THE NONNES PREESTES PROLOGUE.

Ho! quod the knight, good sire, no more of this:
That ye han said, it right ynough ywis,
And mochel more; for litel hevinesse

Is right ynough to mochel folk, I gesse.
say for me, it is a gret disese,

I

Wher as men have ben in gret welth and ese,
To heren of hir soden fall, alas !
And the contrary is joye and gret solas,
As whan a man hath ben in poure estat,
And climbeth up, and wexeth fortunat,
And ther abideth in prosperitee:
Swiche thing is gladsom, as it thinketh me,
And of swiche thing were goodly for to telle.

Ye, quod our hoste, by Seint Poules belle,
Ye say right soth; this monk hath clapped loude:
He spake, how fortune covered with a cloude
I wote not what, and als of a tragedie
Right now ye herd and parde no remedie
It is for to bewailen, ne complaine
That that is don, and als it is a paine,
As ye han said, to here of hevinesse.

Sire monk, no more of this, so God you blesse ;
Your tale anoyeth all this compagnie ;
Swiche talking is not worth a boterflie,
For therin is ther no disport ne game:
Therfore, sire monk, dan Piers by your name,
I pray you hertely, tell us somwhat elles,
For sikerly, n'ere clinking of your belles,
That on your bridel hange on every side,
By heven king, that for us alle dide,

I shuld er this have fallen doun for slepe,
Although the slough had ben never so depe:
Than hadde your tale all ben tolde in vain.
For certainly, as that thise clerkes sain,
Wher as a man may have non audience,
Nought helpeth it to tellen his sentence.
And wel I wote the substance is in me,
If any thing shal wel reported be
Sire, say somwhat of hunting, I you pray.

Nay, quod this Monk, I have no lust to play: Now let another telle as I have told.

Than spake our hoste with rude speche and bold,
And sayd unto the Nonnes Preest anon,
Come nere, thou preest, come hither, thou Sire
John,

Telle us swiche thing, as may our hertes glade.
Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.
What though thyn horse be bothe foule and lene,
If he wol serve thee, recke thee not a bene:
Loke that thyn herte be mery evermo.

Yes, hoste, quod he, so mote I ride or go,
But I be mery, ywis I wol be blamed.
And right anon his tale he hath attamed;
And thus he said unto us everich on,
This swete preest, this goodly man Sire John.

THE NONNES PREESTES TALE.

A POURE widewe somdel stoupen in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cotage,
Beside a grove, stonding in a dale.
This widewe, which I tell you of my tale,
Sin thilke day that she was last a wif,
In patience led a ful simple lif.

For litel was hire catel and hire rente:
By husbondry of swiche as God hire sente,
She found hireself, and eke hire doughtren two.
Three large sowes had she, and no mo :
Three kine and eke a sheep that highte Malle.
Ful sooty was hire boure, and eke hire halle,
In which she ete many a slender mele.
Of poinant sauce ne knew she never a dele.
No deintee morsel passed thurgh hire throte;
Hire diete was accordant to hire cote.

Repletion ne made hire never sike;
Attempre diete was all hire physike,
And exercise, and hertes suffisance.
The goute let hire nothing for to dance,
No apoplexie shente not hire hed.

No win ne dranke she, neyther white ne red:
Hire bord was served most with white and black,
Milk and broun bred, in which she fond no lack,
Seinde bacon, and somtime an ey or twey;
For she was as it were a maner dey.

A yerd she had, enclosed all about
With stickes, and a drie diche without,
In which she had a cok highte Chaunteclere,
In all the land of crowing n'as his pere.
His vois was merier than the mery orgon,
On masse daies that in the chirches gon.
Wel sikerer was his crowing in his loge,
Than is a clok, or any abbey orloge.
By nature he knew eche ascentioun
Of the equinoctial in thilke toun;
For whan degrees fiftene were ascended,
Than crew he, that it might not ben amended.
His combe was redder than the fin corall,
Enbattelled, as it were a castel wall.
His bill was black, and as the jet it shone ;
Like asure were his legges and his tone;
And like the burned gold was his colour.
His nailes whiter than the lily flour,

