For first, or last, he's author of the sin. And who says that, let the blaspheming man Say worse even of the devil, if he can. For how can that Eternal Power be just To punish man, who sins because he must? Or, how can he reward a virtuous deed, Which is not done by us, but first decreed? I cannot bolt this matter to the bran, As Bradwardin[187] and holy Austin can: If prescience can determine actions so, That we must do, because he did foreknow, Or that foreknowing, yet our choice is free, Not forced to sin by strict necessity; This strict necessity they simple call, Another sort there is conditional. The first so binds the will, that things foreknown By spontaneity, not choice, are done. Thus galley-slaves tug willing at their oar, } Consent to work, in prospect of the shore; } But would not work at all, if not constrained before. } That other does not liberty constrain, But man may either act, or may refrain. Heaven made us agents free to good or ill, And forced it not, though he foresaw the will. Freedom was first bestowed on human race, And prescience only held the second place. If he could make such agents wholly free, I not dispute; the point's too high for me: For heaven's unfathomed 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, I wave, 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. 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 a hornet's nest. In other authors you may find enough, But all they say of dames is idle stuff. 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, Enjoyed 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 befel, that as he cast his eye, Among the colworts, on a butterfly, He saw false Reynard where he lay full low;