That thou into thy yerd flew fro the bemes; Thou were ful wel ywarned by thy dremes That thilke day was perilous to thee: But what that God forewote most nedes be, After the opinion of certain clerkes, Witnesse on him that any parfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercation In this matere and gret disputison, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men: But I ne cannot boult it to the bren, As can the holy Doctour Augustin, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin, Whether that Goddes worthy foreweting Streineth me nedely for to don a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) Or elles if free chois be granted me To do that same thing, or do it nought, Though God forewot it, or that it was wrought; Or if his weting streineth never a del But by necessitee condicionel. I wol not han to don of swiche matere; My Tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his conseil of his wif and sorwe To walken in the yerd upon the morwe That he had met the dreme, as I you told. Womennes conseiles ben ful often cold; Womennes conseil brought us first to wo, And made Adam fro Paradis to go, Ther as he was ful mery and wel at ese: But for I n'ot to whom I might displese If I conseil of women wolde blame, Passe over, for I said it in my game. Rede auctours where they trete of swiche matere, And what they sayn of women ye mown here. Thise ben the Cokkes wordes and not mine; I can non harme of no woman devine. Faire in the sond, to bath hire merily, Lith Pertelote, and all hire susters by, Agein the sonne, and Chaunteclere so free Sang merrier than the mermaid in the see, For Phisiologus sayth sikerly How that they singen wel and merily. And so befell that as he cast his eye Among the wortes on a boterflie He was ware of this fox that lay ful low: Nothing ne list him thaune for to crow, But cried anon Cok, cok, and up he sterte As man that was affraied in his herte; For naturally a beest desireth flee Fro his contrarie if he may it see, Though he never erst had seen it with his eye. This Chaunteclere, whan he gan him espie, He wold han fled, but that the fox anon Said, Gentil Sire, alas! what wol ye don? Be ye affraid of me that am your frend? Now certes I were werse than any fend If I to you wold harme or vilanie. I n'am not come your conseil to espie, But trewely the cause of my coming Was only for to herken how ye sing. For trewely ye han as mery a steven As any angel hath that is in heven, Therwith ye han of musike more feling Than had Boece, or any that can sing. My Lord, your fader (God his soule blesse) And eke your moder of hire gentillesse Han in myn hous yben, to my gret ese, And certes, Sire, ful fain wold I you plese. But for men speke of singen, I wol sey,