And yet the fine materials made it weak; Porcelain by being pure is apt to break. Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire, And forced from that fair temple to retire, Profanely set the holy place on fire. In vain your lord, like young Vespasian, mourned, When the fierce flames the sanctuary burned; And I prepared to pay in verses rude A most detested act of gratitude: Even this had been your Elegy, which now Is offered for your health, the table of my vow. Your angel sure our Morley's mind inspired, To find the remedy your ill required; As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree, Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy: Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestowed As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood, So liked the frame, he would not work anew, To save the charges of another you; Or by his middle science did he steer, And saw some great contingent good appear, Well worth a miracle to keep you here, And for that end preserved the precious mould, Which all the future Ormonds was to hold; And meditated, in his better mind, An heir from you who may redeem the failing kind. Blessed be the power which has at once restored The hopes of lost succession to your lord; Joy to the first and last of each degree, Virtue to courts, and, what I longed to see, To you the Graces, and the Muse to me. O daughter of the Rose, whose cheeks unite The differing titles of the Red and White; Who heaven's alternate beauty well display, The blush of morning and the milky way; Whose face is Paradise, but fenced from sin; For God in either eye has placed a cherubin. All is your lord's alone; even absent, he Employs the care of chaste Penelope. For him you waste in tears your widowed hours, For him your curious needle paints the flowers; Such works of old imperial dames were taught, Such for Ascanius fair Elisa wrought. The soft recesses of your hours improve The three fair pledges of your happy love: All other parts of pious duty done, You owe your Ormond nothing but a son, To fill in future times his father's place, And wear the garter of his mother's race. PALAMON AND ARCITE; OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE. FROM CHAUCER. BOOK I.