Volume 9 — GEOFFREY CHAUCER

"The firste finder[1] of our fair langage."

"Wherfore, as I said ywis,[2] Jupiter considereth this, And also, beau sir, other things; That is, that thou hast no tidings Of Lovès folk, if they be glad, Ne of nought ellès, that God made; And nought only from far countree That there no tiding cometh to thee, But of the very neighèboúrs, That dwellen almost at thy doors, Thou hearest neither that nor this; But when thy labor all done is, And hast made all thy reckonings, Instead of rest and newè things, Thou goest home to thine house anon, And also[3] dumb as any stone, Thou sittest at another book, Till fully dazèd is thy look. And livest thus as an eremite, Although thine abstinence is lyte.[4]"

"Thou mayst it not deny: For in plain text, withouten need of glose,[5] Thou hast translated the Romance of the Rose; That is an heresy agains my law, And makest wisè folk fro me withdraw. And of Cressid thou hast said as thee list; That makest men to women lessè trist,[6] That be as true as ever was any steel."

"Albeit that he cannot well endite, Yet hath he makèd lewèd[7] folk delight To servè you, in praising of your name. He made the book that hight[8] the House of Fame, And eke the Death of Blanche the Duchess, And the Parliament of Fowlès, as I guess, And all the love of Palamon and Arcite Of Thebes, though the story is knowen lyte[9]; And many an hymnè for your holy days That highten[10] ballades, roundels, virelays; And for to speak of other holiness, He hath in prosè translatéd Boece, And made the Life also of Saint Cecile; He made also, gone sithen a great while,[11] Origenes upon the Maudelain[12]: Him oughtè now to have the lessè pain; He hath made many a lay and many a thing."

"'Ho,' quoth the knight, 'good sir, no more of this: That ye have said is right enow, ywis,[13] And muchel[14] more; for little heaviness Is right enow to muchel folk, I guess. I say for me it is a great disease,[15] Where-as men have been in great wealth and ease, To hearen of hir sudden fall, alas! And the contráry is joy and great solas,[16] As when a man hath been in poor estate, And climbeth up and waxeth fortunate, And there abideth in prosperity. Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh[17] me, And of such thing were goodly for to tell.'"

When that Aprílè with his showers swoot[18] The drought of March hath piercèd to the root, And bathèd every vein in such liqoúr Of which virtue engendered is the flower; When Zephyrús eke with his sweetè breath Inspirèd hath in every holt and heath The tender croppès, and the youngè sun Hath in the Ram his halfè course yrun, And smallè fowlès maken melody, That sleepen all the night with open eye,— So pricketh hem natúre in hir couráges[19]— Then longen folk to go on pilgrimáges, And palmers for to seeken strangè strands, To fernè hallows[20] couth[21] in sundry lands; And specially, from every shirès end Of Engèland, to Canterbury they wend, The holy blissful martyr for to seek, That hem hath holpen when that they were sick. Befell that in that season on a day, In Southwark at the Tabard[22] as I lay, Ready to wenden on my pilgrimáge To Canterbury with full devout couráge, At night were come into that hostelry Well nine and twenty in a company Of sundry folk, by áventúre[23] yfalle In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all, That toward Canterbury woulden ride. The chambers and the stables weren wide, And well we weren easèd[24] at the best. And shortly, when the sunnè was to rest, So had I spoken with hem evereach-one,[25] That I was of hir fellowship anon, And madè forward[26] early for to rise To take our way there-as I you devise.[27] But nathèless, while I have time and space, Ere that I further in this talè pace, Me thinketh it accordant to reasón, To tellen you all the conditìón Of each of hem, so as it seemèd me, And which they weren, and of what degree, And eke in what array that they were in: And at a knight then will I first begin. The Knight A knight there was, and that a worthy[28] man, That[29] from the timè that he first began To riden out, he[29] lovèd chivalry, Truth and honoúr, freedom[30] and courtesy. Full worthy was he in his Lordès war, And thereto had he ridden, no man farre,[31] As well in Christendom as in Heatheness, And ever honoured for his worthiness. At Alexandr' he was when it was won; Full oftè time he had the board begun[32] Aboven allè natìóns in Prusse; In Lettowe[33] had he reyséd[34] and in Russe, No Christian man so oft of his degree; In Gernade[35] at the siegè had he be Of Algezir,[36] and ridden in Belmarié.[37] At Lieys[38] was he, and at Satalié,[39] When they were won; and in the Greatè Sea[40] At many a noble army[41] had he be. At mortal battles had he been fifteen, And foughten for our faith at Tramassene[42] In listès thriès, and aye slain his foe. This ilkè[43] worthy knight had been also Sometimè with the lord of Palatié,[44] Again another heathen in Turkéy: And evermore he had a sovereign pris.[45] And though that he were worthy[46] he was wise, And of his port as meek as is a maid. He never yet no villainy[47] ne said In all his life unto no manner wight.[48] He was a very perfect gentle knight. But for to tellen you of his array, His horse were good, but he ne was not gay[49]; Of fustìán he wearèd a gipon,[50] All besmuterèd[51] with his habergeón, For he was late ycome from his viáge.[52] And wentè for to do his pilgrimáge. The Prioress There was also a Nun, a Prioress, That of her smiling was full simple and coy; Her greatest oath was but by Sáìnt Loy; And she was clepèd[53] Madame Eglentine. Full well she sang the servicè divine, Entunéd[54] in her nose full seemèly; And French she spake full fair and fetisly[55] After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow, For French of Paris was to her unknowe. At meatè well ytaught was she withal; She let no morsel from her lippès fall, Ne wet her fingers in her saucè deep. Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep, That no dropè ne fell upon her breast. In courtesy was set full much her lest.