It maketh all my drede for to dien; For al so siker as _In principio Mulier est hominis confusio_. (Madame, the sentence of this Latine is, Woman is mannes joye and mannes blis;) For whan I fele a-night your softe side, Al be it that I may not on you ride For that our perche is made so narwe, alas! I am so ful of joye and of solas That I deffie bothe sweven and dreme. And with that word he flew doun fro the beme, For it was day, and eke his hennes alle, And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, For he had found a corn lay in the yerd. Real he was, he was no more aferd; He fethered Pertelote twenty time, And trade hire eke as oft, er it was prime: He loketh as it were a grim leoun, And on his toos he rometh up and doun; Him deigned not to set his feet to ground: He chukketh, whan he hath a corn yfound, And to him rennen than his wives alle. Thus real, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chaunteclere in his pasture; And after wol I till his aventure. Whan that the month in which the world began, That highte March, whan God first maked man, Was complete, and ypassed were also, Sithen March ended thritty dayes and two, Befell that Chaunteclere in all his pride, His seven wives walking him beside, Cast up his eyen to the brighte sonne, That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne Twenty degrees and on, and somwhat more: He knew by kind, and by non other lore, That it was prime, and crew with blisful steven. The sonne, he said, is clomben up on heven Twenty degrees and on, and more ywis; Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkeneth thise blisful briddes how they sing, And see the freshe floures how they spring; Ful is min herte of revel, and solas. But sodenly him fell a sorweful cas, For ever the latter ende of joye is wo; God wote that worldly joye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endite He in a chronicle might it saufly write As for a soveraine notabilitee. Now every wise man let him herken me: This story is also trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot du Lake, That women holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I turne agen to my sentence. A col fox, ful of sleigh iniquitee, That in the grove had wonned yeres three, By high imagination forecast, The same night thurghout the hegges brast Into the yerd ther Chaunteclere the faire Was wont, and eke his wives, to repaire, And in a bedde of wortes stille he lay Till it was passed undern of the day, Waiting his time on Chaunteclere to falle, As gladly don thise homicides alle That in await liggen to mordre men. O false morderour! rucking in thy den, O newe Scariot, newe Genelon! O false dissimulour, o Greek Sinon! That broughtest Troye al utterly to sorwe, O Chaunteclere! accursed be the morwe,