Red auctours, wher thay trete of such matiere,
And what thay sayn of wommen ye may heere.
These been the cokkes wordes, and not myne
I can noon harme of no wommen divine.
Faire in the sond, to bathe hir merily,
Lith Pertelot, and alle hir sustres by,
Agayn the sonne; and Chaunteclere so free
Sang merier than the meremayd in the see;
For Phisiologus seith sicurly,
How that thay syngen wel and merily.
And so byfel that as he cast his ye
Among the wortes on a boterflye,
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.
No thing ne list him thanne for to crowe,
But cryde anon, "cok, cok," and up he sterte,
As man that was affrayed in his herte.
For naturelly a beest desireth flee
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see,
Though he never er hadde seyn it with his ye.
This Chaunteclere, whan he gan it aspye,
He wold han fled, but that the fox anon
Said, "Gentil sire, allas! why wol ye goon?
Be ye affrayd of me that am youre frend?
Now certes, I were worse than eny feend,
If I to yow wold harm or vilonye.
I am not come your counsail to espye.
But tremely the cause of my comynge
Was only for to herken how ye singe,
For trewely ye have als mery a steven,
As eny aungel hath, that is in heven;
Therwith ye han of musik more felynge,
Than hadde Boece, or eny that can synge.
My lord your fader (God his soule blesse)
And eke youre moder of her gentilesse
Han in myn hous ibeen, to my gret ease;
And certes, sire, ful fayn wold I yow please.
But for men speke of syngyng, I wol saye,
So mot I brouke wel myn yen twaye,
Save
ye,
I herde never man so synge,
As dede your fadir in the morwenynge.
Certes it was of hert al that he song.
And for to make his vois the more strong,
He wolde so peynen him, that with bothe his yen
He moste wynke, so lowde he wolde crien,
And stonden on his typtoon therwithal,
And streche forth his necke long and smal.
And eek he was of such discressioun,
That ther nas no man in no regioun
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe.
I have wel rad in daun Burnel thasse
Among his verses, how ther was a cok,
That, for a prestes sone yaf him a knok
Upon his leg, whil he was yong and nyce,
He made him for to lese his benefice.
But certeyn ther is no comparisoun
Betwix the wisdom and discressioun
Of youre fader, and of his subtilté.
Now syngeth, sire, for seinte Charité,
Let se, can ye your fader countrefete?”
This Chaunteclere his wynges gan to bete,
As man that couthe his tresoun nought espye,
So was he ravyssht with his flaterie.
Allas! lordynges, many a fals flatour
Is in your hous, and many a losengour,
That pleasen yow wel more, by my faith,
Than he that sothfastnesse unto yow saith.
Redith Ecclesiast of flaterie;
Beth war, ye lordes, of her treccherie.
This Chaunteclere stood heighe upon his toos,
Strecching his necke, and held his yhen cloos,
And gan to crowe lowde for the noones;
And daun Russel the fox stert up at oones,
And by the garget hente Chaunteclere,
And on his bak toward the woode him bere.
For yit was there no man that him sewed.
O desteny, that maist not ben eschiewed !
Allas, that Chaunteclere fleigh fro the bemis!
Allas, his wif ne roughte nought of dremis !
And on a Friday fel al this meschaunce.
O Venus, that art goddesse of pleasaunce,
Syn that thy servant was this Chaunteclere,
And in thy service did al his powere,
More for delit, than the world to multiplie,
Why woldest thou suffre him on thy day to dye?
O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn,
That, whan the worthy king Richard was slayn
With schot, compleynedist his deth so sore,
Why ne had I nought thy sentence and thy lore, 530
The Friday for to chiden, as dede ye?
(For on a Fryday sothly slayn was he.)
Than wold I schewe yow how that I couthe pleyne, For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.
Certis such cry ne lamentacioun
Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun
Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd,
Whan he had hente kyng Priam by the berd,
And slaugh him (as saith us Eneydos),
As maden alle the hennes in the clos,
Whan they hadde seyn of Chauntecler the sighte.
But soveraignly dam Pertelote schrighte,
Ful lowder than did Hasdrubaldes wyf,
Whan that hir housebond hadde lost his lyf,
And that the Romayns had i-brent Cartage,
Sche was so ful of torment and of rage,
That wilfully unto the fuyr sche sterte,
And brend hirselven with a stedfast herte.
