And whan that Pertelote thus herd him rore She was agast, and saide, herte dere, What aileth you to grone in this manner? Ye ben a veray sleper, fy for shame. And he answered and sayde thus; Madame, I pray you that ye take it not agrefe; By God me mette I was in swiche mischiefe Right now, that yet min herte is sore afright. Now God (quod he) my sweven recche aright, And kepe my body out of foule prisoun. My mette how that I romed up and doun Within our yerde, wher as I saw a beste Was like an hound, and wold han made areste Upon my body, and han had me ded: His colour was betwix yelwe and red, And tipped was his tail and both his eres With black, unlike the remenant of his heres: His snout was smal, with glowing eyen twey; Yet for his loke almost for fere I dey: This caused me my groning douteles. Avoy, quod she; fy on you herteles. Alas! quod she, for by that God above Now han ye lost myn herte and all my love, I cannot love a coward by my faith; For certes, what so any woman saith, We al desiren, if it mighte be, To have an husbond hardy, wise, and free, And secree, and non niggard ne no fool, Ne him that is agast of every tool, Ne non avantour by that God above. How dorsten ye for shame say to your love That any thing might maken you aferde? Han ye no mannes herte and han a berde? Alas! and con ye ben agast of swevenis? Nothing but vanitee, God wote, in sweven is. Swevenes engendren of repletions, And oft of fume, and of complexions, Whan humours ben to habundant in a wight. Certes this dreme which ye han met to-night Cometh of the gret superfluitee Of youre rede _colera_ parde, Which causeth folk to dreden in her dremes Of arwes, and of fire with rede lemes, Of rede bestes that they wol hem bite, Of conteke, and of waspes gret and lite, Right as the humour of melancolie Causeth ful many a man in slepe to crie For fere of bolles and of beres blake, Or elles that blake devils wol hem take. Of other humours coud I telle also, That werken many a man in slepe moch wo; But I wol passe as lightly as I can. Lo Caton, which that was so wise a man, Said he not thus? Ne do no force of dremes. Now, Sire, quod she, whan we flee fro the bemes For Goddes love as take som laxatif: Up peril of my soule, and of my lif I counseil you the best, I wol not lie, That both of coler and of melancolie Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarie, Though in this toun be non apotecarie, I shal myself two herbes techen you That shal be for your hele and for your prow, And in our yerde the herbes shall I finde, The which han of hir propretee by kinde To purgen you benethe and eke above. Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love; Ye ben ful colerike of complexion;