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In fact, it is the most agreeable subject, fittest to make the evening hours pass sweetly, amid the goblets filled with spiced wine and the burning perfumes. Chaucer translated first that great storehouse of gallantry, the "Roman de la Rose." There is no pleasanter entertainment. It is about a rose which the lover wished to pluck: the pictures of the May months, the groves, the flowery earth, the green hedgerows, abound and display their bloom. Then come portraits of the smiling ladies, Richesse, Fraunchise, Gaiety, and by way of contrast, the sad characters, Daunger and Travail, all fully and minutely described, with detail of features, clothing, attitude; they walk about, as on a piece of tapestry, amid landscapes, dances, castles, among allegorical groups, in lively sparkling colors, displayed, contrasted, ever renewed and varied so as to entertain the sight. For an evil has arisen, unknown to serious ages—ennui; novelty and brilliancy followed by novelty and brilliancy are necessary to withstand it; and Chaucer, like Boccaccio and Froissart, enters into the struggle with all his heart. He borrows from Boccaccio his history of Palamon and Arcite, from Lollius his history of Troilus and Cressida, and rearranges them. How the two young Theban knights, Arcite and Palamon, both fall in love with the beautiful Emily, and how Arcite, victorious in tourney, falls and dies, bequeathing Emily to his rival; how the fine Trojan knight Troilus wins the favor of Cressida, and how Cressida abandons him for Diomedes—these are still tales in verse, tales of love. A little tedious they may be; all the writings of this age, French, or imitated from French, are born of too prodigal minds; but how they glide along! A winding stream, which flows smoothly on level sand, and sparkles now and again in the sun, is the only image we can compare it to. The characters speak too much, but then they speak so well! Even when they dispute we like to listen, their anger and offences are so wholly based on a happy overflow of unbroken converse. Remember Froissart, how slaughters, assassinations, plagues, the butcheries of the Jacquerie, the whole chaos of human misery, disappears in his fine ceaseless humor, so that the furious and grinning figures seem but ornaments and choice embroideries to relieve the skein of shaded and colored silk which forms the groundwork of his narrative! but, in particular, a multitude of descriptions spread their gilding over all. Chaucer leads you among arms, palaces, temples, and halts before each beautiful thing. Here:

"The statue of Venus glorious for to see

Was naked fleting in the large see,

And fro the navel doun all covered was

With wawes grene, and bright as any glas.

A citole in hire right hand hadde she,

And on hire hed, ful semely for to see,

A rose gerlond fressh, and wel smelling,

Above hire hed hire doves fleckering."[196]

Further on, the temple of Mars:

"First on the wall was peinted a forest,

In which ther wonneth neyther man ne best,

With knotty knarry barrein trees old

Of stubbes sharpe and hidous to behold;

In which ther ran a romble and a swough

As though a storme shuld bresten every bough:

And dounward from an hill under a bent.

Ther stood the temple of Mars armipotent,

Wrought all of burned stele, of which th' entree

Was longe and streite, and gastly for to see.

Aud therout came a rage and swiche a vise,

That it made all the gates for to rise.

The northern light in at the dore shone,

For window on the wall ne was ther none,

Thurgh which men mighten any light discerne.

The dore was all of athamant eterne,

Yclenched overthwart and endelong

With yren tough, and for to make it strong,

Every piler the temple to sustene

Was tonne-gret, of yren bright and shene."[197]

Everywhere on the wall were representations of slaughter; and in the sanctuary

"The statue of Mars upon a carte stood

Armed, and loked grim as he were wood,...

A wolf ther stood beforne him at his fete

With eyen red, and of a man he ete."[198]

Are not these contrasts well designed to rouse the imagination? You will meet in Chaucer a succession of similar pictures. Observe the train of combatants who come to joust in the tilting field for Arcite and Palamon:

"With him ther wenten knightes many on.

Som wol ben armed in an habergeon

And in a brestplate, and in a gipon;

And som wol have a pair of plates large;

And som wol have a Pruce sheld, or a targe,

Som wol ben armed on his legges wele,

And have an axe, and som a mace of stele....

Ther maist thou se coming with Palamon

Licurge himself, the grete king of Trace:

Blake was his berd, and manly was his face.

The cercles of his eyen in his hed

They gloweden betwixen yelwe and red,

And like a griffon loked he about,

With kemped heres on his browes stout;

His limmes gret, his braunes hard and stronge,

His shouldres brode, his armes round and longe.

