The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
The Prologue
“STOP!” SAID THE KNIGHT, “good sir, no more of this:
1 What you have said is right enough, indeed,
And much more than enough, for a little seriousness
Is right enough for many folk, I guess.
I say for me it is a great discomfort,
There where men have been in great wealth and ease,
To hear of their sudden fall, alas!
And the contrary is joy and great solace,
As when a man has been in poverty,
And climbs up, and waxes lucky,
And there abides in prosperity—
Such a thing is gladsome, as it seems to me,
And of such things it is goodly for to tell.”
“Yes,” said our Host, “by Saint Paul’s bell,
You say right truly: this Monk, he chatters loud.
He spoke ‘How Fortune covered with a cloud‘—
I know not what. And also of ‘tragedy’
Right now you heard, and, by God! no remedy
It is for to bewail or complain
That which is done, and besides it is a pain,
As you have said, to hear seriousness.
Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless!
Your tale annoys all this company.
Such talking is not worth a butterfly,
For therein there is no pleasure or game.
Wherefore, sir Monk, or sir Piers by your name,
I pray you heartily tell us something else,
For certainly, were it not for the clinking of your bells
That on your bridle hang on every side,
By Heaven’s king who for us all died,
I should before this have fallen down, asleep,
Even if the mud had been ever so deep.
Then would your tale have been told all in vain;
For certainly, just as these scholars say,
‘There where a man may have no audience,
Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence.’
And wel I woot the substance is in me,
If any thing shal wel reported be.
Sir, sey somwhat of hunting, I yow preye.”
“Nay,” quod this monk, “I have no lust to pleye;
Now let another telle, as I hav told.”
Than spak our host, with rude speche and bold,
And seyde un-to the Nonnes Preest anon,
“Com neer, thou preest, com hider, thou sir John,
Tel us swich thing as may our hertes glade,
Be blythe, though thou ryde up-on a jade.
What though thyn hors be bothe foule and lene,
If he wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene;
Look that thyn herte be mery evermo.”
“Yis, sir,” quod he, “yis, host, so mote I go,
But I be mery, y-wis, I wol be blamed:”—
And right anon his tale he hath attamed,
And thus he seyde un-to us everichon,
This swete preest, this goodly man, sir John.
The Tale
A povre widwe, somdel stape in age,
Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage,
Bisyde a grove, stonding in a dale.
This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale,
Sin thilke day that she was last a wyf,
In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf,
For litel was hir catel and hir rente;
By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente,
She fond hir-self, and eek hir doghtren two.
Three large sowes hadde she, and namo,
Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle,
Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle,
In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel.
Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel.
No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte;
Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote.
Repleccioun ne made hir never syk;
Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk,
Nought helps to tell of his message.’
And well I know I understand the meaning,
If anything well reported be.
Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray.”
“Nay,” said the monk, ”I have no desire to play;
Now let another tell, as I have my tale told.”
Then spoke our Host, with rude speech and bold,
And said unto the Nun’s Priest anon,
”Come nearer, you priest, come hither, you sir John,
Tell us such thing as may our hearts gladden.
Be blithe, though you ride upon a nag!
What though your horse be both foul and lean?
If he will serve you, care not a bean.
Look that your heart be merry evermore.”
“Yes, sir,” said he. ”Yes, Host, as I may thrive,
Unless I be merry, truly, I will be blamed.”
And right anon his tale he began,
And thus he said unto us every one,
This sweet priest, this goodly man sir John.
The Tale
A poor widow, somewhat advanced in years,
Was once dwelling in a small cottage,
Beside a grove, standing in a dale.
This widow of whom I tell you my tale,
Since that same day that she was last a wife,
In patience led a full simple life,
For she had little goods or chattel.
By careful making do with what God her sent
She provided for herself and also her daughters two.
Three large sows had she and no more,
Three cows, and a sheep that was called Malle.
Full sooty was her bedchamber, and dining hall,
In which she ate full many a slender meal.
Of pungent sauce she needed never a portion:
No dainty morsel passed through her throat.
Her diet was frugal as her coat—
Surfeit never made her ill.
A temperate diet was her only pill,
And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.
The goute lette hir no-thing for to daunce,
N‘apoplexye shente nat hir heed;
No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed;
Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak,
Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no lak,
Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye,
For she was as it were a maner deye.
A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute
With stikkes, and a drye dich with oute,
In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer,
In al the land of crowing nas his peer.
His vois was merier than the mery orgon
On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon;
Wel sikerer was his crowing in his logge,
Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge.
By nature knew he ech ascencioun
Of equinoxial in thilke toun;
For whan degrees fiftene were ascended,
Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended.
His comb was redder than the fyn coral,
And batailed, as it were a castel-wal.
His bile was blak, and as the jeet it shoon;
Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;
His nayles whytter than the lilie flour,
And lyk the burned gold was his colour.
