Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose

by Unknown

THE TESTING OF SIR GAWAYNE. British Museum MS. Nero A X (about 1400); ed. R. Morris, ll. 2069 ff.

The brygge watȝ brayde doun, and þe brode ȝateȝ

Vnbarred and born open vpon boþe halue.

Þe burne blessed hym bilyue, and þe bredeȝ passed;

Prayses þe porter bifore þe prynce kneled,

Gef hym God and goud day, þat Gawayn He saue, 5

And went on his way with his wyȝe one,

Þat schulde teche hym to tourne to þat tene place

Þer þe ruful race he schulde resayue.

Þay boȝen bi bonkkeȝ þer boȝeȝ ar bare;

Þay clomben bi clyffeȝ þer clengeȝ þe colde. 10

Þe heuen watȝ vp halt, bot vgly þer vnder,—

Mist muged on þe mor, malt on þe mounteȝ,

Vch hille hade a hatte, a myst-hakel huge.

Brokeȝ byled and breke bi bonkkeȝ aboute,

Schyre schaterande on schoreȝ, þer þay doun schowued. 15

Wela wylle watȝ þe way þer þay bi wod schulden,

Til hit watȝ sone sesoun þat þe sunne ryses

þat tyde.

Þay were on a hille ful hyȝe,

Þe quyte snaw lay bisyde; 20

Þe burne þat rod hym by

Bede his mayster abide.

'For I haf wonnen yow hider, wyȝe, at þis tyme,

And now nar ȝe not fer fro þat note place

Þat ȝe han spied and spuryed so specially after. 25

Bot I schal say yow for soþe, syþen I yow knowe,

And ȝe ar a lede vpon lyue þat I wel louy,

Wolde ȝe worch bi my wytte, ȝe worþed þe better.

Þe place þat ȝe prece to ful perelous is halden.

Þer woneȝ a wyȝe in þat waste, þe worst vpon erþe, 30

For he is stiffe and sturne, and to strike louies,

And more he is þen any mon vpon myddelerde,

And his body bigger þen þe best fowre

Þat ar in Arþureȝ hous, [Hector], oþer oþer.

He cheueȝ þat chaunce at þe chapel grene, 35

Þer passes non bi þat place so proude in his armes

Þat he ne [dyngeȝ] hym to deþe with dynt of his honde;

For he is a mon methles, and mercy non vses,

For be hit chorle oþer chaplayn þat bi þe chapel rydes,

Monk oþer masse-prest, oþer any mon elles, 40

Hym þynk as queme hym to quelle as quyk go hymseluen.

Forþy I say þe, as soþe as ȝe in sadel sitte,

Com ȝe þere, ȝe be kylled, may þe, knyȝt, rede—

Trawe ȝe me þat trwely—þaȝ ȝe had twenty lyues

to spende. 45

He hatȝ wonyd here ful ȝore,

On bent much baret bende,

Aȝayn his dynteȝ sore

Ȝe may not yow defende.

'Forþy, goude Sir Gawayn, let þe gome one, 50

And gotȝ away sum oþer gate, vpon Goddeȝ halue!

Cayreȝ bi sum oþer kyth, þer Kryst mot yow spede,

And I schal hyȝ me hom aȝayn, and hete yow fyrre

Þat I schal swere bi God and alle His gode halȝeȝ,

As help me God and þe halydam, and oþeȝ innoghe, 55

Þat I schal lelly yow layne, and lance neuer tale

Þat euer ȝe fondet to fle for freke þat I wyst.'

'Grant merci,' quod Gawayn, and gruchyng he sayde:

'Wel worth þe, wyȝe, þat woldeȝ my gode,

And þat lelly me layne I leue wel þou woldeȝ. 60

Bot helde þou hit neuer so holde, and I here passed,

Founded for ferde for to fle, in fourme þat þou telleȝ,

I were a knyȝt kowarde, I myȝt [not] be excused.

Bot I wyl to þe chapel, for chaunce þat may falle,

And talk wyth þat ilk tulk þe tale þat me lyste, 65

Worþe hit wele oþer wo, as þe wyrde lykeȝ

hit hafe.

Þaȝe he be a sturn knape

To stiȝtel, [and] stad with staue,

Ful wel con Dryȝtyn schape 70

His seruaunteȝ for to saue.'

