Al this route of ratons To this reson thei assented. Ac tho the belle was y-brought, And on the beighe hanged, 350 Ther ne was raton in al the route, For al the reaume of Fraunce, That dorste have bounden the belle About the cattes nekke, Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals, Al Engelond to wynne. Alle helden hem un-hardy, And hir counseil feble; And leten hire labour lost And al hire longe studie. 360 {12} A mous that muche good Kouthe, as me thoughte, Strook forth sternely, And stood bifore hem alle, And to the route of ratons Reherced thise wordes: "Though we killen the cat, Yet sholde ther come another To cacchen us and al oure kynde, Though we cropen under benches. 370 For-thi I counseille al the commune To late the cat worthe; And be we nevere bolde The belle hym to shewe; For I herde my sire seyn, Is seven yeer y-passed, Ther the cat is a kitone The court is ful elenge; That witnesseth holy writ, Who so wole it rede: 380 _Væ terræ ubi puer rex est! etc._ For may no renk ther reste have For ratons by nyghte; The while he caccheth conynges, He coveiteth noght youre caroyne, But fedeth hym al with venyson: Defame we hym nevere. For better is a litel los Than a long sorwe, The maze among us alle, 390 Theigh we mysse a sherewe; For many mennes malt We mees wolde destruye, And also ye route of ratons {13} Rende mennes clothes, Nere the cat of that court That can yow over-lepe; For hadde ye rattes youre wille, Ye kouthe noght rule yow selve." "I seye for me," quod the mous, 400 "I se so muchel after, Shal nevere the cat ne the kiton By my counseil be greved, Thorugh carpynge of this coler That costed me nevere And though it hadde costned me catel, Bi-knowen it I nolde, But suffren, as hymself wolde, To doon as hym liketh, Coupled and uncoupled 410 To cacche what thei mowe. For-thi ech a wis wight I warne, Wite wel his owene." What this metels by-meneth, Ye men that ben murye Devyne ye, for I ne dar, By deere God in hevene. Yet hoved ther an hundred In howves of selk, Sergeantz it bi-semed 420 That serveden at the barre, Pleteden for penyes And poundes the lawe; And noght for love of our Lord Unclose hire lippes ones. Thow myghtest bettre meete myst On Malverne hilles, Than gete a mom of hire mouth, {14} Til moneie be shewed.