Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Who-so wol seken actes of sondry remes,

May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.

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 yën,

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 Ioye 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 Ioye 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,

Was complet, and [y]-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-ronne

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 Ioye is wo.

God woot that worldly Ioye 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!

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.

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 yë,

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, whan he gan him espye,

He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon

Seyde, ‘Gentil sire, allas! wher wol ye gon?

Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend?

Now certes, I were worse than a feend,

If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye.

I am nat come your counseil for tespye;

But trewely, the cause of my cominge

Was only for to herkne how that ye singe.

For trewely ye have as mery a stevene

As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene;

Therwith ye han in musik more felinge

Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe.

My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!)

And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse,

Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese;

And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese.

But for men speke of singing, I wol saye,

So mote I brouke wel myn eyen tweye,

Save yow, I herde never man so singe,

As dide your fader in the morweninge;

Certes, it was of herte, al that he song.

And for to make his voys the more strong,

He wolde so peyne him, that with bothe his yën

He moste winke, so loude he wolde cryen,

And stonden on his tiptoon ther-with-al,

And strecche forth his nekke long and smal.

And eek he was of swich discrecioun,

That ther nas no man in no regioun

That him in song or wisdom mighte passe.

I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse,

Among his vers, how that ther was a cok,

For that a preestes sone yaf him a knok

Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce,

He made him for to lese his benefyce.

But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun

Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun

Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee.

Now singeth, sire, for seinte charitee,

Let see, conne ye your fader countrefete?’

This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete,

As man that coude his tresoun nat espye,

So was he ravisshed with his flaterye.

This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his toos,

Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos,

And gan to crowe loude for the nones;

And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones,

And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer,

And on his bak toward the wode him beer,

For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed.

O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed!

Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!

Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes!

And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce.

O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,

Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer,

And in thy service dide al his poweer,

More for delyt, than world to multiplye,

Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye?

O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn,

That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn

With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore,

Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore,

The Friday for to chide, 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.

This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two,

Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo,

And out at dores sterten they anoon,

And syen the fox toward the grove goon,

And bar upon his bak the cok away;

And cryden, ‘Out! harrow! and weylaway!

Ha, ha, the fox!’ and after him they ran,

And eek with staves many another man;

Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and 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 Iakke 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, allas!

I have to yow,’ quod he, ‘y-doon trespas,

In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd,

Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the 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 yë.

For he that winketh, whan he sholde see,

Al wilfully, god lat him never thee!’

‘Nay,’ quod the fox, ‘but god yeve him meschaunce,

That is so undiscreet of governaunce,

That Iangleth whan he sholde holde his pees.’

And for my werk right no-thing wol I axe;

My lord and I ben ful of oon accord;

I made hir to the worship of my lord.

So do I alle myne othere creatures,

What colour that they han, or what figures.’—

Thus semeth me that Nature wolde seye.

This mayde of age twelf yeer was and tweye,

In which that Nature hadde swich delyt.

For right as she can peynte a lilie whyt

And reed a rose, right with swich peynture

She peynted hath this noble creature

Er she were born, up-on hir limes free,

Wher-as by right swiche colours sholde be;

And Phebus dyed hath hir tresses grete

Lyk to the stremes of his burned hete.

And if that excellent was hir beautee,

A thousand-fold more vertuous was she.

In hir ne lakked no condicioun,

That is to preyse, as by discrecioun.

As wel in goost as body chast was she;

For which she floured in virginitee

With alle humilitee and abstinence,

With alle attemperaunce and pacience,

With mesure eek of bering and array.

Discreet she was in answering alway;

Though she were wys as Pallas, dar I seyn,

Hir facound eek ful wommanly and pleyn,

No countrefeted termes hadde she

To seme wys; but after hir degree

She spak, and alle hir wordes more and lesse

Souninge in vertu and in gentillesse.

Shamfast she was in maydens shamfastnesse,

Constant in herte, and ever in bisinesse

To dryve hir out of ydel slogardye.

Bacus hadde of hir mouth right no maistrye;

For wyn and youthe doon Venus encrece,

As men in fyr wol casten oile or grece.

And of hir owene vertu, unconstreyned,

She hath ful ofte tyme syk hir feyned,

For that she wolde fleen the companye

Wher lykly was to treten of folye,

As is at festes, revels, and at daunces,

That been occasions of daliaunces.

Swich thinges maken children for to be

To sone rype and bold, as men may see,

Which is ful perilous, and hath ben yore.

For al to sone may she lerne lore

Of boldnesse, whan she woxen is a wyf.

Ye fadres and ye modres eek also,

Though ye han children, be it oon or two,

Your is the charge of al hir surveyaunce,

Whyl that they been under your governaunce.

Beth war that by ensample of your livinge,

Or by your necligence in chastisinge,

That they ne perisse; for I dar wel seye,

If that they doon, ye shul it dere abeye.

Under a shepherde softe and necligent

The wolf hath many a sheep and lamb to-rent.

Suffyseth oon ensample now as here,

For I mot turne agayn to my matere.

Whan shapen was al hir conspiracye

Fro point to point, how that his lecherye

Parfourned sholde been ful subtilly,

As ye shul here it after openly,

Hoom gooth the cherl, that highte Claudius.

This false Iuge that highte Apius,

So was his name, (for this is no fable,

But knowen for historial thing notable,

The sentence of it sooth is, out of doute),

This false Iuge gooth now faste aboute

To hasten his delyt al that he may.

And so bifel sone after, on a day,

This false Iuge, as telleth us the storie,

As he was wont, sat in his consistorie,

And yaf his domes up-on sondry cas.

This false cherl cam forth a ful greet pas,

And seyde, ‘lord, if that it be your wille,

As dooth me right up-on this pitous bille,

In which I pleyne up-on Virginius.

And if that he wol seyn it is nat thus,

I wol it preve, and finde good witnesse,

That sooth is that my bille wol expresse.’

‘Thanne yif me leyser, fader myn,’ quod she,

‘My deeth for to compleyne a litel space;

For pardee, Iepte yaf his doghter grace

For to compleyne, er he hir slow, allas!

And god it woot, no-thing was hir trespas,

But for she ran hir fader first to see,

To welcome him with greet solempnitee.’

And with that word she fil aswowne anon,

And after, whan hir swowning is agon,

She ryseth up, and to hir fader sayde,

‘Blessed be god, that I shal dye a mayde.

Yif me my deeth, er that I have a shame;

Doth with your child your wil, a goddes name!’

And with that word she preyed him ful ofte,

That with his swerd he wolde smyte softe,

And with that word aswowne doun she fil.

Hir fader, with ful sorweful herte and wil,

Hir heed of smoot, and by the top it hente,

And to the Iuge he gan it to presente,

As he sat yet in doom in consistorie.

And whan the Iuge it saugh, as seith the storie,

He bad to take him and anhange him faste.

But right anon a thousand peple in thraste,

To save the knight, for routhe and for pitee,

For knowen was the false iniquitee.

The peple anon hath suspect of this thing,

By manere of the cherles chalanging,

That it was by the assent of Apius;

They wisten wel that he was lecherous.

For which un-to this Apius they gon,

And caste him in a prison right anon,

Wher-as he slow him-self; and Claudius,

That servant was un-to this Apius,

Was demed for to hange upon a tree;

But that Virginius, of his pitee,

So preyde for him that he was exyled;

And elles, certes, he had been bigyled.

The remenant were anhanged, more and lesse,

That were consentant of this cursednesse.—