Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

John Dryden (1631–1700). The Poems of John Dryden. 1913.

Fables Ancient and Modern

The Cock and the Fox, or the Tale of the Nun’s Priest

THERE liv’d, as Authors tell, in Days of Yore,

A Widow, somewhat old, and very poor:

Deep in a Cell her Cottage lonely stood,

Well thatch’d, and under covert of a Wood.

This Dowager, on whom my Tale I found,

Since last she laid her Husband in the Ground,

A simple sober Life in patience led,

And had but just enough to buy her Bread:

But Huswifing the little Heav’n had lent,

She duly paid a Groat for Quarter-Rent;

And pinch’d her Belly, with her Daughters two,

To bring the Year about with much ado.

The Cattel in her Homestead were three Sows,

An Ewe called Mally, and three brinded Cows.

Her Parlor-Window stuck with Herbs around

Of sav’ry Smell; and Rushes strewed the Ground.

A Maple-Dresser in her Hall she had,

On which full many a slender Meal she made:

For no delicious Morsel pass’d her Throat;

According to her Cloth she cut her Coat:

No paynant Sawce she knew, no costly Treat,

Her Hunger gave a Relish to her Meat:

A sparing Diet did her Health assure;

Or sick, a Pepper-Posset was her Cure.

Before the Day was done, her Work she sped,

And never went by Candle-light to Bed;

With Exercise she sweat ill Humors out;

Her Dancing was not hinder’d by the Gout.

Her Poverty was glad; her Heart content,

Nor knew she what the Spleen or Vapors meant.

Of Wine she never tasted through the Year,

But White and Black was all her homely Chear;

Brown Bread, and Milk (but first she skim’d her bowls)

And Rashers of sindg’d Bacon on the Coals.

On Holy-Days, an Egg or two at most;

But her Ambition never reach’d to roast.

A Yard she had with Pales enclos’d about,

Some high, some low, and a dry Ditch without.

Within this Homestead, liv’d without a Peer,

For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer:

So hight her Cock, whose singing did surpass

The merry Notes of Organs at the Mass.

More certain was the crowing of a Cock

To number Hours, than is an Abbey-clock;

And sooner than the Mattin-Bell was rung,

He clap’d his Wings upon his Roost, and sung:

For when Degrees fifteen ascended right,

By sure Instinct he knew ’twas One at Night.

High was his Comb, and Coral-red withal,

In dents embattel’d like a Castle-Wall;

His Bill was Raven-black, and shon like Jet,

Blue were his Legs, and Orient were his Feet:

White were his Nails, like Silver to behold,

His Body glitt’ring like the burnish’d Gold.

This gentle Cock, for solace of his Life,

Six Misses had beside his lawful Wife;

Scandal, that spares no King, tho’ ne’er so good,

Says, they were all of his own Flesh and Blood:

His Sisters both by Sire, and Mother’s Side,

And sure their Likeness show’d them near ally’d.

But make the worst, the Monarch did no more

Than all the Ptolomey’s had done before:

When Incest is for Int’rest of a Nation,

’Tis made no Sin by Holy Dispensation.

Some Lines have been maintain’d by this alone,

Which by their common Ugliness are known.

But passing this as from our Tale apart,

Dame Partlet was the Soveraign of his Heart:

Ardent in Love, outragious in his Play,

He feather’d her a hundred times a Day;

And she, that was not only passing fair,

But was withal discreet, and debonair,

Resolv’d the passive Doctrin to fulfil,

Tho’ loath, and let him work his wicked Will:

At Board and Bed was affable and kind,

According as their Marriage-Vow did bind,

And as the Churches Precept had enjoin’d.

Ev’n since she was a Sennight old, they say

Was chast, and humble to her dying Day,

Nor Chick nor Hen was known to disobey.

By this her. Husband’s Heart she did obtain;

What cannot Beauty join’d with Virtue gain!

She was his only Joy, and he her Pride:

She, when he walk’d, went pecking by his Side;

If, spurning up the Ground, he sprung a Corn,

The Tribute in his Bill to her was born.

