This Dryden saw, and with his wonted fate
(Rich in himself) endeavour'd to translate;
Took wond'rous pains to do the author wrong,
And set to modern tune his ancient song.
Cadence, and sound, which we so prize, and use,
Ill suit the majesty of Chaucer's Muse;
His language only can his thoughts express,
Old honest Clytus scorns the Persian dress.