'Mary!' quod þat oþer mon, 'now þou so much spelleȝ

Þat þou wylt þyn awen nye nyme to þyseluen,

And þe lyst lese þy lyf, þe lette I ne kepe.

Haf here þi helme on þy hede, þi spere in þi honde, 75

And ryde me doun þis ilk rake bi ȝon rokke syde

Til þou be broȝt to þe boþem of þe brem valay.

Þenne loke a littel on þe launde, on þi lyfte honde,

And þou schal se in þat slade þe self chapel,

And þe borelych burne on bent þat hit kepeȝ. 80

Now fareȝ wel, on Godeȝ half! Gawayn þe noble;

For alle þe golde vpon grounde I nolde go wyth þe,

Ne bere þe felaȝschip þurȝ þis fryth on fote fyrre.'

Bi þat þe wyȝe in þe wod wendeȝ his brydel,

Hit þe hors with þe heleȝ as harde as he myȝt, 85

Lepeȝ hym ouer þe launde, and leueȝ þe knyȝt þere

al one.

'Bi Goddeȝ self!' quod Gawayn,

'I wyl nauþer grete ne grone;

To Goddeȝ wylle I am ful bayn, 90

And to Hym I haf me tone.'

Thenne gyrdeȝ he to Gryngolet, and gedereȝ þe rake,

Schowueȝ in bi a schore at a schaȝe syde,

Rideȝ þurȝ þe roȝe bonk ryȝt to þe dale;

And þenne he wayted hym aboute, and wylde hit hym þoȝt, 95

And seȝe no syngne of resette bisydeȝ nowhere,

Bot hyȝe bonkkeȝ and brent vpon boþe halue,

And ruȝe knokled knarreȝ with knorned stoneȝ;

Þe skweȝ of þe scowtes skayned hym þoȝt.

Þenne he houed, and wythhylde his hors at þat tyde, 100

And ofte chaunged his cher þe chapel to seche:

He seȝ non suche in no syde, and selly hym þoȝt

Sone, a lyttel on a launde, a lawe as hit we<re>,

A balȝ berȝ bi a bonke, þe brymme bysyde,

Bi a forȝ of a flode þat ferked þare; 105

Þe borne blubred þerinne as hit boyled hade.

Þe knyȝt kacheȝ his caple, and com to þe lawe,

Liȝteȝ doun luflyly, and at a lynde tacheȝ

Þe rayne and his riche with a roȝe braunche.

Þenne he boȝeȝ to þe berȝe, aboute hit he walkeȝ, 110

Debatande with hymself quat hit be myȝt.

Hit hade a hole on þe ende and on ayþer syde,

And ouergrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,

And al watȝ holȝ inwith, nobot an olde caue,

Or a creuisse of an olde cragge, he couþe hit noȝt deme 115

with spelle.

'We! Lorde,' quod þe gentyle knyȝt,

'Wheþer þis be þe grene chapelle?

He<re> myȝt aboute mydnyȝt

Þe dele his matynnes telle! 120

'Now iwysse,' quod Wowayn, 'wysty is here;

Þis oritore is vgly, with erbeȝ ouergrowen;

Wel bisemeȝ þe wyȝe wruxled in grene

Dele here his deuocioun on þe deueleȝ wyse.

Now I fele hit is þe fende, in my fyue wytteȝ, 125

Þat hatȝ stoken me þis steuen to strye me here.

Þis is a chapel of meschaunce, þat chekke hit bytyde!

Hit is þe corsedest kyrk þat euer I com inne!'

With heȝe helme on his hede, his launce in his honde,

He romeȝ vp to þe rokke of þo roȝ woneȝ. 130

Þene herde he, of þat hyȝe hil, in a harde roche,

Biȝonde þe broke, in a bonk, a wonder breme noyse.

Quat! hit clatered in þe clyff, as hit cleue schulde,

As one vpon a gryndelston hade grounden a syþe;

What! hit wharred and whette, as water at a mulne; 135

What! hit rusched and ronge, rawþe to here.

Þenne 'Bi Godde!' quod Gawayn, 'þat gere [as] I trowe

Is ryched at þe reuerence me, renk, to mete

bi rote.

Let God worche, we loo! 140

Hit helppeȝ me not a mote.

