For it was day, and eek his hennes alle; And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, For he had founde a corn, lay in the yerd. Royal he was, he was namore aferd; He fethered Pertelote twenty tyme, And trad as ofte, er that it was pryme. He loketh as it were a grim leoun; And on his toos he rometh up and doun, Him deyned not to sette his foot to grounde. He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde, And to him rennen thanne his wyves alle. Thus royal, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture; And after wol I telle his aventure.
Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe,
And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas." But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of Ioye is wo. God woot that worldly Ioye is sone ago; 440 And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.
A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast,
The same night thrugh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire;
And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, As gladly doon thise homieydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men. O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes !
Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that god forwoot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, 170 That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though god forwoot it, er that it was wroght;
Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel.
I wol not han to do of swich matere; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with
Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere,
And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here.
Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne;
I can noon harm of no womman divyne. 500 Faire in the sond, to bathe hir merily, Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by,
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon Seyde, Gentil sire, allas! wher wol ye gon? Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend? Now certes, I were worse than a feend, 520 If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. I am nat come your counseil for tespye; But trewely, the cause of my cominge Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. For trewely ye have as mery a stevene As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene; Therwith ye han in musik more felinge Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!) And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, 530 Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese; And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. But for men speke of singing, I wol saye, So mote I brouke wel myn eyen tweye, Save yow, I herde never man so singe, As dide your fader in the morweninge; Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. And for to make his voys the more strong, He wolde so peyne him, that with bothe his yën
He moste winke, so loude he wolde cryen, And stonden on his tiptoon ther-with-al, 541 And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. And eek he was of swich discrecioun, That ther nas no man in no regioun That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse, Among his vers, how that ther was a cok, For that a preestes sone yaf him a knok Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce, He made him for to lese his benefyce. But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. Now singeth, sire, for seinte charitee,
Let see, conne ye your fader countrefete?' This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete, As man that coude his tresoun nat espye, So was he ravisshed with his flaterye.
Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour,
That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith.
Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye. This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his toos,
Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos,
And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed.
O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!
Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye?
O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn
With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore,
The Friday for to chyde, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne
For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.
Certes, swich cry ne lamentacionn Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd,
Whan he hadde hent king Priam by the berd, And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos), As maden alle the hennes in the clos, Whan they had seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte.
But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte,
Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf, Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf, And that the Romayns hadde brend Car- tage;
She was so ful of torment and of rage, 600 That wilfully into the fyr she sterte, And brende hir-selven with a stedfast herte. O woful hennes, right so cryden ye, As, whan that Nero brende the citee Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves, For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyves; Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. Now wol I torne to my tale agayn:
This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two,
Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo, 610 And out at dores sterten they anoon,
And syen the fox toward the grove goon, And bar upon his bak the cok away; And cryden, 'Out! harrow! and weylaway! Ha, ha, the fox!' and after him they ran, And eek with staves many another man; Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Ger- land,
And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand; Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray
And seyde, sire, if that I were as ye, Yet sholde I seyn (as wis god helpe me), Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle! A verray pestilence up-on yow falle ! Now am I come un-to this wodes syde, Maugree your heed, the cok shal heer abyde;
I wol him ete in feith, and that anon.' - The fox answerde, in feith, it shal be don,'
And as he spak that word, al sodeinly This cok brak from his mouth deliverly, 650 And heighe up-on a tree he fleigh anon. And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon,
'Allas!' quod he, 'O Chauntecleer, allas! I have to yow,' quod he, 'y-doon trespas, In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd, Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the
And first I shrewe my-self, bothe blood and bones,
If thou bigyle me ofter than ones. Thou shalt na-more, thurgh thy flaterye, Do me to singe and winke with myn yë. For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, Al wilfully, god lat him never thee!' 'Nay,' quod the fox, but god yeve him meschaunce,
That is so undiscreet of governaunce, That Iangleth whan he sholde holde his pees.'
Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees, And necligent, and truste on flaterye. But ye that holden this tale a folye, As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, Taketh the moralitee, good men. For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is, To our doctryne it is y-write, y-wis. Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.
Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille, As seith my lord, so make us alle good
THE FAERIE QUEENE | To blazon broade emongst her learned
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