Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.

His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres,
With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres;
His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye.
Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; 140
This caused me my groning, doutelees.'

'Avoy!' quod she, 'fy on yow, hertelees!

Allas!' quod she,' for, by that god above,
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love;
I can nat love a coward, by my feith.
For certes, what so any womman seith,
We alle desyren, if it mighte be,
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,
And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool,
Ne him that is agast of every tool,
Ne noon avauntour, by that god above!
How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your
love,

150

That any thing mighte make yow aferd?
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?
Allas! and conne ye been agast of swevenis?
No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven is.
Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,
And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns,

Which causeth folk to dreden in here dremes

Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes,
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte,
Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte;
Right as the humour of malencolye
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,
For fere of blake beres, or boles blake,
Or elles, blake develes wole hem take. 170
Of othere humours coude I telle also,
That werken many a man in sleep ful wo;
But I wol passe as lightly as I can.

Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,' quod she, 'whan we flee fro the bemes,

For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;
Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye,
That bothe of colere and of malencolye 180
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie,
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow,
That shul ben for your hele, and for your

But nathelees, as touching daun Catoun,
That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun,
Though that he bad no dremes for to drede.
By god, men may in olde bokes rede
Of many a man, more of auctoritee
Than ever Catoun was, so mote I thee, 210
Than al the revers seyn of his sentence,
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significaciouns,
As wel of Ioye as tribulaciouns
That folk enduren in this lyf present.
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument;
The verray preve sheweth it in dede.'

Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede

220

Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente
On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente;
And happed so, thay come into a toun,
Wher-as ther was swich congregacioun
Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage,
That they ne founde as muche as o cotage,
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be.
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee,
As for that night, departen compaignye;
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,
And took his logging as it wolde falle.
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was logged wel y-nough,
As was his aventure, or his fortune,
That us governeth alle as in commune.

230

240

And so bifel, that, longe er it were day, This man mette in his bed, ther-as he lay, How that his felawe gan up-on him calle, And seyde, 'allas! for in an oxes stalle This night I shal be mordred ther I lye. Now help me, dere brother, er I dye; In alle haste com to me,' he sayde. This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde; But whan that he was wakned of his sleep, He turned him, and took of this no keep; Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. Thus twyes in his sleping dremed he. And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe Cam, as him thoughte, and seide,' I am now slawe;

Bihold my blody woundes, depe and wyde! Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde,

250

And at the west gate of the toun,' quod he, 'A carte ful of donge ther shaltow see, In which my body is hid ful prively; Do thilke carte aresten boldely. My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn;' And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn,

With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.
And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,
To his felawes in he took the way;
And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle,
After his felawe he bigan to calle.

260

The hostiler answered him anon,
And seyde, sire, your felawe is agon,
As sone as day he wente out of the toun.'
This man gan fallen in suspecioun,

Remembring on his dremes that he mette,
And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette,
Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond
A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond, 270
That was arrayed in the same wyse
As ye han herd the dede man devyse;
And with an hardy herte he gan to crye
Vengeaunce and Iustice of this felonye:-
'My felawe mordred is this same night,
And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.
I crye out on the ministres,' quod he,

That sholden kepe and reulen this citee; Harrow! allas! her lyth my felawe slayn!' What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn? 280 The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde,

And in the middel of the dong they founde The dede man, that mordred was al newe.

289

O blisful god, that art so Iust and trewe! Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway! Mordre wol out, that see we day by day. Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable To god, that is so Iust and resonable, That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be; Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three, Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun. And right anoon, ministres of that toun Han bent the carter, and so sore him pyned, And eek the hostiler so sore engyued, That thay biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon, And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon.

Here may men seen that dremes been to drede.

300

And certes, in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbe nat, so have I Ioye or blis,)
Two men that wolde han passed over see,
For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree,
If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie,
That made hem in a citee for to tarie,
That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde.
But on a day, agayn the even-tyde,
The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as
hem leste.

Iolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste

And casten hem ful erly for to saille;
But to that oo man fil a greet mervaille. 310
That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay,
Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day;
Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes
syde,

And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde, And seyde him thus, if thou to-morwe wende,

Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.'

He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,

And preyde him his viage for to lette;
As for that day, he preyde him to abyde.
His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde, 320
Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful
faste.

'No dreem,' quod he, 'may so myn herte

way.

But er that he hadde halfe his cours y-seyled, Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled,

But casuelly the shippes botme rente,
And ship and man under the water wente
In sighte of othere shippes it byside,
That with hem seyled at the same tyde.
And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere,
By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere, 340
That no man sholde been to recchelees
Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees,
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede,
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing;
A lyte er he was mordred, on a day,
His mordre in his avisioun he say.
His norice him exponned every del
His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him

Of any dreem, so holy was his herte.
By god, I hadde lever than my sherte
That ye had rad his legende, as have I.
Dame Pertelote, I sey yow trewely,
Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun,
Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been
Warning of thinges that men after seen. 360
And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel
In the olde testament, of Daniel,

If he held dremes any vanitee.

Reed eek of Ioseph, and ther shul ye see
Wher dremes ben somtyme (I sey nat alle)
Warning of thinges that shul after falle.
Loke of Egipt the king, daun Pharao,
His bakere and his boteler also,

Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes.
Who-so wol seken actes of sondry remes, 370
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.
Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king,
Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he sholde anhanged be?
Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf,
That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf,
She dremed on the same night biforn,
How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn,
If thilke day he wente in-to bataille;
She warned him, but it mighte nat availle;
He wente for to fighte nathelees,
But he was slayn anoon of Achilles.
But thilke tale is al to long to telle,
And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle.
Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun,
That I shal han of this avisioun
Adversitee; and I seye forther-more,
That I ne telle of laxatyves no store,
For they ben venimous, I woot it wel;
I hem defye, I love hem never a del.
Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al
this;

381

390

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,

400

410

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.

420

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 some ago; 440
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.

460

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, 470
That in scole is gret altercacioun
In this matere, and greet disputisoun,
And hath ben of an hundred thousand men.
But I ne cau 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.

480

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

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, 520
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, 530
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, 541
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 bave 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. 550
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.

Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losen

geour,

560

That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith.

Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye;
Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye.
This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his
toos,

Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos,

And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed.

571

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?
580

O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn,
That, whan thy worthy king Richard was

slayn

With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore,

The Friday for to chyde, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne

For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.

Certes, swich cry ne lamentacionn
Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun 590
Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite
swerd,

Whan he hadde hent king Priam by the berd,
And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos),
As maden alle the hennes in the clos,
Whan they had seyn of Chauntecleer the
sighte.

But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte,