The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air; The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity; The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair. (JAMES THOMSON: _The City of Dreadful Night._ 1874.) _abababab_ Trew king, that sittes in trone, Unto the I tell my tale, And unto the I bid a bone, For thou ert bute of all my bale: Als thou made midelerd and the mone, And bestes and fowles grete and smale. Unto me send thi socore sone, And dresce my dedes in this dale. (LAURENCE MINOT: _Battle of Halidon Hill._ 1352.) On Minot's lyrics see ten Brink's _History of English Literature_, Kennedy translation, vol. i. p. 323. _ababbaba_ Since love is such that as ye wot Cannot always be wisely used, I say, therefore, then blame me not, Though I therein have been abused. For as with cause I am accused, Guilty I grant such was my lot; And though it cannot be excused, Yet let such folly be forgot. (SIR THOMAS WYATT: _That the power of love excuseth the folly of loving_, ab. 1550.) _ababbcbc_ In a chirche þer i con knel Þis ender day in on morwenynge, Me lyked þe servise wonder wel, For þi þe lengore con i lynge. I seiȝ a clerk a book forþ bringe, Þat prikked was in mony a plas; Faste he souȝte what he schulde synge, And al was _Deo gracias_! (From the Vernon and Simeon MSS.; in _Anglia_, vii. 287.) This Julius to the Capitolie wente Upon a day, as he was wont to goon, And in the Capitolie anon him hente This false Brutus, and his othere foon, And stikede him with boydekins anoon With many a wounde, and thus they lete him lye; But never gronte he at no strook but oon, Or elles at two, but if his storie lye. (CHAUCER: _The Monk's Tale_, ll. 713-720. ab. 1375.) This stanza is sometimes called the "_Monk's Tale_ stanza," from its use by Chaucer in that single tale of the Canterbury group. Although it has been little used by later poets, it may have given Spenser a suggestion for his characteristic stanza (see below, p. 102). Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When rung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word--Farewell!--Farewell! (BYRON: _Farewell, if ever fondest prayer._ 1808.) _ababccdd_ Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!