My lif þaȝ I forgoo,

Drede dotȝ me no lote.'

Thenne þe knyȝt con calle ful hyȝe:

'Who stiȝtleȝ in þis sted, me steuen to holde? 145

For now is gode Gawayn goande ryȝt here.

If any wyȝe oȝt wyl, wynne hider fast,

Oþer now oþer neuer, his nedeȝ to spede.'

'Abyde,' quod on on þe bonke abouen ouer his hede,

'And þou schal haf al in hast þat I þe hyȝt ones.' 150

Ȝet he rusched on þat rurde rapely a þrowe,

And wyth quettyng awharf, er he wolde lyȝt;

And syþen he keuereȝ bi a cragge, and comeȝ of a hole,

Whyrlande out of a wro wyth a felle weppen,

A Deneȝ ax nwe dyȝt, þe dynt with <t>o ȝelde, 155

With a borelych bytte bende by þe halme,

Fyled in a fylor, fowre fote large,—

Hit watȝ no lasse bi þat lace þat lemed ful bryȝt,—

And þe gome in þe grene gered as fyrst,

Boþe þe lyre and þe leggeȝ, lokkeȝ and berde, 160

Saue þat fayre on his fote he foundeȝ on þe erþe,

Sette þe stele to þe stone, and stalked bysyde.

Whan he wan to þe watter, þer he wade nolde,

He hypped ouer on hys ax, and orpedly strydeȝ,

Bremly broþe on a bent þat brode watȝ aboute, 165

on snawe.

Sir Gawayn þe knyȝt con mete,

He ne lutte hym no þyng lowe;

Þat oþer sayde 'Now, sir swete,

Of steuen mon may þe trowe. 170

'Gawayn,' quod þat grene gome, 'God þe mot loke!

Iwysse þou art [welcom], wyȝe, to my place,

And þou hatȝ tymed þi trauayl as truee mon schulde,

And þou knoweȝ þe couenaunteȝ kest vus bytwene:

At þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe falled, 175

And I schulde at þis nwe ȝere ȝeply þe quyte.

And we ar in þis valay verayly oure one;

Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus likeȝ.

Haf þy helme of [þy] hede, and haf here þy pay.

Busk no more debate þen I þe bede þenne 180

When þou wypped of my hede at a wap one.'

'Nay, bi God' quod Gawayn, 'þat me gost lante!

I schal gruch þe no grwe for grem þat falleȝ.

Bot styȝtel þe vpon on strok, and I schal stonde stylle

And warp þe no wernyng to worch as þe lykeȝ, 185

nowhare.'

He lened with þe nek, and lutte,

And schewed þat schyre al bare,

And lette as he noȝt dutte;

For drede he wolde not dare. 190

Then þe gome in þe grene grayþed hym swyþe,

Gedereȝ vp hys grymme tole Gawayn to smyte;

With alle þe bur in his body he ber hit on lofte,

Munt as maȝtyly as marre hym he wolde:

Hade hit dryuen adoun as dreȝ as he atled, 195

Þer hade ben ded of his dynt þat doȝty watȝ euer.

Bot Gawayn on þat giserne glyfte hym bysyde,

As hit com glydande adoun on glode hym to schende,

And schranke a lytel with þe schulderes for þe scharp yrne.

Þat oþer schalk wyth a schunt þe schene wythhaldeȝ, 200

And þenne repreued he þe prynce with mony prowde wordeȝ:

'Þou art not Gawayn,' quod þe gome, 'þat is so goud halden,

Þat neuer arȝed for no here, by hylle ne be vale,

And now þou fles for ferde er þou fele harmeȝ!

Such cowardise of þat knyȝt cowþe I neuer here. 205

Nawþer fyked I ne flaȝe, freke, quen þou myntest,

Ne kest no kauelacion, in kyngeȝ hous Arthor.

My hede flaȝ to my fote, and ȝet flaȝ I neuer;

And þou, er any harme hent, arȝeȝ in hert;

Wherfore þe better burne me burde be called 210

þerfore.'

Quod Gawayn 'I schunt oneȝ,

And so wyl I no more;

Bot þaȝ my hede falle on þe stoneȝ,

I con not hit restore. 215

Bot busk, burne, bi þi fayth! and bryng me to þe poynt.

