Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf,
Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf,
And that the Romayns hadde brend Cartage;
She was so ful of torment and of rage,
That wilfully into the fyr she sterte,
And brende hir-selven with a stedfast herte.
O woful hennes, right so cryden ye,
As, whan that Nero brende the citee
Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves,
For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyves;
Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn.
Now wol I torne to my tale agayn:-
This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two,
Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo,
And out at dores sterten they anoon,
And syen the fox toward the grove goon,
And bar upon his bak the cok away;
And cryden, Out! harrow! and weylaway!
Ha, ha, the fox!' and after him they ran,
And eek with staves many another man;
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland,
And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges
So were they fered for berking of the dogges
And shouting of the men and wimmen eke,
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte breke.
They yelleden as feendes doon in helle;
The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle ;
The gees for fere flowen over the trees;
Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees;
So hidous was the noyse, a! benedicite !
Certes, he Jakke Straw, and his meynee,
Ne made never shoutes half so shrille,
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille,
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras thay broghten bemes, and of box,
Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and pouped,
And therwithal thay shryked and they houped;
It semed as that heven sholde falle.
Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth alle!
Lo, how fortune turneth scdeinly
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy!
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak,
In al his drede, un-to the fox he spak,
And seyde, sire, if that I were as ye,
Yet sholde I seyn (as wis god helpe me),
Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle!
A verray pestilence up-on yow falle!
Now am I come un-to this wodes syde,
Maugree your heed, the cok shal heer abyde;
I wol him ete in feith, and that anon.'—
The fox answerde, in feith, it shal be don,'-
And as he spak that word, al sodeinly
This cok brak from his mouth deliverly,
And heighe up-on a tree he fleigh anon.
And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon,
Allas!' quod he, O Chauntecleer, allas!
I have to yow,' quod he, 'y-doon trespas,
In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd,
Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the yerd;
But, sire, I dide it in no wikke entente;
Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente.
I shal seye sooth to yow, god help me so.'
'Nay than,' quod he, I shrewe us bothe two,
And first I shrewe my-self, bothe blood and bones,
If thou bigyle me ofter than ones.
Thou shalt na-more, thurgh thy flaterye,
Do me to singe and winke with myn yë.
For he that winketh, whan he sholde see,
Al wilfully, god lat him never thee!'
Nay,' quod the fox, but god yeve him meschaunce, That is so undiscreet of governaunce,
That jangleth whan he sholde holde his pees.'
Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees,
And necligent, and truste on flaterye.
But ye that holden this tale a folye,
As of a fox, or of a cok and hen,
Taketh the moralitee, good men.
For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is,
To our doctryne it is y-write, y-wis.
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.
Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille,
As seith my lord, so make us alle good men:
And bringe us to his heighe blisse.
THE wrathful winter prochinge on a pace,
With blustring blasts had al ybarde the treen,
And olde Saturnus with his frosty face
With chilling colde had pearst the tender green:
The mantels rent, wherein enwrapped been
The gladsom groves that nowe laye overthrowen,
The tapets torne, and every blome downe blowen.
The soyle that earst so seemely was to seen,
Was all despoyled of her beauties hew:
And soot freshe flowers (wherewith the sommers queen
Had clad the earth) now Boreas blastes downe blewe:
And small fowles flocking, in theyr song did rewe
The winters wrath, wherwith eche thing defaste
In woful wise bewayld the sommer past.
Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye,
The naked twigges were shivering all for colde:
And, dropping downe the teares abundantly,
Eche thing (me thought) with weping eye me tolde
The cruell season, bidding me withholde
My selfe within; for I was gotten out
Into the feldes whereas I walkte about.
When lo the nighte with mistie mantels spred
Gan darke the daye, and dim the azure skyes,
And Venus in her message Hermes sped
To bluddy Mars, to wyl him not to ryse,
While she her selfe approcht in speedy wise;
And Virgo hiding her disdaineful brest
With Thetis nowe had layd her downe to rest.
Whiles Scorpio dreading Sagittarius dart,
Whose bowe prest bent in fight, the string had slypt,
Downe slyd into the Ocean flud aparte,
The Beare that in the Iryshe seas had dipt
His griesly feete, with spede from thence he whypt:
For Thetis hasting from the Virgines bed,
Pursued the Bear, that ear she came was fled.