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce
Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce,
Whiche were his sustres and his paramours,
And wonder lyk to him, as of colours.
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte
Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote.
Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire,
And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire,
Sin thilke day that she was seven night old,
That trewely she hath the herte in hold
Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith;
He loved hir so, that wel was him therwith.
But such a joye was it to here hem singe,
And exercise, and heart’s content.
No gout kept her from dancing,
Nor did apoplexy injure her head.
No wine drank she, neither white nor red;
Her table was served most with white and black—
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no fault,
Bacon fried, and sometimes an egg or two,
For she was a kind of dairy woman.
A yard she had, fenced all about
With sticks, and a dry ditch without,
In which she had a cock called Chanticleer:
2 In all the land at crowing there was not his peer.
His voice was merrier than the merry organ
On feast days that in the church they play;
More certain was his crowing in his lodge
Than is a clock or the abbey’s
horloge.3 By nature knew he each ascension
Of the equinox in that same town.
For when degrees fifteen were ascended,
Then crowed he, so well it might not be amended.
His comb was redder than the fine coral,
And notched as if it were a castle wall.
His bill was black, and jet black it shone;
Like azure were his legs and his toes;
His nails whiter than the lily flower,
And like burnished gold was his color.
This gentle cock had in his governance
Seven hens, for to do all his pleasure,
Which were his sisters and his paramours,
And wonderfully like to him, in color,
Of which the fairest-colored on her throat
Was called
Mademoiselle Pertelote.
Courteous she was, discreet and gracious,
And sociable, and bore herself so fair,
Since that day she was seven nights old,
That truly she had the heart in hold
Of Chanticleer, locked in every limb;
He loved her so, that therewith well was him.
But such a joy was it to hear them sing,
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe,
In swete accord, “my lief is faren in londe.”
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde,
Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe.
And so bifel, that in a daweninge,
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,
And next him sat this faire Pertelote,
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte,
As man that in his dreem is drecched sore.
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,
She was agast, and seyde, “O herte dere,
What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere?
Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!”
And he answerde and seyde thus, “madame,
I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief
By god, me mette I was in swich meschief
Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright.
Now god,” quod he, “my swevene recche
aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoun!
Me mette, how that I romed up and doun
Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste,
Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste
Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.
His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres,
With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres;
His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye.
Yet of his look for fere almost I deye;
This caused me my groning, doutelees.”
“Avoy!” quod she, “fy on yow, hertelees!
Allas!” quod she, “for, by that god above,
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love;
I can nat love a coward, by my feith.
For certes, what so any womman seith,
We alle desyren, if it mighte be,
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,
And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool,
When that the bright sun began to rise,
In sweet harmony, ”my love has gone far away.“
4 For in those days, as I have understood,
Beasts and birds could speak and sing.
And so it happened, one morning at dawning,
As Chanticleer among his wives all
Sat on his perch that was in the hall,
And next to him sat this fair Pertelote,
This Chanticleer began groaning in his throat
As a man who in his dream is troubled sore.
And when that Pertelote thus heard him roar,
She was afraid, and said, “Heart dear,
What ails you to groan in this manner?
You’re a fine sleeper, fie for shame!”
And he answered and said thus, “Madame,
I pray you, that you take it not amiss:
By God, I dreamed I was in such trouble
Right now, that yet my heart is sore afright.
Now God,” said he, “my dream help me understand
aright,
And keep my body out of foul prison!
I dreamed that I roamed up and down
Within our yard, where I saw a beast,
That was like a hound and would have laid hold
Upon my body, and would have had me dead.
His color was between yellow and red,
And tipped was his tail and both his ears
With black, unlike the rest of his hairs;
His snout small, with glowing eyes two.
Still of his look for fear I almost die:
This caused me my groaning, doubtless.”
“Go on!” said she, “fie on you, gutless!
Alas!” said she, “for, by that God above,
Now have you lost my heart and my love.
I cannot love a coward, by my faith!
For certainly, what so any woman says,
We all desire, if it might be,
To have husbands bold, wise and generous,
And discreet, and no niggard, nor a fool,
Ne him that is agast of every tool,
Ne noon avauntour, by that god above!
How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your love,
That any thing mighte make yow aferd?
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?
Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis?
No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven is.
Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,
And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns,
Whan humours been to habundant in a wight.
Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night,
Cometh of the grete superfluitee
Of youre rede colera, pardee,
Which causeth folk to dreden in here dremes
Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes,
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte,
Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte;
Right as the humour of malencolye
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,
For fere of blake beres, or boles blake,
Or elles, blake develes wole hem take.
Of othere humours coude I telle also,
That werken many a man in sleep ful wo;
But I wol passe as lightly as I can.
Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man,
Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes?
Now, sire,” quod she, ”whan we flee fro the bemes,
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;
Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye,
That bothe of colere and of malencolye
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie,
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow,
That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow;
And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde,
The wiche han of hir propretee, by kinde,
To purgen yow binethe, and eek above.
