yard.
Royal he was, he was nomore aferd;
He fetherid Pertelote twenty tyme,
And trad as often, ere that it was prime.
He lokith as it were a grim lioún;
And on his toes he rometh up and doun,
Him deynèd not to set his foot to grounde.
He chukkith, whan he hath a corn i-founde,
And to him rennen then his wifes alle.

Thus royal, as a prince is in his halle,
Leve I this chaunteclere in his pastúre;
And after wil I telle his á ventúre.
Whan that the moneth in which the world bigan,
That highte March, whan God first makéd man,
Was complet, and y-passéd were also,
Since March bygan, tway monthes and dayes tuo,
Byfell that Chaunteclere in al his pride,
His seven wyves walkyng by his syde,
Cast up his eyen to the brighte sonne,
That in the signe of Taurus had i-ronne
Twenty degrees and one, and somwhat more;
He knew by nature, and no other lore,
That it was prime, and crew with blisful crie.
“The sonne,” he sayde, “is clomben up on hy
Twenty degrees and one, and more i-wis.
Madame Pertelot, my worldes blis,
Herken these blisful briddes how thay synge,
And see these fresshe floures how thay springe;
Ful is myn hert of revel and solaás.”
But sodeinly him fel a sorrowful case;
For ever the latter end of joye is wo.
God wot that worldly joye is soone go;
And if a writer coude faire endite,
He in a chronique safely might it write,
As for a soverayn notabilitee.

Now every wys man let him herken me;
This story is as trewe, I undertake,
As is the book of Launcelot the Lake,
That wommen hold in ful gret reverence.
Now wil I torne agayn to my sentence.
A fals fox, ful of sleight and iniquitee,
That in the grove had dwelt for yeres thre,
By destinee and fates ordinaunce,
Is broke the same night thorough the fence
Into the yerd, where Chaunteclere the faire
Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire;
And in a bed of wortes stille he lay,
Til it was passéd the morning of the day,
Waytyng his tyme on Chaunteclere to falle;
As gladly do these homicides alle,
That in awayte lye to murthre men.
O false mordrer lurkyng in thy den!
O newe Scariot, newe Genilon!
False dissembler, O Greke Sinon,
That broughtest Troye al utterly to sorrow!
O Chauntecler, accursèd be the morrow,
That thou into the yerd flew fro the bemes!
Thou were ful wel i-warnèd by thy dremes,
That thilke day was perilous to thee.
But what that God forwot most needes be,
After the opynyoun of certeyn clerkis.
Witnesse him, that redeth on there werkes,
In scoles there is altercacioún
In this matier, gret disputacioún,
And hath ben of an hundred thousend men.
But yit I can not sift it to the bran,
As can the holy doctor Augustýn,
Or Boece, or the bisshop Bradwardyn,
Whether that Goddis worthy foreknowing
Constraineth me needly to do a thing,
(By need I mene simple necessitee);
Or else if ful free choice be graunted me
To do that same thing, or to do it not,
Though God foreknew it, ere that it was wrought;
Or if his knowing never constreineth me,
Save by condicional necessitee.
I wil not have to do with such matére;
My tale is of a cok, as ye shal here,
That took his counseil of his wyf with sorrow,
To walken in the yerd upon the morrow,
When he had dremed the dreme, that I you tolde.
Wymmens counseiles be ful ofte colde:
Wommanns counseile brought us first to wo,
And made Adam fro paradys to go,
Although he was ful mery, and wel at ease.
But as I know not whom it might displease,
If I counséil of womman wolde blame,
Pas over, for I sayd it in my game.
Rede authors, wher thay trete of such matére,
And what thay say of wommen ye may here.
These be the cokkes wordes, and not myne,
I can no harme of no wommen divine.
Faire in the sand, to bathe hir merily,
Lieth Pertelot, and alle hir sustres by,
Beneath the sonne; and Chaunteclere so free
Sang merier than the mermayd in the see;
For Phisiologus seith certeynly,
How that thay syngen wel and merily.
And so byfel that as he cast his eye
Among the wortes on a boterflye,
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.
Not caréd he a whit thanne for to crowe,
But cryde anon, “cok, cok,” and up he stert,
As man that was affrayèd in his hert.
For naturelly a beest desireth flee
From his contrárie, if he may it see,
Though never bifore he had seen it with his eye.

This Chaunteclere, when he gan it aspye,
He wold have fled, but that the fox anon
Said, “Gentil sir, allas! why wol ye gon?
Be ye affrayd of me that am youre frend?
Now, certes, I were worse than eny feend,
If I to you wold harm or vilonye.
I am not come your counsail to espye.
But trewely the cause of my comýnge
Was only for to herken how ye singe,
For trewely ye have as mery a crie,
As eny aungel hath, that is on hy;
Therwith ye have of musik more felýnge,
Than had Boéce, or eny that can synge.
My lord your fader (God his soule blesse)
And eke youre moder of her gentilesse
Have in myn hous ibeen, to my gret ease;
And certes, sir, ful fayn wold I you please.
But for men speke of syngyng, I wol say,
So may I kepe wel myn eyen tway,
Save ye, I herde never man so synge,
As did your fadir in the morwenynge.
Certes out of his herte it was he song.
And for to make his vois the more strong,
He wold so striven, that with bothe his eyen
He moste wynke, so lowde he wolde crien,
And stonden on his typtoes therwithal,
And streche forth his necke long and smal.
And eek he was of such discressioún,
That ther was no man in no regioún
That him in song