'The Nun's Priest's Tale' - Text

Witness some cleric perfect for his works,
That in the schools there's a great altercation
In this regard, and much high disputation
That has involved a hundred thousand men.
But I can't sift it to the bran with pen, As can the holy Doctor Augustine, Or Boethius, or Bishop Bradwardine, Whether the fact of God's great foreknowing Makes it right needful that I do a thing (By needful, I mean, of necessity); Or else, if a free choice he granted me, To do that same thing, or to do it not, Though God foreknew before the thing was wrought; Or if His knowing constrains never at all, Save by necessity conditional. I have no part in matters so austere; My tale is of a cock, as you shall hear, That took the counsel of his wife, with sorrow, To walk within the yard upon that morrow After he'd had the dream whereof I told. Now women's counsels oft are ill to hold; A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And Adam caused from Paradise to go, Wherein he was right merry and at ease. But since I know not whom it may displease If woman's counsel I hold up to blame, Pass over, I but said it in my game. Read authors where such matters do appear, And what they say of women, you may hear. These are the cock's words, they are none of mine; No harm in women can I e'er divine. All in the sand, a-bathing merrily, Lay Pertelote, with all her sisters by, There in the sun; and Chanticleer so free Sang merrier than a mermaid in the sea (For Physiologus says certainly That they do sing, both well and merrily). And so befell that, as he cast his eye Among the herbs and on a butterfly, He saw this fox that lay there, crouching low. Nothing of urge was in him, then, to crow; But he cried "Cock-cock-cock" and did so start As man who has a sudden fear at heart. For naturally a beast desires to flee From any enemy that he may see, Though never yet he's clapped on such his eye. When Chanticleer the fox did then espy, He would have fled but that the fox anon Said: "Gentle sir, alas! Why be thus gone? Are you afraid of me, who am your friend? Now, surely, I were worse than any fiend If I should do you harm or villainy. I came not here upon your deeds to spy; But, certainly, the cause of my coming Was only just to listen to you sing. For truly, you have quite as fine a voice As angels have that Heaven's choirs rejoice; Boethius to music could not bring Such feeling, nor do others who can sing. My lord your father (God his soul pray bless!) And too your mother, of her gentleness, Have been in my abode, to my great ease; And truly, sir, right fain am I to please. But since men speak of singing, I will say (As I still have my eyesight day by day), Save you, I never heard a man so sing As did your father in the grey dawning; Truly 'twas from the heart, his every song. And that his voice might ever be more strong, He took such pains that, with his either eye, He had to blink, so loudly would he cry, A-standing on his tiptoes therewithal, Stretching his neck till it grew long and small. And such discretion, too, by him was shown, There was no man in any region known That him in song or wisdom could surpass. I have well read, in Dan Burnell the Ass, Among his verses, how there was a cock, Because a priest's son gave to him a knock Upon the leg, while young and not yet wise, He caused the boy to lose his benefice. But, truly, there is no comparison With the great wisdom and the discretion Your father had, or with his subtlety. Now sing, dear sir, for holy charity, See if you can your father counterfeit." This Chanticleer his wings began to beat, As one that could no treason there espy, So was he ravished by this flattery Alas, you lords! Full many a flatterer Is in your courts, and many a cozener, That please your honours much more, by my fay, Than he that truth and justice dares to say. Go read the Ecclesiast on flattery; Beware, my lords, of all their treachery! This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes, Stretching his neck, and both his eyes did close, And so did crow right loudly, for the nonce; And Russel Fox, he started up at once, And by the gorget grabbed our Chanticleer, Flung him on back, and toward the wood did steer, For there was no man who as yet pursued. O destiny, you cannot be eschewed! Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams! Alas, his wife recked nothing of his dreams! And on a Friday fell all this mischance. O Venus, who art goddess of pleasance, Since he did serve thee well, this Chanticleer, And to the utmost of his power here, More for delight than cocks to multiply, Why would'st thou suffer him that day to die? O Gaufred, my dear master sovereign, Who, when King Richard Lionheart was slain By arrow, sang his death with sorrow sore, Why have I not your faculty and lore To chide Friday, as you did worthily? (For truly, on a Friday slain was he). Then would I prove how well I could complain For Chanticleer's great fear and all his pain. Certainly no such cry and lamentation Were made by ladies at Troy's debolation, When Pyrrhus with his terrible bared sword Had taken old King Priam by the beard And slain him (as the Aeneid tells to us), As made then all those hens in one chorus When they had caught a sight of Chanticleer. But fair Dame Pertelote assailed the ear Far louder than did Hasdrubal's good wife When that her husband bold had lost his life, And Roman legionaries burned Carthage; For she so full of torment was, and rage, She voluntarily to the fire did start And burned herself there with a steadfast heart. And you, O woeful hens, just so you cried As when base Nero burned the city wide Of Rome, and wept the senators' stern wives Because their husbands all had lost their lives, For though not guilty, Nero had them slain. Now will I turn back to my tale again. This simple widow and her daughters two Heard these hens cry and make so great ado, And out of doors they started on the run And saw the fox into the grove just gone, Bearing upon his back the cock away.

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