The rage of jealousy then seized his mind, 485 For much he feared the faith of woman-kind.[47]

His wife, not suffered from his side to stray, } Was captive kept, he watched her night and day, } Abridged her pleasures, and confined her sway. } Full oft in tears did hapless May complain, 490 And sighed full oft; but sighed and wept in vain; She looked on Damian with a lover's eye; For oh, 'twas fixed, she must possess or die!

Nor less impatience vexed her am'rous squire, Wild with delay, and burning with desire. 495 Watched as she was, yet could he not refrain By secret writing to disclose his pain; The dame by signs revealed her kind intent, Till both were conscious what each other meant.

Ah, gentle knight, what would thy eyes avail, 500 Though they could see as far as ships can sail?

'Tis better, sure, when blind, deceived to be, Than be deluded when a man can see![48]

Argus himself, so cautious and so wise, Was over-watched, for all his hundred eyes: 505 So many an honest husband may, 'tis known, Who, wisely, never thinks the case his own.

The dame at last, by diligence and care, Procured the key her knight was wont to bear; She took the wards in wax before the fire, 510 And gave th' impression to the trusty squire.

By means of this, some wonder shall appear, Which, in due place and season, you may hear.

Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore, What sleight is that, which love will not explore? 515 And Pyramus and Thisbe plainly show The feats true lovers, when they list, can do: Though watched and captive, yet in spite of all, They found the art of kissing[49] through a wall.

But now no longer from our tale to stray; } 520 It happed that once upon a summer's day, } Our rev'rend knight was urged to am'rous play: } He raised his spouse ere matin-bell was rung, And thus his morning canticle he sung.

Awake, my love, disclose thy radiant eyes; 525 Arise, my wife, my beauteous lady, rise!

Hear how the doves with pensive notes complain, And in soft murmurs tell the trees their pain:[50]

The winter's past; the clouds and tempests fly; The sun adorns the fields, and brightens all the sky. 530 Fair without spot, whose ev'ry charming part My bosom wounds, and captivates my heart; Come, and in mutual pleasures let's engage, Joy of my life, and comfort of my age.

This heard, to Damian straight a sign she made, 535 To haste before; the gentle squire obeyed: Secret and undescried he took his way, And, ambushed close, behind an arbour lay, It was not long ere January came, And, hand in hand with him his lovely dame; 540 Blind as he was, not doubting all was sure, He turned the key, and made the gate secure.

Here let us walk, he said, observed by none, Conscious of pleasures to the world unknown: So may my soul have joy, as thou my wife 545 Art far the dearest solace of my life; And rather would I chuse, by heav'n above, To die this instant, than to lose thy love.[51]

Reflect what truth was in my pa.s.sion shown, } When, unendowed, I took thee for my own, } 550 And sought no treasure but thy heart alone. } Old as I am, and now deprived of sight, } Whilst thou art faithful to thy own true knight, } Nor age, nor blindness, rob me of delight. } Each other loss with patience I can bear, 555 The loss of thee is what I only fear.

Consider then, my lady and my wife, The solid comforts of a virtuous life.

As first, the love of Christ himself you gain; Next, your own honour undefiled maintain; 560 And lastly, that which sure your mind must move,[52]

My whole estate shall gratify your love: Make your own terms, and ere to-morrow's sun Displays his light, by heav'n it shall be done.

I seal the contract with a holy kiss, 565 And will perform, by this--my dear, and this.[53]

Have comfort, spouse, nor think thy lord unkind; 'Tis love, not jealousy, that fires my mind.

For when thy charms my sober thoughts engage, And joined to them my own unequal age,[54] 570 From thy dear side I have no pow'r to part, Such secret transports warm my melting heart.

For who that once possessed those heav'nly charms, Could live one moment absent from thy arms?