Forget not this, for goddes owene love!
Nor him who is afraid of every weapon,
Nor a braggart. By that God above,
How dare you say for shame unto your love
That anything might make you afraid?
Have you no man’s heart, and have a beard?
Alas! and can you be afraid of dreams?
Nothing, God knows, but foolishness in dreaming is.
Dreams are born of surfeits,
And often of vapors, and of complexion,
When humors be too abundant in a person.
Certainly this dream, which you have had tonight,
Comes of the great superfluity
Of your red humor, by God,
Which causes folk to fear in their dreams
Arrows, and fire with red flames,
Red beasts, that will them bite,
Of conflict, and of dogs great and little;
Right as the humor of melancholy
Causes full many a man in sleep to cry
For fear of black bears, or bulls black,
Or else that black devils will him take.
Of other humors could I tell also
That work many a man in sleep great woe;
But I will pass as lightly as I can.
Look at Cato,
5 who was so wise a man,
Said he not thus,‘Give dreams no attention’?
Now sir,” said she, ”when we fly from the beams,
For God’s love, take some laxative.
On peril of my soul and of my life
I counsel you the best, I will not lie,
That both of choler and of melancholy
You purge yourself; and so that you shall not tarry,
Though in this town is no apothecary,
I shall myself to herbs direct you,
That shall be for your health and for your good;
And in our yard those herbs shall I find
Which have of their property by nature
To purge you beneath and also above.
Forget not this, for God’s own love!
Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun.
Ware the sonne in his ascencioun
Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote;
And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote,
That ye shul have a fevere terciane,
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.
A day or two ye shul have digestyves
Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves,
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere,
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,
Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is;
Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in.
Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin!
Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.”
“Madame,” quod he, “graunt mercy of your lore.
But nathelees, as touching daun Catoun,
That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun,
Though that he had no dremes for to drede,
By god, men may in olde bokes rede
Of many a man, more of auctoritee
Than ever Catoun was, so mote I thee,
That al the revers seyn of his sentence,
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significaciouns,
As wel of joye as tribulaciouns
That folk enduren in this lyf present.
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument;
The verray preve sheweth it in dede.
Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede
Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente
On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente;
And happed so, thay come into a toun,
Wher-as ther was swich congregacioun
Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage
That they ne founde as muche as o cotage
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be.
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee,
As for that night, departen compaignye;
You are choleric in your temperament.
Beware the sun in his ascension.
Nor fill yourself with humors hot;
And if you do, I will bet a lot,
That a fever will to you every third day return,
Or an ague, that may be your end.
A day or two you shall have digestives
Of worms, before you take your laxatives,
Of spurge-laurel, centaury, and fumitory,
Or else of hellebore that grows there,
Of caper-spurge, or of dogwood’s berries,
Of herb ivy, growing in our yard, where it is pleasant.
Peck them right up as they grow, and eat them in.
Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin!
Dread no dream: I can say you no more.”
“Madame,” said he,
“merci beaucoup6 for your lore.
But nevertheless, as touching sir Cato,
Who has of wisdom such a great renown,
Though he bade us no dreams to dread,
By God, men may in old books read
Of many a man, more of authority
Than ever Cato was, as I may prosper,
That all the opposite of his opinion were,
And well founded by experience,
That dreams are signs
As much of joy as tribulations
That folk endure in this life present.
There need be made of this no argument:
The true proof is in the deed.
One of the greatest authors
7 who men read
Says thus, that once two companions went
On pilgrimage, in a full good intent;
And it happened so that they came into a town
Where there was such crowd
Of people, and such a dearth of lodging,
That they found not so much as a cottage
In which they both might sheltered be.
Wherefore they had to of necessity,
For that night, part company;
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,
And took his logging as it wolde falle.
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was logged wel y-nough,
As was his aventure, or his fortune,
That us governeth alle as in commune.
And so bifel, that, longe er it were day,
This man mette in his bed, ther-as he lay,
How that his felawe gan up-on him calle,
And seyde, ‘allas! for in an oxes stalle
This night I shal be mordred ther I lye.
Now help me, dere brother, ere I dye;
In alle haste com to me,‘he sayde.
This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde;
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep,
He turned him, and took of this no keep;
Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee.
Thus twyës in his sleping dremed he.
And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe
Cam, as him thoughte, and seide,‘I am now slawe;
Bihold my blody woundes, depe and wyde!
Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde,
And at the west gate of the toun,’ quod he,
‘A carte ful of dong ther shaltow see,
In which my body is hid ful prively;
Do thilke carte aresten boldely.
My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn;’
And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn,
With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.
And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,
To his felawes in he took the way;
And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle,
After his felawe he bigan to calle.
The hostiler answered him anon,
And seyde,‘sire, your felawe is agon,
As sone as day he wente out of the toun:
This man gan fallen in suspecioun,
And each of them went to his hostelry,
And took his lodging as his lot fell.
