The Canterbury Tales; THE NONNES PREESTES TALE
Part
14
PROLOGUE
TO
THE
NONNES
PREESTES
TALE
The
Prologue
of
the
Nonnes
Preestes
Tale.
"Hoo!"
quod
the
Knyght,
"good
sire,
namoore
of
this,
That
ye
han
seyd
is
right
ynough,
ywis,
And
muchel
moore,
for
litel
hevynesse
Is
right
ynough
to
muche
folk,
I
gesse.
I
seye
for
me,
it
is
a
greet
disese
Where
as
men
han
been
in
greet
welthe
and
ese,
To
heeren
of
hir
sodeyn
fal,
allas!
And
the
contrarie
is
joye
and
greet
solas,
As
whan
a
man
hath
been
in
povre
estaat,
And
clymbeth
up,
and
wexeth
fortunat,
And
there
abideth
in
prosperitee.
Swich
thyng
is
galdsom,
as
it
thynketh
me,
And
of
swich
thyng
were
goodly
for
to
telle."
"Ye,"
quod
our
Hoost,
"by
seinte
Poules
belle,
Ye
seye
right
sooth!
This
Monk,
he
clappeth
lowde,
He
spak,
how
Fortune
covered
with
a
clowde-
I
noot
nevere
what-and
also
of
a
`Tragedie'-
Right
now
ye
herde;
and
pardee,
no
remedie
It
is
for
to
biwaille
ne
compleyne
That
that
is
doon;
and
als
it
is
a
peyne,
As
ye
han
seyd,
to
heere
of
hevynesse.
Sire
Monk,
namoore
of
this,
so
God
yow
blesse!
Youre
tale
anoyeth
al
this
compaignye;
Swich
talkyng
is
nat
worth
a
boterflye,
For
ther-inne
is
ther
no
desport
ne
game.
Wherfore
sir
Monk,
or
daun
Piers
by
youre
name,
I
pray
yow
hertely,
telle
us
somwhat
elles,
For
sikerly,
nere
clynkyng
of
youre
belles
That
on
your
bridel
hange
on
every
syde,
By
hevene
kyng,
that
for
us
alle
dyde,
I
sholde
er
this
han
fallen
doun
for
sleepe,
Althogh
the
slough
had
never
been
so
deepe;
Thanne
hadde
your
tale
al
be
toold
in
veyn.
For,
certeinly,
as
that
thise
clerkes
seyn,
Where
as
a
man
may
have
noon
audience,
Noght
helpeth
it
to
tellen
his
sentence.
And
wel
I
woot
the
substance
is
in
me,
If
any
thyng
shal
wel
reported
be.
Sir,
sey
somwhat
of
huntyng,
I
yow
preye."
"Nay,"
quod
this
Monk,
"I
have
no
lust
to
pleye;
Not
lat
another
telle
as
I
have
toold."
Thanne
spak
oure
Hoost,
with
rude
speche
and
boold,
And
seyde
unto
the
Nonnes
Preest
anon,
"Com
neer,
thou
preest,
com
hyder,
thou,
sir
John,
Telle
us
swich
thyng
as
may
oure
hertes
glade;
Be
blithe,
though
thou
ryde
upon
a
jade.
What
thogh
thyn
hors
be
bothe
foul
and
lene?
If
he
wol
serve
thee,
rekke
nat
a
bene!
Looke
that
thyn
herte
be
murie
everemo."
"Yis
sir,"
quod
he,
"yis,
Hoost,
so
moot
I
go,
But
I
be
myrie,
ywis,
I
wol
be
blamed."
And
right
anon
his
tale
he
hath
attamed,
And
thus
he
seyde
unto
us
everichon,
This
sweete
preest,
this
goodly
man
sir
John.
Part
15
THE
NONNES
PREESTES
TALE
Heere
bigynneth
the
Nonnes
Preestes
tale
of
the
Cok
and
Hen,
Chauntecleer
and
Pertelote.
A
povre
wydwe,
somdel
stape
in
age,
Was
whilom
dwellyng
in
a
narwe
cotage
Biside
a
greve,
stondynge
in
a
dale.
This
wydwe,
of
which
I
telle
yow
my
tale,
Syn
thilke
day
that
she
was
last
a
wyf,
In
pacience
ladde
a
ful
symple
lyf,
For
litel
was
hir
catel
and
hir
rente.
By
housbondrie,
of
swich
as
God
hir
sente,
She
foond
hirself
and
eek
hire
doghtren
two.
Thre
large
sowes
hadde
she,
and
namo,
Three
keen,
and
eek
a
sheep
that
highte
Malle.