And as the guise was in his contree,

Ful highe upon a char of gold stood he,

With foure white bolles in the trais.

Instede of cote-armure on his harnais,

With nayles yelwe, and bright as any gold,

He hadde a beres skin, cole-blake for old.

His longe here was kempt behind his bak,

As any ravenes fether it shone for blake.

A wreth of gold arm-gret, of huge weight,

Upon his hed sate ful of stones bright,

Of fine rubins and of diamants.

About his char ther wenten white alauns,

Twenty and mo, as gret as any stere,

To hunten at the leon or the dere,

And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound,

Colered with gold, and torettes filed round.

An hundred lordes had he in his route,

Armed ful wel, with hertes sterne and stoute.

With Arcita, in stories as men find,

The gret Emetrius the king of Inde,

Upon a stede bay, trapped in stele,

Covered with cloth of gold diapred wele,

Came riding like the god of armes Mars.

His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tars,

Couched with perles, white, and round and grete.

His sadel was of brent gold new ybete;

A mantelet upon his shouldres hanging

Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.

His crispe here like ringes was yronne,

And that was yelwe, and glitered as the sonne.

His nose was high, his eyen bright citrin,

His lippes round, his color was sanguin....

And as a leon he his loking caste.

Of five and twenty yere his age I caste.

His berd was well begonnen for to spring;

His vois was a trompe thondering.

Upon his hed he wered of laurer grene

A gerlond fresshe and lusty for to sene.

Upon his hond he bare for his deduit

An egle tame, as any lily whit.

An hundred lordes had he with him there,

All armed save hir hedes in all hir gere,

Ful richely in alle manere things....

About this king ther ran on every part

Ful many a tame leon and leopart."[199]

A herald would not describe them better nor more fully. The lords and ladies of the time would recognize here their tourneys and masquerades.

There is something more pleasant than a fine narrative, and that is a collection of fine narratives, especially when the narratives are all of different colorings. Froissart gives us such under the name of Chronicles; Boccaccio still better; after him the lords of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles; and, later still, Marguerite of Navarre. What more natural among people who meet, talk and wish to amuse themselves? The manners of the time suggest them; for the habits and tastes of society had begun, and fiction thus conceived only brings into books the conversations which are heard in the hall and by the wayside. Chaucer describes a troop of pilgrims, people of every rank, who are going to Canterbury; a knight, a sergeant of law, an Oxford clerk, a doctor, a miller, a prioress, a monk, who agree to tell a story all round:

"For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non,

To riden by the way domb as the ston."

They tell their stories accordingly; and on this slender and flexible thread all the jewels of feudal imagination, real or false, contribute one after another their motley shapes to form a necklace, side by side with noble and chivalrous stories: we have the miracle of an infant whose throat was cut by Jews, the trials of patient Griselda, Canace and marvellous fictions of Oriental fancy, obscene stories of marriage and monks, allegorical or moral tales, the fable of the cock and hen, a list of great unfortunate persons: Lucifer, Adam, Samson, Nebuchadnezzar, Zenobia, Crœsus, Ugolino, Peter of Spain. I leave out some, for I must be brief. Chaucer is like a jeweller with his hands full: pearls and glass beads, sparkling diamonds and common agates, black jet and ruby roses, all that history and imagination had been able to gather and fashion during three centuries in the East, in France, in Wales, in Provence, in Italy, all that had rolled his way, clashed together, broken or polished by the stream of centuries, and by the great jumble of human memory, he holds in his hand, arranges it, composes therefrom a long sparkling ornament, with twenty pendants, a thousand facets, which by its splendor, variety, contrasts, may attract and satisfy the eyes of those most greedy for amusement and novelty.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Photogravure from an old engraving.

