My books were changed; I now preferred the truth To the light reading of unsettled youth; Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance, I still had interest in the wild romance: There is an age, we know, when tales of love Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve; Then as we read we feel, and are indeed, We judge, the heroic men of whom we read; But in our after life these fancies fail, We cannot be the heroes of the tale; The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles play We cannot,--cannot be so smart and gay. But all the mighty deeds and matchless powers Of errant knights we never fancied ours, And thus the prowess of each gifted knight Must at all times create the same delight; Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem, But Lancelot never,--that he could not dream; Nothing reminds us in the magic page Of old romance, of our declining age: If once our fancy mighty dragons slew, This is no more than fancy now can do; But when the heroes of a novel come, Conquered and conquering, to a drawing-room, We no more feel the vanity that sees Within ourselves what we admire in these, And so we leave the modern tale, to fly From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy. Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose That queens would call me to subdue their foes; But, by a voluntary weakness swayed, When fancy called, I willingly obeyed. G. CRABBE. _Tales of the Hall._ The state, whereon I studied, Is like a good thing, being often read, Grown feared and tedious. W. SHAKESPEARE. _Measure for Measure._ THE OXFORD SCHOLAR AND HIS BOOKS A clerk ther was of Oxenford also That un-to logik hadde long y-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was nat right fat, I undertake; But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy; For he had geten him yet no benefyce, Ne was so worldly for to have offyce. For him was lever have at his beddes heed Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his freendes hente, On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. G. CHAUCER. _The Canterbury Tales._ THE CHIEF FOOL