[56] Her over-lippè wipèd she so clean, That in her cup there was no farthing[57] seen Of greasè, when she drunken had her draught; Full seemèly after her meat she raught[58]: And sickerly[59] she was of great disport, And full pleasánt and amiable of port, And painèd[60] her to counterfeiten[61] cheer Of court, and to be stately of manére, And to be holden digne[62] of revérence. But for to speaken of her consciénce,[63] She was so charitable and so pitoús, She wouldè weep if that she saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled; Of smallè houndès had she, that she fed With roasted flesh, or milk and wastel-bread[64]; But soré wept sh' if one of hem were dead,[65] Or if men[66] smote it with a yardè[67] smarte[68]: And all was conscìénce and tender heart. Full seemèly her wimple[69] pinchèd[70] was; Her nosè tretys, her eyen gray as glass, Her mouth full small and thereto soft and red; But sickerly[71] she had a fair forehéad; It was almost a spannè broad, I trow; For hardily[72] she was not undergrowe.[73] Full fetis[74] was her cloak, as I was ware. Of small corál about her arm she bare A pair[75] of beadès gauded all with green[76]; And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen, On which ther was first writ a crownèd A, And after, Amor vincit omnia. Another Nunnè with her haddè she, That was her chapèlain,[77] and Priestès three. The Friar A Frere there was, a wanton and a merry, A limitoúr,[78] a full solemnè[79] man. In all the orders four is none that can[80] So much of dalliance and fair languáge. He haddè made full many a marrìáge Of youngè women at his owen cost. Unto his order he was a noble post; Full well beloved and fámiliár was he With franklins over-all[81] in his country, And eke with worthy[82] women of the town: For he had powèr of confessìón, As saidè hímself, more than a curáte, For of his order he was licentiáte. Full sweetèly heard he confessìón, And pleasant was his absolutìón. He was an easy man to give penánce, There-as he wist to have[83] a good pittánce; For unto a poor order for to give Is signè that a man is well yshrive; For if he gave, he durstè make avaunt,[84] He wistè that a man was répentánt. For many a man so hard is of his heart, He may not weep although him sorè smart; Therefore instead of weeping and prayérs, Men mote give silver to the poorè freres. His tippet was aye farsèd[85] full of knives And pinnès, for to given fairè wives; And certainly he had a merry note: Well could he sing and playen on a rote[86]; Of yeddings[87] he bare utterly the pris.[88] His neckè white was as the fleur-de-lis. Thereto he strong was as a champión. He knew the taverns well in every town, And every hostèlér[89] and tapèstér, Bet than a lazár[90] or a beggestér[91]; For unto such a worthy man as he Accorded nought, as by his faculty, To have with sickè lazárs ácquaintánce; It is not honest, it may not advance For to dealen with no such poraille,[92] But all with rich and sellers[93] of vitaille.[94] And o'er-all,[95] there-as profit should arise, Courteous he was and lowly of servíce. There was no man nowhere so virtuous[96]; He was the bestè beggar in his house: [And gave a certain farmè[97] for the grant, None of his brethren came there in his haunt.] For though a widow haddè not a shoe, So pleasant was his In principio,[98] Yet would he have a farthing ere he went; His purchase[99] was well better than his rent.[100] And rage[101] he could as it were right a whelp: In lovèdays[102] there could he muchel help; For there he was not like a cloisterér With a threadbare cope, as is a poor scholér; But he was like a master or a pope, Of double worsted was his semicope,[103] That rounded as a bell out of the press. Somewhat he lispèd for his wantonness, To make his English sweet upon his tongue; And in his harping, when that he had sung, His eyen twinkled in his head aright, As do the starrès in the frosty night. This worthy limitour was cleped[104] Hubérd. The Clerk of Oxford A Clerk there was of Oxenford[105] also, That unto logic haddè long ygo.[106] As leanè was his horse as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake,[107] But lookèd hollow, and thereto soberly. Full threadbare was his overest[108] courtepy,[109] For he had geten[110] him yet no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office. For him was liefer[111] have at his bed's head Twenty bookès clad in black or red, Of Aristotle, and his philosophy, Than robes rich, or fiddle, or gay psaltery. But albe that he was a philosópher, Yet haddè he but little gold in coffer, But all that he might of his friendès hent,[112] On bookès and his learning he it spent, And busily[113] gan for the soulès pray Of hem, that gave him wherewith to scolay[114]; Of study took he most cure and most heed. Not one word spake he morè than was need; And that was said in form and reverence, And short and quick, and full of high senténce.[115] Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, And gladly would he learn and gladly teach. The Lawyer A sergeant of the Lawè, ware and wise, That often had ybeen at the Parvys,[116] There was also, full rich of excellence. Discreet he was and of great reverence; He seemèd such, his wordès were so wise; Justice he was full often in assize, By patent and by plein[117] commissìón. For his sciénce, and for his high renown, Of fees and robès had he many one; So great a purchaser[118] was nowhere none; All was fee simple to him in effect, His purchasíng mightè not be infect.[119] Nowhere so busy a man as he there nas, And yet he seemèd busier than he was. In termès had he case and doomès[120] all, That from the time of King Williám were fall. Thereto he could indite, and make a thing, There couldè no wight pinch[121] at his writíng; And every statute could[122] he plein[123] by rote. He rode but homely in a medley[124] coat, Girt with a ceint[125] of silk, with barrès smale[126]; Of his array tell I no lenger tale. The Shipman A shipman was there, woning[127] far by West: For aught I wot, he was of Dartèmouth. He rode upon a rouncy,[128] as he couth,[129] In a gown of falding[130] to the knee. A dagger hanging on a lace had he About his neck under his arm adown; The hotè summer had made his hue all brown; And certainly he was a good felláw. Full many a draught of wine had he ydrawe From Bourdeaux-ward, while that the chapman[131] sleep[132]; Of nicè conscìénce took he no keep.[133] If that he fought, and had the higher hand, By water he sent hem home to every land. But of his craft to reckon well his tides, His streamès and his dangers him besides, His harbour and his moon, his lodemanáge,[134] There was none such from Hullè to Cartháge. Hardy he was, and wise to undertake; With many a tempest had his beard been shake. He knew well all the havens, as they were, From Gothland to the Cape of Finisterre, And every creek in Bretagne and in Spain: His barge yelepèd was the Maudelaine.

First in the temple of Venus mayst thou see Wrought on the wall, full piteous to behold, The broken sleepès, and the sighès cold, The sacred tearès, and the waimentíng,[135] The fiery strokès of the désiríng That lovès servants in this life enduren; The oathès, that hir covenánts assuren. Pleasance and hope, desire, foolhardiness, Beauty and youthè, bawdry and richesse, Charmès and force, leasíngs[136] and flattery, Dispencè,[137] business,[138] and jealousy That weared of yellow goldès[139] a garlánd, And a cuckoo sitting on her hand; Feastès, instruments, carólès, dances, Lust and array, and all the circumstances Of love, which that I reckoned have and reckon shall, By order weren painted on the wall, And mo than I can make of mentìón. For soothly all the mount of Citheron, There Venus hath her principal dwellíng, Was showèd on the wall in portrayíng, With all the garden and the lustiness. Nought was forgot the porter Idleness, Ne Narcissus the fair of yore agone, Ne yet the folly of King Solomon, Ne yet the greatè strength of Hercules, The enchantèments of Medea and Circes, N'of Turnús with the hardy fierce couráge, The richè Crœsus caitiff[140] in serváge[141]. Thus may ye see, that wisdom ne richesse, Beauty ne sleightè, strengthè, hardiness, Ne may with Venus holden champarty[142], For as her list the world then may she gye[143]. Lo, all these folk so caught were in her las[144] Till they for woe full often said, "Alas!" Sufficeth here ensamples one or two, And though I couldè reckon a thousand mo. The statue of Venus, glorious for to see, Was naked fleting[145] in the largè sea, And from the navel down all covered was With wavès green, and bright as any glass, A citole[146] in her right hand haddé she, And on her head, full seemly for to see, A rosé garland fresh and well smellíng, Above her head her dovès flickeríng[147]. Before her stood her sonè Cupido, Upon his shoulders wingès had he two; And blind he was, as it is often seen; A bow he bare and arrows bright and keen. Why should I not as well eke tell you all The portraitúre, that was upon the wall Within the temple of mighty Mars the red? All painted was the wall in length and brede[148] Like to the estres[149] of the grisly place, That hight the greatè temple of Mars in Thrace, In thilkè coldè frosty regìón, There-as Mars hath his sovereign mansìón. First on the wall was painted a forést, In which there dwelleth neither man ne beast, With knotty gnarry barren treès old Of stubbès[150] sharp and hideous to behold, In which there ran a rumble and a sough, As though a storm should bresten[151] every bough: And downward from an hill, under a bent,[152] There stood the temple of Mars armipotent, Wrought all of burnèd[153] steel, of which th' entry Was long and strait[154] and ghastly for to see. And thereout came a rage and such a vese,[155] That it made all the gatès for to rese.[156] The northern light in at the doorès shone, For window on the wall ne was there none Through which men mighten any light discern; The doors were all of adamant eterne, Yclenchèd overthwart and endèlong[157] With iron tough, and for to make it strong, Every pillár the temple to sustene Was tunnè-great,[158] of iron bright and sheen. There saw I first the dark imagining Of felony, and all the compassing; The cruel irè, red as any gleed,[159] The pickèpurse, and eke the palè drede[160]; The smiler with the knife under the cloak; The shepen[161] brenning[162] with the blackè smoke; The treason of the murdering in the bed, The open war, with woundès all bebled; Contek[163] with bloody knife and sharp menáce. All full of chirking[164] was that sorry place. The slayer of himself yet saw I there, His heartè-blood hath bathèd all his hair: The nail ydriven in the shode[165] anight; The coldè death, with mouth gapíng upright.[166] Amiddès of the temple sat mischance, With díscomfórt and sorry countenance, Yet saw I woodness[167] laughing in his rage, Armèd complaint, outhees,[168] and fierce outrage; The carrion[169] in the bush, with throat ycorven,[170] A thousand slain, and not of qualm[171] ystorven[172]; The tyrant with the prey by force yreft; The town destroyed, there was nothing left. Yet saw I brent[173] the shippès hoppèsteres,[174] The huntè[175] strangled with the wildè bears: The sowè freten[176] the child right in the cradle; The cook yscalded, for all his longè ladle. Nought was forgotten by th' infortúne of Marte; The carter overridden with his cart; Under the wheel full low he lay adown. There were also of Mars' divisìón, The barber, and the butcher, and the smith That forgeth sharpè swordès on his stith.[177] And all above depainted in a tower Saw I Conquést, sitting in great honóur, With the sharpè sword over his head Hanging by a subtle[178] twinès thread. Depainted was the slaughter of Juliús, Of great Neró, and of Antoniús: Albe that thilkè time they were unborn, Yet was hir death depainted therebeforn, By ménacíng of Mars, right by figúre, So was it showèd in that portraitúre, As is depainted in the stars above, Who shall be slain or ellès dead for love. Sufficeth one ensample in stories old, I may not reckon them allè though I wold. The statue of Mars upon a cartè stood Armèd, and lookèd grim as he were wood,[179] And over his head there shinen two figúres Of starrès, that be clepèd in scriptúres,[180] That one Puella, that other Rubeus.[181] This god of armès was arrayèd thus: A wolf there stood before him at his feet With eyen red, and of a man he eat: With subtle pencil depainted was this story, In redoubting[182] of Mars and of his glory. Now to the temple of Dián the chaste As shortly as I can I will me haste, To tellen you all the descriptìón: Depainted be the wallès up and down Of hunting and of shamefast chastity. There saw I how wofúl Calistope,[183] When that Dian aggrievèd was with her, Was turnèd from a woman to a bear, And after was she made the lodèstar[184]: Thus was it painted, I can say no farre[185]; Her son is eke a star as men may see. There saw I Danè yturnèd till[186] a tree, I meanè not the goddesse Diánè, But Peneus' daughter, which that hightè Danè. There saw I Acteon an hart ymakèd,[187] For vengeance that he saw Dian all naked: I saw how that his houndès have him caught, And freten[188] him for that they knew him naught. Yet painted was a little furthermore, How Atalanta hunted the wild boar, And Meleager, and many another mo, For which Diana wrought him care and woe. There saw I many another wonder story, The which me list not drawen to memóry. This goddess on an hart full highè seet,[189] With smallè houndès all about her feet, And underneath her feet she had a moon, Waxing it was, and shouldè wanen soon. In gaudy-green[190] her statue clothèd was, With bow in hand and arrows in a case. Her eyen castè she full low adown There Pluto hath his darkè regìón. A woman travailing was her beforn, But for her child so longè was unborn Full piteously Lucina[191] gan she call, And saidè, "Help, for thou mayst best of all." Well could he painten lifely[192] that it[193] wrought, With many a florin he the huès bought.

In th' oldè dayès of the king Arthúr Of which that Britons speaken great honóur, All was this land fulfilled of faèrié; The Elf-queen, with her jolly company, Dancèd full oft in many a greenè mead; This was the old opinion as I read: I speak of many hundred years ago; But now can no man see none elvès mo, For now the greatè charity and prayérs Of limitours[194] and other holy freres, That searchen every land and every stream, As thick as motès in the sunnè-beam, Blessing halles, chambers, kitchenès, bowers, Cities, boroughs, castles, highè towers, Thorpès, barnès, shepens,[195] daìriés, This maketh that there be no faèriés: For there as wont to walken was an elf, There walketh now the limitour himself, In undermelès[196] and in morwènings, And saith his matins and his holy things, As he goeth in his limitatìón,[197] Women may go now safely up and down, In every bush, and under every tree; There is none other incubus but he.

