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.

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,

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 folie,

As of a fox, or of a cok, or hen,
Taketh the moralitee therof, good men.
For Seint Poule sayth, That all that writen is,
To our doctrine it is ywritten ywis.
Taketh the fruit, and let the chaf be stille.

Now, goode God, if that it be thy wille,
As sayth my Lord, so make us all good men ;
And bring us to thy highe blisse. Amen.

Sire Nonnes Preest, our hoste sayd anon, Yblessed be thy breche and every ston; This was a mery tale of Chaunteclere. But by my trouthe, if thou were seculere,

Thou woldest ben a tredefoule a right:
For if thou have corage as thou hast might,
Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,
Ye mo than seven times seventene.
Se, whiche braunes hath this gentil preest,
So gret a necke, and swiche a large breest!
He loketh as a sparhauk with his eyen ;
Him nedeth not his colour for to dien
With Brasil, ne with grain of Portingale.

But, sire, faire falle you for your tale.
And after that, he with ful mery chere
Sayd to another, as ye shulen here.

THE ministre and the norice unto vices,
Which that men clepe in English idelnesse,
That porter at the gate is of delices,

To eschuen, and by hire contrary hire oppresse,
That is to sain, by leful besinesse,
Wel oughte we to don al our entente,
Lest that the fend thurgh idelnesse us hente.

For he that with his thousand cordes slie Continuelly us waiteth to beclappe, Whan he may man in idelnesse espie, He can so lightly cacche him in his trappe, Til that a man be hent right by the lappe, He n'is not ware the fend hath him in hond: Wel ought us werche, and idelnesse withstond.

And though men dradden never for to die, Yet see men wel by reson douteles, That idelnesse is rote of slogardie, Of which ther never cometh no good encrees, And see that slouthe holdeth hem in a lees, Only to slepe, and for to ete and drinke, And to devouren all that other swinke.

And for to put us from swiche idelnesse,
That cause is of so gret confusion,
I have here don my feithful besinesse
After the Legende in translation
Right of thy glorious lif and passion,

Thou with thy gerlond, wrought of rose and lilie,
Thee mene I, maid and martir Seinte Cecilie.

And thou, that arte floure of virgines all,
Of whom that Bernard list so wel to write,
To thee at my beginning first I call,

Thou comfort of us wretches, do me endite
Thy maidens deth, that wan thurgh hire merite
The eternal lif, and over the fend victorie,
As man may after reden in hire storie.

Thou maide and mother, doughter of thy son,
Thou well of mercy, sinful soules cure,
In whom that God of bountee chees to won ;
Thou humble and high over every creature,
Thou nobledest so fer forth our nature,
That no desdaine the maker had of kinde
His

son in blood and flesh to clothe and winde.

Within the cloystre blisful of thy sides, Toke mannes shape the eternal love and pees, That of the trine compas Lord and gide is, Whom erthe, and see, and heven out of relees Ay herien; and thou, virgine wemmeles, Bare of thy body (and dweltest maiden pure) The creatour of every creature.

Assembled is in thee magnificence
With mercy, goodnesse, and with swiche pitee,
That thou, that art the sonne of excellence,
Not only helpest hem that praien thee,
But oftentime of thy benignitee

Ful freely, or that men thin helpe beseche,
Thou goest beforne, and art hir lives leche.

Now helpe, thou meke and blisful faire maide, Me flemed wretch, in this desert of galle; Thinke on the woman Cananee, that saide That whelpes eten som of the cromes alle That from hir Lordes table ben yfalle ; And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve, Be sinful, yet accepteth my beleve.

And for that feith is ded withouten werkes, So for to werken yeve me wit and space, That I be quit from thennes that most derke is; O thou, that art so faire and ful of grace, Be thou min advocat in that high place, Ther as withouten ende is songe Osanne, Thou Cristes mother, doughter dere of Anne.

And of thy light my soule in prison light, That troubled is by the contagion Of my body, and also by the wight Of erthly lust, and false affection : O haven of refute, o salvation

Of hem that ben in sorwe and in distresse, Now help, for to my werk I wol me dresse.

Yet pray I you that reden that I write, Foryeve me, that I do no diligence This ilke storie subtilly to endite. For both have I the wordes and sentence Of him, that at the seintes reverence The storie wrote, and folowed hire legende, And pray you that ye wol my werk amende.

First wol I you the name of Seinte Cecilie
Expoune, as men may in hire storie see:
It is to sayn in English, Hevens lilie,
For pure chastnesse of virginitee,
Or for she whitnesse had of honestee,
And grene of conscience, and of good fame
The swote savour, Lilie was hire name.

Or Cecilie is to sayn the way to blinde,
For she ensample was by good teching;
Or elles Cecilie, as I writen finde,
Is joined by a maner conjoining
Of heven and Lia, and here in figuring
The heven is set for thought of holinesse,
And Lia, for hire lasting besinesse.