He does more. The universal outburst of unchecked curiosity demands a more refined enjoyment: reverie and fantasy alone can satisfy it; not profound and thoughtful fantasy as we find it in Shakespeare, nor impassioned and meditative reverie as we find it in Dante, but the reverie and fantasy of the eyes, ears, external senses, which in poetry as in architecture call for singularity, wonders, accepted challenges, victories gained over the rational and probable, and which are satisfied only by what is crowded and dazzling. When we look at a cathedral of that time, we feel a sort of fear. Substance is wanting; the walls are hollowed out to make room for windows, the elaborate work of the porches, the wonderful growth of the slender columns, the thin curvature of arches—everything seems to menace us; support has been withdrawn to give way to ornament. Without external prop or buttress, and artificial aid of iron clamp-work, the building would have crumbled to pieces on the first day; as it is, it undoes itself; we have to maintain on the spot a colony of masons continually to ward off the continual decay. But our sight grows dim in following the wavings and twistings of the endless fretwork; the dazzling rose-window of the portal and the painted glass throw a checkered light on the carved stalls of the choir, the gold-work of the altar, the long array of damascened and glittering copes, the crowd of statues, tier above tier; and amid this violet light, this quivering purple, amid these arrows of gold which pierce the gloom, the entire building is like the tail of a mystical peacock. So most of the poems of the time are barren of foundation; at most a trite morality serves them for mainstay: in short, the poet thought of nothing else than displaying before us a glow of colors and a jumble of forms. They are dreams or visions; there are five or six in Chaucer, and you will meet more on your advance to the Renaissance. But the show is splendid. Chaucer is transported in a dream to a temple of glass,[200] on the walls of which are figured in gold all the legends of Ovid and Vergil, an infinite train of characters and dresses, like that which, on the painted glass in the churches, occupied then the gaze of the faithful. Suddenly a golden eagle, which soars near the sun, and glitters like a carbuncle, descends with the swiftness of lightning, and carries him off in his talons above the stars, dropping him at last before the House of Fame, splendidly built of beryl, with shining windows and lofty turrets, and situated on a high rock of almost inaccessible ice. All the southern side was graven with the names of famous men, but the sun was continuously melting them. On the northern side, the names, better protected, still remained. On the turrets appeared the minstrels and "gestiours," with Orpheus, Arion, and the great harpers, and behind them myriads of musicians, with horns, flutes, bagpipes, and reeds, on which they played, and which filled the air; then all the charmers, magicians, and prophets. He enters, and in a high hall, plated with gold, embossed with pearls, on a throne of carbuncle, he sees a woman seated, a "noble quene," amidst an infinite number of heralds, whose embroidered cloaks bore the arms of the most famous knights in the world, and heard the sounds of instruments, and the celestial melody of Calliope and her sisters. From her throne to the gate was a row of pillars, on which stood the great historians and poets; Josephus on a pillar of lead and iron; Statius on a pillar of iron stained with tiger's blood; Ovid, "Venus's clerk," on a pillar of copper; then, on one higher than the rest, Homer and Livy, Dares the Phrygian, Guido Colonna, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and the other historians of the war of Troy. Must I go on copying this phantasmagoria, in which confused erudition mars picturesque invention, and frequent banter shows signs that the vision is only a planned amusement? The poet and his reader have imagined for half-an-hour decorated halls and bustling crowds; a slender thread of common-sense has ingeniously crept along the transparent golden mist which they amuse themselves with following. That suffices; they are pleased with their fleeting fancies, and ask no more.

Amid this exuberancy of mind, amid these refined cravings, and this insatiate exaltation of imagination and the senses, there was one passion, that of love, which, combining all, was developed in excess, and displayed in miniature the sickly charm, the fundamental and fatal exaggeration, which are the characteristics of the age, and which, later, the Spanish civilization exhibits both in its flower and its decay. Long ago, the courts of love in Provence had established the theory. "Each one who loves," they said, "grows pale at the sight of her whom he loves; each action of the lover ends in the thought of her whom he loves. Love can refuse nothing to love."[201] This search after excessive sensation had ended in the ecstasies and transports of Guido Cavalcanti, and of Dante; and in Languedoc a company of enthusiasts had established themselves, love-penitents, who, in order to prove the violence of their passion, dressed in summer in furs and heavy garments, and in winter in light gauze, and walked thus about the country, so that several of them fell ill and died. Chaucer, in their wake, explained in his verses the craft of love,[202] the Ten Commandments, the twenty statutes of love; and praised his lady, his "daieseye," his "Margarite," his "vermeil rose"; depicted love in ballads, visions, allegories, didactic poems, in a hundred guises. This is chivalrous, lofty love, as it was conceived in the Middle Ages; above all, tender love. Troilus loves Cressida like a troubadour; without Pandarus, her uncle, he would have languished, and ended by dying in silence. He will not reveal the name of her he loves. Pandarus has to tear it from him, perform all the bold actions himself, plan every kind of stratagem. Troilus, however, brave and strong in battle, can but weep before Cressida, ask her pardon, and faint. Cressida, on her side, has every delicate feeling. When Pandarus brings her Troilus's first letter, she begins by refusing it, and is ashamed to open it: she opens it only because she is told the poor knight is about to die. At the first words "all rosy hewed tho woxe she"; and though the letter is respectful, she will not answer it. She yields at last to the importunities of her uncle, and answers Troilus that she will feel for him the affection of a sister. As to Troilus, he trembles all over, grows pale when he sees the messenger return, doubts his happiness, and will not believe the assurance which is given him:

"But right so as these holtes and these hayis

That han in winter dead ben and dry,

Revesten hem in grene, whan that May is....