Ful
sooty
was
hir
bour
and
eek
hire
halle,
In
whidh
she
eet
ful
many
a
sklendre
meel-
Of
poynaunt
sauce
hir
neded
never
a
deel.
No
deyntee
morsel
passed
thurgh
hir
throte,
Hir
diete
was
accordant
to
hir
cote.
Repleccioun
ne
made
hir
nevere
sik,
Attempree
diete
was
al
hir
phisik,
And
exercise,
and
hertes
suffisaunce.
The
goute
lette
hir
nothyng
for
to
daunce,
Napoplexie
shente
nat
hir
heed.
No
wyn
ne
drank
she,
neither
whit
ne
reed,
Hir
bord
was
served
moost
with
whit
and
blak,
Milk
and
broun
breed,
in
which
she
foond
no
lak,
Seynd
bacoun,
and
somtyme
an
ey
or
tweye,
For
she
was
as
it
were
a
maner
deye.
A
yeerd
she
hadde,
enclosed
al
aboute
With
stikkes,
and
a
drye
dych
withoute,
In
which
she
hadde
a
Cok,
heet
Chauntecleer,
In
al
the
land
of
crowyng
nas
his
peer.
His
voys
was
murier
than
the
murle
orgon
On
messedayes,
that
in
the
chirche
gon.
Wel
sikerer
was
his
crowyng
in
his
logge,
Than
is
a
clokke,
or
an
abbey
orlogge.
By
nature
he
crew
eche
ascencioun
Of
the
equynoxial
in
thilke
toun;
For
whan
degrees
fiftene
weren
ascended,
Thanne
crew
he,
that
it
myghte
nat
been
amended.
His
coomb
was
redder
than
the
fyn
coral,
And
batailled,
as
it
were
a
castel
wal.
His
byle
was
blak,
and
as
the
jeet
it
shoon,
Lyk
asure
were
hise
legges
and
his
toon,
Hise
nayles
whiter
than
the
lylye
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
hise
sustres
and
his
paramours,
And
wonder
lyk
to
hym
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
hyrself
so
faire
Syn
thilke
day
that
she
was
seven
nyght
oold,
That
trewely
she
hath
the
herte
in
hoold
Of
Chauntecleer
loken
in
every
lith.
He
loved
hir
so,
that
wel
was
hym
therwith.
But
swiche
a
joye
was
it
to
here
hem
synge
Whan
that
the
brighte
sonne
gan
to
sprynge,
In
sweete
accord,
"My
lief
is
faren
in
londe,"-
For
thilke
tyme,
as
I
have
understonde,
Beestes
and
briddes
koude
speke
and
synge.
And
so
bifel,
that
in
the
dawenynge,
As
Chauntecleer,
among
hise
wyves
alle,
Sat
on
his
perche,
that
was
in
the
halle,
And
next
hym
sat
this
faire
Pertelote,
This
Chauntecleer
gan
gronen
in
his
throte
As
man
that
in
his
dreem
is
drecched
soore.
And
whan
that
Pertelote
thus
herde
hym
roore
She
was
agast,
and
seyde,
"O
herte
deere,
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
agrief.
By
God,
me
thoughte
I
was
in
swich
meschief
Right
now,
that
yet
myn
herte
is
soore
afright.
Now
God,"
quod
he,
"my
swevene
recche
aright,
And
kepe
my
body
out
of
foul
prisoun.
Me
mette
how
that
I
romed
up
and
doun
Withinne
our
yeerd,
wheer
as
I
saugh
a
beest
Was
lyk
an
hound,
and
wolde
han
maad
areest
Upon
my
body,
and
han
had
me
deed.
His
colour
was
bitwixe
yelow
and
reed,
And
tipped
was
his
tayl
and
bothe
hise
eeris;
With
blak,
unlyk
the
remenant
of
hise
heeris;
His
snowte
smal,
with
glowynge
eyen
tweye.
Yet
of
his
look,
for
feere
almoost
I
deye!
This
caused
me
my
gronyng,
doutelees."
"Avoy!"
quod
she,
"Fly
on
yow
hertelees!
Allas,"
quod
she,
"for
by
that
God
above
Now
han
ye
lost
myn
herte
and
al
my
love!
I
kan
nat
love
a
coward,
by
my
feith,
For
certes,
what
so
any
womman
seith,
We
alle
desiren,
if
it
myght
bee,
To
han
housbondes
hardy,
wise,
and
free,
And
secree,
and
no
nygard,
ne
no
fool,
Ne
hym
that
is
agast
of
every
tool,
Ne
noon
avauntour;
by
that
God
above,
How
dorste
ye
seyn
for
shame
unto
youre
love
That
any
thyng
myghte
make
yow
aferd?
