"And fewe wordys spoken, There were flayles al to-slatered, Ther were scheldys al to-flatred, Bollys and dysches al to-schatred, And many hedys brokyn." We find some specimen of the kind of tales called Comedies, which preceded acted Comedy, in the works of Chaucer, who died in 1400. Scarcely any part of Chaucer's writings would raise a laugh at the present day, though they might a blush.[52] But he was by no means a man who revelled in indelicacy. We may suppose that he was moderate for the time in which he lived, and when he makes an offensive allusion, he usually adds some excuse for it. The antiquated language in which his works are written prevents our now appreciating much of the humour they contained; generally, there is more refinement and grace in his writings. No doubt at the time he was thought witty, and his tendency in this direction is shown by his praise of mirth in the "Romaunt of the Rose." "Full faire was mirth, full long and high, A fairer man I never sigh: As round as apple was his face, Full roddie and white in every place, Fetis he was and well besey, With meetly mouth and eyen gray, His nose by measure wrought full right, Crispe was his haire, and eke full bright, His shoulderes of large trede And smallish in the girdlestede: He seemed like a purtreiture, So noble was he of his stature, So faire, so jolly, and so fetise With limmes wrought at point devise, Deliver smart, and of great might; Ne saw thou never man so light Of berd unneth had he nothing, For it was in the firste spring, Full young he was and merry of thought, And in samette with birdes wrought And with golde beaten full fetously His bodie was clad full richely. Wrought was his robe in straunge gise And all slitttered for queintise In many a place, low and hie, And shode he was with great maistrie With shoone decoped and with lace, By drurie and by solace His leefe a rosen chapelet Had made, and on his head it set." He speaks in equally high terms of "Dame Gladnesse." We can appreciate Chaucer's address to his empty purse-- "To you my purse, and to none other wight Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, I am sorry now that ye be light, For certes ye now make me heauy chere Me were as lefe laid vpon a bere, For which vnto your mercy thus I crie Be heauy againe or els mote I die. "Now vouchsafe this day or it be night That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your colour like the sunne bright That of yelowness had neuer pere; Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere Queen of comfort, and good companie Be heauy againe, or els mote I die.