This gentil cok had in his governance
Seven hennes, for to don all his plesance,
Which were his susters and his paramoures,
And wonder like to him, as of coloures.
Of which the fairest hewed in the throte,
Was cleped faire damoselle Pertelote.
Curteis she was, discrete, and debonaire,
And compenable, and bare hireself so faire,
Sithen the day that she was sevennight old,
That trewelich she hath the herte in hold
Of Chaunteclere, loken in every lith:
He loved hire so, that wel was him therwith.
But swiche a joye it was to here hem sing,
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to spring,

In swete accord: my lefe is fare in lond.
For thilke time, as I have understond,
Bestes and briddes couden speke and sing.
And so befell, that in a dawening,
As Chaunteclere among his wives alle
Sate on his perche, that was in the halle,
And next him sate his faire Pertelote,
This Chaunteclere gan gronen in his throte,
As man that in his dreme is dretched sore.
And whan that Pertelote thus herd him rore,
She was agast, and saide, herte dere,
What aileth you to grone in this manere?
Ye ben a veray sleper, fy for shame.

And he answered and sayde thus ; madame,
I pray you, that ye take it not agrefe :
By God me mette I was in swiche mischefe
Right now, that yet min herte is sore afright.
Now God (quod he) my sweven recche aright,
And kepe my body out of foule prisoun.

Me mette, how that I romed up and doun
Within our yerde, wher as I saw a beste,
Was like an hound, and wold han made areste
Upon my body, and han had me ded.
His colour was betwix yelwe and red;
And tipped was his tail, and both his eres
With black, unlike the remenant of his heres.
His snout was smal, with glowing eyen twey :
Yet for his loke almost for fere I dey:
This caused me my groning douteles.

Avoy, quod she, fy on you herteles.
Alas! quod she, for by that God above
Now han ye lost myn herte and all my love;
I cannot love a coward by my faith.
For certes, what so any woman saith,
We all desiren, if it mighte be,

To have an husbond, hardy, wise and free,
And secree, and non niggard ne no fool,
Ne him that is agast of every tool,
Ne non avantour by that God above.
How dorsten ye for shame say to your love,
That any thing might maken you aferde?
Han ye no mannes herte, and han a berde?
Alas! and con ye ben agast of swevenis?
Nothing but vanitee, god wote, in sweven is.
Swevenes engendren of repletions,
And oft of fume, and of complexions,
Whan humours ben to habundant in a wight.
Certes this dreme, which ye han met to-night,
Cometh of the grete superfluitee

Of youre rede colera parde,

Which causeth folk to dreden in hir dremes
Of arwes, and of fire with rede lemes,
Of rede bestes, that they wol hem bite,
Of conteke, and of waspes gret and lite;
Right as the humour of melancolie
Causeth ful many a man in slepe to crie,
For fere of bolles, and of beres blake,
Or elles that blake devils wol hem take.
Of other humours coud I telle also,
That werken many a man in slepe moch wo:
But I wol passe, as lightly as I can.

Lo Caton, which that was so wise a man,
Said he not thus? Ne do no force of dremes.
Now, Sire, quod she, whan we flee fro the bemes,
For Goddes love, as take som laxatif :
Up peril of my soule, and of my lif,
I conseil you the best, I wol not lie,
That both of coler, and of melancolie
Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarie,
Though in this toun be non apotecarie,

I shal myself two herbes techen you,
That shal be for your hele, and for your prow;
And in our yerde, the herbes shall I finde,
The which han of hir propretee by kinde
To purgen you benethe, and eke above.
Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love;
Ye ben ful colerike of complexion;
Ware that the sonne in his ascention
Ne finde you not replete of humours hote:
And if it do, I dare wel lay a grote,
That ye shul han a fever tertiane,
Or elles an ague, that may be your bane.
A day or two ye shul han digestives
Of wormes, or ye take your laxatives,
Of laureole, centaurie, and fumetere,
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of gaitre-beries,

Or herbe ive growing in our yerd, that mery is:
Picke hem right as they grow, and ete hem in.
Beth mery, husbond, for your fader kin;
Dredeth no dreme; I can say you no more,

Madame, quod he, grand mercy of your lore.
But natheles, as touching dan Caton,
That hath of wisdome swiche a gret renoun,
Though that he bade no dremes for to drede,
By God, men moun in olde bookes rede,
Of many a man, more of auctoritee
Than ever Caton was, so mote I the,
That all the revers sayn of his sentence,
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significations

As wel of joye, as tribulations,
That folk enduren in this lif present.
Ther nedeth make of this non argument;
The veray preve sheweth it indede.

