And in his benefice another placed. Now sing, my lord, if not for love of me, Yet for the sake of sweet saint charity; Make hills and dales, and earth and heaven, rejoice, And emulate your father's angel-voice.-- The cock was pleased to hear him speak so fair, And proud beside, as solar people are; Nor could the treason from the truth descry, So was he ravished with this flattery: So much the more, as from a little elf, He had a high opinion of himself; Though sickly, slender, and not large of limb, Concluding all the world was made for him. Ye princes, raised by poets to the gods, And Alexandered up in lying odes, Believe not every flattering knave's report, There's many a Reynard lurking in the court; And he shall be received with more regard, And listened to, than modest truth is heard. This Chanticleer, of whom the story sings, Stood high upon his toes, and clapped his wings; Then stretched his neck, and winked with both his eyes, Ambitious, as he sought the Olympic prize. But while he pained himself to raise his note, False Reynard rushed, and caught him by the throat. Then on his back he laid the precious load, And sought his wonted shelter of the wood; Swiftly he made his way, the mischief done, Of all unheeded, and pursued by none. Alas! what stay is there in human state, Or who can shun inevitable fate? The doom was written, the decree was past, Ere the foundations of the world were cast! In Aries though the sun exalted stood, His patron-planet to procure his good; Yet Saturn was his mortal foe, and he, In Libra raised, opposed the same degree: The rays both good and bad, of equal power, Each thwarting other, made a mingled hour. On Friday-morn he dreamt this direful dream, Cross to the worthy native,[189] in his scheme. Ah blissful Venus! goddess of delight! How couldst thou suffer thy devoted knight, On thy own day, to fall by foe oppressed, The wight of all the world who served thee best? Who, true to love, was all for recreation, And minded not the work of propagation? Ganfride, who couldst so well in rhyme complain The death of Richard with an arrow slain, Why had not I thy muse, or thou my heart, To sing this heavy dirge with equal art! That I like thee on Friday might complain; For on that day was Cœur de Lion slain.--[190] Not louder cries, when Ilium was in flames, Were sent to heaven by woful Trojan dames, When Pyrrhus tossed on high his burnished blade, } And offered Priam to his father's shade, } Than for the cock the widowed poultry made. } Fair Partlet first, when he was borne from sight, With sovereign shrieks bewailed her captive knight; Far louder than the Carthaginian wife, When Asdrubal her husband lost his life, When she beheld the smouldring flames ascend, And all the Punic glories at an end: Willing into the fires she plunged her head,