The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
The Prologue
“Ho!” quoth the Knight, “good sir, no more of this;
That ye have said is right enough, y-wis,
And muchë more; for little heaviness
Is right enough to muchë folk, I guess.
I say for me, it is a great disease,
Where as men have been in great wealth and ease,
To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!
And the contráry is joy and great solas,
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 me,
And of such thing were goodly for to tell.”
“Yea,” quoth our Hostë, “by Saint Paulë’s bell.
Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped loud;
He spake how Fortune cover’d with a cloud
I wot not what, and als’ of a tragédy
Right now ye heard: and pardie no remédy
It is for to bewailë, nor complain
That that is done, and also it is pain,
As ye have said, to hear of heaviness.
Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless;
Your tale annoyeth all this company;
Such talking is not worth a butterfly,
For therein is there no sport nor game;
Therefore, Sir Monkë, Dan Piers by your name,
I pray you heart’ly, tell us somewhat else,
For sickerly, n’ere clinking of your bells,
That on your bridle hang on every side,
By heaven’s king, that for us allë died,
I should ere this have fallen down for sleep,
Although the slough had been never so deep;
Then had your talë been all told in vain.
For certainly, as thesë clerkës sayn,
Where as a man may have no audience,
Nought helpeth it to tellë his senténce.
And well I wot the substance is in me,
If anything shall well reported be.
Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray.”
“Nay,” quoth the Monk, “I have no lust to play;
Now let another tell, as I have told.”
Then spake our Host with rudë speech and bold,
And said unto the Nunnë’s Priest anon,
“Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John,
Tell us such thing as may our heartës glade.
Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.
What though thine horse be bothë foul and lean?
If he will serve thee, reck thou not a bean;
Look that thine heart be merry evermo’.”
“Yes, Host,” quoth he, “so may I ride or go,
But I be merry, y-wis I will be blamed.”
And right anon his tale he hath attamed;
And thus he said unto us every one,
This sweetë priest, this goodly man, Sir John.
The Tale
A poor widow, somedeal y-stept in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottáge,
Beside a grovë, standing in a dale.
This widow, of which I tellë you my tale,
Since thilkë day that she was last a wife,
In patiénce led a full simple life,
For little was her chattel and her rent.
By husbandry of such as God her sent,
She found herself, and eke her daughters two.
Three largë sowës had she, and no mo’;
Three kine, and eke a sheep that hightë Mall.
Full sooty was her bow’r, and eke her hall,
In which she ate full many a slender meal.
Of poignant saucë knew she never a deal.
No dainty morsel passed through her throat;
Her diet was accordant to her cote.
Repletión her madë never sick;
Attemper diet was all her physíc,
And exercise, and heartë’s suffisance.
The goutë let her nothing for to dance,
Nor apoplexy shentë not her head.
No winë drank she, neither white nor red:
Her board was served most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Seind bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway;
For she was as it were a manner dey.
A yard she had, enclosed all about
With stickës, and a dryë ditch without,
In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer;
In all the land of crowing n’as his peer.
His voice was merrier than the merry orgón,
On massë days that in the churches gon.
Well sickerer was his crowing in his lodge,
Than is a clock, or an abbáy horloge.
By nature he knew each ascensioún
Of th’ equinoctial in thilkë town;
For when degrees fiftenë were ascended,
Then crew he, that it might not be amended.
His comb was redder than the fine corál,
Embattell’d as it were a castle wall.
His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;
Like azure were his leggës and his tone;
His nailës whiter than the lily flow’r,
And like the burnish’d gold was his coloúr,
This gentle cock had in his governánce
Sev’n hennës, for to do all his pleasánce,
Which were his sisters and his paramours,
And wondrous like to him as of coloúrs.
Of which the fairest-hued in the throat
Was called Damosellë Partelote,
Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair,
And cómpaniáble, and bare herself so fair,
Sincë the day that she sev’n night was old,
That truëly she had the heart in hold
Of Chanticleer, locked in every lith;
He lov’d her so, that well was him therewith.
But such a joy it was to hear them sing,
When that the brightë sunnë gan to spring,
In sweet accord, “My lefe is fare in land.”
For, at that time, as I have understand,
Beastës and birdës couldë speak and sing.
