And for my werk right nothing wol I axe;

My lord and I ben ful of one accord. I made her to the worship of my Lord. CHAUCER.

THE BRIDE.

Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,

Like Phoebe from her chamber of the east,

Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.

So well it her beseems, that ye would

ween

Some angel she had been. Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire,

Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,

Do like a golden mantle her attire; And being crownèd with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too
bold,

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,

So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,

Adorned with Beauty's grace and Virtue's store?

Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shining bright,

Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,

Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,

Her paps like lilies budded,

And therefore little shall I grace my

cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal,)

I won his daughter with.

Her father loved me, oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life,

From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents, by flood and field; Of hairbreadth scapes in the imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history:

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process:

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders.
These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house affairs would
draw her thence;

Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

She'd

come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse: which, I observing,

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means

She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used:

Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

Starting at the random

And dumb with trepidation, there I stood

Some seconds as bewitched; then I looked up,

And in her face beheld an orient flush

Of half-bewildered pleasure: from which trance

She with an instant ease resumed herself,

And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, held out

Her arrowy hand.

I thought it trembled as it lay in mine,

But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free,

And said that she felt nothing. Sidroc. And what felt'st thou? Athulf. A sort of swarming, curling, tremulous tumbling, As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom. - Sidroc, you

I said I was ashamed. smile,

If at my folly, well! But if you smile,

Suspicious of a taint upon my heart, Wide is your error, and you never loved.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay: All day the same our postures were, And we said nothing all the day. If any, so by love refined,

That he soul's language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood, He, (though he knew not which soul spoke,

Because both meant, both spoke the same,)

Might thence a new concoction take, And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex,

We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex,

We see, we saw not what did

From you forever. I did hear you talk

Far above singing; after you were

gone,

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched

What stirred it so. Alas! I found it love.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER:

Philaster.