that ye may see.
He that has his hand well put in this mittaine;
He shall have multiplying of his graine,
When he hath sowen, be it wheat or otes;
So that he offer good pens or grotes!

Those who would prefer the thoughts of this father of English poetry,
in a modern dress, are referred to the elegant versions of him,
by Dryden, Pope, and others, who have done ample justice to their
illustrious predecessor.

[Footnote 1: Life of Chaucer prefixed to Ogle's edition of that author
modernized.]

[Footnote 2: Some biographers of Chaucer say, that pope Gregory IX.
gave orders to the archbishop of Canterbury to summon him, and that
when a synod was convened at St. Paul's, a quarrel happened between
the bishop of London and the duke of Lancaster, concerning Wickliff's
sitting down in their presence.]

[Footnote 3: Mr. Camden gives a particular description of this
castle.]

* * * * *

LANGLAND.

It has been disputed amongst the critics whether this poet preceded
or followed Chaucer. Mrs. Cooper, author of the Muses Library, is of
opinion that he preceded Chaucer, and observes that in more places
than one that great poet seems to copy Langland; but I am rather
inclined to believe that he was cotemporary with him, which accounts
for her observation, and my conjecture is strengthened by the
consideration of his stile, which is equally unmusical and obsolete
with Chaucer's; and tho' Dryden has told us that Chaucer exceeded
those who followed him at 50 or 60 years distance, in point of
smoothness, yet with great submission to his judgment, I think there
is some alteration even in Skelton and Harding, which will appear to
the reader to the best advantage by a quotation. Of Langland's family
we have no account. Selden in his notes on Draiton's Poly Olbion,
quotes him with honour; but he is entirely neglected by Philips and
Winstanly, tho' he seems to have been a man of great genius: Besides
Chaucer, few poets in that or the subsequent age had more real
inspiration or poetical enthusiasm in their compositions. One cannot
read the works of this author, or Chaucer, without lamenting the
unhappiness of a fluctuating language, that buries in its ruins even
genius itself; for like edifices of sand, every breath of time defaces
it, and if the form remain, the beauty is lost. The piece from which I
shall quote a few lines, is a work of great length and labour, of
the allegoric kind; it is