On of the gretest auctours that men rede,
Saith thus; that whilom twey felawes wente
On pilgrimage in a ful good entente;
And happed so, they came into a toun,
Wher ther was swiche a congregatioun
Of peple, and eke so streit of herbergage,
That they ne founde as moche as a cotage,
In which they bothe might ylogged be:
Wherfore they musten of necessitee,
As for that night, departen compagnie ;
And eche of hem goth to his hostelrie,
And toke his logging as it wolde falle.

That on of hem was logged in a stalle,
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was logged wel ynough,
As was his aventure, or his fortune,
That us governeth all, as in commune.

And so befell, that, long or it were day,
This man met in his bed, ther as he lay,
How that his felaw gan upon him calle,
And said, alas! for in an oxes stalle
This night shal I be mordred, ther I lie.
Now helpe me, dere brother, or I die;
In alle haste come to me, he saide.

This man out of his slepe for fere abraide;
But whan that he was waked of his slepe,
He turned him, and toke of this no kepe;
Him thought his dreme was but a vanitee.
Thus twies in his sleping dremed he.

And at the thridde time yet his felaw
Came, as him thought, and said, I now am slaw:
Behold my blody woundes, depe and wide.

Arise up erly, in the morwe tide,

And at the West gate of the toun (quod he)

A carte ful of donge ther shalt thou see,

K

In which my body is hid prively. Do thilke carte arresten holdely.

My gold caused my mordre, soth to sain.
And told him every point how he was slain
With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.

And trusteth wel, his dreme he found ful trewe.
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,
To his felawes inne he toke his way:
And whan that he came to this oxes stalle,
After his felaw he began to calle.

The hosteler answered him anon,
And saide, Sire, your felaw is agon,
As sone as day he went out of the toun.
This man gan fallen in suspecioun
Remembring on his dremes that he mette,
And forth he goth, no lenger wold he lette,
Unto the West gate of the toun, and fond
A dong carte, as it went for to dong lond,
That was arraied in the same wise
As ye han herde the dede man devise:
And with an hardy herte he gan to crie,
Vengeance and justice of this felonie:
My felaw mordred is this same night,
And in this carte he lith, gaping upright.
I crie out on the ministres, quod he,
That shulden kepe and reulen this citee:
Harow! alas! here lith myfelaw slain.

What shuld I more unto this tale sain?
The peple out stert, and cast the cart to ground,
And in the middel of the dong they found
The dede man, that mordred was all newe.

O blisful God, that art so good and trewe,
Lo, how that thou bewreyest 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 not suffre it hylled be:
Though it abide a yere, or two, or three,
Mordre wol out, this is my conclusioun.

And right anon, the ministres of the toun
Han hent the carter, and so sore him pined,
And eke the hosteler so sore engined,
That they beknew hir wickednesse anon,
And were anhanged by the necke bon.

Here moun ye see that dremes ben to drede.
And certes in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbe not, so have I joye and blis)
Two men that wold han passed over the sce
For certain cause in to a fer contree,
If that the wind ne hadde ben contrarie,
That made hem in a citee for to tarie,
That stood ful mery upon an haven side.
But on a day, agein the even tide,

The wind gan change, and blew right as hem lest.
Jolif and glad they wenten to hir rest,
And casten hem ful erly for to saile;
But to that o man fell a gret mervaile.

That on of hem in sleping as he lay,
He mette a wonder dreme, again the day:
Him thought a man stood by his beddes side,
And him commanded, that he shuld abide,
And said him thus; if thou to-morwe wende,
Thou shalt be dreint; my tale is at an ende.
He woke, and told his felaw what he met,
And praied him his viage for to let,
As for that day, he prayd him for to abide.
His felaw that lay by his beddes side,
Gan for to laugh, and scorned him ful faste.
No dreme, quod he, may so my herte agaste,

That I wol leten for to do my thinges.
I sette not a straw by thy dreminges,
For swevens ben but vanitees and japes.
Men dreme al day of oules and 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 here abide,
And thus forslouthen wilfully thy tide,
God wot it reweth me, and have good day.
And thus he took his leve, and went his way.

