So mote I brouken wel min eyen twey, Save you, ne herd I never man so sing As did your fader in the morwening: Certes it was of herte all that he song. And for to make his vois the more strong He wold so peine him, that with both his eyen He muste winke, so loude he walde crien, And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal, And stretchen forth his necke long and smal. And eke he was of swiche discretion, That ther n'as no man in no region That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. I have wel red in Dan Burnel the asse Among his vers, how that ther was a cok That for a preestes sone yave him a knok Upon his leg, while he was yonge and nice, He made him for to lese his benefice; But certain ther is no comparison Betwixt the wisdom and discretion Of your fader and his subtilitee. Now singeth, Sire, for Seint Charitee: Let see, can ye your fader countrefete? This Chaunteclere his winges gan to bete, As man that coud not his treson espie, So was he ravished with his flaterie. Alas! ye lordes, many a false flatour Is in your court, and many a losengeour, That pleseth you wel more, by my faith, Than he that sothfastnesse unto you saith, Redeth Ecclesiast of flaterie: Beth ware, ye lordes, of hire trecherie. This Chaunteclere stood high upon his toos Streching his necke, and held his eyen cloos And gan to crowen loude for the nones; And Dan Russel the fox stert up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chaunteclere, And on his back toward the wood him bere, For yet ne was ther no man that him sued. O destinee! that maist not ben eschued, Alas that Chaunteclere flew fro the bemes! Alas, his wif ne raughte not of dremes! And on a Friday fell all this meschance. O Venus! that art goddesse of Plesance, Sin that thy servant was this Chaunteclere, And in thy service did all his powere, More for delit, than world to multiplie, Why wolt thou suffre him on thy day to die? O Gaufride, dere maister soverain! That whan thy worthy King Richard was slain With shot, complainedst his deth so sore, Why ne had I now thy science and thy lore, The Friday for to chiden as did ye? (For on a Friday sothly slain was he) Then wold I shew you how that I coud plaine For Chauntecleres drede and for his paine. Certes swiche cry ne lamentation N'as never of ladies made whan Ilion Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd, When he had hent King Priam by the berd, And slain him, (as saith us _Eneidus_) As maden all the hennes in the cloos Whan they had seen of Chaunteclere the sight; But soverainly Dame Pertelote shright Ful louder than did Hasdruballes wif, Whan that hire husbond hadde ylost his lif, And that the Romaines hadden brent Cartage; She was so ful of turment and of rage