Dele to me my destiné, and do hit out of honde,

For I schal stonde þe a strok, and start no more

Til þyn ax haue me hitte: haf here my trawþe.'

'Haf at þe þenne!' quod þat oþer, and heueȝ hit alofte, 220

And wayteȝ as wroþely as he wode were.

He mynteȝ at hym maȝtyly, bot not þe mon ryueȝ,

Withhelde heterly h<i>s honde, er hit hurt myȝt.

Gawayn grayþely hit bydeȝ, and glent with no membre,

Bot stode stylle as þe ston, oþer a stubbe auþer 225

Þat raþeled is in roché grounde with roteȝ a hundreth.

Þen muryly efte con he mele, þe mon in þe grene:

'So now þou hatȝ þi hert holle, hitte me bihou<e>s.

Halde þe now þe hyȝe hode þat Arþur þe raȝt,

And kepe þy kanel at þis kest, ȝif hit keuer may.'230

Gawayn ful gryndelly with greme þenne sayde:

'Wy! þresch on, þou þro mon, þou þreteȝ to longe.

I hope þat þi hert arȝe wyth þyn awen seluen.'

'For soþe,' quod þat oþer freke, 'so felly þou spekeȝ,

I wyl no lenger on lyte lette þin ernde 235

riȝt nowe.'

Þenne tas [he] hym stryþe to stryke,

And frounses boþe lyppe and browe.

No meruayle þaȝ hym myslyke

Þat hoped of no rescowe. 240

He lyftes lyȝtly his lome, and let hit doun fayre,

With þe barbe of þe bitte bi þe bare nek,

Þaȝ he homered heterly, hurt hym no more,

Bot snyrt hym on þat on syde, þat seuered þe hyde;

Þe scharp schrank to þe flesche þurȝ þe schyre grece 245

Þat þe schene blod ouer his schulderes schot to þe erþe;

And quen þe burne seȝ þe blode blenk on þe snawe,

He sprit forth spenne fote more þen a spere lenþe,

Hent heterly his helme, and on his hed cast,

Schot with his schuldereȝ, his fayre schelde vnder, 250

Braydeȝ out a bryȝt sworde, and bremely he spekeȝ;—

Neuer syn þat he watȝ burne borne of his moder

Watȝ he neuer in þis worlde wyȝe half so blyþe—

'Blynne, burne, of þy bur, bede me no mo!

I haf a stroke in þis stede withoute stryf hent, 255

And if þow recheȝ me any mo, I redyly schal quyte,

And ȝelde ȝederly aȝayn—and þer to ȝe tryst—

and foo.

Bot on stroke here me falleȝ—

Þe couenaunt schop ryȝt so 260

<Schapen> in Arþureȝ halleȝ—

And þerfore, hende, now hoo!'

The haþel heldet hym fro, and on his ax rested,

Sette þe schaft vpon schore, and to þe scharp lened,

And loked to þe leude þat on þe launde ȝede, 265

How þat doȝty, dredles, deruely þer stondeȝ

Armed, ful aȝleȝ: in hert hit hym lykeȝ.

Þenn he meleȝ muryly wyth a much steuen,

And wyth a ry<n>kande rurde he to þe renk sayde:

'Bolde burne, on þis bent be not so gryndel. 270

No mon here vnmanerly þe mysboden habbe<ȝ>

Ne kyd, bot as couenaunde at kyngeȝ kort schaped.

I hyȝt þe a strok and þou hit hatȝ; halde þe wel payed.

I relece þe of þe remnaunt of ryȝtes alle oþer.

Iif I deliuer had bene, a boffet paraunter 275

I couþe wroþeloker haf waret,—to þe haf wroȝt anger.

Fyrst I mansed þe muryly with a mynt one,

And roue þe wyth no rof sore, with ryȝt I þe profered

For þe forwarde þat we fest in þe fyrst nyȝt,

And þou trystyly þe trawþe and trwly me haldeȝ, 280

Al þe gayne þow me gef, as god mon schulde.

Þat oþer munt for þe morne, mon, I þe profered,

Þou kyssedes my clere wyf, þe cosseȝ me raȝteȝ.

For boþe two here I þe bede bot two bare myntes

boute scaþe. 285

Trwe mon trwe restore,

Þenne þar mon drede no waþe.

At þe þrid þou fayled þore,

And þerfor þat tappe ta þe.