But or that he had half his cours ysailed,
N'ot I not why, ne what meschance it ailed,
But casuelly the shippes bottom rente,
And ship and man under the water wente
In sight of other shippes ther beside,
That with him sailed at the same tide.

And therfore, faire Pertelote so dere,
By swiche ensamples olde maist thou lere,
That no man shulde be to reccheles
Of dremes, for I say thee douteles,
That many a dreme ful sore is for to drede.
Lo, in the lif of seint Kenelme, I rede,
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing.
A litel or he were mordred on a day,
His mordre in his avision he say.
His norice him expouned every del

His sweven, and bade him for to kepe him wel
Fro treson; but he n'as but seven yere old,
And therfore litel tale hath he told
Of any dreme, so holy was his herte.
By God I hadde lever than my sherte,
That ye had red his legend, as have I.

Dame Pertelote, I say you trewely,
Macrobius, that writ the avision
In Affrike of the worthy Scipion,
Affirmeth dremes, and sayth that they ben
Warning of thinges, that men after seen.
And forthermore, I pray you loketh wel
In the olde Testament, of Daniel,
If he held dremes any vanitee.

Rede eke of Joseph, and ther shuln ye see
Wher dremes ben somtime (I say not alle)
Warning of thinges that shuln after falle.

Loke of Egipt the king, dan Pharao,
His baker and his boteler also,
Wheder they ne felten non 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 Lydie king,
Mette he not that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he shuld anhanged be?

Lo hire Andromacha, Hectores wif,
That day that Hector shulde lese his lif,
She dremed on the same night beforne,
How that the lif of Hector shuld be lorne,
If thilke day he went into bataille :
She warned him, but it might not availle;
He went forth for to fighten natheles,
And was yslain anon of Achilles.

But thilke tale is al to long to telle,
And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwelle.
Shortly I say, as for conclusion,
That I shal han of this avision
Adversitee and I say forthermore,
That I ne tell of laxatives no store,
For they ben venimous, I wot it wel:
I hem deffie, I love hem never a del.

But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all 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 red about your eyen,
It maketh all my drede for to dien,
For, al so siker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.
(Madame, the sentence of this Latine is,
Woman is mannes joye and mannes blis.)
For whan I fele a-night your softe side,
Al be it that I may not on you ride,
For that our perche is made so narwe, alas!
I am so ful of joye and of solas,

That I deffie bothe sweven and dreme.

And with that word he flew doun fro the beme, For it was day, and eke his hennes alle; And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, For he had found a corn, lay in the yerd. Real he was, he was no more aferd; He fethered Pertelote twenty time, And trade hire eke as oft, er it was prime. He loketh as it were a grim leoun; And on his toos he rometh up and doun, Him deigned not to set his feet to ground: He chukketh, whan he hath a corn yfound, And to him rennen than his wives alle.

Thus real, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chaunteclere in his pasture; And after wol I tell his aventure.

Whan that the month in which the world began,
That highte March, whan God first maked man,
Was complete, and ypassed were also,
Sithen March ended, thritty dayes and two,
Befell that Chaunteclere in all his pride,
His seven wives walking him beside,

Cast up his eyen to the brighte sonne,
That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne
Twenty degrees and on, and somwhat more:
He knew by kind, and by non other lore,
That it was prime, and crew with blisful steven.
The sonne, he said, is clomben up on heven
Twenty degrees and on, and more ywis.
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis,
Herkeneth thise blisful briddes how they sing,
And see the freshe floures how they spring;
Ful is min herte of revel, and solas.

But sodenly him fell a sorweful cas;
For ever the latter ende of joye is wo:
God wote that worldly joye is sone ago:
And if a rethor coude faire endite,
He in a chronicle might it saufly write,
As for a soveraine notabilitee.

