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

      Loke of Egipt the king, Dan Pharao,

      His baker and his boteler also,

      Wheder they ne felten non effect in dremes.

      Who so wol seken actes of sondry remes

      May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.

      Lo Cresus, which that was of Lydie king,

      Mette he not that he sat upon a tree?

      Which signified he shuld anhanged be.

      Lo hire Adromacha, Hectores wif,

      That day that Hector shulde lese his lif,

      She dremed on the same nighte beforne

      How that the lif of Hector shuld be lorne

      If thilke day he went into bataille;

      She warned him, but it might not availle;

      He went forth for to fighten natheles,

      And was yslain anon of Achilles.

      But thilke tale is al to long to telle,

      And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwelle.

      Shortly I say, as for conclusion,

      That I shal han of this avision

      Adversitee; and I say forthermore,

      That I ne tell of laxatives no store,

      For they ben venimous, I wot it wel:

      I hem deffie; I love hem never a del.

      But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all this.

      Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,

      Of o thing God hath sent me large grace,

      For whan I see the beautee of your face,

      Ye ben so scarlet red about your eyen,

      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,

      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