The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

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      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,

      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

      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 СКАЧАТЬ