He muste wink, so loud he woulde crien, And standen on his tipton therewithal, And stretchen forth his necke long and small. And eke he was of such discretion, That there nas no man in no region, That him in song or wisdom mighte pass. I have well read in Dan Burnel the ass Among his verse, how that there was a cock, For that a priestes son gave him a knock Upon his leg, while he was young and nice,[389] He made him for to lese his benefice. But certain there nis no comparison Betwix the wisdom and discretion Of your father, and of his subtilty. Now singeth, sir, for sainte Charity, Let see, can ye your father counterfeit?" This Chanticleer his winges gan to beat, As man that could his treason not espy, So was he ravished with his flattery. Alas! ye lordes, many a false flatour[390] Is in your courts, and many a losengeour,[390] That pleasen you well more, by my faith, Than he that soothfastness[391] unto you saith. Readeth Ecclesiast of flattery, Beware, ye lordes, of hir treachery. This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close, And gan to crowen loude for the nonce: And Dan Russel the fox start up at once, And by the garget[392] hente[393] Chanticleer, And on his back toward the wood him bare. For yet ne was there no man that him sued.[394] O destiny, that mayst not be eschewed! Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams! Alas, his wife ne raughte[395] not of dreams! And on a Friday fell all this mischance. O Venus, that art goddess of pleasance. Sin that thy servant was this Chanticleer, And in thy service did all his power, More for delight, than world to multiply, Why wouldst thou suffer him on thy day to die? O Gaufrid, deare master sovereign, That, when thy worthy king Richard was slain With shot, complainedest his death so sore, Why nad[396] I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye?-- For on a Friday soothly slain was he,-- Then would I shew you how that I could plain For Chanticleeres dread, and for his pain. Certes such cry, ne lamentation Was ne'er of ladies made, when Ilion Was won, and Pyrrhus with his streite[397] swerd, When he had hent king Priam by the beard, And slain him, as saith us _AEneidos_, As maden all the hennes in the close, When they had seen of Chanticleer the sight. But sovereignly Dame Partelote shright,[398] Full louder than did Hasdrubales wife, When that her husband hadde lost his life, And that the Romans hadde burnt Carthage. She was so full of torment and of rage, That willfully into the fire she start, And brent[399] herselven with a steadfast heart. O woful hennes! right so crieden ye, As when that Nero brente[399] the city Of Rome, crieden senatores wives For that their husbands losten all hir lives; Withouten guilt this Nero hath hem slain. Now will I turne to my tale again;