And so befell, that in a dawëning,
As Chanticleer among his wivës all
Sat on his perchë, that was in the hall,
And next him sat this fairë Partelote,
This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat,
As man that in his dream is dretched sore,
And when that Partelote thus heard him roar,
She was aghast, and saidë, “Heartë dear,
What aileth you to groan in this mannére?
Ye be a very sleeper, fy for shame!”
And he answer’d and saidë thus; “Madame,
I pray you that ye take it not agrief;
By God, me mette I was in such mischíef,
Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright’.
Now God,” quoth he, “my sweven read aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoún.
Me mette, how that I roamed 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 would have had me dead.
His colour was betwixt yellow and red;
And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,
With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.
His snout was small, with glowing eyen tway;
Yet of his look almost for fear I dey;
This caused me my groaning, doubtëless.”
“Away,” quoth she, “fy on you, heartëless!
Alas!” quoth she, “for, by that God above!
Now have ye lost my 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 mightë be,
To have husbandës hardy, wise, and free,
And secret, and no niggard nor no fool,
Nor him that is aghast of every tool,
Nor no avantour, by that God above!
How durstë ye for shame say to your love
That anything might makë you afear’d?
Have ye no mannë’s heart, and have a beard?
Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenës?
Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is,
Swevens engender of repletións,
And oft of fume, and of complexións,
When humours be too abundant in a wight.
Certes this dream, which ye have mette tonight,
Cometh of the great supefluity
Of yourë redë cholera, pardie,
Which causeth folk to dreaden in their dreams
Of arrows, and of fire with redë beams,
Of redë beastës, that they will them bite,
Of conteke, and of whelpës great and lite;
Right as the humour of meláncholy
Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry,
For fear of bullës, or of bearës blake,
Or ellës that black devils will them take,
Of other humours could I tell also,
That workë many a man in sleep much woe;
That I will pass as lightly as I can.
Lo, Cato, which that was so wise a man,
Said he not thus, ‘Ne do no force of dreams,’
Now, Sir,” quoth she, “when we fly from these beams,
For Goddë’s love, as take some laxatife;
On peril of my soul, and of my life,
I counsel you the best, I will not lie,
That both of choler, and meláncholy,
Ye purgë you; and, for ye shall not tarry,
Though in this town is no apothecáry,
I shall myself two herbës teachë you,
That shall be for your health, and for your prow;
And in our yard the herbës shall I find,
The which have of their property by kind
To purgë you beneath, and eke above.
Sirë, forget not this for Goddë’s love;
Ye be full choleric of complexión;
Ware that the sun, in his ascensión,
You findë not replete of humours hot;
And if it do, I dare well lay a groat,
That ye shall have a fever tertiane,
Or else an ague, that may be your bane,
A day or two ye shall have digestives
Of wormës, ere ye take your laxatives,
Of laurel, centaury, and fumeterére,
Or else of elder-berry, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of the gaitre-berries,
Or herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is:
Pick them right as they grow, and eat them in,
Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin;
Dreadë no dream; I can say you no more.”
“Madame,” quoth he, “grand mercy of your lore,
But natheless, as touching Dan Catoún,
That hath of wisdom such a great renown,
Though that he bade no dreamës for to dread,
By God, men may in oldë bookës read
Of many a man more of authority
Than ever Cato was, so may I thé,
That all the reversë say of his senténce,
And have well founden by experience
That dreamës be significatións
As well of joy, as tribulatións
That folk enduren in this life presént.
There needeth make of this no argument;
The very prevë sheweth it indeed.
One of the greatest authors that men read
Saith thus, that whilom two fellówës went
On pilgrimage in a full good intent;
And happen’d so, they came into a town
Where there was such a congregatioún
Of people, and eke so strait of herbergage,
That they found not as much as one cottáge
In which they bothë might y-lodged be:
Wherefore they musten of necessity,
As for that night, departë company;
And each of them went to his hostelry,
And took his lodging as it wouldë fall.
The one of them was lodged in a stall,
Far in a yard, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was lodged 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 mette in his bed, there as he lay,
How that his fellow gan upon him call,
And said, ‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall
This night shall I be murder’d, where I lie.