Now every wise man let him herken me:
This story is al so trewe, I undertake,
As is the book of Launcelot du lake,
That women holde in ful gret reverence.
Now wol I turne agen to my sentence.
A col fox, ful of sleigh iniquitee,
That in the grove had wonned yeres three,
By high imagination forecast,

The same night thurghout the hegges brast
Into the yerd, ther Chaunteclere the faire
Was wont, and eke his wives, to repaire:
And in a bedde of wortes stille he lay,
Till it was passed undern of the day,
Waiting his time on Chaunteclere to falle :
As gladly don thise homicides alle,
That in await liggen to mordre men.

O false morderour, rucking in thy den!
O newe Scariot, newe Genelon !
O false dissimulour, o Greek Sinon,

That broughtest Troye al utterly to sorwe! O Chaunteclere, accursed be the morwe, That thou into thy yerd flew fro the bemes: Thou were ful wel ywarned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee.

But what that God forewote most nedes be, After the opinion of certain clerkes. Witnesse on him, that any parfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercation

In this matere, and gret disputison,
And hath ben of an hundred thousand men.
But I ne cannot boult it to the bren,
As can the holy doctour Augustin,
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin,
Whether that Goddes worthy foreweting
Streineth me nedely for to don a thing,
(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee)
Or elles if free chois be granted me
To do that same thing, or do it nought,
Though God forewot it, or that it was wrought;
Or if his weting streineth never a del,
But by necessitee condicionel.

I wol not han to don of swiche matere;
My tale is of a cok, as ye may here,
That took his conseil of his wif with sorwe
To walken in the yerd upon the morwe,
That he had met the dreme, as I you told.
Womennes conseiles ben ful often cold;
Womannes conseil brought us first to wo,
And made Adam fro paradis to go,
Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese.
But for I n'ot, to whom I might displese,
If I conseil of women wolde blame,
Passe over, for I said it in my game.

Rede auctours, wher they trete of swiche matere,
And what they sayn of women ye mown here.
Thise ben the Cokkes wordes, and not mine;

I can non harme of no woman devine.
Faire in the sond, to bath hire merily,
Lith Pertelote, and all hire susters by,
Agein the sonne, and Chaunteclere so free
Sang merier than the Mermaid in the see,
For Phisiologus sayth sikerly,
How that they singen wel and merily.

And so befell that as he cast his eye
Among the wortes on a boterflie,
He was ware of this fox that lay ful low.
Nothing ne list him thanne for to crow,
But cried anon cok, cok, and up he sterte,
As man that was affraied in his herte.
For naturelly a beest desireth flee
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see,
Though he never erst had seen it with his eye.
This Chaunteclere, whan he gan him espie,
He wold han fled, but that the fox anon
Said; gentil sire, alas! what wol ye don?
Be ye affraid of me that am your frend?
Now certes, I were werse than any fend,
If I to you wold harme or vilanie.
I n'am not come your conseil to espie.
But trewely the cause of my coming
Was only for to herken how ye sing:
For trewely ye han as mery a steven,
As any angel hath, that is in heven;
Therwith ye han of musike more feling,
Than had Boece, or any that can sing.
My lord your fader (God his soule blesse)
And eke your moder of hire gentillesse
Han in myn hous yben, to my gret ese:
And certes, sire, ful fain wold I you plese.

But for men speke of singing, I wol sey,
So mote I brouken wel min eyen twey,
Save you, ne herd I never man so sing,
As did your fader in the morwening.
Certes it was of herte all that he song.
And for to make his vois the more strong,
He wold so peine him, that with both his eyen
He muste winke, so loud he wolde crien,
And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal,
And stretchen forth his necke long and smal.
And eke he was of swiche discretion,
That ther n'as no man in no region,
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe.
I have wel red in dan Burnel the asse
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok,
That, for a preestes sone yave him a knok
Upon his leg, while he was yonge and nice,
He made him for to lese his benefice.
But certain ther is no comparison
Betwix the wisdom and discretion
Of youre fader, and his subtilitee.
Now singeth, sire, for Seinte Charitee,
Let see, can ye your fader contrefete?

This Chaunteclere his winges gan to bete,
As man that coud not his treson espie,
So was he ravished with his flaterie.

Alas! ye lordes, many a false flatour
Is in your court, and many a losengeour,
That pleseth you wel more, by my faith,
Than he that sothfastnesse unto you saith.
Redeth Ecclesiast of flaterie,

Beth ware, ye lordes, of hire trecherie.

