[Footnote 74:  This poem is intended to describe, in those who honour the “Flower,” the votaries of perishable beauty; and in those who honour the “Leaf,” the votaries of virtue.]

[Footnote 75:  ‘Agnus castus:’  a flower representing chastity.]

[Footnote 76:  ‘Cerrial-oak:’  Cerrus, bitter oak.]

[Footnote 77:  ‘Molucca:’  one of the Spice Islands.]

[Footnote 78:  ‘Virelay:’  a poem with recurring rhymes.]

* * * * *

THE WIFE OF BATH, HER TALE.

  In days of old, when Arthur fill’d the throne,
  Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown;
  The king of elves and little fairy queen
  Gamboll’d on heaths, and danced on every green;
  And where the jolly troop had led the round,
  The grass unbidden rose, and mark’d the ground: 
  Nor darkling did they dance, the silver light
  Of Phoebe served to guide their steps aright,
  And with their tripping pleased, prolong the night. 
  Her beams they follow’d, where at full she play’d, 10
  Nor longer than she shed her horns they stay’d;
  From thence with airy flight to foreign lands convey’d
  Above the rest our Britain held they dear,
  More solemnly they kept their sabbaths here,
  And made more spacious rings, and revell’d half the year.

    I speak of ancient times, for now the swain
  Returning late may pass the woods in vain,
  And never hope to see the nightly train: 
  In vain the dairy now with mints is dress’d,
  The dairymaid expects no fairy guest, 20
  To skim the bowls, and after pay the feast. 
  She sighs and shakes her empty shoes in vain,
  No silver penny to reward her pain: 
  For priests, with prayers, and other godly gear,
  Have made the merry goblins disappear;
  And where they play’d their merry pranks before,
  Have sprinkled holy water on the floor: 
  And friars, that through the wealthy regions run,
  Thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun,
  Resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls, 30
  And exorcise the beds, and cross the walls: 
  This makes the fairy quires forsake the place,
  When once ’tis hallow’d with the rites of grace: 
  But in the walks where wicked elves have been,
  The learning of the parish now is seen,
  The midnight parson, posting o’er the green,
  With gown tuck’d up, to wakes, for Sunday next,
  With humming ale encouraging his text;
  Nor wants the holy leer to country girl betwixt. 
  From fiends and imps he sets the village free, 40
  There haunts not any incubus but he. 
  The maids and women need no danger fear
  To walk by night, and sanctity so near: 
  For by some haycock, or some shady thorn,
  He bids his beads both even-song and morn.