Right in that selfe wise, sooth for to sey,

Woxe suddainly his herte full of joy."[203]

Slowly, after many troubles, and thanks to the efforts of Pandarus, he obtains her confession; and in this confession what a delightful charm!

"And as the newe abashed nightingale,

That stinteth first, whan she beginneth sing,

Whan that she heareth any heerdes tale,

Or in the hedges any wight stearing,

And after siker doeth her voice outring:

Right so Creseide, whan that her drede stent,

Opened her herte and told him her entent."[204]

He, as soon as he perceived a hope from afar,

"In chaunged voice, right for his very drede,

Which voice eke quoke, and thereto his manere,

Goodly abasht, and now his hewes rede,

Now pale, unto Cresseide his ladie dere,

With looke doun cast, and humble iyolden chere,

Lo, the alderfirst word that him astart

Was twice: 'Mercy, mercy, O my sweet herte!'"[205]

This ardent love breaks out in impassioned accents, in bursts of happiness. Far from being regarded as a fault, it is the source of all virtue. Troilus becomes braver, more generous, more upright, through it; his speech runs now on love and virtue; he scorns all villany; he honors those who possess merit, succors those who are in distress; and Cressida, delighted, repeats all day, with exceeding liveliness, this song, which is like the warbling of a nightingale:

"Whom should I thanken but you, god of love,

Of all this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne?

And thanked be ye, lorde for that I love,

This is the right life that I am inne,

To flemen all maner vice and sinne:

This doeth me so to vertue for to entende

That daie by daie I in my will amende.

And who that saieth that for to love is vice,...

He either is envious, or right nice,

Or is unmightie for his shreudnesse

To loven....

But I with all mine herte and all my might,

As I have saied, woll love unto my last,

My owne dere herte, and all mine owne knight,

In whiche mine herte growen is so fast,

And his in me, that it shall ever last."[206]

But misfortune comes. Her father Calchas demands her back, and the Trojans decide that they will give her up in exchange for prisoners. At this news she swoons, and Troilus is about to slay himself. Their love at this time seems imperishable; it sports with death, because it constitutes the whole of life. Beyond that better and delicious life which it created, it seems there can be no other:

"But as God would, of swough she abraide,

And gan to sighe, and Troilus she cride,

And he answerde: 'Lady mine, Creseide,

Live ye yet?' and let his swerde doun glide:

'Ye herte mine, that thanked be Cupide,'

(Quod she), and therwithal she sore sight,

And he began to glade her as he might.

"Took her in armes two and kist her oft,

And her to glad, he did al his entent,

For which her gost, that flikered aie a loft,

Into her wofull herte ayen it went:

But at the last, as that her eye glent

Aside, anon she gan his sworde aspie,

As it lay bare, and gan for feare crie.

"And asked him why had he it out draw,

And Troilus anon the cause her told,

And how himself therwith he wold have slain,

For which Creseide upon him gan behold,

And gan him in her armes faste fold,

And said: 'O mercy God, lo which a dede!

Alas, how nigh we weren bothe dede!'"[207]

At last they are separated, with what vows and what tears! and Troilus, alone in his chamber, murmurs:

"'Where is mine owne lady lefe and dere?

Where is her white brest, where is it, where?

Where been her armes, and her eyen clere

That yesterday this time with me were?'...

Nor there nas houre in al the day or night,

Whan he was ther as no man might him here,

That he ne sayd: 'O lovesome lady bright,

How have ye faren sins that ye were there?

Welcome ywis mine owne lady dere!'...

Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune,

And every thing came him to remembraunce,

As he rode forth by the places of the toune,

In which he whilom had all his pleasaunce:

'Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce,

And in that temple with her eien clere,

Me caught first my right lady dere.

And yonder have I herde full lustely

My dere herte laugh, and yonder play

Saw her ones eke ful blisfully,

And yonder ones to me gan she say,

"Now, good sweete, love me well I pray."