For hit is my wede þat þou wereȝ, þat ilke wouen girdel, 290

Myn owen wyf hit þe weued, I wot wel forsoþe.

Now know I wel þy cosses, and þy costes als,

And þe wowyng of my wyf: I wroȝt hit myseluen.

I sende hir to asay þe, and sothly me þynkkeȝ

On þe fautlest freke þat euer on fote ȝede. 295

As perle bi þe quite pese is of prys more,

So is Gawayn, in god fayth, bi oþer gay knyȝteȝ.

Bot here yow lakked a lyttel, sir, and lewté yow wonted;

Bot þat watȝ for no wylyde werke, ne wowyng nauþer,

Bot for ȝe lufed your lyf; þe lasse I yow blame.' 300

Þat oþer stif mon in study stod a gret whyle,

So agreued for greme he gryed withinne;

Alle þe blode of his brest blende in his face,

Þat al he schrank for schome þat þe schalk talked.

Þe forme worde vpon folde þat þe freke meled: 305

'Corsed worth cowarddyse and couetyse boþe!

In yow is vylany and vyse þat vertue disstryeȝ.'

Þenne he kaȝt to þe knot, and þe kest lawseȝ,

Brayde broþely þe belt to þe burne seluen:

'Lo! þer þe falssyng! foule mot hit falle! 310

For care of þy knokke cowardyse me taȝt

To acorde me with couetyse, my kynde to forsake,

Þat is larges and lewté þat longeȝ to knyȝteȝ.

Now am I fawty and falce, and ferde haf ben euer

Of trecherye and vntrawþe: boþe bityde sorȝe 315

and care!

I biknowe yow, knyȝt, here stylle,

Al fawty is my fare;

Leteȝ me ouertake your wylle

And efte I schal be ware.' 320

Thenn loȝe þat oþer leude, and luflyly sayde:

'I halde hit [hardily] hole, þe harme þat I hade.

Þou art confessed so clene, beknowen of þy mysses,

And hatȝ þe penaunce apert of þe poynt of myn egge,

I halde þe polysed of þat plyȝt, and pured as clene 325

As þou hadeȝ neuer forfeted syþen þou watȝ fyrst borne;

And I gif þe, sir, þe gurdel þat is golde-hemmed,

For hit is grene as my goune. Sir Gawayne, ȝe maye

Þenk vpon þis ilke þrepe, þer þou forth þryngeȝ

Among prynces of prys; and þis a pure token330

Of þe chaunce [at] þe grene chapel of cheualrous knyȝteȝ.

And ȝe schal in þis nwe ȝer aȝayn to my woneȝ,

And we schyn reuel þe remnaunt of þis ryche fest

ful bene.'

Þer laþed hym fast þe lord, 335

And sayde 'With my wyf, I wene,

We schal yow wel acorde,

Þat watȝ your enmy kene.'

'Nay, for soþe,' quod þe segge, and sesed hys helme,

And hatȝ hit of hendely, and þe haþel þonkkeȝ, 340

'I haf soiorned sadly; sele yow bytyde!

And He ȝelde hit yow ȝare þat ȝarkkeȝ al menskes!

And comaundeȝ me to þat cortays, your comlych fere,

Boþe þat on and þat oþer myn honoured ladyeȝ,

Þat þus hor knyȝt wyth hor kest han koyntly bigyled. 345

Bot hit is no ferly þaȝ a fole madde,

And þurȝ wyles of wymmen be wonen to sorȝe,

For so watȝ Adam in erde with one bygyled,

And Salamon with fele sere, and Samson eftsoneȝ

Dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde, and Dauyth þerafter 350

Watȝ blended with Barsabe, þat much bale þoled.

Now þese were wrathed wyth her wyles, hit were a wynne huge

To luf hom wel, and leue hem not, a leude þat couþe.

For þes wer forne þe freest, þat folȝed alle þe sele

Exellently of alle þyse oþer vnder heuenryche 355

þat mused;

And alle þay were biwyled

[With] wymmen þat þay vsed.

Þaȝ I be now bigyled,

Me þink me burde be excused.' 360

34 [Hector]] Hestor MS.

37 [dyngeȝ]] dynneȝ MS.

63 [not]] mot MS.

69 [and]] & & MS.

137 [as]] at MS.

