Fool! Time no change of motion knows
With equal speed the torrent flows.

To sweep fame, pow'r, and wealth away :

The Paft is all by death poffeft;

And frugal fate that guards the reft,

By giving, bids him live, To-day.

II.

O Gow'r! thro' all that deftin'd space,
What breath the pow'rs allot to me,
Shall fing the virtues of thy race
United, and compleat in thee.
O flow'r of ancient English faith!
Pursue th' unbeaten patriot-path,

In which confirm'd thy father shone:
The light his fair example gives,
Already from thy dawn receives

A luftre, equal to its own.

III.

Honour's bright dome, on lafting columns rear'd,
Nor envy rufts, nor rolling years confume;
Loud Paans echoing round the roof are heard,
And clouds of incenfe all the void perfume.

There

There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland feated near his, fide,

Fix'd by the mufe the temple grace:
Prophetic of thy happier fame,
She, to receive thy radiant name,
Selects a whiter space.

A

TALE,

Devised in the plesaunt manere of gentil Maifter JEOFFREY CHAUCER.

W

Hylom in Kent there dwelt a clerke,
Who wyth grete cheer, and litil werke,

Upfwalen was with venere:

For meager Lent ne recked he,

Ne faincts days had in remembraunce,

Mo will had he to daliaunce.

Το

Or onion, than the fight of Greke:

Wherefore, God yeve him fhame, Boccace

Serv'd him for Bafil and Ignace. i bogd on 14 His vermeil cheke that fhon wyth mirth, m Spake him the blitheft prieft on yearth : HONDA At chyrch, to shew his lillied hond,

Full fetoufly he prank'd his bond;

Sleke weren his flaxen locks ykempt,

And Ifaac Wever was he nempt. 1

Thilke clerke echaufed in the groyne,

CT

For a young damofel did pyne, pre 6 duv envel

Born in Eaft-cheape; who, by my fay,

Ypert was as a popinjay:

Ne wit, ne wordes did the waunt,
Wele cond the many a romaunt;

Ore mufcadine, or fpiced ale,

She carrold foote as nightingale :

And for the nonce couth rowle her eyne,
Withouten speche; a speciall figne
She lack'd fomedele of what ech dame

Holds dere as life, yet dredes to name;

So

So was eftfoons by Ifaac won,

To blissful consummation.

Here mought I now tellen the feftes,

Who yave the bryde, how bib'd the gheftes:
But withouten fuch gawdes, i trow

Myne legend is prolix ynow.
Ryghte wele areeds Dan Prior's fong,
A tale fhold never be too long;
And fikerly in fayre England
None bett doeth taling understond.

She now, algates full fad to chaunge
The citee for her hufbond's graunge,
To Kent mote; for fhe wele did knowe
Twas vain ayenft the ftreme to rowe.
So wend they on one fteed yfere,
Ech cleping toder life and dere;

Heven fhilde hem fro myne Bromley hoft,
Or many a groat theyr meel woll cost.
Deem next ye Maistrefs Wever fene
Yclad in fable brombafine;

The frankeleins wyves accoft her blythe,

Curteis to guilen hem of tythe;

And yeve honour parochiall

In pew, and eke at feftivall,

Worschip