And yonde so goodly gan she me behold,

That to the death mine herte is to her hold,

And at the corner in the yonder house

Herde I mine alderlevest lady dere,

So womanly, with voice melodiouse,

Singen so wel, so goodly, and so clere,

That in my soule yet me thinketh I here

The blissful sowne, and in that yonder place,

My lady first me toke unto her grace.'"[208]

None has since found more true and tender words. These are the charming "poetic branches" which flourished amid gross ignorance and pompous parades. Human intelligence in the Middle Age had blossomed on that side where it perceived the light.

But mere narrative does not suffice to express his felicity and fancy; the poet must go where "shoures sweet of rain descended soft."

"And every plaine was clothed faire

With new greene, and maketh small floures

To springen here and there in field and in mede,

So very good and wholsome be the shoures,

That it renueth that was old and dede,

In winter time; and out of every sede

Springeth the hearbe, so that every wight

Of this season wexeth glad and light....

In which (grove) were okes great, streight as a line,

Under, the which the grasse so fresh of hew

Was newly sprong, and an eight foot or nine

Every tree well fro his fellow grew."

He must forget himself in the vague felicity of the country, and, like Dante, lose himself in ideal light and allegory. The dreams love, to continue true, must not take too visible a form, nor enter into a too consecutive history; they must float in a misty distance; the soul in which they hover can no longer think of the laws of existence; it inhabits another world; it forgets itself in the ravishing emotion which troubles it, and sees its well-loved visions rise, mingle, come and go, as in summer we see the bees on a hill-slope flutter in a haze of light, and circle round and round the flowers.

"One morning,"[209] a lady sings, "at the dawn of day, I entered an oak-grove"

"With branches brode, laden with leves new,

That sprongen out ayen the sunne-shene,

Some very red, and some a glad light grenc....[210] "And I, that all this pleasaunt sight sie, Thought sodainly I felt so sweet and aire Of the eglentere, that certainely There is no hert, I deme, in such dispaire, Ne with thoughts froward and contraire, So overlaid, but it should soone have bote, If it had ones felt this savour sote. "And as I stood, and cast aside mine eie, I was ware of the fairest medler tree That ever yet in all my life I sie, As full of blossomes as it might be; Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile Fro bough to bough; and, as him list, he eet Here and there of buds and floures sweet.... "And as I sat, the birds harkening thus, Methought that I heard voices sodainly, The most sweetest and most delicious That ever any wight, I trow truly, Heard in their life, for the armony And sweet accord was in so good musike, That the voice to angels most was like."[211]

Then she sees arrive "a world of ladies... in surcotes white of velvet... set with emerauds... as of great pearles round and orient, and diamonds fine and rubies red." And all had on their head "a rich fret of gold... full of stately riche stones set," with "a chapelet of branches fresh and grene... some of laurer, some of woodbind, some of agnus castus"; and at the same time came a train of valiant knights in splendid array, with harness of red gold, shining in the sun, and noble steeds, with trappings "of cloth of gold, and furred with ermine." These knights and ladies were the servants of the Leaf, and they sate under a great oak, at the feet of their queen.

From the other side came a bevy of ladies as resplendent as the first, but crowned with fresh flowers. These were the servants of the Flower. They alighted, and began to dance in the meadow. But heavy clouds appeared in the sky, and a storm broke out. They wished to shelter themselves under the oak, but there was no more room; they ensconced themselves as they could in the hedges and among the brushwood; the rain came down and spoiled their garlands, stained their robes, and washed away their ornaments; when the sun returned, they went to ask succor from the queen of the Leaf; she, being merciful, consoled them, repaired the injury of the rain, and restored their original beauty. Then all disappears as in a dream.

The lady was astonished, when suddenly a fair dame appeared and instructed her. She learned that the servants of the Leaf had lived like brave knights, and those of the Flower had loved idleness and pleasure. She promises to serve the Leaf, and came away.

Is this an allegory? There is at least a lack of wit. There is no ingenious enigma; it is dominated by fancy, and the poet thinks only of displaying in quiet verse the fleeting and brilliant train which had amused his mind, and charmed his eyes.

Chaucer himself, on the first of May, rises and goes out into the meadows. Love enters his heart with the balmy air; the landscape is transfigured, and the birds begin to speak:

"There sate I downe among the faire flours,

And saw the birds trip out of hir bours,

There as they rested them all the night,

They were so joyfull of the dayes light,

They began of May for to done honours.

"They coud that service all by rote,

There was many a lovely note,

Some song loud as they had plained,

And some in other manner voice yfained

And some all out with the ful throte.