172 [welcom]] welcon MS.

179 [þy] (1st)] þy þy MS.

237 [he]] he he MS.

322 [hardily]] hardilyly MS.

331 [at... of] (2nd)] transposed in MS.

358 [With]] With wyth MS.

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VI THE PEARL ABOUT 1375.

The facts leading to the presumption that Pearl and Sir Gawayne are by the same author have been mentioned in the prefatory note to Sir Gawayne. But the poems are markedly different in subject and tone. Pearl, like Chaucer's Death of Blanche the Duchess, is an elegy cast in the vision form made popular by the Roman de la Rose. The subject is a little girl, who died before she was two years old, and the treatment is deeply religious. Her death is symbolized as the loss of a pearl without spot, that slipped from its owner's hand through the grass into the earth.

On a festival day in August, the poet, while mourning his loss, falls asleep on his child's grave. His spirit passes to a land of flowers and rich fruits, where birds of flaming hues sing incomparably, where the cliffs are of crystal and beryl, and a river runs in a bed of gleaming jewels. On the other side of the river, which is lovelier still, sits a maiden dressed all in white, with coronet and ornaments of pearl. The poet recognizes his lost child, but cannot call to her for wonder and dread, until she rises and salutes him. He complains that since her loss he has been a joyless jeweller. She rebukes him gently; she is not lost, but made safe and beautiful for ever. Overjoyed, he says he will cross the river and live with her in this paradise; but she warns him against such presumption, for since Adam's fall the river may be crossed only by the way of death. He is in despair to think that now that his Pearl is found, he must still live joyless, apart from her; but he is bidden to resign himself to God's will and mercy, because rebellion will avail him nothing.

At this point begins the argument on salvation by grace or salvation by works which is here reprinted.

The maiden then continues the discussion, explaining that 'the innocent are ay safe by right', and that only those who come as little children can win the bliss sought by the man who sold his all for a matchless pearl.

Next the poet asks whence her beauty comes, and what her office is. She replies that she is one of the brides of Christ, whom St. John in the Apocalypse saw arrayed for the bridal in the New Jerusalem. He asks to see their mansions, and by special grace is allowed to view the holy city from without. He sees it as St. John saw it, gleaming with gold, with its pillars of precious stone, its gates of pearl; its streets lighted by a divine radiance, so that there is no need of moon or sun. There is no church or chapel or temple there: God himself is the minister, and Christ is the sacrifice. Mortal eye could not bear the splendour, and he stood 'as stylle as dased quayle'. At evening came the procession of the virgin brides of Christ, each bearing on her breast the pearl of perfect happiness. The Lamb leads them, in pearl-white robes, his side bleeding, his face rapt; while elders make obeisance, and angels sing songs of joy as He nears the throne of God.

Suddenly the poet sees his Pearl among her companions. Overcome with longing and delight, he tries to cross the river, only to wake in the garden where he fell asleep. Henceforth he is resigned to the pleasure of the Prince of Heaven.

The reader will be able to judge the author's poetical gift from the selection, which has been chosen as one of the less ornate passages. Even here the form distracts attention from the matter by its elaborateness. A difficult rime scheme is superimposed on the alliterative line; stanza is interlinked with stanza; each group of five stanzas is distinguished by a similar refrain, and bound to the preceding and following groups by repetition in the first and last lines. So too the close of the poem echoes the beginning. With such intricacy of plan, it is not surprising that the rime is sometimes forced, and the sense strained or obscure. It is rather a matter for wonder that, in so long a work, the author was able to maintain his marvellous technique without completely sacrificing poetry to metrical gymnastics.

The highly wrought, almost overwrought, effect is heightened when the poem is read as a whole. If Piers Plowman gives a realistic picture of the drabness of mediaeval life, Pearl, more especially in the early stanzas, shows a richness of imagery and a luxuriance in light and colour that seem scarcely English. Yet they have their parallels in the decorative art of the time—the elaborate carving in wood and stone; the rich colouring of tapestries, of illuminated books and painted glass; the designs of the jewellers, goldsmiths, and silversmiths, which even the notaries who made the old inventories cannot pass without a word of admiration. The Pearl reminds us of the tribute due to the artists and craftsmen of the fourteenth century.

The edition by C. G. Osgood, Boston 1906, is the handiest.

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