Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day, Till it felle ones in a morwe of May, That Emelie, that fayrer was to sene Than is the lilie upon the stalke grene, And fressher than the May with floures newe (For with the rose colour strof hire hewe; I n'ot which was the finer of hem two) Er it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen, and all redy dight, For May wol have no slogardie a-night. The seson priketh every gentil herte, And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte, And sayth 'arise, and do thin observance.' This maketh Emelie have remembrance To don honour to May, and for to rise. Yclothed was she fresshe for to devise. Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse, Behind hire back, a yerde long I guess. And in the garden at the sonne uprist She walketh up and down where as hire list. She gathereth floures, partie white and red, To make a sotel gerlond for hire hed, And as an angel hevenlich she sang, &c. DRYDEN. Thus year by year they pass, and day by day, Till once--'twas on the morn of cheerful May-- The young Emilia, fairer to be seen Than the fair lily on the flowery green, More fresh than May herself in blossoms new, For with the rosy colour strove her hue, Waked, as her custom was, before the day, To do the observance due to sprightly May; For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep; Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves, Inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves. In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array; Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair, Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair; A ribband did the braided tresses bind, The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind: Aurora had but newly chased the night, And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, When to the garden-walk she took her way, To sport and trip along in cool of day, And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. At every turn she made a little stand, And thrust among the thorns her lily hand To draw the rose; and every rose she drew, She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew; Then party-colour'd flowers of white and red She wove, to make a garland to her head. This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear, That men and angels might rejoice to hear. Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing, And learn'd from her to welcome in the spring. What can you wish more innocently beautiful than Chaucer's--what more graceful than Dryden's Emelie? And now look at Arcite--how he, too, does his observance of the May. CHAUCER.