I have assum’d somewhat more to myself than they allow me, because I have adventur’d to sum up the evidence; but the readers are the jury, and their privilege remains entire, to decide, according to the merits of the cause, or if they please, to bring it to another hearing before some other court.  In the mean time, to follow the thrid of my discourse, (as thoughts, according to Mr. Hobbes, have always some connection,) so from Chaucer I was led to think on Boccace, who was not only his contemporary, but also pursued the same studies; wrote novels in prose, and many works in verse; particularly is said to have invented the octave rhyme,[2] or stanza of eight lines, which ever since has been maintain’d by the practice of all Italian writers, who are, or at least assume the title of, heroic poets.  He and Chaucer, among other things, had this in common, that they refin’d their mother tongues; but with this difference, that Dante had begun to file their language, at least in verse, before the time of Boccace, who likewise receiv’d no little help from his master Petrarch.  But the reformation of their prose was wholly owing to Boccace himself, who is yet the standard of purity in the Italian tongue; tho’ many of his phrases are become obsolete, as in process of time it must needs happen.  Chaucer (as you have formerly been told by our learn’d Mr. Rymer) first adorn’d and amplified our barren tongue from the Provencal,[3] which was then the most polish’d of all the modern languages; but this subject has been copiously treated by that great critic, who deserves no little commendation from us his countrymen.  For these reasons of time, and resemblance of genius in Chaucer and Boccace, I resolv’d to join them in my present work; to which I have added some original papers of my own; which, whether they are equal or inferior to my other poems, an author is the most improper judge, and therefore I leave them wholly to the mercy of the reader.  I will hope the best, that they will not be condemn’d; but if they should, I have the excuse of an old gentleman, who mounting on horseback before some ladies, when I was present, got up somewhat heavily, but desir’d of the fair spectators that they would count fourscore and eight before they judg’d him.  By the mercy of God, I am already come within twenty years of his number, a cripple in my limbs; but what decays are in my mind, the reader must determine.  I think myself as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my soul, excepting only my memory, which is not impair’d to any great degree; and if I lose not more of it, I have no great reason to complain.  What judgment I had, increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or to reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the other harmony of prose.  I have so long studied and practic’d both, that they are grown into a habit, and become familiar to me.  In short, tho’ I may lawfully plead