'Twas now the month in which the world began, (If March beheld the first created man): And since the vernal equinox, the sun, In Aries twelve degrees, or more, had run; When, casting up his eyes against the light, Both month, and day, and hour he measured right; 450 And told more truly than the Ephemeris: For art may err, but nature cannot miss. Thus numbering times and seasons in his breast, His second crowing the third hour confess'd. Then turning, said to Partlet, See, my dear, How lavish nature has adorn'd the year; How the pale primrose and blue violet spring, And birds essay their throats disused to sing: All these are ours; and I with pleasure see Man strutting on two legs, and aping me: 460 An unfledged creature, of a lumpish frame, Endow'd with fewer particles of flame; Our dame sits cowering o'er a kitchen fire, I draw fresh air, and nature's works admire: And even this day in more delight abound, Than, since I was an egg, I ever found. The time shall come when Chanticleer shall wish His words unsaid, and hate his boasted bliss: The crested bird shall by experience know, Jove made not him his masterpiece below; 470 And learn the latter end of joy is woe. The vessel of his bliss to dregs is run, And Heaven will have him taste his other tun. Ye wise, draw near, and hearken to my tale, Which proves that oft the proud by flattery fall: The legend is as true, I undertake, As Tristran is, and Launcelot of the lake: Which all our ladies in such reverence hold, As if in Book of Martyrs it were told. A fox, full-fraught with seeming sanctity, 480 That fear'd an oath, but, like the devil, would lie; Who look'd like Lent, and had the holy leer, And durst not sin before he said his prayer; This pious cheat, that never suck'd the blood, Nor chew'd the flesh of lambs, but when he could, Had pass'd three summers in the neighbouring wood: And musing long, whom next to circumvent, On Chanticleer his wicked fancy bent; And in his high imagination cast, By stratagem, to gratify his taste. 490 The plot contrived, before the break of day Saint Reynard through the hedge had made his way; The pale was next, but proudly with a bound He leapt the fence of the forbidden ground: Yet fearing to be seen, within a bed Of coleworts he conceal'd his wily head; Then skulk'd till afternoon, and watch'd his time (As murderers use) to perpetrate his crime.