, and Ariosto, with the ad-
dition of an Alexandrine line, which increases
its force and dignity. The leading story of the
poem is an allegory founded on the legend of
King Arthur, who was taken as the ideal of a
noble person. Gloriana, the Queen of Faerie,
who gives name to the poem, is an emblem of
All the personages
glory or virtuous renown.
are symbolical, and all the incidents significant
of moral truths. The subject of each book is a
moral attribute, as holiness, temperance, chas-
tity, friendship, justice, and courtesy, personified
by a knight-errant, with all human passions.
No poet, it has been said, has ever had a more
exquisite sense of the beautiful than Spenser.
His poetry is the most poetical of all poetry.

It is by "The Faerie Queene," says Gilfillan, that Spenser has ever been, and ever will be, best known in the world of letters. That casts a shadow so broad, that his other productions are dwindled and obscured. Yet these have His "Shepherd's Calendar" is great merit. full of ingenious fancies and natural images. His "Muioptomos Daphnaida," however, and also his "Mother Hubbard's Tale" and "Colin Clout's Come Home Again," and especially his "Epithalamium," are greatly superior to the "Shepherd's Calendar," and contain passagessuch as his picture of Raleigh in "Colin Clout," and of the bride in the "Epithalamium "-which have never been surpassed.

The diction of "The Faerie Queene" is somewhat more ancient than that of the period in which the author lived; but its apparent uncouthness has been needlessly aggravated by retaining the obsolete spelling of words now in use, for which there is no reason any more than there would be for printing Shakespeare with his old orthography. In this edition we follow Gilfillan's modernized spelling, and give the first of the six books of the "Faerie Queene," whose twelve cantos contain the best-known passages of the poem, and afford the reader an ample opportunity to become acquainted with the style and manner of the author.

THE FIRST BOOK

or

THE FAERIE QUEENE.

THE FAERIE QUEENE,

CONTAINING

THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSS, OR OF HOLINESS.

Lo! I, the man whose Muse whilome did mask,
As time her taught, in lowly shepherds' weeds,
Am now enforc'd, a far unfitter task,

For trumpets stern to change mine oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights' and Ladies' gentle deeds;
Whose praises having slept in silence long,
Me, all too mean, the sacred Muse areeds

To blazon broad amongst her learned throng: Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize my song.

Help then, O holy virgin, chief of Nine,
Thy weaker novice to perform thy will;
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne?
The antique rolls, which there lie hidden still,
Of Faerie Knights, and fairest Tanaquill,3
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
Sought through the world, and suffer'd so much
ill,

That I must rue his undeservéd wrong: O, help thou my weak wit, and sharpen my dull tongue!

And thou, most dreaded imp of highest Jove,
Fair Venus' son, that with thy cruel dart
At that good Knight so cunningly didst rove,
That glorious fire it kindled in his heart;
Lay now thy deadly ebon bow apart,
And, with thy mother mild, come to mine aid;
Come, both; and with you bring triumphant
Mart,4

In loves and gentle jollities array'd,
After his murd'rous spoils and bloody rage allay'd.

And with them eke, O Goddess heavenly bright,
Mirror of grace and majesty divine,
Great Lady of the greatest isle, whose light
Like Phoebus' lamp throughout the world doth
shine,

Shed thy fair beams into my feeble eyne,
And raise my thoughts, too humble and too vile,
To think of that true glorious type of thine,
The argument of mine afflicted style:
The which to hear vouchsafe, O dearest Dread, a
while.

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Full jolly knight he seem'd, and fair did sit, As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit.

And on his breast a bloody cross he bore,
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he

wore,

And dead, as living ever, him ador'd;
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,
For sov'reign hope, which in his help he had.
Right, faithful, true he was in deed and word;
But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad;

Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave, (That greatest glorious queen of Faerie lond,) To win him worship, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly things he most did crave: And ever, as he rode, his heart did yearn To prove his puissance in battle brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learn; Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stern.

A lovely Lady rode him fair beside,
Upon a lowly ass more white than snow;
Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide
Under a veil, that wimpled was full low;
And over all a black stole she did throw:
As one that inly mourn'd, so was she sad,
And heavy sate upon her palfrey slow;
Seeméd in heart some hidden care she had;
And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she led.

So pure and innocent, as that same lamb,
She was in life and every virtuous lore;
And by descent from royal lineage came
Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore
Their sceptres stretcht from east to western
shore,

And all the world in their subjection held;
Till that infernal Fiend with foul uproar
Forwasted all their land, and them expell'd;
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far
compell'd.

Behind her far away a Dwarf did lag, That lazy seem'd, in being ever last, Or weariéd with bearing of her bag Of needments at his back. Thus as they past, The day with clouds was sudden overcast, And angry Jove an hideous storm of rain Did pour into his leman's lap so fast, That every wight to shroud it did constrain; And this fair couple eke to shroud themselves were fain.

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Enforc'd to seek some covert nigh at hand,
A shady grove not far away they spied,
That promist aid the tempest to withstand;
Whose lofty trees, yclad with summer's pride,
Did spread so broad, that heaven's light did
hide,

Not piercable with pow'r of any star:
And all within were paths and alleys wide,
With footing worn, and leading inward far:
Fair harbor that them seems; so in they enter'd

are.

Tellus, or earth.

12

And forth they pass, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to hear the birds' sweet harmony,
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest
dread,

Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky.
Much gan they praise the trees so straight and
high,

The sailing pine; the cedar proud and tall;
The vine-propt elm; the poplar never dry;
The builder oak, sole king of forests all;
The aspen good for staves; the cypress funeral;

The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage; the fir that weepeth still;
The willow, worn of forlorn paramours;
The yew, obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts; the sallow for the mill;
The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound;
The warlike beech; the ash for nothing ill;
The fruitful olive; and the platane round;
The carver holm; the maple seldom inward sound.

Led with delight, they thus beguile the way,
Until the blust'ring storm is overblown;
When, weening to return whence they did stray,
They cannot find that path, which first was
shown,

But wander to and fro in ways unknown,
Farthest from end then, when they nearest

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At last resolving forward still to fare,
Till that some end they find, or in or out;
That path they take that beaten seem'd most
bare,

[out,
And like to lead the labyrinth about;
Which when by track they hunted had through-
At length it brought them to a hollow cave,
Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout
Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave,
And to the Dwarf a while his needless spear he
gave.

"Be well aware," quoth then that Lady mild,
"Lest sudden mischief ye too rash provoke:
The danger hid, the place unknown and wild,
Breeds dreadful doubts: oft fire is without

smoke,

And peril without show: therefore your stroke,
Sir Knight, withhold, till farther trial made.'
"Ah, Ladie," said he, "shame were to revoke
The forward footing for an hidden shade:
Virtue gives herself light through darkness for

to wade."

"Yea, but," quoth she, "the peril of this place I better wot than you though now too late To wish you back return with foul disgrace; Yet wisdom warns, whilst foot is in the gate, To stay the step, ere forcéd to retrate. This is the wand'ring wood, this Error's den, A monster vile, whom God and man does hate: Therefore I read beware." "Fly, fly," quoth [men." then The fearful Dwarf; "this is no place for living

But, full of fire and greedy hardiment,
The youthful Knight could not for aught be
stay'd;

But forth into the darksome hole he went,
And looked in his glist'ring armor made
A little glooming light, much like a shade;
By which he saw the ugly monster plain,
Half like a serpent horribly display'd,
But th' other half did woman's shape retain,
Most loathsome, filthy, foul, and full of vile dis-
dain.

And, as she lay upon the dirty ground,
Her huge long tail her den all overspread,
Yet was in knots and many boughtes1 up-
wound,

Pointed with mortal sting; of her there bred
A thousand young ones, which she daily fed,
Sucking upon her pois'nous dugs; each one
Of sundry shapes, yet all ill-favored:
Soon as that uncouth light upon them shone,
Into her mouth they crept, and sudden all were
gone.

Their dam upstart out of her den afraid,

And rushéd forth, hurling her hideous tail
About her cursed head; whose folds display'd
Were stretcht now forth at length without
entraile.2

She lookt about, and seeing one in mail,
Arméd to point, sought back to turn again;
For light she hated as the deadly bale,
Ay wont in desert darkness to remain,
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any
plain.

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