Have
ye
no
mannes
herte,
and
han
a
berd?
Allas,
and
konne
ye
been
agast
of
swevenys?
No
thyng,
God
woot,
but
vanitee
in
swevene
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
tonyght
Cometh
of
greet
superfluytee
Of
youre
rede
colera,
pardee,
Which
causeth
folk
to
dreden
in
hir
dremes
Of
arwes,
and
of
fyre
with
rede
lemes,
Of
grete
beestes,
that
they
wol
hem
byte,
Of
contekes,
and
of
whelpes
grete
and
lyte;
Right
as
the
humour
of
malencolie
Causeth
ful
many
a
man
in
sleep
to
crie
For
feere
of
blake
beres,
or
boles
blake,
Or
elles
blake
develes
wole
hem
take.
Of
othere
humours
koude
I
telle
also
That
werken
many
a
man
in
sleep
ful
wo,
But
I
wol
passe
as
lightly
as
I
kan.
Lo
Catoun,
which
that
was
so
wys
a
man,
Seyde
he
nat
thus,
`ne
do
no
fors
of
dremes`?
Now
sire,"
quod
she,
"whan
ye
flee
fro
the
bemes,
For
goddes
love
as
taak
som
laxatyf!
Up
peril
of
my
soule,
and
of
my
lyf,
I
conseille
yow
the
beste,
I
wol
nat
lye,
That
bothe
of
colere
and
of
malencolye
Ye
purge
yow;
and
for
ye
shal
nat
tarie,
Though
in
this
toun
is
noon
apothecarie,
I
shal
myself
to
herbes
techen
yow,
That
shul
been
for
youre
hele
and
for
youre
prow.
And
in
oure
yeerd
tho
herbes
shal
I
fynde,
The
whiche
han
of
hir
propretee
by
kynde
To
purge
yow
bynethe
and
eek
above.
Foryet
nat
this,
for
Goddes
owene
love!
Ye
been
ful
coleryk
of
compleccioun;
Ware
the
sonne
in
his
ascencioun
Ne
fynde
yow
nat
repleet
of
humours
hoote.
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
youre
laxatyves
Of
lawriol,
centaure,
and
fumetere,
Or
elles
of
ellebor
that
groweth
there,
Of
katapuce,
or
of
gaitrys
beryis,
Of
herbe
yve,
growyng
in
oure
yeerd,
ther
mery
is!
Pekke
hem
up
right
as
they
growe,
and
ete
hem
yn!
Be
myrie,
housbonde,
for
youre
fader
kyn,
Dredeth
no
dreem,
I
kan
sey
yow
namoore!"
"Madame,"
quod
he,
"graunt
mercy
of
youre
loore,
But
nathelees,
as
touchyng
Daun
Catoun,
That
hath
of
wysdom
swich
a
greet
renoun,
Though
that
he
bad
no
dremes
for
to
drede,
By
God,
men
may
in
olde
bookes
rede
Of
many
a
man
moore
of
auctorite
Than
evere
Caton
was,
so
moot
I
thee,
That
al
the
revers
seyn
of
this
sentence,
And
han
wel
founden
by
experience
That
dremes
been
significaciouns
As
wel
of
joye
as
of
tribulaciouns
That
folk
enduren
in
this
lif
present.
Ther
nedeth
make
of
this
noon
argument,
The
verray
preeve
sheweth
it
in
dede.
Oon
of
the
gretteste
auctours
that
men
rede
Seith
thus,
that
whilom
two
felawes
wente
On
pilgrimage
in
a
ful
good
entente;
And
happed
so,
they
coomen
in
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
myghte
logged
bee;
Wherfore
they
mosten
of
necessitee
As
for
that
nyght
departen
compaignye,
And
ech
of
hem
gooth
to
his
hostelrye,
And
took
his
loggyng
as
it
wolde
falle.
That
oon
of
hem
was
logged
in
a
stalle,
Fer
in
a
yeerd,
with
oxen
of
the
plough;
That
oother
man
was
logged
wel
ynough,
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
upon
hym
calle
And
seyde,
`Allas,
for
in
an
oxes
stalle
This
nyght
I
shal
be
mordred,
ther
I
lye!
Now
help
me,
deere
brother,
or
I
dye;
In
alle
haste
com
to
me!"
he
sayde.
This
man
out
of
his
sleep
for
feere
abrayde;
But
whan
that
he
was
wakened
of
his
sleep,
He
turned
hym
and
took
of
it
no
keep.
Hym
thoughte,
his
dreem
nas
but
a
vanitee.
