That neither vein-bleeding, ne ventousing,
Ne drink of herb-es, may to him been helping.
The expulsive virtue, or the animal,
For the like virtue cleped natural,
Ne may the venom voiden, ne expell.
The pip-es of his lungs began to swell,
And every muscle in his brest adown
Is shent with venom and corruption.
Him gaineth neither, for to get his life,
Ne vomit up, ne downward laxatife.
All breaking up appears this re-gi-on;
Nature hath now no domina-ti-on:

And certainly where nature will not werch, [work]
Physic farewell; go bear the man to church.*
This is áll and some, that Ar'-ci-te must dìe.
For which he sendeth after Emilie,

And Palamon, that was his cousin dear.
Then said he thus, as ye shall after hear.

Nought may the woful spirit in my heart
Declare to highth of all my sorrow's smart
To you, my lady, that I love the most;
But I bequeath the service of my ghost↑
Το you, aboven every cre-a-ture,
Since that my life no longer may endure.

Alas the wo, alas the pain-es strong
That I for you have suffer'd and so long!
Alas the death! alas mine Emilie!
Alas departing of our companie!
Alas my heart-es queen! alas my wife!

My heart-es lady! ender of my life!

What is this world? what aren men to have?

Now with their love, now in their cold, cold grave—

Alone, withouten any company.

Farewell my sweet, farewell mine Emely;

And softly take me in your arm-es twey,
For love of God, and hearkeneth what I say.

'I have here with my cousin Palamon
Had strife and rancour many a day agon

* The reader perhaps will agree with us in preferring the two lines of Chaucer to the three of Dryden's, notwithstanding the witty illustration of patching old buildings with physic.

+ This primitive line of Chaucer's is not improved by the inversion and slight alteration of Dryden.

For love of you, and for my jealousy.
And Jupiter so wis my soul-e gie [give]
To speaken of a servant pro-pre-ly,
With all the circumstances trew-e-ly,
That is to sayn, truth, honour, and knighted,
Wisdom, humbless, estate, and high kindred,
Freedom and all that 'longeth to that art,
So Jupiter, have of my soul a part

As in this world right now ne know I none
So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

That serveth you,

and will do all his life.

And if that ever ye shall been a wife,

Forget not Palamon that gentle man.'

"And with that word his speech to fail began,

For from his feet up to his breast was come

The cold of death, that had him overnone. [overtaken]

And, yet moreover, in his arms also

The vital strength is lost, and all ago. [gone]

Only the intellect, withouten more,

That dwelled in his heart-e sick and sore,

Gan faillen, when the heart-e felt the death;
Dusked his eyen both, and fail'd his breath.
But on his lady yet he cast his eye;

And his last word was Mercy Emely.''

"Meanwhile the health of Arcite still impairs;

From bad proceeds to worse, and mocks the leech's cares;
Swoln is his breast; his inward pains increase,
All means are us'd, and all without success.
The clotted blood lies heavy on his heart,
Corrupts, and there remains in spite of art:
Nor breathing veins, nor cupping will prevail;
All outward remedies, and inward fail:
The mould of nature's fabric is destroy'd,
Her vessels discompos'd, her virtues void;
The bellows of his lungs begin to swell:
All out of frame is every secret cell,
Nor can the good recceive, or bad expel.
Those breathing organs thus within opprest
With venom soon distend the sinews of his breast.
Nought profits him to save abandon'd life,
Nor vomits upward aid, nor downward laxative.
The middle region batter'd and destroy'd,
Where nature cannot work, th' effect of art is void.

For physic can but mend our crazy state,
Patch an old building, not a new create.
Arcite is doom'd to die in all his pride,

Must leave his youth, and yield his beauteous bride,
Gain'd hardly, against right, and unenjoy'd.
When 't was declar'd all hope of life was past,
Conscience (that of all physic works the last)
Caus'd him to send for Emily in haste.
With her, at his desire, came Palamon:
Then, on his pillow rais'd, he thus begun.
'No language can express the smallest part
Of what I feel, and suffer in my heart,
For you, whom best I love, and value most;
But to your service I bequeath my ghost;
Which, from this mortal body when unty'd,
Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side ;
Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend,
But wait officious, and your steps uttend:
How I have lov'd-excuse my flattering tongue;
My spirit's feeble, and my pains are strong :
This I may say, I only grieve to die
Because I lose my charming Emily:

To die, when heav'n hath put you in my pow'r,
Fate could not chuse a more malicious hour!
What greater curse could envious fortune give,
Than just to die, when I began to live.*

Vain men,

how vanishing a bliss we crave!
Now warm in love, now withering in the grave!
Never, O never more to see the sun!

Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone!
This fate is common; but I lose my breath
Near bliss, and yet not blest before my death.

* All this, (and some parts that follow,) is certainly not Chaucer; but downright Dryden, and in the very style of his rhyming tragedies: where wit is substituted for pathos, and a clench and an antithesis supply the place of natural feeling and emotion. The quaintness of our old writers is the struggle of strong conception with a half-formed language; eccentric, because the straight path is obstructed. It hath generally pith and pregnancy. The conceits and antithetic quibblings of the Restoration Age are the dilations of verbiage to cover the paucity of ideas, or the absence of genuine passion and enthusiasm. The pen goes before the thought, and is voluble without being eloquent. The observation will apply to much (though not to all) that we owe to Dryden.

Farewell; but take me dying in your arms,

Tis all I can enjoy of all your charms :
This hand I cannot but in death resign:
Ah! could I live! but while I live 'tis mine.
I feel my end approach, and thus embrac'd
Am pleas'd to die; but hear me speak my last.
Ah! my sweet foe! for you, and you alone,
I broke my faith with injur'd Palamon.
But love the sense of right and wrong confounds,
Strong love and proud ambition know no bounds.
And much I doubt should heav'n my life prolong,
I should return to justify my wrong:,
For while my former flames remain within,
Repentance is but want of power to sin.*
With mortal hatred I pursu'd his life,
Nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife;
Nor I, but as I lov'd; yet all combin'd,
Your beauty, and my impotence of mind,
And his concurrent flame that blew my fire;
For still our kindred souls had one desire.
He had the moment's right in point of time;
Had I seen first, then his had been the crime.
Fate made it mine, and justify'd his right;
Nor holds this earth a more deserving knight
For virtue, valour, and for noble blood,
Truth, honour, and all that is compris'd in good,
So help me heav'n, in all this world is none
So worthy to be lov'd as Palamon.

"This was his last; for death came on amain,
And exercis'd below his iron reign;

Then upward to the seat of life he goes:
Sense fled before him, what he touch'd he froze:

Its appropri

*For sting of ethic satire this line is admirable. ateness in the mouth of a dying man is a distinct question.

Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,
Tho' less and less of Emily he saw;

So speechless for a little while he lay,

Then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away.”

Some sceptical reflections of the author follow, as to the disposal of the soul of the departed-the Theban Prince (in the time of Duke Theseus) being of course no Christian. And if Chaucer meant to sneer at the dogmas of theologians upon this subject, Dryden has taken care that the hint should not be lost. Chaucer tells us

"His spirit changed house, and wenten there--
As I came neve'r, I cannot tellen where ;
Therefore I stint : I am no divin-ís-ter :
Of soules I find not in this register.

Ne lust me not the' opin-i-ons to tell

Of them, tho' that they written where they dwell."

Which Dryden thus amplifies

"But whether went his soul, let such relate
Who search the secrets of the future state :
Divines can say but what themselves believe;
Strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative:
For, were all plain, then all sides must agree,
And faith itself be lost in certainty.

To live uprightly then is sure the best,

To save ourselves and not to damn the rest.
The soul of Arcite went where heathens go,
Who better live than we, tho' less they know."

In describing the grief of the mistress and the friend of the departed, Dryden does not wander less freely, nor, in all respects, more happily, from his text. The first three of the ensuing lines of Chaucer, with which (except in substituting "waileth" for "howleth," which, to modern ears, would sound like a vulgarism) we have altered nothing but the spelling, are not, we think, very judiciously diluted into the six lines of Dryden; and the five which he has substituted for the remaining seven of the original absolutely invert the sense, and metamorphose pathos and sentiment into metaphor and sarcasm.

"Shriek'd Emely, and waileth Palamon;
And Theseus his sister took anon

Swooning, and bare her from the corps away.
What helpeth it to tarien forth the day,