He ceased, and May with modest grace replied; 575 (Weak was her voice, as while she spoke she cried;) Heav'n knows (with that a tender sigh she drew) I have a soul to save as well as you; And, what no less you to my charge commend, My dearest honour, will to death defend. 580 To you in holy church I gave my hand, And joined my heart in wedlock's sacred band: Yet, after this, if you distrust my care, Then hear, my lord, and witness what I swear: First may the yawning earth her bosom rend, 585 And let me hence to h.e.l.l alive descend;[55]

Or die the death I dread no less than h.e.l.l, Sewed in a sack, and plunged into a well,[56]

Ere I my fame by one lewd act disgrace, Or once renounce the honour of my race. 590 For know, sir knight, of gentle blood I came, I loath a wh.o.r.e, and startle at the name.

But jealous men on their own crimes reflect, And learn from thence their ladies to suspect: Else why these needless cautions, sir, to me? 595 These doubts and fears of female constancy!

This chime still rings in ev'ry lady's ear, The only strain a wife must hope to hear.

Thus while she spoke, a sidelong glance she cast Where Damian, kneeling, worshipped as she pa.s.sed:[57] 600 She saw him watch the motions of her eye, And singled out a pear-tree planted nigh:[58]

'Twas charged with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was ev'ry bough.

Thither th' obsequious squire addressed his pace, 605 And climbing, in the summit took his place; The knight and lady walked beneath in view, Where let us leave them, and our tale pursue.

'Twas now the season when the glorious sun His heav'nly progress through the Twins had run; 610 And Jove, exalted, his mild influence yields, To glad the glebe, and paint the flow'ry fields: Clear was the day, and Phoebus rising bright, Had streaked the azure firmament with light; He pierced the glitt'ring clouds with golden streams, 615 And warmed the womb of earth with genial beams.

It so befel, in that fair morning tide, } The fairies sported on the garden side, } And in the midst their monarch and his bride. } So featly tripped the light-foot ladies round, } 620 The knights so nimbly o'er the green-sward bound, } That scarce they bent the flow'rs, or touched the ground.[59] } The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies searched the flow'ry plain; While on a bank reclined of rising green, 625 Thus, with a frown, the king bespoke his queen: 'Tis too apparent, argue what you can, The treachery you women use to man: A thousand authors have this truth made out, And sad experience leaves no room for doubt. 630 Heav'n rest thy spirit, n.o.ble Solomon, A wiser monarch never saw the sun: All wealth, all honours, the supreme degree Of earthly bliss, was well bestowed on thee!

For sagely hast thou said: Of all mankind, 635 One only just, and righteous, hope to find: But should'st thou search the s.p.a.cious world around, Yet one good woman is not to be found.

Thus says the king who knew your wickedness; The son of Sirach[60] testifies no less. 640 So may some wildfire on your bodies fall, Or some devouring plague consume you all; As well you view the lecher in the tree, And well this honourable knight you see: But since he's blind and old (a helpless case) 645 His squire shall cuckold him before your face.

Now by my own dread majesty I swear, And by this awful sceptre which I bear, No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunished long, That in my presence offers such a wrong. 650 I will this instant undeceive the knight, And, in the very act, restore his sight: And set the strumpet here in open view, } A warning to these ladies,[61] and to you, } And all the faithless s.e.x, for ever to be true. } 655 And will you so, replied the queen, indeed? } Now, by my mother's soul it is decreed, } She shall not want an answer at her need. } For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage, And all the s.e.x in each succeeding age; 660 Art shall be theirs to varnish an offence, And fortify their crimes with confidence.

Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace, Seen with both eyes, and pinioned on the place; All they shall need is to protest and swear, 665 Breathe a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear;[62]

Till their wise husbands, gulled by arts like these, Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geese.

What though this sland'rous Jew, this Solomon, Called women fools, and knew full many a one; 670 The wiser wits of later times declare, How constant, chaste, and virtuous women are: Witness the martyrs, who resigned their breath, Serene in torments, unconcerned in death;[63]

And witness next what Roman authors tell, 675 How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell.