Thus
twies
in
his
slepyng
dremed
hee,
And
atte
thridde
tyme
yet
his
felawe
Cam,
as
hym
thoughte,
and
seide,
`I
am
now
slawe,
Bihoold
my
bloody
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
donge
ther
shaltow
se,
In
which
my
body
is
hid
ful
prively.
Do
thilke
carte
arresten
boldely;
My
gold
caused
my
mordre,
sooth
to
sayn.'-
And
tolde
hym
every
point,
how
he
was
slayn,
With
a
ful
pitous
face,
pale
of
hewe;
And
truste
wel,
his
dreem
he
foond
ful
trewe.
For
on
the
morwe,
as
soone
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
answerde
hym
anon,
And
seyde,
`Sire,
your
felawe
is
agon,
As
soone
as
day
he
wente
out
of
the
toun.'
This
man
gan
fallen
in
suspecioun,
Remembrynge
on
hise
dremes
that
he
mette,
And
forth
he
gooth,
no
lenger
wolde
he
lette,
Unto
the
westgate
of
the
toun;
and
fond
A
dong
carte,
as
it
were
to
donge
lond,
That
was
arrayed
in
that
same
wise,
As
ye
han
herd
the
dede
man
devyse.
And
with
an
hardy
herte
he
gan
to
crye,
`Vengeance
and
justice
of
this
felonye;
My
felawe
mordred
is
this
same
myght,
And
in
this
carte
he
lith
gapyng
upright.
I
crye
out
on
the
ministres,'
quod
he,
`That
sholden
kepe
and
reulen
this
citee!
Harrow!
allas,
heere
lith
my
felawe
slayn!'
What
sholde
I
moore
unto
this
tale
sayn?
The
peple
out-sterte,
and
caste
the
cart
to
grounde,
And
in
the
myddel
of
the
dong
they
founde
The
dede
man,
that
mordred
was
al
newe.
O
blisful
God,
that
art
so
just
and
trewe!
Lo,
howe
that
thou
biwreyest
mordre
alway!
Mordre
wol
out,
that
se
we,
day
by
day.
Mordre
is
so
wlatsom
and
abhomynable
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
thre.
Mordre
wol
out,
this
my
conclusioun.
And
right
anon
ministres
of
that
toun
Han
hent
the
carter,
and
so
soore
hym
pyned,
And
eek
the
hostiler
so
soore
engyned
That
they
biknewe
hire
wikkednesse
anon,
And
were
anhanged
by
the
nekke
bon.
Heere
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,
into
a
fer
contree,
If
that
the
wynd
ne
hadde
been
contrarie,
That
made
hem
in
a
citee
for
to
tarie,
That
stood
ful
myrie
upon
an
haven-syde-
But
on
a
day,
agayn
the
even-tyde,
The
wynd
gan
chaunge,
and
blew
right
as
hem
leste.
Jolif
and
glad
they
wente
unto
hir
reste,
And
casten
hem
ful
erly
for
to
saille,
But
herkneth,
to
that
o
man
fil
a
greet
mervaille;
That
oon
of
hem,
in
slepyng
as
he
lay,
Hym
mette
a
wonder
dreem
agayn
the
day.
Hym
thoughte
a
man
stood
by
his
beddes
syde,
And
hym
comanded
that
he
sholde
abyde,
And
seyde
hym
thus,
`If
thou
tomorwe
wende
Thow
shalt
be
dreynt;
my
tale
is
at
an
ende.'
He
wook,
and
tolde
his
felawe
what
he
mette,
And
preyde
hym
his
viage
for
to
lette,
As
for
that
day,
he
preyede
hym
to
byde.
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
thynges.
I
sette
nat
a
straw
by
thy
dremynges,
For
swevenes
been
but
vanytees
and
japes.
Men
dreme
al
day
of
owles
or
of
apes,
And
of
many
a
maze
therwithal.
Men
dreme
of
thyng
that
nevere
was,
ne
shal;
But
sith
I
see
that
thou
wolt
heere
abyde
And
thus
forslewthen
wilfully
thy
tyde,
God
woot
it
reweth
me,
and
have
good
day.'
And
thus
he
took
his
leve
and
wente
his
way;
But
er
that
he
hadde
half
his
cours
yseyled,
Noot
I
nat
why,
ne
what
myschaunce
it
eyled,
But
casuelly
the
shippes
botme
rente,
And
ship
and
men
under
the
water
wente
In
sighte
of
othere
shippes
it
bisyde,
That
with
hem
seyled
at
the
same
tyde.
And
therfore,
faire
Pertelote
so
deere,
By
swiche
ensamples
olde
yet
maistow
leere,
That
no
man
sholde
been
to
recchelees
Of
dremes,
for
I
seye
thee
doutelees
That
many
a
dreem
ful
soore
is
for
to
drede.