But oh! what Joy it was to hear him sing

In Summer, when the Day began to spring,

Stretching his Neck, and warbling in his Throat,

Solus cum Sola, then was all his Note.

For in the Days of Yore, the Birds of Parts

Were bred to Speak, and Sing, and learn the lib’ral Arts.

It happ’d that perching on the Parlor beam

Amidst his Wives he had a deadly Dream,

Just at the Dawn, and sigh’d, and groan’d so fast,

As every Breath he drew would be his last.

Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his Side,

Heard all his piteous Moan, and how he cry’d

For help from Gods and Men: And sore aghast

She Peck’d and pull’d, and waken’d him at last.

Dear Heart, said she, for Love of Heav’n declare

Your Pain, and make me Partner of your Care.

You groan, Sir, ever since the Morning-light,

As something had disturb’d your noble Spright.

And, Madam, well I might, said Chanticleer,

Never was Shrovetide-Cock in such a Fear.

Ev’n still I run all over in a Sweat,

My Princely Senses not recover’d yet.

For such a Dream I had of dire Portent,

That much I fear my Body will be shent:

It bodes I shall have Wars and woful Strife,

Or in a loathsom Dungeon end my Life.

Know, Dame, I dreamt within my troubl’d Breast,

That in our Yard I saw a murd’rous Beast,

That on my Body would have made Arrest.

With waking Eyes I ne’er beheld his Fellow,

His Colour was betwixt a Red and Yellow:

Tipp’d was his Tail, and both his pricking Ears

With black; and much unlike his other Hairs:

The rest, in Shape a Beagle’s Whelp throughout,

With broader Forehead, and a sharper Snout:

Deep in his Front were sunk his glowing Eyes,

That yet, methinks, I see him with Surprize.

Reach out your Hand, I drop with clammy Sweat,

And lay it to my Heart, and feel it beat.

Now fy for Shame, quoth she, by Heav’n above,

Thou hast for ever lost thy Ladies Love.

No Woman can endure a Recreant Knight,

He must be bold by Day, and free by Night:

Our Sex desires a Husband or a Friend,

Who can our Honour and his own defend;

Wise, Hardy, Secret, lib’ral of his Purse;

A Fool is nauseous, but a Coward worse:

No bragging Coxcomb, yet no baffled Knight.

How dar’st thou talk of Love, and dar’st not Fight?

How dar’st thou tell thy Dame thou art affer’d?

Hast thou no manly Heart, and hasta Beard?

If ought from fearful Dreams may be divin’d,

They signify a Cock of Dunghill-kind.

All Dreams, as in old Gallen I have read,

Are from Repletion and Complexion bred;

From rising Fumes of indigested Food,

And noxious Humors that infect the Blood:

And sure, my Lord, if I can read aright,

These foolish Fancies you have had to Night

Are certain Symptoms (in the canting Style)

Of boiling Choler and abounding Bile:

This yellow Gaul that in your Stomach floats,

Ingenders all these visionary Thoughts.

When Choler overflows, then Dreams are bred

Of Flames, and all the Family of Red;

Red Dragons, and red Beasts in Sleep we view;

For Humors are distinguish’d by their Hue.

From hence we Dream of Wars and Warlike Things,

And Wasps and Hornets with their double Wings.

Choler adust congeals our Blood with fear;

Then black Bulls toss us, and black Devils tear.

In sanguine airy Dreams aloft we bound;

With Rhumes oppress’d, we sink in Rivers drown’d.

More I could say, but thus conclude my Theme,

The dominating Humour makes the Dream.

Cato was in his time accounted Wise,

And he condemns them all for empty Lies.

Take my Advice, and when we fly to Ground

With Laxatives preserve your Body sound,

And purge the peccant Humors that abound.

I should be loath to lay you on a Bier;

And though there lives no ’Pothecary near,

I dare for once prescribe for your Disease,

And save long Bills, and a damn’d Doctor’s Fees.