Now help me, dearë brother, or I die;
In allë hastë come to me,’ he said.
This man out of his sleep for fear abraid;
But when that he was wak’d out of his sleep,
He turned him, and took of this no keep;
He thought his dream was but a vanity.
Thus twiës in his sleeping dreamed he,
And at the thirdë time yet his felláw
Came, as he thought, and said, ‘I am now slaw;
Behold my bloody woundës, deep and wide.
Arise up early, in the morning, tide,
And at the west gate of the town,’ quoth he,
‘A cartë full of dung there shalt: thou see,
In which my body is hid privily.
Do thilkë cart arrostë boldëly.
My gold caused my murder, sooth to sayn.’
And told him every point how he was slain,
With a full piteous face, and pale of hue.
“And, trustë well, his dream he found full true;
For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,
To his fellówë’s inn he took his way;
And when that he came to this ox’s stall,
After his fellow he began to call.
The hostelére answered him anon,
And saidë, ‘Sir, your fellow is y-gone,
As soon as day he went out of the town.’
This man gan fallen in suspicioún,
Rememb’ring on his dreamës that he mette,
And forth he went, no longer would he let,
Unto the west gate of the town, and fand
A dung cart, as it went for to dung land,
That was arrayed in the samë wise
As ye have heard the deadë man devise;
And with an hardy heart he gan to cry,
‘Vengeance and justice of this felony:
My fellow murder’d in this samë night
And in this cart he lies, gaping upright.
I cry out on the ministers,’ quoth he.
‘That shouldë keep and rule this city;
Harow! alas! here lies my fellow slain.’
What should I more unto this talë sayn?
The people out start, and cast the cart to ground
And in the middle of the dung they found
The deadë man, that murder’d was all new.
O blissful God! that art so good and true,
Lo, how that thou bewray’st murder alway.
Murder will out, that see we day by day.
Murder is so wlatsom and abominable
To God, that is so just and reasonable,
That he will not suffer it heled be;
Though it abide a year, or two, or three,
Murder will out, this is my conclusioún,
And right anon, the ministers of the town
Have hent the carter, and so sore him pined,
And eke the hostelére so sore engined,
That they beknew their wickedness anon,
And werë hanged by the neckë bone.
“Here may ye see that dreamës be to dread.
And certes in the samë book I read,
Right in the nextë chapter after this
(I gabbë not, so have I joy and bliss),
Two men that would have passed over sea,
For certain cause, into a far countrý,
If that the wind not haddë been contráry,
That made them in a city for to tarry,
That stood full merry upon an haven side;
But on a day, against the eventide,
The wind gan change, and blew right as them lest.
Jolly and glad they wentë to their rest,
And castë them full early for to sail.
But to the one man fell a great marvail
That one of them, in sleeping as he lay,
He mette a wondrous dream, against the day:
He thought a man stood by his beddë’s side,
And him commanded that he should abide;
And said him thus; ‘If thou to-morrow wend,
Thou shalt be drown’d; my tale is at an end.’
He woke, and told his follow what he mette,
And prayed him his voyage for to let;
As for that day, he pray’d him to abide.
His fellow, that lay by his beddë’s side,
Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast.
‘No dream,’ quoth he, ‘may so my heart aghast,
That I will lettë for to do my things.
I settë not a straw by thy dreamíngs,
For swevens be but vanities and japes.
Men dream all day of owlës and of apes,
And eke of many a mazë therewithal;
Men dream of thing that never was, nor shall.
But since I see, that thou wilt here abide,
And thus forslothë wilfully thy tide,
God wot, it rueth me; and have good day.’
And thus he took his leave, and went his way.
But, ere that he had half his coursë sail’d,
I know not why, nor what mischance it ail’d,
But casually the ship’s bottom rent,
And ship and man under the water went,
In sight of other shippës there beside
That with him sailed at the samë tide.
“And therefore, fairë Partelote so dear,
By such examples oldë may’st thou lear,
That no man shouldë be too reckëless
Of dreamës, for I say thee doubtëless,
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, how Kenelm mette a thing.
A little ere he was murder’d on a day,
His murder in his visión he say.
