his old style, never examined into the depth of his good sense.  Chaucer, I confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polished ere he shines.  I deny not, likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater moment.  Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and knows not when he has said enough.  But there are more great wits besides Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted.  An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought.  Having observed this redundancy in Chaucer (as it is an easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater), I have not tied myself to a literal translation, but have often omitted what I judged unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better thoughts.  I have presumed farther, in some places, and added somewhat of my own where I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the beginning of our language.  And to this I was the more emboldened, because (if I may be permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul congenial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same studies.  Another poet, in another age, may take the same liberty with my writings, if, at least, they live long enough to deserve correction.  It was also necessary sometimes to restore the sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled in the errors of the press.  Let this example suffice at present.  In the story of Palamon and Arcite, where the temple of Diana is described, you find these verses in all the editions of our author:—­

  “There saw I Dane turned into a tree,
  I mean not the goddess Diane,
  But Venus’ daughter, which that hight Dane:” 

Which, after a little consideration, I knew was to be reformed into this sense, that Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, was turned into a tree.  I durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future Milbourn should arise, and say I varied from my author because I understood him not.

But there are other judges who think I ought not to have translated Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion.  They suppose there is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it.  They are farther of opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit.  Of this opinion was that excellent person whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised him.  My lord dissuaded me from this attempt (for I was thinking of it some years before his death), and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my undertaking while he lived, in deference to him; yet my reason was not convinced with what he urged against