Cecilie may eke be sayd in this manere,
Wanting of blindnesse, for hire grete light
Of sapience, and for hire thewes clere.
Or elles lo, this maidens name bright

Of heven and Leos cometh, for which by right
Men might hire wel the heven of peple calle,
Ensample of good and wise werkes alle :

For Leos peple in English is to say;
And right as men may in the heven see
The sonne and mone, and sterres every way,
Right so men gostly, in this maiden free
Sawen of faith the magnanimitee,
And eke the clerenesse hole of sapience,
And sondry werkes, bright of excellence.

And right so as thise Philosophres write,
That heven is swift and round, and eke brenning,
Right so was faire Cecilie the white

Ful swift and besy in every good werking,
And round and hole in good persevering,
And brenning ever in charitee ful bright:
Now have I you declared what she hight.

This maiden bright Cecile, as hire lif saith,
Was come of Romaines and of noble kind,
And from hire cradle fostred in the faith
Of Crist, and bare his Gospel in hire mind :
She never cesed, as I writen find,
Of hire prayere, and God to love and drede,
Beseching him to kepe hire maidenhede.

And whan this maiden shuld until a man
Ywedded be, that was ful yonge of age,
Which that ycleped was Valerian,
And day was comen of hire marriage,
She ful devout and humble in hire corage,
Under hire robe of gold, that sat ful faire,
Had next hire flesh yclad hire in an haire.

And while that the organs maden melodie,
To God alone thus in hire hert song she;
O Lord, my soule and eke my body gie
Unwemmed, lest that I confounded be.
And for his love that died upon the tree,
Every second or thridde day she fast,
Ay bidding in hire orisons ful fast.

The night came, and to bedde must she gon
With hire husbond, as it is the manere,
And prively she said to him anon;

O swete and we! beloved spouse dere,
Ther is a conseil, and ye wol it here,
Which that right fayn I wold unto you saie,
So that ye swere, ye wol it not bewraie.

Valerian gan fast unto hire swere,
That for no cas, ne thing that mighte be,
He shulde never to non bewraien here;
And than at erst thus to him saide she;
I have an Angel which that loveth me,
That with gret love, wher so I wake or slepe,
Is redy ay my body for to kepe;

And if that he may felen out of drede,
That ye me touch or love in vilanie,
He right anon wol sleen you with the dede,
And in your youthe thus ye shulden die.
And if that ye in clene love me gie,

He wol you love as me, for your clenenesse,
And shew to you his joye and his brightnesse.

This Valerian, corrected as God wold,
Answerd again, if I shal trusten thee,
Let me that angel seen, and him behold;
And if that it a veray angel be,

Than wol I don as thou hast prayed me;
And if thou love another man, forsothe
Right with this swerd than wol I slee you bothe.

Cecile answerd anon right in this wise;
If that you list, the angel shul ye see,
So that ye trowe on Crist, and you baptise;
Goth forth to Via Apia (quod she)

That fro this toun ne stant but miles three,
And to the poure folkes that ther dwellen
Say hem right thus, as that I shal you tellen.

Tell hem, that I Cecile you to hem sent
To shewen you the good Urban the old,
For secree nedes, and for good entent;
And whan that ye Seint Urban han behold,
Tell him the wordes whiche I to you told;
And whan that he hath purged you fro sinne,
Than shal ye seen that angel er ye twinne.

Valerian is to the place gon,

And right as he was taught by hire lerning,
He fond this holy old Urban anon
Among the seintes buriels louting :
And he anon withouten tarying
Did his message, and whan that he it tolde,
Urban for joye his hondes gan upholde.

The teres from his eyen let he falle;
Almighty Lord, o Jesu Crist, quod he,
Sower of chast conseil, hierde of us alle,
The fruit of thilke seed of chastitee
That thou hast sow in Cecile, take to thee:
Lo, like a besy bee withouten gile
Thee serveth ay thin owen thral Cecile.

For thilke spouse, that she toke but newe
Ful like a fiers leon, she sendeth here
As meke as ever was any lambe to ewe.
And with that word anon ther gan apere
An old man, clad in white clothes clere,
That had a book with lettres of gold in hond,
And gan beforne Valerian to stond.

Valerian, as ded, fell doun for drede, Whan he him saw; and he up hent him tho, And on his book right thus he gan to rede; On Lord, on faith, on God withouten mo, On Cristendom, and fader of all also Aboven all, and over all every wher: Thise wordes all with gold ywriten were.

Whan this was red, than said this olde man,
Levest thou this thing or no? say ye or nay.
I leve all this thing, quod Valerian,
For sother thing than this, I dare wel say,
Under the heven no wight thinken may.
Tho vanished the olde man, he n'iste wher,
And pope Urban him cristened right ther.