Lo,
in
the
lyf
of
Seint
Kenelm
I
rede,
That
was
Kenulphus
sone,
the
noble
kyng,
Of
Mercenrike
how
Kenelm
mette
a
thyng.
A
lite
er
he
was
mordred,
on
a
day
His
mordre
in
his
avysioun
he
say.
His
norice
hym
expowned
every
deel
His
swevene,
and
bad
hym
for
to
kepe
hym
weel
For
traisoun,
but
he
nas
but
seven
yeer
oold,
And
therfore
litel
tale
hath
he
toold
Of
any
dreem,
so
hooly
is
his
herte.
By
God,
I
hadde
levere
than
my
sherte
That
ye
hadde
rad
his
legende,
as
have
I.
Dame
Pertelote,
I
sey
yow
trewely,
Macrobeus,
that
writ
the
avisioun
In
Affrike
of
the
worhty
Cipioun,
Affermeth
dremes,
and
seith
that
they
been
Warnynge
of
thynges,
that
men
after
seen.
And
forther-moore
I
pray
yow
looketh
wel
In
the
olde
testament
of
Daniel,
If
he
heeld
dremes
any
vanitee!
Reed
eek
of
Joseph,
and
ther
shul
ye
see
Wher
dremes
be
somtyme,
I
sey
nat
alle,
Warnynge
of
thynges
that
shul
after
falle.
Looke
of
Egipte
the
kyng,
daun
Pharao,
His
baker
and
his
butiller
also,
Wher
they
ne
felte
noon
effect
in
dremes!
Whoso
wol
seken
actes
of
sondry
remes
May
rede
of
dremes
many
a
wonder
thyng.
Lo
Cresus,
which
that
was
of
Lyde
kyng,
Mette
he
nat
that
he
sat
upon
a
tree,
Which
signified,
he
sholde
anhanged
bee?
Lo
her
Adromacha,
Ectores
wyf,
That
day
that
Ector
sholde
lese
his
lyf
She
dremed
on
the
same
nyght
biforn
How
that
the
lyf
of
Ector
sholde
be
lorn,
If
thilke
day
he
wente
into
bataille.
She
warned
hym,
but
it
myghte
nat
availle;
He
wente
for
to
fighte
natheles,
But
he
was
slayn
anon
of
Achilles.
But
thilke
is
al
to
longe
for
to
telle,
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
forthermoor
That
I
ne
telle
of
laxatyves
no
stoor,
For
they
been
venymes,
I
woot
it
weel,
I
hem
diffye,
I
love
hem
never
a
deel.
Now
let
us
speke
of
myrthe,
and
stynte
al
this;
Madame
Pertelote,
so
have
I
blis,
Of
o
thyng
God
hath
sent
me
large
grace,
For
whan
I
se
the
beautee
of
youre
face,
Ye
been
so
scarlet
reed
aboute
youre
eyen,
It
maketh
al
my
drede
for
to
dyen.
For,
al
so
siker
as
In
principio
Mulier
est
hominis
confusio,-
Madame,
the
sentence
of
this
Latyn
is,
`Womman
is
mannes
joye
and
al
his
blis.'
For
whan
I
felle
a-nyght
your
softe
syde,
Al
be
it
that
I
may
nat
on
yow
ryde,
For
that
oure
perche
is
maad
so
narwe,
allas!
I
am
so
ful
of
joye
and
of
solas,
That
I
diffye
bothe
swevene
and
dreem."
And
with
that
word
he
fly
doun
fro
the
beem,
For
it
was
day,
and
eke
hise
hennes
alle;
And
with
a
chuk
he
gan
hem
for
to
calle,
For
he
hadde
founde
a
corn
lay
in
the
yerd.
Real
he
was,
he
was
namoore
aferd;
And
fethered
Pertelote
twenty
tyme,
And
trad
as
ofte,
er
that
it
was
pryme.
He
looketh
as
it
were
a
grym
leoun,
And
on
hise
toos
he
rometh
up
and
doun,
Hym
deigned
nat
to
sette
his
foot
to
grounde.
He
chukketh
whan
he
hath
a
corn
yfounde,
And
to
hym
rennen
thanne
hise
wyves
alle.
Thus
roial
as
a
prince
is
in
an
halle,
Leve
I
this
Chauntecleer
in
his
pasture,
And
after
wol
I
telle
his
aventure.