In Flanders whilom was a company Of youngè folk, that haunteden folly, As riot, hazard, stewès, and tavérns; Whereas with harpès, lutès, and gittérns,[198] They dance and play at dice both day and night, And eat also, and drinken o'er hir might; Through which they do the devil sacrifice Within the devil's temple, in cursed wise, By superfluity abomináble. Hir oathès be so great and so damnáble, That it is grisly[199] for to hear hem swear. Our blessèd Lordès body they to-tear[200]; Hem thoughte[201] Jewès rent him not enough; And each of hem at otherès sinnè lough.[202] And right anon then comen tombesteres[203] Fetis[204] and small, and youngè fruitesteres,[205] Singers with harpès, bawdès, waferérs,[206] Which be the very devil's officérs, To kindle and blow the fire of lechery, That is annexèd unto gluttony.

These riotourès three, of which I tell, Long erst ere[207] primè rung of any bell, Were set hem in a tavern for to drink: And as they sat, they heard a bellè clink Before a corpse, was carried to his grave: That one of hem gan callen to his knave,[208] "Go bet,"[209] quoth he, "and askè readily, What corpse is this, that passeth here forby: And look that thou report his namè well." "Sir," quoth this boy, "it needeth never a del; It was me told ere ye came here two hours: He was pardie an old fellów of yours, And suddenly he was yslain to-night, Fordrunk[210] as he sat on his bench upright: There came a privy thief, men clepeth[211] Death, That in this country all the people slayéth, And with his spear he smote his heart atwo, And went his way withouten wordès mo. He hath a thousand slain this pestilénce: And, master, ere ye come in his presénce, Methinketh that it werè necessary, For to be ware of such an adversary; Be ready for to meet him evermore: Thus taughtè me my dame; I say no more." "By Saintè Mary," said this tavernér,[212] "The child saith sooth, for he hath slain this year Hence over a mile, within a great villáge, Both man and woman, child, and hine,[213] and page; I trow his habitatìón be there: To be avisèd[214] great wisdóm it were, Ere that he did a man a dishonóur." "Yea, Godès armès," quoth this riotóur, "Is it such peril with him for to meet? I shall him seek by way and eke by street, I make avow to Godès digne[215] bonès. Hearkeneth, fellówès, we three be all onès[216]: Let each of us hold up his hand till other, And each of us becomen otherès brother, And we will slay this falsè traitor Death: He shall be slain, which that so many slayeth, By Godès dignity, ere it be night." Together have these three hir truthès plight To live and dien each of hem for other, As though he were his own yborèn[217] brother. And up they start all drunken, in this rage, And forth they go towárdès that villáge. Of which the taverner had spoke beforn, And many a grisly[218] oath then have they sworn, And Christès blessed body they to-rent;[219] Death shall be dead,[220] if that they may him hent.[221] When they have gone not fully half a mile, Right as they would have trodden o'er a stile, An old man and a poorè with hem met. This oldè man full meekèly hem gret,[222] And saidè thus: "Now, lordès, God you see."[223] The proudest of these riotourès three Answéred again: "What, carl,[224] with sorry grace, Why art thou all forwrappèd[225] save thy face? Why livest thou so long in so great age?" This oldè man gan look on his viságe, And saidè thus: "For I ne cannot find A man, though that I walkèd into Ind, Neither in city, nor in no villáge, That wouldè change his youthè for mine age; And therefore mote I have mine agè still As longè time as it is Godès will. Ne death, alas! ne will not have my life; Thus walk I like a restèless cáìtiff, And on the ground, which is my mother's gate, I knockè with my staff, both early and late, And sayen, 'Liefè[226] mother, let me in. Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin; Alas! when shall my bonès be at rest? Mother, with you would I changen my chest, That in my chamber longè time hath be, Yea, for an hairè clout to wrappè me.' But yet to me she will not do that grace, For which full pale and welkèd[227] is my face. "But, sirs, to you it is no courtesy To speaken to an old man villainy, But[228] he trespass in word or else in deed. In holy writ ye may yourself well read; 'Against[229] an old man, hoar upon his head, Ye should arise:' wherefore I give you rede,[230] Ne do unto an old man none harm now, No morè than ye would men did to you In agè, if that ye so long abide. And God be with you, where ye go or ride; I mote go thither as I have to go." "Nay, oldè churl, by God, thou shalt not so," Saidè this other hazardour anon; "Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John. Thou spake right now of thilkè traitor Death, That in this country all our friendès slayeth; Have here my truth, as thou art his espy; Tell where he is, or thou shalt it aby,[231] By God and by the holy sacrament; For soothly thou art one of his assent To slay us youngè folk, thou falsè thief." "Now, sirs," quoth he, "if that you be so lief[232] To finden Death, turn up this crooked way, For in that grove I left him, by my fay, Under a tree, and there he will abide; Not for your boast he will him nothing hide. See ye that oak? right there ye shall him find. God savè you, that bought again mankind, And you amend!" thus said this oldè man. And evereach[233] of these riotourès ran, Till he came to that tree, and there they found Of florins fine of gold ycoinèd round, Well nigh an eightè bushels, as hem thought. No lenger then after Death they sought, But each of hem so glad was of that sight, For that the florins be so fair and bright, That down they set hem by this precious hoard. The worst of hem he spake the firstè word. "Brethren," quoth he, "take keepè[234] what I say; My wit is great, though that I bourd[235] and play. This treasure hath fortúne unto us given In mirth and jollity our life to liven, And lightly as it cometh, so will we spend. Hey! Godès precious dignity! who wend[236] To-day, that we should have so fair a grace? But might this gold be carried from this place Home to mine house, or ellès unto yours, For well ye wot that all this gold is ours, Then werè we in high felicity. But trúèly by day it may not be; Men woulden say that we were thievès strong, And for our owen treasure do us hong.[237] This treasure must ycarried be by night As wisely and as slily as it might. Wherefore I rede,[238] that cut[239] among us all Be draw, and let see where the cut will fall: And he that hath the cut, with heartè blithè Shall rennè[240] to the town, and that full swith,[241] And bring us bread and wine full privily; And two of us shall keepen subtlely This treasure well; and if he will not tarry, When it is night, we will this treasure carry By one assent, where as us thinketh best." That one of hem the cut brought in his fist, And bade hem draw and look where it will fall, And it fell on the youngest of hem all: And forth towárd the town he went anon. And also[242] soon as that he was agone, That one of hem spake thus unto that other; "Thou knowest well thou art my sworen brother; Thy profit will I tellen thee anon. Thou wost[243] well that our fellow is agone, And here is gold, and that full great plenty, That shall departed be among us three. But nathèless, if I can shape it so, That it departed were among us two, Had I not done a friendès turn to thee?" That other answered, "I not[244] how that may be: He wot how that the gold is with us tway.