The Nonne Prestes Tale

Then spak our Ost with rude speche and bold,
And said unto the nonnes priest anon,
“Com near, thou priest, come near, thou sir Johan,
Tel us such things as may our hertes glade;
Be blithe, although thou ryde upon a jade.
What though thin hors be bothe foul and lene?
If he wil serve thee reck thee not a bene;
Look that thin hert be mery evermo.”
“Yis, sir, yis, Hoste,” quoth he, “so may I go,
But I be mery, count it me a sin.”
And right anon he did his tale beginne;
And thus he sayd unto us every one,
This sweete priest, this goodly man sir John.

A pore wydow, somwhat stooped in age,
Was whilom duellyng in a narrow cotáge,
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale.
This wydowe, of which I telle yow my tale,
Syn that same day that she was last a wif,
In paciens ladde a ful symple lyf.
For litel was hir catel and hir rent;
By housbondry of such as God hir sent,
She fond hirself, and eek hir doughtres tuo.
Thre large sowes had she, and no mo,
Thre kyne, and eek a sheep tha highte Malle.
Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle,
In which she eet ful many a slender bit.
Of poynaunt sauce hir needid never a whit.
No deynte morsel passid thrugh hir throte;
Hir dyet was according to hir cote.
Repletion had made hir never sik;
Ful modest diet was al hir phisik,
And exercise, and labour and singyng.
The goute stayed hir not in hir daunsyng,
The apoplexie shooke not hir heed;
No wyne drank she, neither whit ne reed;
Hir bord was servyd most with whit and blak,
Milk and broun bred, in which she fond no lak,
Rost bacoun, and som tyme an egg or two;
And on her poore ferme she livèd so.
A yerd she had, enclosèd al aboute
With stikkes, and a drye ditch withoute,
In which she had a cok, hight Chaunteclere,
In al the lond of crowyng was none his peere.
His vois was merier than the mery orgon,
On masse dayes that in the chirche drone;
Wel surer was his crowyng in his cell,
Than is a clok, or yet an abbay bell,
By nature knew he ech ascension
Of all the houres that struck in thilke toun;
For when degrees fyftene were ascendid,
Thanne crew he wel, it might not be amendid.
His comb was redder than the fyn coral,
Embattled, as it were a castel wal.
His bill was blak, and lyke jet it shon;
Lik azure were his legges, and his tone;
His nayles whitter than the lily flour,
And lik the burnisht gold was his coloúr.
This gentil cok had in his governaunce
Seven hennes, for to do al his plesaúnce,
Which were his sustres and his paramoures,
And wonder lik to him, in there coloúres.
Of whiche the fairest coloured on hir throte,
Was clepèd fayre damysel Pertilote.
Curteys she was, discret, and debonaire,
And king in thoughte, and bar hirself ful faire,
Since the day that she was seven night old,
That she hath trewely the hert in hold
Of Chaunteclere lockèd in every limb;
He loved hir so, that wel it was with him.
But such a joye was it to here him synge,
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe,
In swete accord, “my love is gone and fledde.”
For at that tyme, as I have ever redde,
Bestis and briddes coude speke and synge.
And so byfel, that in a bright morning,
As Chaunteclere among his wyves alle
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,
And next him sat this faire Pertelote,
This Chauntecler gan gronen in his throte,
As man that in his dreem is trobled sore.
And whan that Pertelot thus herd him rore,
She was agast, and sayde, “herte deere,
What aileth you to grone in this manére?
Ye be a verray sleper, fy for shame!”
And he answerd and sayde thus, “Madame,
I pray you, that ye take it nought in grief:
By God, me thought I was in such meschief
Right now, that yet myn hert is sore afright.
Now God,” quoth he, “my dreaming rede aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoún
Me thought, how that I romèd up