Whan
that
the
monthe
in
which
the
world
bigan
That
highte
March,
whan
God
first
maked
man,
Was
compleet,
and
passed
were
also
Syn
March
bigan,
thritty
dayes
and
two,
Bifel
that
Chauntecleer
in
al
his
pryde,
Hise
sevene
wyves
walkynge
by
his
syde,
Caste
up
hise
eyen
to
the
brighte
sonne,
That
in
the
signe
of
Taurus
hadde
yronne
Twenty
degrees
and
oon,
and
somwhat
moore;
And
knew
by
kynde,
and
by
noon
oother
loore,
That
it
was
pryme,
and
crew
with
blisful
stevene.
"The
sonne,"
he
seyde,
"is
clomben
upon
hevene
Fourty
degrees
and
oon,
and
moore,
ywis.
Madame
Pertelote,
my
worldes
blis,
Herkneth
thise
blisful
briddes
how
they
synge,
And
se
the
fresshe
floures
how
they
sprynge.
Ful
is
myn
herte
of
revel
and
solas."
But
sodeynly
hym
fil
a
sorweful
cas,
For
evere
the
latter
ende
of
joye
is
wo.
God
woot
that
worldly
joye
is
soone
ago,
And
if
a
rethor
koude
faire
endite,
He
in
a
cronycle
saufly
myghte
it
write,
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
greet
reverence.
Now
wol
I
come
agayn
to
my
sentence.
A
colfox,
ful
of
sly
iniquitee,
That
in
the
grove
hadde
wonned
yeres
three,
By
heigh
ymaginacioun
forn-cast,
The
same
nyght
thurghout
the
hegges
brast
Into
the
yerd,
ther
Chauntecleer
the
faire
Was
wont,
and
eek
hise
wyves,
to
repaire;
And
in
a
bed
of
wortes
stille
he
lay,
Til
it
was
passed
undren
of
the
day,
Waitynge
his
tyme
on
Chauntecleer
to
falle,
As
gladly
doon
thise
homycides
alle
That
in
await
liggen
to
mordre
men.
O
false
mordrour,
lurkynge
in
thy
den!
O
newe
Scariot!
newe
Genyloun!
False
dissymulour,
O
Greek
synoun
That
broghtest
Troye
al
outrely
to
sorwe!
O
Chauntecleer,
acursed
be
that
morwe
That
thou
into
that
yerd
flaugh
fro
the
bemes!
Thou
were
ful
wel
ywarned
by
thy
dremes
That
thilke
day
was
perilous
to
thee;
But
what
that
God
forwoot
moot
nedes
bee,
After
the
opinioun
of
certein
clerkis.
Witnesse
on
hym,
that
any
parfit
clerk
is,
That
in
scole
is
greet
altercacioun
In
this
mateere,
and
greet
disputisoun,
And
hath
been
of
an
hundred
thousand
men;-
But
I
ne
kan
nat
bulte
it
to
the
bren
As
kan
the
hooly
doctour
Augustyn,
Or
Boece
or
the
Bisshop
Bradwardyn,-
Wheither
that
Goddes
worthy
forwityng
Streyneth
me
nedefully
to
doon
a
thyng,
(Nedely
clepe
I
symple
necessitee)
Or
elles,
if
free
choys
be
graunted
me
To
do
that
same
thyng,
or
do
it
noght,
Though
God
forwoot
it,
er
that
it
was
wroght;
Or
if
his
wityng
streyneth
never
a
deel
But
by
necessitee
condicioneel,-
I
wel
nat
han
to
do
of
swich
mateere;
My
tale
is
of
a
Cok,
as
ye
may
heere,
That
took
his
conseil
of
his
wyf,
with
sorwe,
To
walken
in
the
yerd,
upon
that
morwe
That
he
hadde
met
that
dreem,
that
I
of
tolde.
Wommennes
conseils
been
ful
ofte
colde;
Wommannes
conseil
broghte
us
first
to
wo,
And
made
Adam
fro
Paradys
to
go,
Ther
as
he
was
ful
myrie,
and
wel
at
ese.
But
for
I
noot
to
whom
it
myght
displese,
If
I
conseil
of
wommen
wolde
blame,
Passe
over,
for
I
seye
it
in
my
game.
Rede
auctours,
wher
they
trete
of
swich
mateere,
And
what
they
seyn
of
wommen
ye
may
heere.
Thise
been
the
cokkes
wordes,
and
nat
myne,
I
kan
noon
harm
of
no
womman
divyne.
Faire
in
the
soond,
to
bathe
hire
myrily,
Lith
Pertelote,
and
alle
hir
sustres
by,
Agayn
the
sonne;
and
Chauntecleer
so
free
Soony
murier
than
the
mermayde
in
the
see-
For
Phisiologus
seith
sikerly
How
that
they
syngen
wel
and
myrily.
