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[wywm299471]

The lists shall be erected in this place. And God so truly on my soul have ruth As I shall prove an honest judge, in truth. You shall no other judgment in me waken Than that the one shall die or else be taken. And if you think the sentence is well said, Speak your opinion, that you're well repaid. This is the end, and I conclude hereon." Who looks up lightly now but Palamon? Who leaps for you but Arcita the knight? And who could tell, or who could ever write The jubilation made within that place Where Theseus has shown so fair a grace? But down on knee went each one for delight And thanked him there with all his heart and might, And specially those Thebans did their part. And thus, with high hopes, being blithe of heart, They took their leave; and homeward did they ride To Thebes that sits within her old walls wide. Explicit secunda pars. Sequitur pars tercia. I think that men would deem it negligence If I forgot to tell of the expense Of Theseus, who went so busily To work upon the lists, right royally; For such an amphitheatre he made, Its equal never yet on earth was laid. The circuit, rising, hemmed a mile about, Walled all of stone and moated deep without. Round was the shape as compass ever traces, And built in tiers, the height of sixty paces, That those who sat in one tier, or degree, Should hinder not the folk behind to see. Eastward there stood a gate of marble white. And westward such another, opposite. In brief, no place on earth, and so sublime, Was ever made in so small space of time;

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For in the land there was no craftsman quick At plane geometry or arithmetic, No painter and no sculptor of hard stone, But Theseus pressed meat and wage upon To build that amphitheatre and devise. The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 40And to observe all rites and sacrifice, Over the eastern gate, and high above, For worship of Queen Venus, god of love, He built an altar and an oratory; And westward, being mindful of the glory Of Mars, he straightway builded such another As cost a deal of gold and many a bother. And northward, in a turret on the wall, Of alabaster white and red coral, An oratory splendid as could be, In honour of Diana's chastity, Duke Theseus wrought out in noble wise. But yet have forgot to advertise The noble carvings and the portraitures, The shapes, the countenances, the figures That all were in these oratories three. First, in the fane of Venus, one might see, Wrought on the wall, and piteous to behold, The broken slumbers and the sighing cold, The sacred tears and the lamenting dire, The fiery throbbing of the strong desire, That all love's servants in this life endure; The vows that all their promises assure; Pleasure and hope, desire, foolhardiness, Beauty, youth, bawdiness, and riches, yes, Charms, and all force, and lies, and flattery, Expense, and labour; aye, and Jealousy That wore of marigolds a great garland And had a cuckoo sitting on her hand; Carols and instruments and feasts and dances, Lust and array, and all the circumstances Of love that I may reckon or ever shall, In order they were painted on the wall, Aye, and more, too, than I have ever known. For truly, all the Mount of Citheron, Where Venus has her chief and favoured dwelling, Was painted on that wall, beyond my telling, With all the gardens in their loveliness. Nor was forgot the gateguard Idleness, Nor fair Narcissus of the years long gone, Nor yet the folly of King Solomon, No, nor the giant strength of Hercules, Nor Circe's and Medea's sorceries, Nor Turnus with his hardy, fierce courage, Nor the rich Croesus, captive in his age. Thus may be seen that wisdom, nor largess, Beauty, nor skill, nor strength, nor hardiness, May with Queen Venus share authority; For as she wills, so must the whole world be. Lo, all these folk were so caught in her snare They cried aloud in sorrow and in care. The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 41Here let suffice examples one or two, Though I might give a thousand more to you. The form of Venus, glorious as could be, Was naked, floating on the open sea, And from the navel down all covered was With green waves, bright as ever any glass. A citole in her small right hand had she, And on her head, and beautiful to see, A garland of red roses, sweet smelling, Above her swirled her white doves, fluttering. Before her stood her one son, Cupido, Whose two white wings upon his shoulders grow; And blind he was, as it is often seen; A bow he bore, and arrows bright and keen. Why should I not as well, now, tell you all The portraiture that was upon the wall Within the fane of mighty Mars the red? In length and breadth the whole wall was painted Like the interior of that grisly place, The mighty temple of great Mars in Thrace, In that same cold and frosty region where Mars to his supreme mansion may repair. First, on the wall was limned a vast forest Wherein there dwelt no man nor any beast, With knotted, gnarled, and leafless trees, so old The sharpened stumps were dreadful to behold; Through which there ran a rumbling, even now, As if a storm were breaking every bough; And down a hill, beneath a sharp descent, The temple stood of Mars armipotent, Wrought all of burnished steel, whereof the gate Was grim like death to see, and long, and strait. And therefrom raged a wind that seemed to shake The very ground, and made the great doors quake. The northern light in at those same doors shone, For window in that massive wall was none Through which a man might any light discern. The doors were all of adamant eterne, Rivetted on both sides, and all along, With toughest iron; and to make it strong, Each pillar that sustained this temple grim Was thick as tun, of iron bright and trim.

[bertram123]

Well, the world has a million writers. One would think, then, that good thought would be as familiar as air and water, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can count all our good books; nay, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of the creative, so that there are many competent judges of the best book, and few writers of the best books. But some of the conditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole, and demands integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man's devotion to a single thought, and by his ambition to combine too many. Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fasten his attention on a single aspect of truth, and apply himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself, but falsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our natural element, and the breath of our nostrils, but if a stream of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold, fever, and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration of a single topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a prison also. I cannot see what you see, because I am caught up by a strong wind, and blown so far in one direction that I am out of the hoop of your horizon.