"The proyned hem and made hem right gay,

And daunceden, and lepten on her spray,

And evermore two and two in fere,

Right so as they had chosen hem to yere,

In Feverere upon saint Valentines day.

"And the river that I sate upon,

It made such a noise as it ron,

Accordaunt with the birdes armony,

Methought it was the best melody

That might ben yheard of any mon."[212]

This confused harmony of vague noises troubles the sense; a secret languor enters the soul. The cuckoo throws his monotonous voice like a mournful and tender sigh between the white ash-tree boles; the nightingale makes his triumphant notes roll and ring above the leafy canopy; fancy breaks in unsought, and Chaucer hears them dispute of Love. They sing alternately an antistrophic song, and the nightingale weeps for vexation to hear the cuckoo speak in depreciation of Love. He is consoled, however, by the poet's voice, seeing that he also suffers with him:

"'For love and it hath doe me much wo.'

'Ye use' (quod she) 'this medicine

Every day this May or thou dine

Go looke upon the fresh daisie,

And though thou be for wo in point to die,

That shall full greatly lessen thee of thy pine.

"'And looke alway that thou be good and trew,

And I wol sing one of the songes new,

For love of thee, as loud as I may crie:'

And than she began this song full hie,

'I shrewe all hem that been of love untrue.'"[213]

To such exquisite delicacies love, as with Petrarch, had carried poetry; by refinement even, as with Petrarch, it is lost now and then in its wit, conceits, clinches. But a marked characteristic at once separates it from Petrarch. If over-excited, it is also graceful, polished, full of archness, banter, fine sensual gayety, somewhat gossipy, as the French always paint love. Chaucer follows his true masters, and is himself an elegant speaker, facile, ever ready to smile, loving choice pleasures, a disciple of the "Roman de la Rose," and much less Italian than French.[214] The bent of French character makes of love not a passion, but a gay banquet, tastefully arranged, in which the service is elegant, the food exquisite, the silver brilliant, the two guests in full dress, in good humor, quick to anticipate and please each other, knowing how to keep up the gayety, and when to part. In Chaucer, without doubt, this other altogether worldly vein runs side by side with the sentimental element. If Troilus is a weeping lover, Pandarus is a lively rascal, who volunteers for a singular service with amusing urgency, frank immorality, and carries it out carefully, gratuitously, thoroughly. In these pretty attempts Chaucer accompanies him as far as possible, and is not shocked. On the contrary, he makes fun out of it. At the critical moment, with transparent hypocrisy, he shelters himself behind his "author." If you find the particulars free, he says, it is not my fault; "so writen clerks in hir bokes old," and "I mote, aftir min auctour, telle...." Not only is he gay, but he jests throughout the whole tale. He sees clearly through the tricks of feminine modesty; he laughs at it archly, knowing full well what is behind; he seems to be saying, finger on lip: "Hush! let the grand words roll on, you will be edified presently." We are, in fact, edified; so is he, and in the nick of time he goes away, carrying the light: "For ought I can aspies, this light nor I ne serven here of nought. Troilus," says uncle Pandarus, "if ye be wise, sweveneth not now, lest more folke arise." Troilus takes care not to swoon; and Cressida at last, being alone with him, speaks wittily and with prudent delicacy; there is here an exceeding charm, no coarseness. Their happiness covers all, even voluptuousness, with a profusion and perfume of its heavenly roses. At most a slight spice of archness flavors it: "and gode thrift he had full oft." Troilus holds his mistress in his arms: "with worse hap God let us never mete." The poet is almost as well pleased as they: for him, as for the men of his time, the sovereign good is love, not damped, but satisfied; they ended even by thinking such love a merit. The ladies declared in their judgments, that when people love, they can refuse nothing to the beloved. Love has become law; it is inscribed in a code; they combine it with religion; and there is a sacrament of love, in which the birds in their anthems sing matins.[215] Chaucer curses with all his heart the covetous wretches, the business men, who treat is as a madness:

"As would God, tho wretches that despise

Service of love had eares al so long

As had Mida, ful of covetise,...

To teachen hem, that they been in the vice

And lovers not, although they hold hem nice,

... God yeve hem mischaunce,

And every lover in his trouth avaunce."[216]

He clearly lacks severity, so rare in southern literature. The Italians in the Middle Ages made a virtue of joy; and you perceive that the world of chivalry, as conceived by the French, expanded morality so as to confound it with pleasure.