O woful hennes, right so cride ye,
As, whan that Nero brente the cité
Of Rome, criden the senatoures wyves,
For that her housbondes losten alle here lyves;
Withouten gult this Nero hath hem slayn.
Now wol I torne to my matier agayn.
The sely wydow, and hir doughtres tuo,
Herden these hennys crie and maken wo,
And out at dores starte thay anoon,
And sawen the fox toward the grove goon,
And bar upon his bak the cok away;
They criden, "Out! harrow and wayleway!
Ha, ha, the fox!" and after him thay ranne,
And eek with staves many another manne;
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Garlond,
And Malkyn, with a distaf in hir hond;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges
Sore fered were for berkyng of dogges,
And schowtyng of the men and wymmen eke,
Thay ronne that thay thought her herte breke.
Thay yelleden as feendes doon in helle;
The dokes criden as men wold hem quelle ;
The gees for fere flowen over the trees;
Out of the hyves cam the swarm of bees;
So hidous was the noyse, a benedicite!
Certes he Jakke Straw, and his meyné,
Ne maden schoutes never half so schrille,
Whan that thay wolden eny Flemyng kille.
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras thay broughten hornes and of box,
Of horn and boon, in which thay blew and powpede, And therwithal thay schryked and thay howpede:
It semed tho as that heven schulde falle.
Now, goode men, I pray yow herkneth alle;
Lo, how fortune torneth sodeinly
The hope and pride eek of her enemy!
This cok that lay upon this foxes bak,
In al his drede, unto the fox he spak,
And saide, "Sire, if that I were as ye,
Yet schuld I sayn (as wisly God helpe me),
Turneth ayein, ye proude cherles alle!
A verray pestilens upon yow falle!
Now am I come unto this woodes syde,
Maugre youre hede, the cok schal heer abyde;
I wol him ete in faith, and that anoon.'
The fox answerd, "In faith, it schal be doon."
And whil he spak that word, al sodeinly
This cok brak from his mouth delyverly,
And heigh upon a tree he fleigh anoon.
And whan the fox seigh that he was i-goon,
"Allas!" quod he, “O Chaunteclere, allas?
I have to yow," quod he, " y-don trespas,
Inasmoche as I makid yow aferd,
Whan I yow hent, and brought out of the yerd;
But, sire, I dede it nought in no wickid entente;
Com doun, and I schal telle yow what I mente.
I schal say soth to yow, God help me so."
"Nay than," quod he, "I schrew us bothe tuo.
And first I schrew myself, bothe blood and boones,
If thou bigile me any ofter than oones.
Thou schalt no more, thurgh thy flaterye,
Do me to synge and wynke with myn ye.
For he that wynkith, whan he scholde see,
Al wilfully, God let him never the!"
"Nay," quod the fox, "but God yive him meschaunce, That is so undiscret of governaunce,
That jangleth, when he scholde holde his pees."
Lo, such it is for to be recheles,
And necligent, and trust on flaterie.
But ye that holde this tale a folye,
As of a fox, or of a cok or of an hen,
Takith the moralité therof, goode men.
For seint Poul saith, that al that writen is,
To oure doctrine it is i-write i-wys.
Takith the fruyt, and let the chaf be stille.
Now, goode God, if that it be thy wille,
As saith my lord, so make us alle goode men;
And bring us alle to his highe blisse. Amen.
A gentlewoman out of an arbour in a grove seeth a great company of knights and ladies in a dance upon the green grass ; the which being ended, they all kneel down and do honour to the daisy, some to the Flower, and some to the Leaf. Afterward this gentlewoman learneth, by one of these ladies, the meaning hereof, which is this: They which honour the Flower, a thing fading with every blast, are such as look after beauty and worldly pleasure; but they that honour the Leaf, which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the frosts and winter storms, are they which follow virtue and during qualities, without regard of worldly respects.
HEN that Phebus his chaire of gold so hie
Hadde whirled up the sterrie sky alofte,
And in the Boole was entred certainely :
When shoures sweet of raine discended softe,
Causing the ground, fele times and ofte,
Up for to give many an wholsome aire,
And every plaine was eke yclothed faire
With newe green, and maketh smalle floures
To springen here and there in field and mede;
So very good and wholsome be the shoures,
That it renueth that was old and dede
In winter time; and out of every sede
Springeth the hearbe, so that every wight
Of this season wexeth ful glad and light.
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