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has contrived to enter into the life of the creatures of the farmyard; the hens taking their sand-bath, or the cock clucking when he has found a grain of corn.

"He chukketh, whan he hath a corn i-founde,
And to him rennen than his wives alle."

But truthful as this is, Chauntecleer and Pertelote are more than chickens; they are living characters, with an actual human personality. The cock is a good deal of a pedant, and enumerates the learned authorities for his belief in the significance of dreams, with all the relish, and something of the length, of the mediæval schoolman. The hen takes the practical and emphatically feminine view of the case, urging a resort to the family medicine chest, a proposal which the cock, with an emphatically masculine aversion, passes over in silent contempt. All through we come across sly strokes of humor, as when the cock takes advantage of his wife's ignorance to mistranslate the Latin sentence:

"In principio,

Mulier est hominis confusio,"

so as to delude her into the belief that it is complimen tary; or when we are told that

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made terrible lamentation about Chauntecleer's capture, but Pertelote alone shrieked like a queen,

"But soveraignly dame Pertelote schrighte."

The interview in which the fox makes his skillful appeal to his intended victim's vanity is full of pure fun, while the description of the flight and pursuit is a masterpiece of rapid and nervous narrative.

THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.

A poure wydow somdel stope in age,
Was whilom dwellyng in a narwe cotage,
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale.
This wydwe of which I telle yow my tale,
Syn thilke day that sche was last a wif,
In pacience ladde a ful symple lyf,
For litel was hire catel and hire rente

By housbondrye of such as God hire sente,
Sche fond hireself, and eek hire doughtren tuo
Thre large sowes hadde sche, and no mo,
Thre kyn and eek a scheep that highte Malle.
Ful sooty was hire bour, and eek hire halle,
In which she eet ful many a sclender meel,
Of poynaunt sawce hire needede never a deel.
No deynté morsel passede thurgh hire throte;
Hire dyete was accordant to hire cote.
Repleccioun ne made hire nevere sik;
Attempre dyete was al hire phisik,
And exercise, and hertes suffisaunce.
The goute lette hire nothing for to daunce,
Ne poplexie schente not hire heed;

No wyn ne drank sche, nother whit nor reed;
Hire bord was served most with whit and blak,
Milk and broun bred, in which sche fond no lak,
Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye,
For she was as it were a maner deye.
A yerd sche hadde, enclosed al aboute
With stikkes, and a drye dich withoute,

In which she hadde a cok, highte Chauntecleer,
In al the lond of crowyng nas his peer.
His vois was merier than the merye orgon,
On masse dayes that in the chirche goon;
Wel sikerer was his crowyng in his logge,
Than is a clok, or an abbay orlogge.
By nature knew he ech ascencioun.
Of equinoxial in thilke toun;

For whan degrees fyftene were ascended,

Thanne crew he, that it mighte not ben amended.

His comb was redder than the fyn coral,
And bataylld, as it were a castel wal.
His bile was blak, and as the geet it schon;
Lik asure were his legges, and his ton;
His nayles whitter than the lilye flour,
And lik the burnischt gold was his colour,
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce
Sevene hennes, for to don al his plesauce,
Whiche were his sustres and his paramoures,
And wonder like to him, as of coloures.
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hire throte
Was cleped fayre damoysele Pertelote.
Curteys she was, discret, and debonaire,
And compainable, and bar hireself ful faire,
Syn thilke day that sche was seven night old,
That trewely sche hath the herte in hold
Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith;

He lovede hire so, that wel him was therwith.
But such a joye was it to here hem synge,
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe,
In swete accord, "my lief is faren on londe."
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde,
Bestes and briddes cowde speke and synge.
And so byfel, that in a dawenynge,
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,
And next him sat this faire Pertelote,
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte,
As man that in his dreem is drecched sore.
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,
Sche was agast, and sayde, "O herte deere,
What eyleth yow to grone in this manere?
Ye ben a verray sleper, fy for schame!"
And he answerde and sayde thus, "Madame,
I praye yow, that ye take it nought agrief:
By God, me mette I was in such meschief
Right now, that yit myn herte is sore afright.
Now God," quod he, my swevene rede aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoun !

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Me mette, how that I romede up and doun

Withinne oure yerde, wher as I saugh a beest,
Was lik an hound, and wolde han maad areest
Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.
His colour was betwixe yelwe and reed;
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eeres
With blak, unlik the remenaunt of his heres;
His snowte smal, with glowyng eyen tweye.
Yet of his look for feere almost I deye;
This causede my gronyng douteles."

"Avoy!" quod sche, "fy on yow, herteles !
"Allas!" quod sche, "for, by that God above!
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love;
I can nought love a coward, by my feith.
For certes, what so eny womman seith,
We alle desiren, if it might be,

To han housbondes, hardy, wise, and fre,
And secré, and no nygard, ne no fool,
Ne him that is agast of every tool,
Ne noon avauntour, by that God above!
How dorste ye sayn for schame unto youre love,
That any thing mighte make yow aferd?
Han ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?
Allas! and konne ye ben agast of swevenys?
Nothing, God wot, but vanité in swevene is.
Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,
And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns,
Whan humours ben to abundaunt in a wight.
Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night,
Cometh of the grete superfluité

Of youre reede colera, pardé,

Which causeth folk to dremen in here dremes
Of arwes, and of fyr with reede leemes,
Of grete bestes, that thai woln hem byte,
Of contek, and of whelpes greete and lite;
Right as the humour of malencolie
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,
For fere of beres, or of boles blake,
Or elles blake develes woln him take.
Of othere humours couthe itelle also,
That wirken many a man in slep fu! woo

But I wol passe as lightly as I can.

Lo Catoun, which that was so wis a man,
Sayde he nought thus, ne do no fors of dreme?

Now sire," quod sche, "whan we flen fro the beemes,
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;

Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,

I counseille yow the beste, I wol not lye,
That bothe of colere, and of malencolye

Ye purge yow; and for ye schul nat tarye,
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,

I schal myself to herbes techen yow,

That schul ben for youre hele, and for youre prow;
And in oure yerd tho herbes schal I fynde,
The whiche han of here propreté by kynde

To purgen yow bynethe, and eek above.
Forget not this, for Goddes oughne love!
Ye ben ful colerik of compleccioun,
Ware the sonne in his ascencioun

Ne fynde yow not replet of humours hote;
And if it do, I dar wel laye a grote,
That ye schul have a fevere terciane,
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.
A day or tuo ye schul han digestives
Of wormes, or ye take youre laxatives,
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere,
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,

Of erbe yve, growyng in oure yerd, that mery is
Pekke hem upright as thay growe, and ete hem in.

Be mery, housbonde, for youre fader kyn!

Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow no more."

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'Madam," quod he, " graunt mercy of youre lore.

But natheles, as touching daun Catoun

That hath of wisdom such a gret renoun,

Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,
By God, men may in olde bookes rede

Of many a man, more of auctorité
Than evere Catoun was, so mot I the,
That al the revers sayn of this sentence,
And han wel founden by experience,

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