And one of them was lodged in a stall,
Far off in a yard, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was lodged well enough,
As was his chance or his fortune,
That governs us all in common.
And so it befell that, long before it was day,
This man dreamed in his bed, there as he lay,
How that first fellow began to him call,
And said,‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall
This night I shall be murdered where I lie.
Now help me, dear brother, or I die;
In all haste come back to me,’ he said.
This man out of his fear upstarted,
But when that he was wakened from his sleep,
He turned over, and took of this no heed:
He thought his dream was but in vain.
Thus twice in his sleep dreamed he;
And at the third time yet his friend
Came, as he thought, and said, ‘I am now slain.
Behold my bloody wounds, deep and wide!
Arise up early in the morningtide,
And at the west gate of the town,’ said he,
‘A cartful of dung there shall you see,
In which my body is hid full secretly:
Have this cart stopped boldly.
My gold caused my murder, truth to tell;’
And told him every point how he was slain,
With a full piteous face, pale of hue.
And trust well, his dream he found full true,
For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,
To his fellow’s inn he took his way;
And when that he came to this ox’s stall,
After his fellow he began to call.
The innkeeper answered him anon,
And said, ‘Sir, your fellow is a-gone:
As soon as day he went out of the town.’
This man became suspicious,
Remembring on his dremes that he mette,
And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette,
Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond
A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond,
That was arrayed in the same wyse
As ye han herd the dede man devyse;
And with an hardy herte he gan to crye
Vengeaunce and justice of this felonye:—
‘My felawe mordred is this same night,
And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.
I crye out on the ministres,’ quod he,
‘That sholden kepe and reulen this citee;
Harrow! alias! her lyth my felawe slayn!’
What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn?
The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde,
And in the middel of the dong they founde
The dede man, that mordred was al newe.
O blisful god, that art so just and trewe!
Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway!
Mordre wol out, that see we day by day.
Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable
To god, that is so just and resonable,
That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be;
Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three,
Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun.
And right anoon, ministres of that toun
Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned,
And eek the hostiler so sore engyned,
That they biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon,
And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon.
Here may men seen that dremes been to drede
And certes, in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbe nat, so have I joye or blis,)
Two men that wolde han passed over see,
For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree,
If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie,
That made hem in a citee for to tarie,
That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde.
Remembering in his dreams whom he saw,
And forth he went, no longer would he delay,
Unto the west gate of the town, and found
A dung-cart, heading out as if to fertilize,
That was arranged in the same way
As you have heard the dead man describe.
And with a bold heart he began to cry,
‘Vengeance and justice of this felony!
My fellow murdered is this same night,
And in this cart he lies, eyes with no sight.
I cry out to the officers,’ said he,
‘Who should care for and rule this city,
Help! Alas! here lies my fellow slain!’
What should I more unto this tale say?
The people came out, and cast the cart to ground,
And in the middle of the dung they found
The dead man, murdered newly.
Oh blissful God, who is so just and true!
Behold, how you reveal murder always!
Murder will out, that see we day by day.
Murder is so loathsome, and abominable
To God, who is so just and reasonable,
That he would not suffer it to be concealed.
Though it remains hidden a year, or two, or three,
Murder will out, this is my conclusion.
And right away, ministers of that town
Seized the carter and so sore him tortured,
And also the innkeeper so sore racked,
That they owned up to their wickedness soon,
And were hanged by the neck-bone.
Here may men see that dreams are to be feared.
And certainly, in the same book I read,
Right in the next chapter after this—
I lie not, so may I have joy or bliss—
Two men who wished to travel over sea,
For a certain purpose, to a far country,
If the wind had not been contrary:
That made them in a city for to tarry
That stood full merry upon a harbor side.
But on a day, agayn the even-tyde,
The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as hem leste.
Jolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste,
And casten hem ful erly for to saille;
But to that oo man fil a greet mervaille.
That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay,
Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day;
Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde,
And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde,
And seyde him thus, ‘if thou to-morwe wende,
Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.’
He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,
And preyde him his viage for to lette;
As for that day, he preyde him to abyde.
His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde,
Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste.
‘No dreem,’ quod he, ‘may so myn herte agaste,
That I wol lette for to do my thinges.
I sette not a straw by thy dreminges,
For swevenes been but vanitees and japes.
Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes,
And eke of many a mase therwithal;
Men dreme of thing that never was ne shal.
But sith I see that thou wolt heer abyde,
And thus for-sleuthen wilfully thy tyde,
God wot it reweth me; and have good day.’
And thus he took his leve, and wente his way.
But er that he hadde halfe his cours y-seyled,
Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled,
But casuelly the shippes botme rente,
And ship and man under the water wente
In sighte of othere shippes it byside,
That with hem seyled at the same tyde.