But since the sacred leaves to all are free, And men interpret texts, why should not we?

By this no more was meant, than to have shown, } That sov'reign goodness dwells in him alone } 680 Who only Is, and is but only One.[64] } But grant the worst; shall women then be weighed By ev'ry word that Solomon has said?

What though this king (as ancient story boasts) Built a fair temple to the Lord of Hosts; 685 He ceased at last his Maker to adore, And did as much for idol G.o.ds, or more.

Beware what lavish praises you confer On a rank lecher and idolater; Whose reign indulgent G.o.d, says Holy Writ, 690 Did but for David's righteous sake permit; David, the monarch after heav'n's own mind, Who loved our s.e.x, and honoured all our kind.

Well, I'm a woman, and as such must speak; Silence would swell me, and my heart would break. 695 Know then, I scorn your dull authorities, Your idle wits, and all their learned lies.

By heav'n, those authors are our s.e.x's foes, Whom, in our right, I must and will oppose.

Nay, quoth the king, dear madam, be not wroth: 700 I yield it up; but since I gave my oath, That this much injured knight again should see, It must be done--I am a king, said he, And one whose faith has ever sacred been.

And so has mine, she said, I am a queen: 705 Her answer she shall have, I undertake; And thus an end of all dispute I make.

Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord, It is not in our s.e.x to break our word.[65]

We leave them here in this heroic strain, 710 And to the knight our story turns again; Who in the garden, with his lovely May, Sung merrier than the cuckoo or the jay: This was his song; "Oh kind and constant be, Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee." 715 Thus singing as he went, at last he drew By easy steps, to where the pear-tree grew: The longing dame looked up, and spied her love, Full fairly perched among the boughs above.

She stopped, and sighing: Oh, good G.o.ds, she cried, 720 What pangs, what sudden shoots distend my side?

Oh for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green; Help, for the love of heav'n's immortal queen; Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife![66] 725 Sore sighed the knight to hear his lady's cry, But could not climb, and had no servant nigh: Old as he was, and void of eye-sight too, What could, alas! a helpless husband do?

And must I languish then, she said, and die, 730 Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye?

At least, kind sir, for charity's sweet sake, Vouchsafe the trunk between your arms to take; Then from your back I might ascend the tree; Do you but stoop, and leave the rest to me. 735 With all my soul, he thus replied again, I'd spend my dearest blood to ease thy pain.

With that, his back against the trunk he bent, She seized a twig, and up the tree she went.

Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all! 740 Nor let on me your heavy anger fall: 'Tis truth I tell, though not in phrase refined, Though blunt my tale, yet honest is my mind.

What feats the lady in the tree might do, I pa.s.s as gambols never known to you; 745 But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore, Than in her life she ever felt before.

In that nice moment, lo! the wond'ring knight Looked out, and stood restored to sudden sight.

Straight on the tree his eager eyes he bent, 750 As one whose thoughts were on his spouse intent; But when he saw his bosom-wife so dressed, His rage was such as cannot be expressed: Not frantic mothers when their infants die, With louder clamours rend the vaulted sky: 755 He cried, he roared, he stormed, he tore his hair; Death! h.e.l.l! and furies! what dost thou do there!

What ails my lord? the trembling dame replied; I thought your patience had been better tried; Is this your love, ungrateful, and unkind, 760 This my reward for having cured the blind?

Why was I taught to make my husband see, By struggling with a man upon a tree?

Did I for this the pow'r of magic prove?

Unhappy wife, whose crime was too much love! 765 If this be struggling, by this holy light, 'Tis struggling with a vengeance, quoth the knight; So heav'n preserve the sight it has restored, As with these eyes I plainly saw thee wh.o.r.ed; Wh.o.r.ed by my slave--perfidious wretch! may h.e.l.l 770 As surely seize thee, as I saw too well.

Guard me, good angels! cried the gentle May, Pray heav'n this magic work the proper way!