His norice him expounded every deal
His sweven, and bade him to keep him well
For treason; but he was but seven years old,
And therefore little talë hath he told
Of any dream, so holy was his heart.
By God, I haddë lever than my shirt
That ye had read his legend, as have I.
Dame Partelote, I say you truëly,
Macrobius, that wrote the visión
In Afric’ of the worthy Scipion,
Affirmeth dreamës, and saith that they be
‘Warnings of thingës that men after see.
And furthermore, I pray you lookë well
In the Old Testament, of Daniél,
If he held dreamës any vanity.
Read eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see
Whether dreams be sometimes (I say not all)
Warnings of thingës that shall after fall.
Look of Egypt the king, Dan Pharaóh,
His baker and his buteler also,
Whether they feltë none effect in dreams.
Whoso will seek the acts of sundry remes
May read of dreamës many a wondrous thing.
Lo Croesus, which that was of Lydia king,
Mette he not that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he shouldë hanged be?
Lo here, Andromaché, Hectorë’s wife,
That day that Hector shouldë lose his life,
She dreamed on the samë night beforn,
How that the life of Hector should be lorn,
If thilkë day he went into battaile;
She warned him, but it might not avail;
He wentë forth to fightë natheless,
And was y-slain anon of Achillés.
But thilkë tale is all too long to tell;
And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwell.
Shortly I say, as for conclusión,
That I shall have of this avisión
Adversity; and I say furthermore,
That I ne tell of laxatives no store,
For they be venomous, I wot it well;
I them defy, I love them never a del.
“But let us speak of mirth, and stint all this;
Madamë Partelote, so have I bliss,
Of one thing God hath sent me largë grace;
For when I see the beauty of your face,
Ye be so scarlet-hued about your eyen,
I maketh all my dreadë for to dien,
For, all so sicker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.
(Madam, the sentence of this Latin is,
Woman is mannë’s joy and mannë’s bliss.)
For when I feel at night your softë side—
Albeit that I may not on you ride,
For that our perch is made so narrow, alas!—
I am so full of joy and of solas,
That I defy both sweven and eke dream.”
And with that word he flew down from the beam,
For it was day, and eke his hennës all;
And with a chuck he gan them for to call,
For he had found a corn, lay in the yard.
Royal he was, he was no more afear’d;
He feather’d Partelotë twenty time,
And as oft trode her, ere that it was prime.
He looked as it were a grim lioún,
And on his toes he roamed up and down;
He deigned not to set his feet to ground;
He chucked, when he had a corn y-found,
And to him rannë then his wivës 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 hightë March, when God first maked man,
Was cómplete, and y-passed were also,
Sincë March ended, thirty days and two,
Befell that Chanticleer in all his pride,
His seven wivës walking him beside,
Cast up his eyen to the brightë sun,
That in the sign of Taurus had y-run
Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more;
He knew by kind, and by none other lore,
That it was prime, and crew with blissful steven.
“The sun,” he said, “is clomben up in heaven
Twenty degrees and one, and more y-wis.
Madamë Partelote, my worldë’s bliss,
Hearken these blissful birdës how they sing,
And see the freshë flowers how they spring;
Full is mine heart of revel and solace.”
But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case;
For ever the latter end of joy is woe:
God wot that worldly joy is soon y-go:
And, if a rhetor couldë fair indite,
He in a chronicle might it safely write,
As for a sov’reign notability.
Now every wise man, let him hearken me;
This story is all as true, I undertake,
As is the book of Launcelot du Lake,
That women hold in full great reverence.
Now will I turn again to my senténce.
A col-fox, full of sly iniquity,
That in the grove had wonned yearës three,
By high imaginatión forecast,
The samë night thorough the hedges brast
Into the yard, where Chanticleer the fair
And in a bed of wortës still he lay,
Till it was passed undern of the day,
Waiting his time on Chanticleer to fall:
As gladly do these homicidës all,
That in awaitë lie to murder men.
O falsë murd’rer! Rouking in thy den!
O new Iscariot, new Ganilion!
O false dissimuler, O Greek Sinón,
That broughtest Troy all utterly to sorrow!
O Chanticleer! accursed be the morrow
That thou into thy yard flew from the beams;
Thou wert full well y-warned by thy dreams
That thilkë day was perilous to thee.
But what that God forewot must needës be,
After th’ opinion of certain clerkës.
Witness on him that any perfect clerk is,
That in school is great altercatión
In this matter, and great disputatión,
And hath been of an hundred thousand men.
But I ne cannot boult it to the bren,
As can the holy doctor Augustine,
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardine,
Whether that Goddë’s worthy foreweeting
Straineth me needly for to do a thing
(Needly call I simple necessity),
Or ellës if free choice be granted me
To do that samë thing, or do it not,
Though God forewot it ere that it was wrought;
Or if his weeting straineth never a deal,
But by necessity conditionel.
I will not have to do of such mattére;
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 the morrow
That he had mette the dream, as I you told.
Womanë’s counsels be full often cold;
Womanë’s counsel brought us first to woe,
And made Adám from Paradise to go,
There as he was full merry and well at case.
But, for I n’ot to whom I might displease
If I counsél of women wouldë 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 cockë’s wordës, and not mine;
I can no harm of no woman divine.
Fair in the sand, to bathe her merrily,
Lies Partelote, and all her sisters by,
Against the sun, and Chanticleer so free
Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea;
For Physiologus saith sickerly,
How that they singë well and merrily.
And so befell that, as he cast his eye
Among the wortës, on a butterfly,
He was ware of this fox that lay full low.
Nothing ne list him thennë for to crow,
But cried anon “Cock! cock!” and up he start,
As man that was affrayed in his heart.
For naturally a beast desireth flee
From his contráry, if be may it see,
Though he ne’er erst had soon 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 worse than any fiend,
If I to you would harm or villainy.
I am not come your counsel to espy.
But truëly the cause of my comíng
Was only for to hearken how ye sing;
For truëly ye have as merry a steven,
As any angel hath that is in heaven;
Therewith ye have of music more feelíng,
Than had Boece, or any that can sing.
My lord your father (God his soulë bless)
And eke your mother of her gentleness,
Have in mine housë been, to my great ease:
And certes, Sir, full fain would I you please.
But, for men speak of singing, I will say,
So may I brookë well mine eyen tway,
Save you, I heardë never man so sing
As did your father in the morrowning.
Certes it was of heart all that he sung.
And, for to make his voice the morë strong,
He would so pain him, that with both his eyen
He mustë wink, so loud he wouldë cryen,
And standen on his tiptoes therewithal,
And stretchë forth his neckë long and small.
And eke he was of such discretión,
That there was no man, in no región,
That him in song or wisdom mightë pass.
I have well read in Dan Burnel the Ass,
Among his verse, how that there was a cock
That, for a priestë’s son gave him a knock
Upon his leg, while he was young and nice,
He made him for to lose his benefice.
But certain there is no comparisón
Betwixt the wisdom and discretión
Of yourë father, and his subtilty.
Now singë, Sir, for saintë charity,
Let see, can ye your father counterfeit?”
This Chanticleer his wings began to beat,
As man that could not his treasón espy,
So was he ravish’d with his flattery.
Alas! ye lordës, many a false flattour
Is in your court, and many a losengeour,
That pleasë you well morë, by my faith,
Than he that soothfastness unto you saith.
Read in Ecclesiast of flattery;
Beware, ye lordës, of their treachery.
This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close,
And gan to crowë loudë for the nonce:
And Dan Russel the fox start up at once,
And by the gorgat hentë Chanticleer,
And on his back toward the wood him bare.
For yet was there no man that him pursu’d.
O destiny, that may’st not be eschew’d!
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!
Alas, his wifë raughtë nought of dreams!
And on a Friday fell all this mischance.
O Venus, that art goddess of pleasánce,
Since that thy servant was this Chanticleer
And in thy service did all his powére,
More for delight, than the world to multiply,
Why wilt thou suffer him on thy day to die?
O Gaufrid, dearë master sovereign,
That, when thy worthy king Richárd was slain
With shot, complainedest his death so sore,
Why n’ had I now thy sentence and thy lore,
The Friday for to chiden, as did ye?
(For on a Friday, soothly, slain was he),
Then would I shew you how that I could plain
For Chanticleerë’s dread, and for his pain.
