Be you afraid of me who is your friend?
Now certainly, I’d be worse than a fiend,
If I to you wished harm or wrong.
I’ve not come to spy on your privacy,
But truly, the cause of my coming
Was only to listen to how you sing.
For truly you have as nice a voice
As any angel in heaven;
Therewith you have in music more feeling
Than had Boethius,17 or any who can sing.
My lord your father (God his soul bless!)
And also your mother, because of her gentleness,
Have in my house been, to my great satisfaction;
And certainly, sir, most willingly would I you please.
But since men speak of singing, I will say,
So may I profit by my eyes two,
Except you, I never heard man so sing
As did your father in the morning.
Truly, it was from the heart, all that he sung.
And for to make his voice the more strong,
He would take such pains that both his eyes
He most 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 ravissed with his flaterye.
Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour
Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour,
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.
O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed!
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!
Alias, 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,
He had to shut, so loud he would cry,
And stand on his tiptoes at the same time,
And stretch forth his neck long and thin.
And also he was of such wisdom
That there was no man in any region
Who him in song or wisdom might pass.
I have well read in ‘Sir Burnel the Ass,’18
Among that book’s verses, how there was a cock,
Who because a priest’s son gave him a knock
Upon his leg, while he was young and foolish,
He made him lose his benefice.
But certainly, there is no comparison
Between the wisdom and discretion
Of your father, and that other rooster.
Now sing, sir, for holy charity!
Let’s see, can you your father imitate?”
This Chanticleer his wings began to beat,
As one who could not see the fox’s treason,
So ravished was he by his flattery.
Alas! you lords, many a false flatterer
Is in your courts, and many a deceiving liar,
Who please you well more, by my faith,
Than he who truthfulness unto you speaks.
Read Ecclesiastes on flattery;19
Beware, you lords, of their treachery.
This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
Stretching his neck, and held his eyes closed,
And began to crow loud for the moment;
And Sir Russell the fox started up at once
And by the throat seized Chanticleer,
And on his back carried toward the wood,
With no one yet in pursuit.
Oh destiny, that may not be eschewed!
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!
Alas, his wife took no heed of dreams!
And on a Friday befell all this mischance.
Oh Venus, who is goddess of pleasure,
Since that your servant was this Chanticleer,
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 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 lamentacioun
Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun
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,
Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf,
Whan that hir housbond 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 hir-selven with a stedfast herte.
O woful hennes, right so cryden ye,
As, whan that Nero brende the citee
Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves,
For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyves;
Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn.
Now wol I torne to my tale agayn:—
This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two,
Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo,
And out at dores sterten they anoon,
And seyen 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;
And in your service did all he could,
More for delight than world to multiply,
Why would you suffer him on your day to die?20
Oh Geoffrey, dear sovereign master,21
Who when your worthy King Richard was slain by
An arrow, you lamented his death so sorely,
Why do I not have your wisdom and your lore,
To chide Friday, as you did?
(For on Friday truly slain was he.)
Then would I show you that I could lament
For Chanticleer’s fear, and for his pain.
Truly, no such cry or lamentation
Was ever by ladies made when Troy
Was won, and Pyrrhus with his straight sword,
When he had seized king Priam22 by the beard,
And sl
ain him (as tells us the Aeneid),
As made all the hens in the yard,
When they had seen what happened to Chanticleer.
But above all dame Pertelote shrieked
Full louder than did Hasdrubal’s wife,23
When her husband had lost his life,
And the Romans had burned Carthage:
She was so full of torment and rage
That willfully into the fire she leapt,
And burned herself to death, with a steadfast heart.
Oh woeful hens, you cried
As did the Roman senators’ wives
When Nero burned the city down
And their husbands lost their lives
When, though guiltless, Nero slew them.
Now will I turn to my tale again.
This good widow and her daughters two
Heard these hens crying and making woe,
And out of the door they leapt anon,
And saw the fox toward the grove going,
And carrying upon his back the cock away;
And cried, “Out! Help! and wellaway!
Ha, ha, the fox!” and after him they ran
And also with sticks 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 Jakke 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, alias!
I have to yow,” quod he, “y-doon trespas,
Ran Colle the dog, and Talbot, and Gerland,24
And Malkin, with a distaff in her hand;
Ran cow and calf, and also the very hogs,
So frightened by the barking of the dogs
And shouting of the men and women too,
They ran so they thought their hearts would burst.