Alas, my love! 'tis certain, could you see, You ne'er had used these killing words to me: 775 So help me, fates, as 'tis no perfect sight, But some faint glimm'ring of a doubtful light.

What I have said, quoth he, I must maintain, For by th' immortal pow'rs it seemed too plain.

By all those pow'rs, some frenzy seized your mind, } 780 Replied the dame, are these the thanks I find? } Wretch that I am, that e'er I was so kind! } She said; a rising sigh expressed her woe, The ready tears apace began to flow, And as they fell she wiped from either eye 785 The drops; for women, when they list, can cry.

The knight was touched; and in his looks appeared Signs of remorse, while thus his spouse he cheered: Madam, 'tis past, and my short anger o'er!

Come down, and vex your tender heart no more; 790 Excuse me, dear, if aught amiss was said, For, on my soul, amends shall soon be made: Let my repentance your forgiveness draw, By heav'n, I swore but what I thought I saw.

Ah, my loved lord! 'twas much unkind, she cried, 795 On bare suspicion thus to treat your bride.

But till your sight's established, for awhile, Imperfect objects may your sense beguile.

Thus when from sleep we first our eyes display, } The b.a.l.l.s are wounded with the piercing ray, } 800 And dusky vapours rise, and intercept the day: } So just recov'ring from the shades of night, } Your swimming eyes are drunk with sudden light, } Strange phantoms dance around, and skim before your sight. } Then, sir, be cautious, nor too rashly deem; 805 Heav'n knows how seldom things are what they seem!

Consult your reason, and you soon shall find 'Twas you were jealous, not your wife unkind: Jove ne'er spoke oracle more true than this, None judge so wrong as those who think amiss. 810 With that she leaped into her lord's embrace With well-dissembled virtue in her face.

He hugged her close, and kissed her o'er and o'er, Disturbed with doubts and jealousies no more: Both, pleased and blessed, renewed their mutual vows, 815 A fruitful wife and a believing spouse.

Thus ends our tale, whose moral next to make, Let all wise husbands hence example take; And pray, to crown the pleasure of their lives, To be so well deluded by their wives.[67] 820

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Pope in this particular has not followed Chaucer. The story is told by the merchant, who announces in the prologue, that he has been two months married, and that in this brief s.p.a.ce he has endured more misery from the fiendishness of his wife than a bachelor could undergo in an entire lifetime from the enmity of the world. He lays it down for a general maxim, that

We wedded men live in sorwe and care; a.s.say it whoso will, and he shall find That I say sooth, by Saint Thomas of Inde, As for the more part; I say not all; G.o.d shielde that it shoulde so befall.

The host begs that since the merchant knows so much of the trials of matrimony, he will instruct the company in some of them.

Gladly, quoth he, but of mine owne sore For sorry heart I telle may no more.

He accordingly relates the adventures of January and May in ill.u.s.tration of the misfortunes of the wedded state, and commences with the panegyric of January upon its unmixed blessings. The merchant then adds,

Thus said this olde knight that was so wise,

which is an ironical comment on what the narrator of the tale considers a delusive dream, and a proof of the credulous folly of the speaker. The idea of ascribing genuine sense and wisdom to the knight, notwithstanding that he was weak enough, at the age of sixty, to marry a girl, is confined to the version of Pope, and is not in itself unnatural; but the character, upon the whole, is better preserved in Chaucer, since the entire talk and conduct of January indicate a feeble mind.]

[Footnote 2: "Courage" in the original is not used in the modern sense, but signifies a hearty desire.]

[Footnote 3:

And when that he was pa.s.sed sixty year, Were it for holiness or for dotage, I cannot say, but such a great courage Hadde this knight to be a wedded man, That day and night he doth all that he can Taspye where that he might wedded be; Praying our Lord to grante him that he Might ones knowen of that blissful life, That is betwixt a husband and his wife.]

[Footnote 4: In the original,