And
so
bifel,
that
as
he
cast
his
eye
Among
the
wortes
on
a
boterflye,
He
was
war
of
this
fox
that
lay
ful
lowe.
Nothyng
ne
liste
hym
thanne
for
to
crowe,
But
cride
anon,
"cok!
cok!"
and
up
he
sterte,
As
man
that
was
affrayed
in
his
herte.
For
natureelly
a
beest
desireth
flee
Fro
his
contrarie,
if
he
may
it
see,
Though
he
never
erst
hadde
seyn
it
with
his
eye.
This
Chauntecleer,
whan
he
gan
hym
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
youre
freend?
Now
certes,
I
were
worse
than
a
feend
If
I
to
yow
wolde
harm
or
vileynye.
I
am
nat
come
your
conseil
for
tespye,
But
trewely,
the
cause
of
my
comynge
Was
oonly
for
to
herkne
how
that
ye
synge.
For
trewely,
ye
have
as
myrie
a
stevene
As
any
aungel
hath
that
is
in
hevene.
Therwith
ye
han
in
musyk
moore
feelynge
Than
hadde
Boece,
or
any
that
kan
synge.
My
lord
youre
fader-God
his
soule
blesse!-
And
eek
youre
mooder,
of
hir
gentillesse
Han
in
myn
hous
ybeen,
to
my
greet
ese;
And
certes,
sire,
ful
fayn
wolde
I
yow
plese.
But
for
men
speke
of
syngyng,
I
wol
seye,
So
moote
I
brouke
wel
myne
eyen
tweye,
Save
yow
I
herde
nevere
man
yet
synge
As
dide
youre
fader
in
the
morwenynge.
Certes,
it
was
of
herte
al
that
he
song!
And
for
to
make
his
voys
the
moore
strong,
He
wolde
so
peyne
hym,
that
with
bothe
hise
eyen
He
moste
wynke,
so
loude
he
solde
cryen,
And
stonden
on
his
tiptoon
therwithal,
And
strecche
forth
his
nekke
long
and
smal.
And
eek
he
was
of
swich
discrecioun,
That
ther
nas
no
man
in
no
regioun,
That
hym
in
song
or
wisedom
myghte
passe.
I
have
wel
rad
in
daun
Burnel
the
Asse
Among
hise
vers,
how
that
ther
was
a
cok,
For
that
a
presstes
sone
yaf
hym
a
knok,
Upon
his
leg,
whil
he
was
yong
and
nyce,
He
made
hym
for
to
lese
his
benefice.
But
certeyn,
ther
nys
no
comparisoun
Bitwixe
the
wisedom
and
discrecioun
Of
youre
fader,
and
of
his
subtiltee.
Now
syngeth,
sire,
for
seinte
charitee,
Lat
se
konne
ye
youre
fader
countrefete!"
This
Chauntecleer
hise
wynges
gan
to
bete,
As
man
that
koude
his
traysoun
nat
espie,
So
was
he
ravysshed
with
his
flaterie.
Allas,
ye
lordes!
many
a
fals
flatour
Is
in
youre
courtes,
and
many
a
losengeour,
That
plesen
yow
wel
moore,
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
upon
his
toos,
Strecchynge
his
nekke,
and
heeld
hise
eyen
cloos,
And
gan
to
crowe
loude
for
the
nones,
And
daun
Russell
the
fox
stirte
up
atones,
And
by
the
gargat
hente
Chauntecleer,
And
on
his
bak
toward
the
wode
hym
beer,
For
yet
ne
was
ther
no
man
that
hym
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!
Syn
that
thy
servant
was
this
Chauntecleer,
And
in
thy
servyce
dide
al
his
poweer,
Moore
for
delit,
than
world
to
multiplye,
Why
woltestow
suffre
hym
on
thy
day
to
dye?
O
Gaufred,
deere
Maister
soverayn!
That
whan
thy
worthy
kyng
Richard
was
slayn
With
shot,
compleynedest
his
deeth
so
soore,
Why
ne
hadde
I
now
thy
sentence
and
thy
loore,
The
Friday
for
to
chide,
as
diden
ye?-
For
on
a
Friday
soothyl
slayn
was
he.
Thanne
wolde
I
shewe
yow,
how
that
I
koude
pleyne
For
Chauntecleres
drede
and
for
his
peyne.
Certes,
swich
cry
ne
lamentacioun
Was
nevere
of
ladyes
maad,
whan
Ylioun
Was
wonne,
and
Pirrus
with
his
streite
swerd,
Whan
he
hadde
hent
kyng
Priam
by
the
berd,
And
slayn
hym,
as
seith
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
housbonde
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
hirselven
with
a
stedefast
herte.