This Chaunteclere stood high upon his toos Stretching his necke, and held his eyen cloos, And gan to crowen loude for the nones: And dan Russel the fox stert up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chaunteclere, And on his back toward the wood him bere. For yet ne was ther no man that him sued. O destinee, that maist not ben eschued! Alas, that Chaunteclere flew fro the bemes! Alas, his wif ne raughte not of dremes! And on a Friday fell all this meschance.

O Venus, that art goddesse of plesance, Sin that thy servant was this Chaunteclere, And in thy service did all his powere, More for delit, than world to multiplie, Why wolt thou suffre him on thy day to die? O Gaufride, dere maister soverain, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slain With shot, complainedest his deth so sore, Why ne had I now thy science and thy lore, The Friday for to chiden, as did ye? (For on a Friday sothly slain was he) Than wold I shew you how that I coud plaine, For Chauntecleres drede, and for his paine. Certes swiche cry, ne lamentation N'as never of ladies made, whan Ilion Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd Whan he had hent king Priam by the berd, And slain him, (as saith us Eneidos) As maden all the hennes in the cloos, Whan they had seen of Chaunteclere the sight. But soverainly dame Pertelote shright, Ful louder than did Hasdruballes wif, Whan that hire husbond hadde ylost his lif, And that the Romaines hadden brent Cartage, She was so ful of turment and of rage, That wilfully into the fire she sterte, And brent hireselven with a stedfast herte.

O woful hennes, right so criden ye,
As, whan that Nero brente the citee
Of Rome, cried the senatoures wives,
For that hir husbonds losten alle hir lives;
Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slain.

Now wol I turne unto my tale again.
The sely widewe, and hire doughtren two,
Herden thise hennes crie and maken wo,
And out at the dores sterten they anon,
And saw the fox toward the wode is gon,
And bare upon his back the cok away:
They crieden, out! harow and wala wa !
A ha the fox! and after him they ran,
And eke with staves many another man;
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerlond,
And Malkin, with hire distaf in hire hond;
Ran cow and calf, and eke the veray hogges
So fered were for berking of the dogges,
And shouting of the men and women eke,
They ronnen so, hem thought hir hertes breke.
They yelleden as fendes don in helle :
The dokes crieden as men wold hem quelle :
The gees for fere flewen over the trees,
Out of the hive came the swarme of bees,
So hidous was the noise, a benedicite!
Certes he Jakke Straw, and his meinie,
Ne maden never shoutes half so shrille,
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille,
As thilke day was made upon the fox.

Of bras they broughten beemes and of box,
Of horn and bone, in which they blew and pouped,
And therwithal they shriked and they houped;
It semed, as that the heven shulde falle.

Now, goode men, I pray you herkeneth alle;
Lo, how fortune turneth sodenly
The hope and pride eke of hire enemy.
This cok that lay upon the foxes bake,
In all his drede, unto the fox he spake,
And sayde; sire, if that I were as ye,
Yet wolde I sayn, (as wisly God helpe me)
Turneth agein, ye proude cherles alle;
A veray pestilence upon you falle.
Now am I come unto the wodes side,
Maugre your hed, the cok shal here abide;
I wol him ete in faith, and that anon.

The fox answered, in faith it shal be don:
And as he spake the word, al sodenly
The cok brake from his mouth deliverly,
And high upon a tree he flew anon.

And whan the fox saw that the cok was gon,
Alas! quod he, o Chaunteclere, alas!
I have (quod he) ydon to you trespas,
In as moche as I maked you aferd,

Whan I you hente, and brought out of your yerd;
But, sire, I did it in no wikke entente:
Come doun, and I shal tell you what I mente.
I shal say sothe to you, God helpe me so.
Nay than, quod he, I shrewe us bothe two.
And first I shrewe myself, bothe blood and bones,
If thou begile me oftener than ones.
Thou shalt no more thurgh thy flaterie
Do me to sing and winken with myn eye.
For he that winketh, whan he shulde see,
Al wilfully, God let him never the.

Nay, quod the fox, but God yeve him meschance,
That is so indiscrete of governance,
That jangleth, whan that he shuld hold his pees.
Lo, which it is for to be reccheles
And negligent, and trust on flaterie.
But ye that holden this tale a folic,