[245] What shall we do? what shall we to him say?" "Shall it be counsel?" said the firstè shrew; "And I shall tellen thee in wordès few What we shall do, and bring it well about." "I grantè," quoth that other, "out of doubt, That by my truth I shall thee not bewray." "Now," quoth the first, "thou wost well we be tway, And two of us shall strenger be than one. Look, when that he is set, thou right anon Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play; And I shall rive him through the sidès tway, While that thou strugglest with him as in game, And with thy dagger look thou do the same; And then shall all this gold departed be, My dearè friend, betwixen me and thee: Then may we both our lustès all fulfill, And play at dice right at our owen will." And thus accorded be these shrewès tway To slay the third, as ye have heard me say. This youngest, which that went unto the town, Full oft in heart he rolleth up and down The beauty of these florins new and bright. "O Lord!" quoth he, "if so were that I might Have all this treasure to myself alone, There is no man that liveth under the throne Of God, that shouldè live so merry as I." And the last the fiend, our enemy, Put in his thought that he should poison bey,[246] With which he mightè slay his fellows twaye. Forwhy[247] the fiend found him in such livíng, That he had leavè him to sorrow bring. For this was utterly his full intent To slay hem both, and never to repent. And forth he goeth, no lenger would he tarry, Into the town unto a 'pothecary, And prayèd him that he him wouldè sell Some poison, that he might his rattès quell, And eke there was a polecat in his haw[248] That, as he said, his capons had yslawe[249]; And fain he wouldè wreak[250] him if he might, On vermin, that destroyèd him by night. The 'pothecary answéred, "And thou shalt have A thing that, also[251] God my soulè save, In all this world there nis no créàtúre, That eaten or drunk hath of this cónfectúre, Naught but the mountance[252] of a corn of wheat, That he ne shall his life anon forlete[253]; Yea, sterve[254] he shall, and that in lessè while, Than thou wilt go a pace[255] not but a mile: This poison is so strong and violent." This cursèd man hath in his hand yhent[256] This poison in a box, and sith he ran Into the nextè street unto a man, And borrowed of him largè bottles three; And in the two his poison pourèd he; The third he kept clean for his owen drink, For all the night he shope[257] him for to swink[258] In carrying the gold out of that place. And when this riotour, with sorry grace, Had filled with wine his greatè bottles three, To his fellóws again repaireth he. What needeth it to sermon of it more? For right as they had cast his death before, Right so they have him slain, and that anon. And when that this was done, thus spake that one: "Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, And afterward we will his body bury." And with that word it happèd him par cas,[259] To take the bottle there the poison was, And drank, and gave his fellow drink also, For which anon they storven[260] bothè two. But certes I suppose that Avicen Wrote never in no canon, n' in no fen,[261] Mo wonder signès of empoisoning, Than had these wretches two ere hir endíng. Thus ended be these homicidès two, And eke the false empoisoner also.

A poorè widow somedeal stope[262] in age, Was whilom dwelling in a narrow cottàge, Beside a grovè, standing in a dale. This widow, of which I tellè you my tale, Since thilkè day that she was last a wife, In patience led a full simple life. For little was her cattel[263] and her rent[264]: By husbandry[265] of such as God her sent She found[266] herself, and eke her daughtren two. Three largè sowès had she, and no mo; Three kine, and eke a sheep that hightè[267] Mall. Full sooty was her bower, and eke her hall, In which she ate full many a slender meal. Of poignant sauce her needed never a deal.[268] No dainty morsel passèd through her throat; Her diet was accordant to her cote.[269] Repletìón ne made her never sick; Attemper[270] diet was all her physíc, And exercise, and heartès suffisánce.[271] The goutè let[272] her nothing for to dance, N' apoplexy ne shentè[273] not her head. No wine ne drank she, neither white ne red: Her board was servèd most with white and black, Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack, Seind[274] bacon, and sometime an egg or twey; For she was as it were a manner dey.[275] A yard she had, enclosed all about With stickès, and a dryè ditch without, In which she had a cock hight Chanticleer, In all the land of crowing was none his peer. His voice was merrier than the merry orgón, On massè days that in the churchè gon. Well sikerer[276] was his crowing in his lodge Than is a clock, or an abbéy horloge.[277] By nature he knew each ascensìón Of the equinoctiál in thilké town; For when degrees fifteenè were ascended, Then crew he, that it might not be amended. His comb was redder than the fine corál, And battled,[278] as it were a castle wall. His bill was black, and as the jet it shone; Like azure were his leggès and his ton[279]; His nailès whiter than the lily flower, And like the burned[280] gold was his colóur. This gentle cock had in his governánce Seven hennès, for to do all his pleasánce, Which were his sisters and his paramours, And wonder like to him, as of coloúrs; Of which the fairest huèd on her throat Was clepèd fairè Damosel Partelote. Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair, And cómpanáble,[281] and bare herself so fair, Sin[282] thilkè day that she was sevennight old, That truèly she hath the heart in hold[283] Of Chanticleer, locken[284] in every lith[285]; He loved her so, that well was him therewith. But such a joy was it to hear hem sing, When that the brightè sunnè gan to spring, In sweet accord, 'My lief is faren on land.'[286] For thilkè time, as I have understande, Beastès and birdès couldè speak and sing. And so befell, that in a dawèning, As Chanticleer among his wivès all Sat on his perchè, that was in the hall, And next him sat this fairè Partèlote, This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat, As man that in his dream is drecchèd[287] sore, And when that Partèlote thus heard him roar, She was aghast, and said, "O heartè dear, What aileth you to groan in this mannére? Ye be a very sleeper, fie, for shame!" And he answéred and saidè thus: "Madáme, I pray you that ye take it not agrief[288]; By God, me met[289] I was in such mischiéf[290] Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright. Now God," quoth he, "my sweven[291] read[292] aright, And keep my body out of foul prisón. Me met how that I roamèd up and down Within our yard, where-as I saw a beast Was like an hound, and would have made arrest Upon my body, and have had me dead. His colour was betwixè yellow and red; And tippèd was his tail, and both his ears With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs. His snoutè small, with glowing eyen twey; Yet of his look for fear almost I dey[293]: This causèd me my groaning doubteless." "Avoy!" quoth she, "fie on you heartèless! Alas!" quoth she, "for by that God above Now have ye lost mine heart and all my love; I cannot love a coward, by my faith. For certes, what so any woman saith, We all desiren, if it mightè be, To have husbándès, hardy, wise, and free, And secre,[294] and no niggard ne no fool, Ne him that is aghast of every tool, Ne none avantour[295] by that God above. How durst ye say for shame unto your love, That anything might maken you afeard? Have ye no mannès heart, and have a beard? Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenès[296]? Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is, Swevens engender of repletions, And oft of fume, and of complexións,[297] When humours be too abundant in a wight. Certes this dream, which ye have met[298] to-night, Cometh of the greatè superfluity Of yourè redè colera,[299] pardié, Which causeth folk to dreamen in hir dreams Of arrows, and of fire with redè leames,[300] Of greatè beastes, that they will hem bite, Of contek[301] and of whelpès great and lite[302]; Right as the humour of meláncholy Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry, For fear of blackè beares or bullès blake, Or ellès blackè devils will hem take. Of other humours could I tell also, That worken many a man in sleep full woe: But I will pass as lightly[303] as I can. Lo Cato, which that was so wise a man, Said he not thus? 'Ne do no force[304] of dreams.'" "Now, Sir," quoth she, "when ye fly from the beams, For Godès love, as take some laxative: Up[305] peril of my soul, and of my live, I counsel you the best, I will not lie, That both of choler, and of meláncholy Ye purgè you; and for ye shall not tarry, Though in this town is none apothecary, I shall myself to herbès teachen you, That shall be for your heal[306] and for your prow[307]; And in our yard tho[308] herbès shall I find, The which have of hir property by kind[309] To purgen you beneath, and eke above. Forget not this for Godès owen love; Ye be full choleric of complexìón; Ware the sun in his ascensìón Ne find you not replete of humours hot: And if it do, I dare well lay a groat, That ye shall have a fever tertìán, Or an agúe, that may be yourè bane. A day or two ye shall have dígestives Of wormès, ere ye take your laxatíves, Of lauriol, centaury, and fumetere,[310] Or else of hellebore, that growreth there, Of catapucè,[311] or of gaitres-berríès,[312] Of herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is: Pick hem up right as they grow, and eat hem in. Be merry, husband, for your father kin Dreadeth no dream; I can say you no more." "Madame," quoth he, "grand mercy of" your lore. But nathèless, as touching Dan Caton, That hath of wisdom such a great renown, Though that he bade no dreamès for to drede, By God, men may in oldè bookès read,[313] Of many a man, more of authority Than ever Cato was, so mote I the,[314] That all the réverse say of this senténce, And have well founden by experiénce, That dreamès be significatìóns As well of joy, as of tribulatìóns, That folk enduren in this life présent. There needeth make of this none argument; The very prevè[315] sheweth it indeed. "One of the greatest authors that men read, Saith thus, that whilom two fellówès went On pilgrimage in a full good intent; And happèd so, they came into a town, Where-as there was such congregatìón Of people, and eke so strait of herbergage,[316] That they ne found as much as one cottáge, In which they bothè might ylodgèd be: Wherefore they musten of necessity, As for that night, departen[317] company; And each of hem goeth to his hostelry, And took his lodging as it wouldè fall. That one of hem was lodgèd in a stall, Far in a yard, with oxen of the plow; That other man was lodgèd well enow, As was his áventúre, or his fortúne, That us govérneth all, as in commúne. And so befell, that, long ere it were day, This man met[318] in his bed, there-as he lay, How that his fellow gan upon him call, And said, 'Alas! for in an oxès stall This night I shall be murdered, there I lie. Now help me, dearè brother, or I die; In allè hastè come to me,' he said. This man out of his sleep for fear abraid[319]; But when that he was wakened of his sleep, He turnèd him, and took of this no keep[320]; Him thought his dream nas but a vanity. Thus twiès in his sleeping dreamèd he. And at the thirdè time yet his felláw Came, as him thought, and said, 'I am now slawe.[321] Behold my bloody woundès, deep and wide. Arise up early, in the morrow tide, And at the west gate of the town,' quoth he, 'A cartè full of dung there shalt thou see, In which my body is hid full privily. Do thilkè cart arresten boldèly. My gold causèd my murder, sooth to sayn.' And told him every point how he was slain With a full piteous facè, pale of hue. And trusteth well, his dream he found full true; For on the morrow, as soon as it was day, To his fellówès inn he took his way: And when that he came to this oxès stall, After his fellow he began to call. The hostèler answérèd him anon, And saidè, 'Sir, your fellow is agone, As soon as day he went out of the town.' "This man gan fallen in suspicìón Remembering on his dreamès that he met,[322] And forth he goeth, no lenger would he let,[323] Unto the west gate of the town, and found A dung cart, as it were to dungè lond, That was arrayèd in that samè wise As ye have heard the deadè man devise: And with an hardy heart he gan to cry, 'Vengeance and justice of this felony: My fellow murdered is this samè night, And in this cart he lieth, gaping upright.[324] I cry out on the ministers,' quoth he, 'That shouldè keep and rulen this city: Harow! alas! here lieth my fellow slain.' What should I more unto this talè sayn? The people out start,[325] and cast the cart to ground, And in the middle of the dung they found The deadè man, that murdered was all new. O blissful God! that art so just and true, Lo, how that thou bewrayest[326] murder alway. Murder will out, that see we day by day. Murder is so wlatsom[327] and abomináble To God, that is so just and reasonáble, That he ne will not suffer it helèd[328] be, Though it abide a year, or two, or three; Murder will out, this is my conclusìón. "And right anon, minísters of that town Have hent[329] the carter, and so sore him pined,[330] And eke the hostèler so sore engíned,[331] That they beknew[332] hir wickedness anon, And were anhangèd by the neckè bone. "Here may men see that dreamès be to dread. And certes in the samè book I read, Right in the nextè chapter after this, (I gabbè[333] not, so have I joy and bliss,) Two men that would have passèd over sea For certain cause into a far country, If that the wind ne haddè been contráry, That made hem in a city for to tarry, That stood full merry upon an haven side. But on a day, again[334] the even tide, The wind gan change, and blew right as hem lest.[335] Jolly and glad they went unto hir rest, And casten hem full early for to sail; But to that one man fell a great marvail. That one of them in sleeping as he lay, He met29999 a wonder dream, again the day: Him thought a man stood by his beddès side, And him commanded that he should abide, And said him thus: 'If thou to-morrow wend, Thou shalt be dreynt[337]; my tale is at an end.' He woke, and told his fellow what he met,[336] And prayed him his voyagè to let[338]; As for that day, he prayed him for to abide. His fellow, that lay by his beddès side, Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast. 