And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere,
By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere,
That no man sholde been to recchelees
Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees,
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede,
But on a day, toward eveningtide,
The wind began to shift, and blew as they wished.
Jolly and glad they went unto their rest,
And they planned full early to sail;
But harken! To one man befell a great marvel.
That one of them, in sleeping as he lay,
He dreamed a wonderful dream, toward the day:
He dreamed a man stood by his bedside,
And him commanded that he should abide,
And said to him thus, ‘If you tomorrow wend,
You will be drowned: my tale is at an end.’
He woke, and told his fellow what he dreamed,
And prayed him his voyage to delay;
Just for that day, he prayed him to stay.
His fellow, who lay in the next bed,
Began to laugh, and him scorned.
‘No dream,’ said he, ‘may so my heart scare
That I will fail to keep my plans.
I set not a straw by dreams,
For dreams be but illusions and japes.
8 Men dream all day of owls or apes,
And also of many other things weird;
Men dream of things that never shall be or were.
But since I see that you will here abide,
And thus so slothily waste your time,
God knows I’m sorry, and good day’
And thus he took his leave, and went his way.
But before he had half his course sailed,
Know not I why, nor what mischance it ailed,
But by chance the ship’s bottom was open rent,
And ship and man under water went
In sight of other ships nearby,
That with them sailed on the same tide.
And therefore, fair Pertelote so dear,
By such old examples may you learn
That no man should be too heedless
Of dreams, for I say to you doubtless,
That many a dream is greatly to be feared.
Look, in the life of Saint Kenelm
9 I read,
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing;
A lyte er he was mordred, on a day,
His mordre in his avisioun he say.
His norice him expouned every del
His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him wel
For traisoun; but he nas but seven yeer old,
And therfore litel tale hath he told
Of any dreem, so holy was his herte.
By god, I hadde lever than my sherte
That ye had rad his legende, as have I.
Dam Pertelote, I sey yow trewely,
Macrobeus, that writ th‘avisioun
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun,
Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been
Warning of thinges that men after seen.
And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel
In th‘olde testament, of Daniel,
If he held dremes any vanitee.
Reed eek of Joseph, and ther shul ye see
Wher dremes ben somtyme (I sey nat alle)
Warning of thinges that shul after falle.
Loke of Egipt the king, daun Pharao,
His bakere and his boteler also,
Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes.
Who-so wol seken actes of sondry remes,
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.
Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king,
Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he sholde anhanged be?
Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf,
That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf,
She dremed on the same night biforn,
How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn,
If thilke day he wente in-to bataille;
She warned him, but it mighte nat availle;
He wente for to fighte nathelees,
But he was slayn anoon of Achilles.
But thilke tale is al to long to telle,
Who was King Cenwulf ’s son, the noble king
Of Mercia, how Kenelm dreamed a thing
A little before he was murdered on a day
His murder in his vision he saw.
His nurse expounded every part
Of his dream, and bade him to guard himself
Against treason; but he was only seven years old,
And therefore little did he take note
Of any dream, so holy was his heart.
By God, I’d give you my shirt
If you had read his legend as I did.
Dame Pertelote, I say to you truly,
Macrobius,
10 who wrote the treatise
In Africa of the worthy Scipio,
Affirms dreams, and says that they be
Warnings of things that men afterward see.
And furthermore, I pray you look well
In the Old Testament, of Daniel,
If he held dreams but vanity.
Read also of Joseph,
11 and there you shall see
Where dreams be sometime (I say not all)
Warnings of things that shall after befall.
Look at the Egyptian king, sir Pharaoh,
His baker and his butler also,
See whether they believed in dreams or no.
Whoso would seek histories of sundry realms
May read of dreams many a wondrous thing.
Look at Croesus, who was of Lydia king,
Did he not dream that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified that he should hanged be?
Look here at Andromacha, Hector’s wife,
That day that Hector would lose his life,
She dreamed on the same night before,
How the life of Hector should be lost
If that day he went into battle;
She warned him, but to no avail;
He went to fight nevertheless,
But he was slain anon by Achilles.
But this tale is all too long to tell,
And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle.
Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun,
That I shal han of this avisioun
Adversitee; and I seye forther-more,
That I ne telle of laxatyves no store,
For they ben venimous, I woot it wel;
I hem defye, I love hem never a del.
Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this;
Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,
Of o thing god hath sent me large grace;
For whan I see the beautee of your face,
Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yen,
It maketh al my drede for to dyen;
For, also siker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio;
Madame, the sentence of this Latin is—
Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.
For whan I fele a-night your softe syde,
Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde,
For that our perche is maad, so narwe, alas!
I am so ful of joye and of solas
That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.”
And with that word he fley doun fro the beem,
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.
Whan that the month in which the world bigan,
That highte March, whan god first maked man,
And also it is near daybreak, I may not dwell.
