If he could make such agents wholly free, I not dispute, the point's too high for me; For Heaven's unfathom'd power what man can sound, Or put to his Omnipotence a bound? He made us to his image, all agree; That image is the soul, and that must be, Or not, the Maker's image, or be free. But whether it were better man had been By nature bound to good, not free to sin, 550 I waive, for fear of splitting on a rock, The tale I tell is only of a cock; Who had not run the hazard of his life, Had he believed his dream, and not his wife: For women, with a mischief to their kind, Pervert with bad advice our better mind. A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he lived; and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin. 560 For what the devil had their sex to do, That, born to folly, they presumed to know, And could not see the serpent in the grass? But I myself presume, and let it pass. Silence in times of suffering is the best, 'Tis dangerous to disturb an hornet's nest. In other authors you may find enough, But all they say of dames is idle stuff: 568 Legends of lying wits together bound, The Wife of Bath would throw them to the ground; These are the words of Chanticleer, not mine; I honour dames, and think their sex divine. Now to continue what my tale begun: Lay Madam Partlet basking in the sun, Breast-high in sand: her sisters in a row Enjoy'd the beams above, the warmth below; The cock, that of his flesh was ever free, Sung merrier than the mermaid in the sea: And so befell, that as he cast his eye Among the coleworts on a butterfly, 580 He saw false Reynard where he lay full low: I need not swear he had no list to crow: But cried _cock, cock_, and gave a sudden start, As sore dismay'd, and frighted at his heart: For birds and beasts, inform'd by nature, know Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their foe; So Chanticleer, who never saw a fox, Yet shunn'd him as a sailor shuns the rocks. But the false loon, who could not work his will But open force, employ'd his flattering skill; 590 I hope, my lord, said he, I not offend; Are you afraid of me, that am your friend? I were a beast indeed to do you wrong, I, who have loved and honour'd you so long: Stay, gentle sir, nor take a false alarm, For, on my soul, I never meant you harm. I come no spy, nor as a traitor press, To learn the secrets of your soft recess: Far be from Reynard so profane a thought, But by the sweetness of your voice was brought: 600 For, as I bid my beads, by chance I heard The song as of an angel in the yard; A song that would have charm'd the infernal gods, And banish'd horror from the dark abodes: