The joys are such, as far transcend your rage,
When tender youth has wedded stooping age.
The beauteous dame sate smiling at the board,
And darted am'rous glances at her lord.

Not Hester's self, whose charms the Hebrews sing,
E'er looked so lovely on her Persian king:
Bright as the rising sun, in summer's day,
And fresh and blooming as the month of May.
The joyful knight surveyed her by his side,
Nor envied Paris with the Spartan bride:
Still as his mind revolved with vast delight
Th' entrancing raptures of th' approaching night,
Restless he sate, invoking ev'ry power

To speed his bliss, and haste the happy hour.
Meantime the vig'rous dancers beat the ground,
And songs were sung, and flowing bowls went round.
With od'rous spices they perfumed the place,
And mirth and pleasure shone in every face.
Damian alone, of all the menial train,
Sad in the midst of triumphs, sighed for pain;
Damian alone, the knight's obsequious squire,
Consumed at heart, and fed a secret fire.
His lovely mistress all his soul possessed,
He looked, he languished, and could take no rest:
His task performed, he sadly went his way,
Fell on his bed, and loathed the sight of day
There let him lie; till his relenting dame
Weep in her turn, and waste in equal flame.
The weary sun, as learned poets write,
Forsook the horizon, and rolled down the light;
While glitt'ring stars his absent beams supply,
And night's dark mantle overspread the sky.
Then rose the guests; and as the time required,
Each paid his thanks, and decently retired.

The foe once gone, our knight prepared t' undress So keen he was, and eager to possess:

But first thought fit the assistance to receive,
Which grave physicians scruple not to give;
Satyrion near, with hot eringos stood,
Cantharides, to fire the lazy blood,

Whose use old bards describe in luscious rhymes,
And critics learned explain to modern times.

By this the sheets were spread, the bride undressed, The room was sprinkled, and the bed was blessed,

What next ensued beseems not me to say;
'Tis sung, he laboured till the dawning day,
Then briskly sprung from bed, with heart so light,
As all were nothing he had done by night;
And sipped his cordial as he sate upright.
He kissed his balmy spouse with wanton play,
And feebly sung a lusty roundelay:

Then on the couch his weary limbs he cast;
For ev'ry labour must have rest at last.

But anxious cares the pensive squire oppressed,
Sleep fled his eyes, and peace forsook his breast;
The raging flames that in his bosom dwell,
He wanted art to hide, and means to tell.
Yet hoping time th' occasion might betray,
Composed a sonnet to the lovely May;
Which writ and folded with the nicest art,
He wrapped in silk, and laid upon his heart.
When now the fourth revolving day was run,
('Twas June, and Cancer had received the Sun)
Forth from her chamber came the beauteous bride;'
The good old knight moved slowly by her side.
High mass was sung; they feasted in the hall;
The servants round stood ready at their call.
The squire alone was absent from the board,
And much his sickness grieved his worthy lord,
Who prayed his spouse, attended with her train,
To visit Damian, and divert his pain.

Th' obliging dames obeyed with one consent;
They left the hall, and to his lodging went.
The female tribe surround him as he lay,
And close beside him sat the gentle May:
Where, as she tried his pulse, he softly drew
A heaving sigh, and cast a mournful view!
Then gave his bill, and bribed the pow'rs divine,
With secret vows to favour his design.

Who studies now but discontented May?

On her soft couch uneasily she lay:

The lumpish husband snored away the night,
Till coughs awaked him near the morning light.
What then he did, I'll not presume to tell,
Nor if she thought herself in heav'n or hell:

"As custom is with these nobles all,
A bride shall not be eaten in the hall
Till days four-,"-Chaucer.

Honest and dull in nuptial bed they lay,
Till the bell tolled, and all arose to pray.
Were it by forceful destiny decreed,
Or did from chance, or nature's pow'r proceed:
Or that some star, with aspect kind to love,
Shed its selectest influence from above;
Whatever was the cause, the tender dame
Felt the first motions of an infant flame:
Received th' impressions of the love-sick squire.
And wasted in the soft infectious fire.

Ye fair, draw near, let May's example move
Your gentle minds to pity those who love!
Had some fierce tyrant in her stead been found,
The poor adorer sure had hanged, or drowned:
But she, your sex's mirror, free from pride,
Was much too meek to prove a homicide.