Briefly I say, in conclusion,
That I shall have from this vision
Adversity; and I say furthermore,
That I set in laxatives no store,
For they be poisonous, I know it well;
I them defy, I love them not at all.
Now let us speak of mirth and stop all this;
Madame Pertelote, so I have bliss,
Of one thing God has sent me bounteous grace:
For when I see the beauty of your face—
You be so scarlet red about your eyes—
It makes me fear the more to die.
—Just as surely as in
principio, Mulier est hominis confusio.12 Madame, the meaning of this Latin is
‘Woman is man’s joy and all his bliss.’
For when I feel at night your soft side,
Albeit that I may not on you ride,
Because our perch is made so narrow, alas!
I am so full of joy and comfort
That I defy both dream and vision.”
And with that word he flew down from the beam,
For it was day, and so did his hens all,
And with a cluck he began them to call,
For he had found grain spread in the yard.
Regal he was, he was no more afraid;
He covered Pertelote with his wings twenty times,
And trod her just as often, before the bell rang prime.
He looked as if he were a proud lion,
And on his toes he roamed up and down—
He deigned not to set his foot to ground.
He clucked when he had a bit of grain found,
And to him ran then his wives all.
Thus royal, as a prince in his hall,
Leave I this Chanticleer at his dinner
And after will I tell of his adventure.
When the month in which the world began,
That is called March, when God first made man,
Was complet, and passed were also,
Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two,
Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde,
His seven wyves walking by his syde,
Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne,
That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-roone
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more;
And knew by kynde, and by noon other lore,
That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene.
“The sonne,” he sayde, “is clomben up on hevene
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 joye is wo.
God woot that worldly joye is sone ago;
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 thurgh-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 homicydes alle,
That in awayt liggen to mordre men.
O false mordrer, lurking in thy den!
O newe Scariot, newe Genilon!
Was complete, and passed were,
Since March began, thirty days and two,
It came to pass that Chanticleer, in all his pride,
His seven wives walking by his side,
Cast up his eyes to the bright sun,
That in the sign of Taurus had then run
Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more;
And knew by nature, and no other lore,
That it was prime, and crowed with blissful voice.
“The sun,” he said, “has climbed up in heaven
Forty degrees and one, and more, I know.
Madame Pertelote, my world’s bliss,
Listen to these blissful birds, how they sing,
And see the fresh flowers, how they spring;
Full is my heart of joy and comfort.”
But suddenly befell him a sorrowful event,
For ever the latter end of joy is woe.
God knows that worldly joy is soon gone;
And if a rhetorician could it well indite,
He in a chronicle safely might write
That as a sovereign actuality.
Now every wise man, let him hear me:
This story is just as true, I declare,
As is the book of Lancelot de Lake,
13 That women hold in full great reverence.
Now will I turn again to my main point.
A black-marked fox, full of sly iniquity,
That in the grove had dwelt years three,
And as foreseen in Chanticleer’s dream,
The same night through the hedges burst
Into the yard, where Chanticleer the fair
Was wont, and his wives, to rest;
And in a bed of herbs still he lay,
Till past midmorning of the day
Watching for his time on Chanticleer to fall,
As usually do these murderers all,
Who lie await to murder men.
Oh false murderer, lurking in your den!
Oh new Iscariot, new Ganelon!
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,
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 sorwe,
To walken in the yerd upon that morwe
That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde.
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.—
False dissembler, Oh Greek Sinon,
14 Who brought Troy quite utterly to sorrow!
Oh Chanticleer, cursed be that morrow,
That you into that yard flew from the beams!
You were full well warned by your dreams
That that day was perilous to you.
But that which God foreknows must occur,
After the opinion of certain scholars.
Let him be witness, who any perfect scholar is,
That in the schools is great altercation
In this matter, and great disputation,
Carried on by a hundred thousand men.
But I cannot get into the points fine,
As can the holy doctor Augustine,
Or Boethius, or the bishop Bradwardine,
15 Whether that God’s excellent foreknowledge
Constrains me necessarily to do a thing
(“Necessarily” call I simple necessity);
Or else, if free choice be granted me
To do that same thing or do it not,
Though God foreknew it before I was wrought;
Or if his knowing constrains not at all
But by
necessity conditional. I will not have to do with such matters;
My tale is of a cock, as you may hear,
That took advice from his wife, with sorrow,
To walk in the yard upon that morning
That he had dreamt that dream that I told you.
Woman’s counsel can be full often fatal;
Woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,
And made Adam from Paradise to go,
There where he was full merry and well at ease.
But since I know not whom it might displease,
If women’s counsel I were to blame,
Pass over, for I said it in my game.
Read authorities, where they treat in such matters,
And what they say of women you may hear.
These be the cock’s words, and not mine;
I can find no harm in any woman.
Faire in the sond, to bathe hir merily,
Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by,
Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free
Song merier than the mermayde in the see;
For Phisiologus seith sikerly,
How that they singen wel and merily
And so bifel that, as he caste his ye,
Among the wortes, on a boterflye,
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.