They yelled as fiends do in hell;
The ducks quacked as if men would them kill;
The geese for fear flew over the trees;
Out of the hive came the swarm of bees;
So hideous was the noise, a! benedicite!
Certainly, Jack Straw and his company25
Never made shouts half so shrill
When they would any Fleming26 kill,
As that day was made upon the fox.
Of brass they brought trumpets, and of boxwood,
Of horn, of bone, in which they blew and puffed,
And therewith they shrieked and they whooped:
It seemed as if heaven should fall.
Now, good men, I pray you listen all!
Look, how Fortune overturns suddenly
The hope and pride of her enemy!
This cock, that lay upon the fox’s back,
In all his fear unto the fox he spoke,
And said, “Sir, if I were you,
Yet should I say, may God help me,
‘Turn again, you proud churls all!
A very pestilence upon you fall!
Now I am coming into this woodside,
Despite your effort, this cock shall here abide;
I will eat him in faith, and that anon.’ ”
The fox answered, “In faith, it shall be done,”
And as he spoke that word, all suddenly
This cock broke from his mouth quite nimbly,
And high upon a tree he flew anon.
And when the fox saw that the cock was gone,
“Alas!” said he, “O Chanticleer, alas!
I have to you,” said he, “done trespass,
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 ye.
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 jangleth whan he sholde holde his pees.”
Lo, swich it is 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 moralitee, good men.
For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is,
To our doctryne it is y-write, y-wis.
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.
Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille,
As seith my lord, so make us alle good men;
And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen.
The Epilogue
“Sir Nonnes Preest;” our hoste seyde anoon,
”Y-blessed be thy breche, and every stoon!
This was a mery tale of Chauntecleer.
But, by my trouthe, if thou were seculer,
Thou woldest been a trede-foul a-right.
For, if thou have corage as thou hast might,
Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,
Ya, mo than seven tymes seventene.
See, whiche braunes hath this gentil Preest,
So greet a nekke, and swich a large breest!
Inasmuch as I made you afraid
When I you seized and brought out of the yard.
But sir, I did it with no wicked intent;
Come down, and I shall tell you what I meant.
I tell you the truth, God help me so.”
“No, then,” said he, ”I curse us both two,
And first I curse myself, both blood and bones,
If you deceive me more than once.
You shall no more, through your flattery,
Cause me to sing and close my eyes.
For he who blinks when he should look,
All willfully, may God not give him luck!” “No,” said the fox, ”but God give him mischance,
Who is so indiscreet of self-governance
That chatters when he should hold his tongue.”
Look, this is the way it is to be reckless
And negligent, and trust in flattery.
But you that hold this tale a trifle,
As of a fox, or of a cock and hen,
Take the moral of it, good men.
For Saint Paul says all that is written,27
Was written for our benefit.
Take the fruit, and let the husks be still.
Now, good God, if that it be your will,
As says my bishop, so make us all good men,
And bring us to his high bliss. Amen.
The Epilogue
“Sir Nun’s Priest;” our Host said at once,
”Blessed be your loins and your balls!
This was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
But by my troth, if you were secular,
You would have been some rooster.
For if you have spirit as you have strength,
You would need of hens, I would guess,
Yea, more than seventeen times seven.
See, what muscles has this gentle priest,
So great a neck, and such a large breast!
He loketh as a sperhauk with his yen;
Him nedeth nat his colour for to dyen
With brasil, ne with greyn of Portingale.
Now sire, faire falle yow for youre tale!”
He looks as does a sparrowhawk with his eyes;
He need not his complexion to dye
With red powder, nor with red dye from Portugal.
Now sir, may good befall you for your tale!”
The Chanouns Yemannes Tale
The Prologue
WHAN ENDED WAS THE lyf of seint Cecyle,
Er we had ridden fully fyve myle,
At Boghton under Blee us gan atake
A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,
And undernethe he hadde a whyt surplys.
His hakeney, that was al pomely grys,
So swatte, that it wonder was to see;
It semed he had priked myles three.
The hors eek that his yeman rood upon
So swatte, that unnethe mighte it gon.
Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,
He was of fome al flekked as a pye.
A male tweyfold on his croper lay,
It semed that he caried lyte array.
Al light for somer rood this worthy man,
And in myn herte wondren I bigan
What that he was, til that I understood
How that his cloke was sowed to his hood;
For which, when I had longe avysed me,
I demed him som chanon for to be.
His hat heng at his bak doun by a laas,
For he had riden more than trot or paas;
He had ay priked lyk as he were wood.
A clote-leef he hadde under his hood
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 64