Two Soveraign Herbs, which I by practise know,

Are both at hand (for in our Yard they grow;)

On Peril of my Soul shall rid you wholly

Of yellow Choler, and of Melancholy:

You must both Purge, and Vomit; but obey,

And for the Love of Heav’n make no delay.

Since hot and dry in your Complexion join,

Beware the Sun when in a vernal Sign;

For when he mounts exalted in the Ram,

If then he finds your Body in a Flame,

Replete with Choler, I dare lay a Groat,

A Tertian Ague is at least your Lot.

Perhaps a Fever (which the Gods forefend)

May bring your Youth to some untimely End.

And therefore, Sir, as you desire to live,

A Day or two before your Laxative,

Take just three Worms, nor under nor above,

Because the Gods unequal Numbers love,

These Digestives prepare you for your Purge,

Of Fumetery, Centaury, and Spurge,

And of Ground-Ivy add a Leaf, or two,

All which within our Yard or Garden grow.

Eat these, and be, my Lord, of better Cheer;

Your Father’s Son was never born to fear.

Madam, quoth he, Grammercy for your Care,

But Cato, whom you quoted, you may spare;

’Tis true, a wise, and worthy Man he seems,

And (as you say) gave no belief to Dreams:

But other Men of more Authority,

And, by th’ Immortal Powers as wise as He,

Maintain, with sounder Sense, that Dreams forebode;

For Homer plainly says they come from God.

Nor Cato said it: But some modern Fool

Impos’d in Cato’s Name on Boys at School.

Believe me, Madam, Morning Dreams foreshow

Th’ Events of Things, and future Weal or Woe:

Some Truths are not by Reason to be try’d,

But we have sure Experience for our Guide.

An ancient Author, equal with the best,

Relates this Tale of Dreams among the rest.

Two Friends, or Brothers, with devout Intent,

On some far Pilgrimage together went.

It happen’d so that, when the Sun was down,

They just arriv’d by twilight at a Town;

That Day had been the baiting of a Bull,

’Twas at a Feast, and ev’ry Inn so full,

That no void Room in Chamber, or on Ground,

And but one sorry Bed was to be found,

And that so little it would hold but one,

Though till this Hour they never lay alone.

So were they forc’d to part; one stay’d behind,

His Fellow sought what Lodging he could find:

At last he found a Stall where Oxen stood,

And that he rather chose than lie abroad.

’Twas in a farther Yard without a Door;

But, for his ease, well litter’d was the Floor.

His Fellow, who the narrow Bed had kept,

Was weary, and without a Rocker slept:

Supine he snor’d; but in the Dead of Night,

He dreamt his Friend appear’d before his Sight,

Who, with a ghastly Look and doleful Cry,

Said, Help me, Brother, or this Night I die:

Arise, and help, before all Help be vain,

Or in an Oxes Stall I shall be slain.

Rowz’d from his Rest, he waken’d in a Start,

Shiv’ring with Horror, and with aking Heart:

At length to cure himself by Reason tries;

’Tis but a Dream, and what are Dreams but Lies?

So thinking chang’d his Side, and closed his Eyes.

His Dream returns; his Friend appears again:

The Murd’rers come, now help, or I am slain:

’Twas but a Vision still, and Visions are but vain.

He dreamt the third: But now his Friend appear’d,

Pale, naked, pierc’d with Wounds, with Blood besmear’d:

Thrice warn’d, awake, said he; Relief is late,

The Deed is done; but thou revenge my Fate:

Tardy of Aid, unseal thy heavy Eyes,

Awake, and with the dawning Day arise:

Take to the Western Gate thy ready way,

For by that Passage they my Corps convey:

My Corps is in a Tumbril laid; among

The Filth and Ordure, and enclos’d with Dung.

That Cart arrest, and raise a common Cry,

For sacred hunger of my Gold I die;

Then show’d his grisly Wounds; and last he drew

A piteous Sigh; and took a long Adieu.

The frighted Friend arose by break of Day,

And found the Stall where late his Fellow lay.

Then of his impious Host inquiring more,

Was answer’d that his Guest was gone before:

Muttring, he went, said he, by Morning-light,

And much complain’d of his ill Rest by Night.

This rais’d Suspicion in the Pilgrim’s Mind;

Because all Hosts are of an evil Kind,

And oft, to share the Spoil, with Robbers join’d.

His Dream confirm’d his Thought: with troubled look

Straight to the Western-Gate his Way he took;

There, as his Dream foretold, a Cart he found,

That carry’d Composs forth to dung the Ground.

This when the Pilgrim saw, he stretch’d his Throat,

And cry’d out Murther with a yelling Note.

My murther’d Fellow in this Cart lies dead,

Vengeance and Justice on the Villain’s Head.

You, Magistrates, who sacred Laws dispense,

On you I call to punish this Offence.

The Word thus giv’n, within a little Space

The Mob came roaring out, and throng’d the Place.

All in a trice they cast the Cart to Ground,

And in the Dung the murther’d Body found;

Though breathless, warm, and reeking from the Wound.

Good Heav’n, whose darling Attribute we find

Is boundless Grace, and Mercy to Mankind,

Abhors the Cruel; and the Deeds of Night

By wond’rous Ways reveals in open Light:

Murther may pass unpunish’d for a time,

But tardy Justice will o’ertake the Crime

And oft a speedier pain the Guilty feels,

The Hue and Cry of Heav’n pursues him at the Heels,

Fresh from the Fact; as in the present Case;

The Criminals are seiz’d upon the Place:

Carter and Host confronted Face to Face.

Stiff in denial, as the Law appoints,

On Engins they distend their tortur’d Joints:

So was confession forc’d, th’ Offence was known,

And publick Justice on th’ Offenders done.

Here may you see that Visions are to dread:

And in the Page that follows this I read

Of two young Merchants, whom the hope of Gain

Induc’d in Partnership to cross the Main:

Waiting till willing Winds their Sails supply’d,

Within a Trading-Town they long abide,

Full fairly situate on a Haven’s side.

One Evening it befel that looking out,

The Wind they long had wish’d was come about:

Well pleas’d they went to Rest; and if the Gale

Till Morn continu’d, both resolv’d to sail.

But as together in a Bed they lay,

The younger had a Dream at break of Day.

A Man, he thought, stood frowning at his side,

Who warn’d him for his Safety to provide,

Not put to Sea, but safe on Shore abide.

I come, thy Genius, to command thy stay;

Trust not the Winds, for fatal is the Day,

And Death unhop’d attends the watry way.

The Vision said: And vanish’d from his Sight;

The Dreamer waken’d in a mortal Fright;

Then pull’d his drowzy Neighbour, and declar’d

What in his Slumber he had seen, and heard.

His Friend smil’d scornful, and, with proud contempt,

Rejects as idle what his Fellow dreamt.

Stay, who will stay: For me no Fears restrain,

Who follow Mercury the God of Gain:

Let each Man do as to his Fancy seems,

I wait not, I, till you have better Dreams.

Dreams are but Interludes, which Fancy makes;

When Monarch-Reason sleeps, this Mimick wakes:

Compounds a Medley of disjointed Things,

A Mob of Coblers and a Court of Kings:

Light Fumes are merry, grosser Fumes are sad;

Both are the reasonable Soul run mad:

And many monstrous Forms in Sleep we see,

That neither were, nor are, nor e’er can be.

Sometimes, forgotten Things long cast behind

Rush forward in the Brain, and come to mind.

The Nurses Legends are for Truths receiv’d,

And the Man dreams but what the Boy believ’d.

Sometimes we but rehearse a former Play,

The Night restores our Actions done by Day;

As Hounds in sleep will open for their Prey.

In short, the Farce of Dreams is of a piece,

Chimera’s all; and more absurd, or less.

You, who believe in Tales, abide alone,

What e’er I get this Voyage is my own.

