That wilfully into the fire she sterte, And brent hire selven with a stedfast herte. O woful hennes! right so criden ye, As whan that Nero brente the citee Of Rome, cried the Senatoures wives, For that hir husbonds losten alle hir lives. Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slain. Now wol I turne unto my tale again. The sely widewe and hire doughtren two, Harden these hennes crie and maken wo, And out at the dores sterten they anon, And saw the fox toward the wode is gon, And bare upon his back the cok away: They crieden out, Harow! and wala wa! A ha the fox! and after him they ran, And eke with staves many an other man; Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot and Gerlond, And Malkin, with hire distaf in hire hond; Ran cow and calf; and eke the veray hogges So fered were for barking of the dogges, And shouting of the men and women eke, They ronnen so, hem thought hir hertes breke; They yelleden as fendes don in helle; The dokes crieden as men wold hem quelle: The gees for fere flewen over the trees, Out of the hive came the swarme of bees, So hidous was the noise, a _benedicite_! Certes he Jakke Straw and his meinie, Ne maden never shoutes half so shrille, Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille, As thilke day was made upon the fox. Of bras they broughten beemes and of box, Of horn and bone, in which they blew and pouped, And therwithal they shriked and they houped; It semed as that the heven shulde falle. Now, goode men, I pray you herkeneth alle: Lo how Fortune turneth sodenly The hope and pride eke of hire enemy. This cok that lay upon the foxes bake, In all his drede unto the fox he spake, And sayde; Sire, if that I were as ye Yet wold I sayn, (as wisly God helpe me) Turneth agein, ye proude cherles alle, A veray pestilence upon you falle: Now I am come unto the wodes side, Maugre your hed, the cok shal here abide; I wol him ete in faith, and that anon. The fox answered, in faith it shal be don; And as he spake the word, al sodenly The cok brake from his mouth deliverly, And high upon a tree he flew anon. And whan the fox saw that the cok was gon, Alas! quod he, o Chaunteclere, alas! I have (quod he) ydon to you trespas, In as moche as I maked you aferd, Whan I you hente and brought out of your yerd; But, Sire, I did it in no wikke entente: Come doun, and I shal tell you what I mente: I shall say sothe to you, God help me so. Nay than, quod he, I shrewe us bothe two; And first I shrewe myself bothe blood and bones If thou begile me oftener than ones: Thou shalt no more thurgh thy flaterie Do me to sing and winken with myn eye, For he that winketh whan he shulde see, Al wilfully, God let him never the. Nay, quod the fox, but God yeve him meschance,