But to my tale: Some sages have defined
Pleasure the sovereign bliss of humankind:
Our knight (who studied much, we may suppose)
Derived his high philosophy from those;
For, like a prince, he bore the vast expense
Of lavish pomp, and proud magnificence:
His house was stately, his retinue gay,
Large was his train, and gorgeous his array.
His spacious garden made to yield to none,
Was compassed round with walls of solid stone:
Priapus could not half describe the grace
(Though god of gardens) of this charming place:
A place to tire the rambling wits of France
In long descriptions, and exceed romance;
Enough to shame the gentlest bard that sings
Of painted meadows, and of purling springs.
Full in the centre of the flow'ry ground,
A crystal fountain spread its streams around,
The fruitful banks with verdant laurels crowned;
About this spring (if ancient fame say true)
The dapper elves their moonlight sports pursue:
Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen,
In circling dances gamboled on the green,
While tuneful sprites a merry concert made,
And airy music warbled through the shade.
Hither the noble knight would oft repair,
(His scene of pleasure, and peculiar care)
For this he held it dear, and always bore

The silver key that locked the garden door.
To this sweet place in summer's sultry heat,
He used from noise and bus'ness to retreat;
And here in dalliance spend the live-long day,
Solus cum sola, with his sprightly May.
For whate'er work was undischarged a-bed,
The duteous knight in this fair garden sped.
But ah! what mortal lives of bliss secure,
How short a space our wordly joys endure?
O fortune, fair, like all thy treach'rous kind,
But faithless still, and wav'ring as the wind!
O painted monster, formed mankind to cheat,
With pleasing poison and with soft deceit!
This rich, this am'rous, venerable knight,
Amidst his ease, his solace and delight,
Struck blind by thee, resigns his days to grief,
And calls on death, the wretch's last relief.

The rage of jealousy then seized his mind,
For much he feared the faith of woman kind.
His wife not suffered from his side to stray,
Was captive kept, he watched her night and day,
Abridged her pleasures and confined her sway.
Full oft in tears did hapless May complain,
And sighed full oft; but sighed and wept in vain;
She looked on Damian with a lover's eye;
For oh, twas fixt; she must possess or die!
Nor less impatience vexed her am'rous squire,
Wild with delay, and burning with desire.
Watched as she was, yet could he not refrain,
By secret writing to disclose his pain:
The dame by signs revealed her kind intent,
Till both were conscious what each other meant.
Ah, gentle knight, what would thy eyes avail,
Though they could see as far as ships can sail?
'Tis better, sure, when blind, deceived to be,
Than be deluded when a man can see!

Argus himself, so cautious and so wise, Was over-watched, for all his hundred eyes: So many an honest husband may, is known Who, wisely, never thinks the case his own.

The dame at last, by diligence and care, Procured the key her knight was wont to bear: She took the wards in wax before the fire, And gave th' impression to the trusty squire.

By means of this, some wonder shall appear,
Which, in due place and season, you may hear.
Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore,
What sleight is that, which love will not explore?
And Pyramus and Thisbe plainly show

The feats true lovers, when they list, can do:
Though watched and captive, yet in spite of all,
They found the art of kissing through a wall.
But now no longer from our tale to stray;
It happ'd, that once upon a summer's day,
Our rev'rend knight was ugred to am'rous play:
He raised his spouse ere matin-bell was rung,
And thus his morning canticle he sung:

"Awake, my love, disclose thy radiant eyes; Arise, my wife, my beauteous lady, rise!

Hear how the doves with pensive notes complain,
And in soft murmurs tell the trees their pain:
The winter's past; the clouds and tempest fly;
The sun adorns the fields, and brightens all the sky
Fair without spot, whose ev'ry charming part
My bosom wounds, and captivates my heart;
Come, and in mutual pleasure let's engage,
Joy of my life, and comfort of my age.'

This heard, to Damian straight a sign she made,
To haste before; the gentle squire obeyed:
Secret, and undescried he took his way,
And ambushed close behind an arbour lay.
It was not long ere January came,
And hand in hand with him his lovely dame;
Blind as he was, not doubting all was sure,
He turned the key, and made the gate secure.
"Here let us walk," he said, "observed by none,
Conscious of pleasures to the world unknown:
So may my soul have joy, as thou my wife,
Art far the dearest solace of my life;
And rather would I choose, by heav'n above,
To die this instant, than to lose thy love.
Reflect what truth was in my passion shown,
When unendowed, I took thee for my own,
And sought no treasure but thy heart alone.
Old as I am, and now deprived of sight,
Whilst thou art faithful to thy own true knight,
Nor age, nor blindness rob me of delight.
Each other loss with patience I can bear,