And Phaeton nowe neare reaching to his race
With glistering beames, gold-streamynge where they bent, Was prest to enter in his resting-place.
Erythius that in the cart fyrste went
Had even nowe attaynde his journeyes stent.
And fast declining hid away his head,
While Titan coucht him in his purple bed.
And pale Cinthea with her borowed light
Beginning to supply her brothers place,
Was past the Noonesteede syxe degrees in sight
When sparklyng starres amyd the heavens face
With twinkling light shoen on the earth apace,
That whyle they brought about the nightes chare,
The darke had dimmed the daye eare I was ware.
And sorowing I to see the sommer flowers,
The lively greene, the lusty leas forlorne,
The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers,
The fieldes so fade that floorisht so beforne,
It taught me wel all earthly thinges be borne
To dye the death, for nought long time may last.
The sommers beauty yeeldes to winters blast.
Then looking upward to the heavens leames
With nightes starres thicke powdred every where,
Which erst so glistened with the golden streames
That chearefull Phebus spred downe from his sphere,
Beholding darke oppressing day so neare:
The sodayne sight reduced to my minde,
The sundry chaunges that in earth we fynde.
That musing on this worldly wealth in thought,
Which comes and goes more faster than we see
The flyckering flame that with the fyer is wrought,
My busie minde presented unto me
Such fall of pieres as in this realme had be:
That ofte I wisht some would their woes descryve,
To warne the rest whom fortune left alive.
And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pace
For that I sawe the night drewe on so fast,
In blacke all clad, there fell before my face
A piteous wight, whom woe had al forwaste,
Furth from her iyen the cristall teares outbrast,
And syghing sore her handes she wrong and folde,
Tare al her heare, that ruth was to beholde.
Her body small, forwithered and forespent,
As is the stalke that sommers drought opprest,
Her wealked face with woful teares besprent,
Her colour pale, and (as it seemd her best)
In woe and playnt reposed was her rest.
And as the stone that droppes of water weares,
So dented were her cheekes with fall of teares.
Her iyes swollen with flowing streames aflote,
Wherewith her lookes throwen up full piteouslye,
Her forceles handes together ofte she smote,
With dolefull shrikes, that eckoed in the skye:
Whose playnt such sighes dyd strayt accompany,
That in my doome was never man did see
A wight but half so woe begon as she.
I stoode agast beholding all her plight,
Tweene dread and dolour so distreynd in hart
That while my heares upstarted with the sight,
The teares out streamde for sorowe of her smart:
But when I sawe no ende that could aparte
The deadly dewle, which she so sore dyd make,
With dolefull voice then thus to her I spake.
Unwrap thy woes what ever wight thou be
And stint betime to spill thy self with playnt,
Tell what thou art, and whence, for well I see
Thou canst not dure wyth sorowe thus attaynt.
And with that worde of sorowe all forfaynt
She looked up, and prostrate as she laye
With piteous sounde lo thus she gan to saye.
Alas, I wretche whom thus thou seest distreyned
With wasting woes that never shall aslake,
Sorrow I am, in endeles tormentes payned,
Among the furies in the infernall lake:
Where Pluto god of Hel so griesly blacke
Doth holde his throne, and Letheus deadly taste
Doth rieve remembraunce of eche thing forepast.
Whence come I am, the drery destinie
And luckeles lot for to bemone of those,
Whom Fortune in this maze of miserie
Of wretched chaunce most wofull myrours chose,
That when thou seest how lightly they did lose
Theyr pompe, theyr power, and that they thought most sure,
Thou mayest soone deeme no earthly joye may dure.
Whose rufull voyce no sooner had out brayed
Those wofull wordes, where with she sorrowed so,
But out alas she shryght and never stayed,
Fell downe, and all to dasht her selfe for woe.
The colde pale dread my lyms gan overgo,
And I so sorrowed at her sorrowes eft,
That what with griefe and feare my wittes were reft.
I stretcht my self, and strayt my hart revives,
That dread and dolour erst did so appale,
Lyke him that with the fervent fever stryves
When sickenes seekes his castell health to skale:
With gathered spirites so forst I fear to avale.
And rearing her with anguishe all fordone,
My spirits returnd, and then I thus begonne.
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