'No dream,' quoth he, 'may so my heart aghast, That I will letten for to do my things. I settè not a straw by thy dreamíngs, For swevens[339] be but vanities and japes.[340] Men dream all day of owlès or of apes, And eke of many a masè[341] therewithal; Men dream of thing that never was, ne shall. But sith I see that thou wilt here abide, And thus forslothen[342] wilfully thy tide, God wot it rueth[343] me, and have good day.' And thus he took his leave, and went his way. But ere that he had half his course ysailed, Nought I not[344] why, ne what mischance it ailed, But casually the shippès bottom rent, And ship and man under the water went In sight of other shippès there beside, That with hem sailèd at the samè tide. "And therefore, fairè Partèlote so dear, By such ensamples old yet mayst thou lere.[345] That no man shouldè be too reckèless Of dreamès, for I say thee doubtèless, That many a dream full sore is for to dread. "Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read, That was Kenulphus son, the noble king Of Mercenrike,[346] how Kenelm met[347] a thing. A little ere he was murdered, on a day, His murder in his ávisión[348] he say.[349] His norice[350] him expounded every del His sweven, and bade him for to keep him well For[351] treason; but he nas but seven year old, And therefore little tale hath he told[352] Of any dream, so holy was his heart. By God, I haddè liefer than my shirt, That ye had read his legend, as have I. "Dame Partèlote, I say you truèly, Macrobius, that writ the ávisión[353] In Afric of the worthy Scipion, Affirmeth dreamès, and saith that they be Warning of thingès that men after see. And furthermore, I pray you looketh well In the Oldè Testament, of Daniél, If he held dreamès any vanity. Read eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see Where[354] dreamès be sometime (I say not all) Warning of thingès that shall after fall. Look of Egypt the king, Dan Pharao, His baker and his butèler also, Whether they ne felten none effect in dreams. Whoso will seeken acts of sundry remes,[355] May read of dreamès many a wonder thing. Lo Crœsus, which that was of Lydia king, Met[356] he not that he sat upon a tree, Which signified he should anhangèd be? "Lo here, Andromache, Hectórès wife, That day that Hector shouldè lese[357] his life, She dreamèd on the samè night beforn, How that the life of Hector should be lorn,[358] If thilkè day he went into battáil: She warnèd him, but it might not avail; He wentè for to fighten nathèless, And he was slain anon of Achillés. But thilkè tale is all too long to tell, And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwell. "Shortly I say, as for conclusìón, That I shall have of this avisìón Adversity: and I say furthermore, That I ne tell[359] of laxatives no store, For they be venomous, I wot it well: I hem defy, I love hem never a del. "Now let us speak of mirth, and stint all this; Madamè Partèlote, so have I bliss, Of one thing God hath sent me largè grace: For when I see the beauty of your face, Ye be so scarlet red about your eyen, It maketh all my dreadè for to dien, For, also[360] sicker[361] as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio,— Madam, the sentence[362] of this Latin is, Woman is mannès joy and all his bliss— For when I feel a-night your softè side,

I am so full of joy and of soláce, That I defyè bothè sweven[363] and dream." And with that word he flew down from the beam, For it was day, and eke his hennès all; And with a chuck he gan hem for to call, For he had found a corn, lay in the yard. Royal he was, he was no more afeard;

He looketh as it were a grim lión; And on his toes he roameth up and down, Him deignèd not to set his feet to ground: He chucketh, when he hath a corn yfound, And to him rennen then his wivès all. Thus royal, as a prince is in his hall, Leave I this Chanticleer in his pastúre; And after will I tell his áventúre. When that the month in which the world began, That hightè March, when God first makèd man, Was cómplete, and ypassèd were also, Sithen[364] March began, thirty dayès and two, Befell that Chanticleer in all his pride, His seven wivès walking by his side, Cast up his eyen to the brightè sun, That in the sign of Taurus had yrun Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more: He knew by kind,[365] and by none other lore, That it was prime, and crew with blissful steven,[366] "The sun," he said, "is clomben up on heaven Forty degrees and one, and more ywis.[367] Madamè Partèlote, my worldès bliss, Hearkeneth these blissful birdès how they sing, And see the freshè flowers how they spring; Full is mine heart of revel and soláce." But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case; For ever the latter end of joy is woe: God wot that worldly joy is soon ago; And if a rethor[368] couldè fair indite, He in a chronique safely might it write, As for a sovereign notability. Now every wise man, let him hearken me: This story is also[369] true, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That women hold in full great reverénce. Now will I turn again to my senténce. A col fox,[370] full of sly iniquity, That in the grove had wonèd[371] yearès three, By high imaginatìón forncast,[372] The samè night throughout the hedges brast[373] Into the yard, there Chanticleer the fair Was wont, and eke his wivès, to repair; And in a bed of wortès[374] still he lay, Till it was passèd undern[375] of the day, Waiting his time on Chanticleer to fall: As gladly do these homicidès all, That in awaitè lie to murder men. O falsè murderer! lurking in thy den! O newè 'Scariot, newè Genelon! Falsè dissimulour, O Greek Sinon. That broughtest Troy all utterly to sorrow! O Chanticleer! accursèd be that morrow, That thou into that yard flew from the beams, Thou were full well ywarnèd by thy dreams, That thilkè day was perilous to thee. But what that God forewot[376] mote needès be, After the opinìón of certain clerkès. Witness on him that any perfect clerk is, That in school is great altercatìón In this mattér, and great disputison, And hath been of an hundred thousand men. But I ne cannot bolt[377] it to the bren,[378] As can the holy doctor Augustin, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin, Whether that Godès worthy forewïtíng[379] Straineth me needly for to do a thing,— Needly clepe I simple necessity— Or ellès if free choice be granted me To do that samè thing, or do it nought, Though God forewot it ere that it was wrought; Or if his witing[380] straineth never a del, But by necessity conditionèl. I will not have to do of such mattère; My tale is of a cock, as ye may hear, That took his counsel of his wife with sorrow To walken in the yard upon that morrow That he had met[381] the dream, that I of told. Womenès counsels be full often cold; Womanès counsel brought us first to woe, And made Adám from Paradise to go, There as he was full merry, and well at ease. But for I not,[382] to whom it might displease, If I counsél of women wouldè blame, Pass over, for I said it in my game. Read authors, where they treat of such mattére, And what they say of women ye may hear. These be the cockès wordès, and not mine; I can none harm of no woman divine.