Certes such cry nor lamentatión
Was ne’er of ladies made, when Ilión
Was won, and Pyrrhus with his straightë swerd,
When he had hent king Priam by the beard,
And slain him (as saith us Eneidos),
As maden all the hennës in the close,
When they had seen of Chanticleer the sight.
But sov’reignly Dame Partelotë shright,
Full louder than did Hasdrubalë’s wife,
When that her husband haddë lost his life,
And that the Romans had y-burnt Cartháge;
She was so full of torment and of rage,
That wilfully into the fire she start,
And burnt herselfë with a steadfast heart.
O woeful hennës! right so criëd ye,
As, when that Nero burned the citý
Of Romë, cried the senatorës’ wives,
For that their husbands losten all their lives;
Withoutë guilt this Nero hath them slain.
Now will I turn unto my tale again;
The sely widow, and her daughters two,
Heardë these hennës cry and makë woe,
And at the doors out started they anon,
And saw the fox toward the wood is gone,
And bare upon his back the cock away:
They criëd, “Out! harow! and well-away!
Aha! the fox!” and after him they ran,
And eke with stavës many another man
Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot, and Garlánd;
And Malkin, with her distaff in her hand
Ran cow and calf, and eke the very hoggës,
So fear’d they were for barking of the doggës,
And shouting of the men and women eke.
They rannë so, them thought their hearts would break.
They yelled as the fiendës do in hell;
The duckës criëd as men would them quell;
The geese for fearë flewen o’er the trees,
Out of the hivë came the swarm of bees,
So hideous was the noise, ben’dicite!
Certes he, Jackë Straw, and his meinie,
Ne madë never shoutës half so shrill,
When that they woulden any Fleming kill,
As thilkë day was made upon the fox.
Of brass they broughtë beamës and of box,
Of horn and bone, in which they blew and pooped,
And therewithal they shrieked and they hooped;
It seemed as the heaven shouldë fall.
Now, goodë men, I pray you hearken all;
Lo, how Fortúnë 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 saidë, “Sir, if that I were as ye,
Yet would I say (as wisly God help me),
‘Turn ye again, ye proudë churlës all;
A very pestilence upon you fall.
Now am I come unto the woodë’s side,
Maugré your head, the cock shall here abide;
I will him eat, in faith, and that anon.’ ”
The fox answér’d, “In faith it shall be done:”
And, as he spake the word, all suddenly
The cock brake from his mouth deliverly,
And high upon a tree he flew anon.
And when the fox saw that the cock was gone,
“Alas!” quoth he, “O Chanticleer, alas!
I have,” quoth he, “y-done to you trespass,
Inasmuch as I maked you afear’d,
When I you hent, and brought out of your yard;
But, Sir, I did it in no wick’ 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 us both the two,
And first I shrew myself, both blood and bones,
If thou beguile me oftener than once.
Thou shalt no more through thy flattery
Do me to sing and winkë with mine eye;
For he that winketh when he shouldë see,
All wilfully, God let him never thé.”
“Nay,” quoth the fox; “but God give him mischance
That is so indiscreet of governánce,
That jangleth when that he should hold his peace.”
Lo, what it is for to be reckëless
And negligent, and trust on flattery.
But ye that holdë this tale a follý,
As of a fox, or of a cock or hen,
Take the morality thereof, good men.
For Saint Paul saith, That all that written is,
To our doctríne it written is y-wis.
Take the fruit, and let the chaff be still.
Now goodë God, if that it be thy will,
As saith my Lord, so make us all good men;
And bring us all to thy high bliss. Amen.
“Sir Nunnë’s Priest,” our Hostë said anon,
“Y-blessed be thy breech, and every stone;
This was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
But by my truth, if thou wert seculére,
Thou wouldest be a treadëfowl aright;
For if thou have couráge as thou hast might,
Thee werë need of hennës, as I ween,
Yea more than seven timës seventeen.
See, whatë brawnës hath this gentle priest,
So great a neck, and such a largë breast!
He looketh as a sperhawk with his eyen;
Him needeth not his colour for to dyen
With Brazil, nor with grain of Portugale.
But, Sirë, fairë fall you for your tale.”
And, after that, he with full merry cheer
Said to another, as ye shallë hear.
⋮