O
woful
hennes,
right
so
criden
ye,
As
whan
that
Nero
brende
the
Citee
Of
Rome,
cryden
senatoures
wyves,
For
that
hir
husbondes
losten
alle
hir
lyves,
Withouten
gilt
this
Nero
hath
hem
slayn.
Now
I
wole
turne
to
my
tale
agayn.
This
sely
wydwe,
and
eek
hir
doghtres
two,
Herden
thise
hennes
crie,
and
maken
wo,
And
out
at
dores
stirten
they
anon,
And
seyn
the
fox
toward
the
grove
gon,
And
bar
upon
his
bak
the
cok
away;
And
cryden,
"Out!
harrow!
and
weylaway!
Ha!
ha!
the
fox!"
and
after
hym
they
ran,
And
eek
with
staves
many
another
man,
Ran
Colle,
oure
dogge,
and
Talbot,
and
Gerland,
And
Malkyn
with
a
dystaf
in
hir
hand,
Ran
cow
and
calf,
and
eek
the
verray
hogges,
So
were
they
fered
for
berkying
of
the
dogges,
And
shoutyng
of
the
men
and
wommen
eek,
They
ronne
so,
hem
thoughte
hir
herte
breek;
They
yolleden
as
feends
doon
in
helle,
The
dokes
cryden
as
men
wolde
hem
quelle,
The
gees
for
feere
flowen
over
the
trees,
Out
of
the
hyve
cam
the
swarm
of
bees,
So
hydous
was
the
noyse,
a!
benedicitee!
Certes,
he
Jakke
Straw
and
his
meynee
Ne
made
nevere
shoutes
half
so
shille,
Whan
that
they
wolden
any
Flemyng
kille,
As
thilke
day
was
maad
upon
the
fox.
Of
bras
they
broghten
bemes
and
of
box,
Of
horn,
of
boon,
in
whiche
they
blewe
and
powped,
And
therwithal
they
skriked
and
they
howped,
It
seemed
as
that
hevene
sholde
falle!
Now,
goode
men,
I
pray
yow,
herkneth
alle.
Lo,
how
Fortune
turneth
sodeynly
The
hope
and
pryde
eek
of
hir
enemy!
This
cok,
that
lay
upon
the
foxes
bak,
In
al
his
drede
unto
the
fox
he
spak,
And
seyde,
"Sire,
if
that
I
were
as
ye,
Yet
wolde
I
seyn,
as
wys
God
helpe
me,
`Turneth
agayn,
ye
proude
cherles
alle,
A
verray
pestilence
upon
yow
falle!
Now
am
I
come
unto
the
wodes
syde,
Maugree
youre
heed,
the
cok
shal
heere
abyde,
I
wol
hym
ete,
in
feith,
and
that
anon,'"
The
fox
answerde,
"In
feith,
it
shal
be
don."
And
as
he
spak
that
word,
al
sodeynly
This
cok
brak
from
his
mouth
delyverly,
And
heighe
upon
a
tree
he
fleigh
anon.
And
whan
the
fox
saugh
that
he
was
gon,
"Allas!"
quod
he,
"O
Chauntecleer,
allas!
I
have
to
yow,"
quod
he,
"ydoon
trespas,
In
as
muche
as
I
maked
yow
aferd,
Whan
I
yow
hente
and
broght
into
this
yerd.
But,
sire,
I
dide
it
of
no
wikke
entente,
Com
doun,
and
I
shal
telle
yow
what
I
mente;
I
shal
seye
sooth
to
yow,
God
help
me
so."
"Nay,
thanne,"
quod
he,
"I
shrewe
us
bothe
two,
And
first
I
shrewe
myself
bothe
blood
and
bones,
If
thou
bigyle
me
ofter
than
ones.
Thou
shalt
namoore,
thurgh
thy
flaterye,
Do
me
to
synge
and
wynke
with
myn
eye;
For
he
that
wynketh
whan
he
sholde
see,
Al
wilfully,
God
lat
him
nevere
thee."
"Nay,"
quod
the
fox,
"but
God
yeve
hym
meschaunce,
That
is
so
undiscreet
of
governaunce,
That
jangleth,
whan
he
sholde
holde
his
pees."
Lo,
swich
it
si
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
moralite,
goode
men;
For
seint
Paul
seith,
that
al
that
writen
is,
To
oure
doctrine
it
is
ywrite,
ywis.
Taketh
the
fruyt,
and
lat
the
chaf
be
stille.
Now
goode
God,
if
that
it
be
thy
wille,
As
seith
my
lord,
so
make
us
alle
goode
men,
And
brynge
us
to
his
heighe
blisse.
Amen.
Heere
is
ended
the
Nonnes
Preestes
tale.
