For naturally a beast desireth flee From his contráry if he may it see, Though he ne’er erst had seen it with his eye. This Chanticleer, when he ’gan him espy, He would have fled, but that the fox anon Said: “Gentle sir, alas! what will be done? Be ye afraid of me that am your friend? Now, certes, I were worse than any fiend If I to you would harm or villany. I am not come your counsel to espy; But truély the cause of my coming Was only for to hearken how ye sing, For truély ye have as merry a steven As any angel hath that is in heaven; Therwith ye have of music more feeling Than had Boece, or any that can sing. My Lord, your father (God his soulé bless!) And eke your mother of her gentleness, Have in my house ybeen to my great ease, And certés, Sir, full fain would I you please. But for men speak of singing, I will say, (So may I brouken well my eyen tway,) Save you, ne heard I never man so sing As did your father in the morrowning: Certés it was of heart all that he sung: And for to make his voice the moré strong He would so pain him, that with both his eyen He musté wink, so loud he wouldé crien, And standen on his tiptoes therewithal, And stretchen forth his necké long and small. And eke he was of such discretion, That there n’as no man in no región That him in song or wisdom mighté pass. I have well read in Dan Burnel the ass Among his Vers, how that there was a cock, That for a Priestés son gave him a knock Upon his leg when he was young and nice He made him for to lose his benefice; But certain there is no comparison Betwixt the wisdom and discretion Of youré father and his subtilty. Now singeth, Sir, for Sainté Charity: Let see, can ye your father counterfeit? This Chanticleer his wingés ’gan to beat, As man that could not his treason espy, So was he ravished with his flattery. Alas! ye lordés, many a false flatour Is in your court, and many a losengeour, That pleaseth you well moré, by my faith, Than he that sothfastness unto you saith. Readeth Ecclesiast of flattery: Beware ye lordés of their treachery. This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close, And ’gan to crowen loude for the nones; And Dan Russell the fox start up at once, And by the gargat henté Chanticleer And on his back toward the wood him bear, For yet ne was there no man that him sued. O destiny! that mayst not be eschew’d, Alas that Chanticleer flew from the beams, Alas his wife ne raughté not of dreams! And on a Friday fell all this mischance. _TO MY EMPTY PURSE_