All is your lord’s alone; even absent,
he
Employs the care of chaste Penelope.
For him you waste in tears your widowed
hours,
For him your curious needle paints the
flowers;
Such works of old imperial dames were
taught,
Such for Ascanius fair Elisa wrought.
The soft recesses of your hours improve
The three fair pledges of your happy love:
All other parts of pious duty done,
You owe your Ormond nothing but a son,
To fill in future times his father’s
place,
And wear the garter of his mother’s
race.
PALAMON AND ARCITE;
OR, THE KNIGHT’S TALE.
FROM CHAUCER.
In days of old there lived, of mighty
fame,
A valiant Prince, and Theseus was his
name;
A chief, who more in feats of arms excelled,
The rising nor the setting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior Queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquered, then
by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous
dame,
With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride,
With Love to friend, and Fortune for his
guide,
And his victorious army at his side.
I pass their warlike pomp, their proud
array,
Their shouts, their songs, their welcome
on the way;
But, were it not too long, I would recite
The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight
Betwixt the hardy Queen and hero Knight;
The town besieged, and how much blood
it cost
The female army, and the Athenian host;
The spousals of Hippolyta the Queen;
What tilts and turneys at the feast were
seen;
The storm at their return, the ladies’
fear:
But these and other things I must forbear.
The field is spacious I design to sow
With oxen far unfit to draw the plough:
The remnant of my tale is of a length
To tire your patience, and to waste my
strength;
And trivial accidents shall be forborn,
That others may have time to take their
turn,
As was at first enjoined us by mine host,
That he, whose tale is best and pleases
most,
Should win his supper at our common cost.
And therefore where I left, I will pursue
This ancient story, whether false or true,
In hope it may be mended with a new.
The Prince I mentioned, full of high renown,
In this array drew near the Athenian town;
When, in his pomp and utmost of his pride
Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside,
And saw a quire of mourning dames, who
lay
By two and two across the common way:
At his approach they raised a rueful cry,
And beat their breasts, and held their
hands on high,
Creeping and crying, till they seized
at last
His courser’s bridle and his feet