No-thing ne liste 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 desyreth flee
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see,
Though he never erst had seyn it with his yë.
This Chauntecleer, when he gan him espye,
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon
Seyde, “Gentil sire, alias! wher wol ye gon?
Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend?
Now certes, I were worse than a feend,
If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye.
I am nat come your counseil for t‘espye;
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 Boëce, or any that can singe.
My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!)
And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse,
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
Fair in the sand, to bathe herself merrily,
Lay Pertelote, and all her sisters by,
In the sun, and Chanticleer so free
Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea—
For Physiologus
16 says truly
That they sing well and merrily—
And so it befell that, as he cast his eye
Among the herbs, on a butterfly,
He became aware of this fox that lay full low.
Not at all then did he wish to crow.
But cried anon, “Cock, cock!” and up he leapt
Like someone who was frightened in his heart.
For naturally a beast desires to flee
From his opposite, if he may it see,
Though he never before had seen it with his eye.
This Chanticleer, when he caught him in his sight,
He would have fled, but that the fox anon
Said, “Gentle sir, alas! where will you go?
Be you afraid of me who is your friend?
Now certainly, I’d be worse than a fiend,
If I to you wished harm or wrong.
I’ve not come to spy on your privacy,
But truly, the cause of my coming
Was only to listen to how you sing.
For truly you have as nice a voice
As any angel in heaven;
Therewith you have in music more feeling
Than had Boethius,
17 or any who can sing.
My lord your father (God his soul bless!)
And also your mother, because of her gentleness,
Have in my house been, to my great satisfaction;
And certainly, sir, most willingly would I you please.
But since men speak of singing, I will say,
So may I profit by my eyes two,
Except you, I never heard man so sing
As did your father in the morning.
Truly, it was from the heart, all that he sung.
And for to make his voice the more strong,
He would take such pains that both his eyes
He most winke, so loude he wolde cryen,
And stonden on his tiptoon ther-with-al,
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 ravissed 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!
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!
Alias, 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,
He had to shut, so loud he would cry,
And stand on his tiptoes at the same time,
And stretch forth his neck long and thin.
And also he was of such wisdom
That there was no man in any region
Who him in song or wisdom might pass.
I have well read in ‘Sir Burnel the Ass,’
18 Among that book’s verses, how there was a cock,
Who because a priest’s son gave him a knock
Upon his leg, while he was young and foolish,
He made him lose his benefice.
But certainly, there is no comparison
Between the wisdom and discretion
Of your father, and that other rooster.
Now sing, sir, for holy charity!
Let’s see, can you your father imitate?”
This Chanticleer his wings began to beat,
As one who could not see the fox’s treason,
So ravished was he by his flattery.
Alas! you lords, many a false flatterer
Is in your courts, and many a deceiving liar,
Who please you well more, by my faith,
Than he who truthfulness unto you speaks.
Read Ecclesiastes on flattery;
19 Beware, you lords, of their treachery.
This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
Stretching his neck, and held his eyes closed,
And began to crow loud for the moment;
And Sir Russell the fox started up at once
And by the throat seized Chanticleer,
And on his back carried toward the wood,
With no one yet in pursuit.
Oh destiny, that may not be eschewed!
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!
Alas, his wife took no heed of dreams!
And on a Friday befell all this mischance.
Oh Venus, who is goddess of pleasure,
Since that your servant was this Chanticleer,
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 lamentacioun
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 Cartage;
She was so ful of torment and of rage,
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,
And out at dores sterten they anoon,
And seyen 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;
And in your service did all he could,
More for delight than world to multiply,
Why would you suffer him on your day to die?
20 Oh Geoffrey, dear sovereign master,
21 Who when your worthy King Richard was slain by
An arrow, you lamented his death so sorely,
Why do I not have your wisdom and your lore,
To chide Friday, as you did?
(For on Friday truly slain was he.)
Then would I show you that I could lament
For Chanticleer’s fear, and for his pain.
Truly, no such cry or lamentation
Was ever by ladies made when Troy
Was won, and Pyrrhus with his straight sword,
When he had seized king Priam
22 by the beard,
And slain him (as tells us the Aeneid),
As made all the hens in the yard,
When they had seen what happened to Chanticleer.
But above all dame Pertelote shrieked
Full louder than did Hasdrubal’s wife,
23 When her husband had lost his life,
And the Romans had burned Carthage:
She was so full of torment and rage
That willfully into the fire she leapt,
And burned herself to death, with a steadfast heart.
Oh woeful hens, you cried
As did the Roman senators’ wives
When Nero burned the city down
And their husbands lost their lives
When, though guiltless, Nero slew them.
Now will I turn to my tale again.
This good widow and her daughters two
Heard these hens crying and making woe,
And out of the door they leapt anon,
And saw the fox toward the grove going,
And carrying upon his back the cock away;
And cried, “Out! Help! and wellaway!