Valerian goth home, and fint Cecilie
Within his chambre with an angel stonde :
This angel had of roses and of lilie
Corones two, the which he bare in honde,
And first to Cecile, as I understonde,
He yaf that on, and after gan he take
That other to Valerian hire make.

With body clene, and with unwemmed thought
Kepeth ay wel thise corones two, quod he,
From paradis to you I have hem brought,
Ne never mo ne shul they roten be,
Ne lese hir swete savour, trusteth me,

Ne never wight shal seen hem with his eye,
But he be chaste, and hate vilanie.

And thou, Valerian, for thou so sone
Assentedest to good conseil, also

Say what thee list, and thou shalt han thy bone.
I have a brother, quod Valerian tho,
That in this world I love no man so,

I pray you that my brother may have grace
To know the trouth, as I do in this place.

The angel sayd; God liketh thy request,
And bothe with the palme of martirdome
Ye shullen come unto his blisful rest.

And with that word, Tiburce his brother come.
And whan that he the savour undernome,
Which that the roses and the lilies cast,
Within his herte he gan to wonder fast,

And said; I wonder this time of the yere
Whennes that swete savour cometh so
Of roses and lilies, that I smelle here;
For though I had hem in min hondes two,
The savour might in me no deper go:
The swete smel, that in min herte I find,
Hath changed me all in another kind.

Valerian saide; two corones han we
Snow-white and rose-red, that shinen clere,
Which that thin eyen han no might to see:
And as thou smellest hem thurgh my praiere,
So shalt thou seen hem, leve brother dere,
If it so be thou wolt withouten slouthe
Beleve aright, and know the veray trouthe.

Tiburce answered; saiest thou this to me
In sothnesse, or in dreme herken I this?
In dremes, quod Valerian, han we be
Unto this time, brother min, ywis:
But now at erst in trouthe our dwelling is.
How wost thou this, quod Tiburce, in what wise?
Quod Valerian; that shal I thee devise.

The angel of God hath me the trouth ytaught, Which thou shalt seen, if that thou wilt reney The idoles, and be clene, and elles naught. [And of the miracle of thise corones twey Seint Ambrose in his preface list to sey; Solempnely this noble doctour dere

Commendeth it, and saith in this manere.

The palme of martirdome for to receive,
Seinte Cecilie, fulfilled of Goddes yeft,
The world and eke hire chambre gan she weive;
Witnesse Tiburces and Ceciles shrift,

To which God of his bountee wolde shift
Corones two, of floures wel smelling,
And made his angel hem the corones bring.

The maid hath brought thise men to blisse above; The world hath wist what it is worth certain Devotion of chastitee to love.]

Tho shewed him Cecile all open and plain,
That all idoles n'is but a thing in vain,
For they ben dombe, and therto they ben deve,
And charged him his idoles for to leve.

Who so that troweth not this, a best he is,
Quod this Tiburce, if that I shal not lie.
And she gan kisse his brest whan she herd this,
And was ful glad he coude trouth espie :
This day I take thee for min allie,
Saide this blisful faire maiden dere;
And after that she said as ye may here.

Lo, right so as the love of Crist (quod she) Made me thy brothers wif, right in that wise Anon for mine allie here take I thee, Sithen that thou wolt thin idoles despise. Goth with thy brother now and thee baptise, And make thee clene, so that thou maist behold The angels face, of which thy brother told.

Tiburce answered, and saide; brother dere, First tell me whither I shal, and to what man. To whom? quod he; come forth with goode chere, I wol thee lede unto the pope Urban. To Urban? brother min Valerian, Quod tho Tiburce, wilt thou me thider lede ? Me thinketh that it were a wonder dede.

Ne menest thou not Urban (quod he tho)
That is so often damned to be ded,
And woneth in halkes alway to and fro,
And dare not ones putten forth his hed?
Men shuld him brennen in a fire so red,
If he were found, or that men might him spie,
And we also, to bere him compagnie.

And while we seken thilke divinitee,
That is yhid in heven prively,
Algate ybrent in this world shuld we be.
To whom Cecile answered boldely;
Men mighten dreden wel and skilfully
This lif to lese, min owen dere brother,
If this were living only and non other.

But ther is better lif in other place,
That never shal be lost, ne drede thee nought:
Which Goddes sone us tolde thurgh his grace,
That fadres sone which alle thinges wrought;
And all that wrought is with a skilful thought,
The gost, that from the fader gan procede,
Hath souled hem withouten any drede.

By word and by miracle he Goddes sone, Whan he was in this world, declared here, That ther is other lif ther men may wone. To whom answerd Tiburce; o suster dere, Ne saidest thou right now in this manere, Ther n'as but o God, lord in sothfastnesse, And now of three how mayst thou bere witnesse?