Our poet, in his usual passage from his "Chestres Inn by the Strond" to "Westminster Gate," by land or water--for "in the winter the way was deep," and "the Strand" was then what its name indicates--often was delayed by The outward signe of Bacchus and his lure, That at his dore hangeth day by day, Exciteth Folk to taste of his moistúre So often that they cannot well say Nay! There was another invitation for this susceptible writer of the Privy Seal. I dare not tell how that the fresh repaír Of Venus femel, lusty children dear, That so goodlý, so shapely were, and fair, And so pleasánt of port and of manére. There he loitered, To talk of mirth, and to disport and play. He never "pinched" the taverners, the cooks, the boatmen, and all such gentry. Among this many in mine audience, Methought I was ymade a man for ever-- So tickled me that nyce reverénce, That it me made larger of dispence;-- For Riot payeth largely ever mo; He stinteth never till his purse be bare. He is at length seized amid his jollities, By force of the penniless maladíe, Ne lust[3] had none to Bacchus House to hie. Fy! lack of coin departeth compaigníe; And hevé purse with Herté liberál Quencheth the thirsty heat of Hertés drie, Where chinchy Herté[4] hath thereof but small. This "mirror of riot and excess" effected a discovery, and it was, that all the mischiefs which he recounts came from the high reports of himself which servants bring to their lord. The Losengour or pleasant flatterer was too lightly believed, and honied words made more harmful the deceitful error. Oh! babbling flattery! he spiritedly exclaims, author of all lyes, that causest all day thy lord to fare amiss. Such is the import of the following uncouth verse:-- Many a servant unto his Lord saith That all the world speaketh of him, Honoúr, When the contrarie of that is sooth in faith; And lightly leeved is this Losengoúr,[5] His hony wordés wrapped in Erroúr, Blindly conceived been, the more harm is, O thou, FAVELE, of lesynges auctoúr,[6] Causest all day thy Lord to fare amiss. The Combre worldés;[7] 'clept been Enchantoúrs In Bookes, as I have red----. OCCLEVE was a shrewd observer of his own times. That this rhymer was even a playful painter of society we have a remarkable evidence preserved in the volume of his great master. "The Letter of Cupid," in the works of Chaucer, was the production of Occleve, and appears to have been overlooked by his modern critics. He had originally entitled it, "A Treatise of the Conversation of Men and Women in the Little Island of Albion." It is a caustic "polite conversation;" and deemed so execrably good, as to have excited, as our ancient critic Speght tells, "such hatred among the gentlewomen of the Court, that Occleve was forced to recant in that boke of his called 'Planetas Proprius.'"[8] The Letter of Cupid is thus dated:--