Ha, ha, the fox!” and after him they ran
And also with sticks many another man;
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland,
And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges
So were they fered for berking of the dogges
And shouting of the men and wimmen eke,
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte breke.
They yelleden as feendes doon in helle;
The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle;
The gees for fere flowen over the trees;
Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees;
So hidous was the noyse, a!
benedicite! Certes, he Jakke Straw, and his meynee,
Ne made never shoutes half so shrille,
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille,
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras thay broghten bemes, and of box,
Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and pouped,
And therwithal thay shryked and they houped;
It semed as that heven sholde falle.
Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth alle!
Lo, how fortune turneth sodeinly
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy!
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak,
In al his drede, un-to the fox he spak,
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,
And heighe up-on a tree he fleigh anon.
And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon,
“Allas!” quod he, “O Chauntecleer, alias!
I have to yow,” quod he, “y-doon trespas,
Ran Colle the dog, and Talbot, and Gerland,
24 And Malkin, with a distaff in her hand;
Ran cow and calf, and also the very hogs,
So frightened by the barking of the dogs
And shouting of the men and women too,
They ran so they thought their hearts would burst.
They yelled as fiends do in hell;
The ducks quacked as if men would them kill;
The geese for fear flew over the trees;
Out of the hive came the swarm of bees;
So hideous was the noise, a!
benedicite! Certainly, Jack Straw and his company
25 Never made shouts half so shrill
When they would any Fleming
26 kill,
As that day was made upon the fox.
Of brass they brought trumpets, and of boxwood,
Of horn, of bone, in which they blew and puffed,
And therewith they shrieked and they whooped:
It seemed as if heaven should fall.
Now, good men, I pray you listen all!
Look, how Fortune overturns suddenly
The hope and pride of her enemy!
This cock, that lay upon the fox’s back,
In all his fear unto the fox he spoke,
And said, “Sir, if I were you,
Yet should I say, may God help me,
‘Turn again, you proud churls all!
A very pestilence upon you fall!
Now I am coming into this woodside,
Despite your effort, this cock shall here abide;
I will eat him in faith, and that anon.’ ”
The fox answered, “In faith, it shall be done,”
And as he spoke that word, all suddenly
This cock broke from his mouth quite nimbly,
And high upon a tree he flew anon.
And when the fox saw that the cock was gone,
“Alas!” said he, “O Chanticleer, alas!
I have to you,” said he, “done trespass,
In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd,
Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the yerd;
But, sire, I dide it in no wikke entente;
Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente.
I shal seye sooth to yow, god help me so.”
“Nay than,” quod he, “I shrewe us bothe two,
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 ye.
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 jangleth 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 men;
And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen.
The Epilogue
“Sir Nonnes Preest;” our hoste seyde anoon,
”Y-blessed be thy breche, and every stoon!
This was a mery tale of Chauntecleer.
But, by my trouthe, if thou were seculer,
Thou woldest been a trede-foul a-right.
For, if thou have corage as thou hast might,
Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,
Ya, mo than seven tymes seventene.
See, whiche braunes hath this gentil Preest,
So greet a nekke, and swich a large breest!
Inasmuch as I made you afraid
When I you seized and brought out of the yard.
But sir, I did it with no wicked intent;
Come down, and I shall tell you what I meant.
I tell you the truth, God help me so.”
“No, then,” said he, ”I curse us both two,
And first I curse myself, both blood and bones,
If you deceive me more than once.
You shall no more, through your flattery,
Cause me to sing and close my eyes.
For he who blinks when he should look,
All willfully, may God not give him luck!” “No,” said the fox, ”but God give him mischance,
Who is so indiscreet of self-governance
That chatters when he should hold his tongue.”
Look, this is the way it is to be reckless
And negligent, and trust in flattery.
But you that hold this tale a trifle,
As of a fox, or of a cock and hen,
Take the moral of it, good men.
For Saint Paul says all that is written,
27 Was written for our benefit.
Take the fruit, and let the husks be still.
Now, good God, if that it be your will,
As says my bishop, so make us all good men,
And bring us to his high bliss. Amen.
The Epilogue
“Sir Nun’s Priest;” our Host said at once,
”Blessed be your loins and your balls!
This was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
But by my troth, if you were secular,
You would have been some rooster.
For if you have spirit as you have strength,
You would need of hens, I would guess,
Yea, more than seventeen times seven.
See, what muscles has this gentle priest,
So great a neck, and such a large breast!
He loketh as a sperhauk with his yen;
Him nedeth nat his colour for to dyen
With brasil, ne with greyn of Portingale.
Now sire, faire falle yow for youre tale!”
He looks as does a sparrowhawk with his eyes;
He need not his complexion to dye
With red powder, nor with red dye from Portugal.
Now sir, may good befall you for your tale!”