[383] Fair in the sand, to bathe her merrily, Lieth Partelote, and all her sisters by, Again the sun; and Chanticleer so free Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea; For Physiologus saith sikerly,[384] How that they singen well and merrily. And so befell that as he cast his eye Among the wortès on a butterfly, He was ware of this fox that lay full low. Nothing ne list him thennè for to crow, But cried anon "Cock! cock!" and up he start,[385] As man that was affrayèd in his heart. For naturally a beast desireth flee From his contráry, if he may it see, Though he ne'er erst[386] had seen it with his eye. This Chanticleer, when he gan him espy, He would have fled, but that the fox anon Said, "Gentle Sir, alas! why will ye gon? Be ye afraid of me that am your friend? Now certes, I were worsè than a fiend, If I to you would harm or villainy. I am not come your counsel for to espy, But truèly the cause of my comíng Was only for to hearken how that ye sing: For truèly ye have as merry a steven,[387] As any angel hath that is in heaven; Therewith ye have in music more feelíng, Than had Boece, or any that can sing. My lord your father! God his soulè bless And eke your mother of her gentillesse, Have in mine house ybeen, to my great ease: And certes, sir, full fain would I you please. But for men speak of singing, I will say, So mote I brooken[388] well my eyen tway, Save you, I heardè never man so sing, As did your father in the morwening. Certes it was of heart all that he sung. And for to make his voice the morè strong, He would so pain him, that with both his eyen He mustè wink, so loud he wouldè crien, And standen on his tipton therewithal, And stretchen forth his neckè long and small. And eke he was of such discretìón, That there nas no man in no regìón, That him in song or wisdom mightè pass. I have well read in Dan Burnel the ass Among his verse, how that there was a cock, For that a priestès son gave him a knock Upon his leg, while he was young and nice,[389] He made him for to lese his benefice. But certain there nis no comparisón Betwix the wisdom and discretìón Of your fathèr, and of his subtilty. Now singeth, sir, for saintè Charity, Let see, can ye your father counterfeit?" This Chanticleer his wingès gan to beat, As man that could his treason not espy, So was he ravished with his flattery. Alas! ye lordès, many a false flatour[390] Is in your courts, and many a losengeour,[390] That pleasen you well morè, by my faith, Than he that soothfastness[391] unto you saith. Readeth Ecclesiast of flattèry, Beware, ye lordès, of hir treachery. This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close, And gan to crowen loudè for the nonce: And Dan Russèl the fox start up at once, And by the garget[392] hentè[393] Chanticleer, And on his back toward the wood him bare. For yet ne was there no man that him sued.[394] O destiny, that mayst not be eschewed! Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams! Alas, his wife ne raughtè[395] not of dreams! And on a Friday fell all this mischance. O Venus, that art goddess of pleasánce. Sin that thy servant was this Chanticleer, And in thy service did all his powér, More for delight, than world to multiply, Why wouldst thou suffer him on thy day to die? O Gaufrid, dearè master sovèreígn, That, when thy worthy king Richárd was slain With shot, complainedest his death so sore, Why nad[396] I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye?— For on a Friday soothly slain was he,— Then would I shew you how that I could plain For Chanticleerès dread, and for his pain. Certes such cry, ne lamentatìón Was ne'er of ladies made, when Ilión Was won, and Pyrrhus with his streitè[397] swerd, When he had hent king Priam by the beard, And slain him, as saith us Ænéidós, As maden all the hennès in the close, When they had seen of Chanticleer the sight. But sovereignly Dame Partèlotè shright,[398] Full louder than did Hasdrubalès wife, When that her husband haddè lost his life, And that the Romans haddè burnt Cartháge. She was so full of torment and of rage, That willfully into the fire she start, And brent[399] herselven with a steadfast heart. O woful hennès! right so crieden ye, As when that Nero brentè[399] the city Of Romè, crieden senatorès wives For that their husbands losten all hir lives; Withouten guilt this Nero hath hem slain. Now will I turnè to my tale again; This sely[400] widow, and eke her daughters two, Hearden these hennès cry and maken woe, And out at doorès starten they anon, And saw the fox toward the grovè gon, And bare upon his back the cock away: They crieden, "Out! harow and welawa! Ha, ha! the fox!" and after him they ran, And eke with stavès many another man; Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot, and Garland, And Malkin with a distaff in her hand; Ran cow and calf, and eke the very hoggès, So were they feared for barking of the doggès, And shouting of the men and women eke, They rannen so, hem thought hir heartè breke.[401] They yellèden as fiendès do in hell: The duckès crieden as men would hem quell: The geese for fearè flewen o'er the trees, Out of the hivè came the swarm of bees, So hideous was the noise, a! ben'cite! Certes he Jackè Straw, and his meyné,[402] Ne maden never shoutès half so shrill, When that they woulden any Fleming kill, As thilkè day was made upon the fox. Of brass they broughten beamès[403] and of box, Of horn and bone, in which they blew and poopèd,[404] And therewithal they shriekèd and they hoopèd[405], It seemèd as that heaven shouldè fall. Now, goodè men, I pray you hearkeneth all; Lo, how Fortunè turneth suddenly The hope and pride eke of her enemy. This cock that lay upon the fox's back, In all his dread, unto the fox he spake, And saidè, "Sir, if that I were as ye, Yet would I say, as wis[406] God helpè me, 'Turneth again, ye proudè churlès all; A very pestilence upon you fall! Now am I come unto the woodès side, Maugre your head, the cock shall here abide: I will him eat in faith, and that anon.'" The fox answéred, "In faith, it shall be done:" And as he spake that word, all suddenly This cock brake from his mouth deliverly,[407] And high upon a tree he flew anon. And when the fox saw that he was ygone, "Alas!" quoth he, "O Chanticleer, alas! I have to you," quoth he, "ydone trespáss, Inasmuch as I makèd you afeard, When I you hent,[408] and brought out of the yard; But, sir, I did it of no wicke[409] intent: Come down, and I shall tell you what I meant. I shall say sooth to you, God help me so." "Nay then," quoth he, "I shrew[410] us bothè two. And first I shrew myself, both blood and bonès, If thou beguile me any ofter than onès. Thou shalt no morè through thy flattery Do[411] me to sing and winken with mine eye. For he that winketh when he shouldè see, All willfully, God let him never the[412]!" "Nay," quoth the fox, "but God give him mischance, That is so indiscreet of governánce, That jangleth[413] when he shouldè hold his peace." Lo, such it is for to be reckèless And negligent, and trust on flattery. But ye that holden this tale a folly, As of a fox, or of a cock and hen, Take the morality thereof, good men. For Saint Paul saith, That all that written is, To our doctríne it is ywrit ywis,[414] Taketh the fruit, and let the chaff be still. Now goode God, if that it be thy will, As saith my lord, so make us all good men; And bring us to his highè bliss.—Amen.