Thus while he spoke he heard the shouting Crew

That call’d aboard and took his last adieu.

The Vessel went before a merry Gale,

And for quick Passage put on ev’ry Sail:

But when least fear’d, and ev’n in open Day,

The Mischief overtook her in the way:

Whether she sprung a Leak, I cannot find,

Or whether she was overset with Wind;

Or that some Rock below, her bottom rent;

But down at once with all her Crew she went;

Her Fellow Ships from far her Loss descry’d;

But only she was sunk, and all were safe beside.

By this Example you are taught again,

That Dreams and Visions are not always vain:

But if, dear Partlet, you are yet in doubt,

Another Tale shall make the former out.

Kenelm, the Son of Kenulph, Mercia’s King,

Whose holy Life the Legends loudly sing,

Warn’d, in a Dream, his Murther did foretel

From Point to Point as after it befel:

All Circumstances to his Nurse he told,

(A Wonder, from a Child of sev’n Years old)

The Dream with Horror heard, the good old Wife

From Treason counsell’d him to guard his Life:

But close to keep the Secret in his Mind,

For a Boy’s Vision small Belief would find.

The pious Child, by Promise bound, obey’d,

Nor was the fatal Murther long delay’d:

By Quenda slain, he fell before his time,

Made a young Martyr by his Sister’s Crime.

The Tale is told by venerable Bede,

Which, at your better leisure, you may read.

Macrobius too relates the Vision sent

To the great Scipio with the fam’d event;

Objections makes, but after makes Replies,

And adds, that Dreams are often Prophecies.

Of Daniel you may read in Holy Writ,

Who, when the King his Vision did forget,

Cou’d Word for Word the wond’rous Dream repeat.

Nor less of Patriarch Joseph understand,

Who by a Dream inslav’d th’ Egyptian Land,

The Years of Plenty and of Dearth foretold,

When, for their Bread, their Liberty they sold.

Nor must th’ exalted Buttler be forgot,

Nor he whose Dream presag’d his hanging Lot.

And did not Cræsus the same Death foresee,

Rais’d in his Vision on a lofty Tree?

The wife of Hector in his utmost Pride,

Dreamt of his Death the Night before he dy’d:

Well was he warn’d from Battle to refrain;

But Men to Death decreed are warn’d in vain:

He dar’d the Dream, and by his fatal Foe was slain.

Much more I know, which I forbear to speak,

For see the ruddy Day begins to break:

Let this suffice, that plainly I foresee

My Dream was bad, and bodes Adversity:

But neither Pills nor Laxatives I like,

They only serve to make a well-man sick:

Of these his Gain the sharp Phisician makes,

And often gives a Purge, but seldom takes:

They not correct, but poyson all the Blood,

And ne’er did any but the Doctors good.

Their Tribe, Trade, Trinkets, I defy them all,

With ev’ry work of ’Pothecary’s Hall.

These melancholy Matters I forbear;

But let me tell Thee, Partlet mine, and swear,

That when I view the Beauties of thy Face,

I fear not Death, nor Dangers, nor Disgrace:

So may my Soul have Bliss, as when I spy

The Scarlet Red about thy Partridge Eye,

While thou art constant to thy own true Knight,

While thou art mine, and I am thy delight,

All Sorrows at thy Presence take their flight.

For true it is, as in Principio,

Mulier est hominis confusio.

Madam, the meaning of this Latin is,

That Woman is to Man his Soveraign Bliss.

For when by Night I feel your tender Side,

Though for the narrow Perch I cannot ride,

Yet I have such a Solace in my Mind,

That all my boding Cares are cast behind:

And ev’n already I forget my Dream.

He said, and downward flew from off the Beam,

For Day-light now began apace to spring,

The Thrush to whistle, and the Lark to sing.

Then crowing clap’d his Wings, th’ appointed call,

To chuck his Wives together in the Hall.

By this the Widow had unbarr’d the Door,

And Chanticleer went strutting out before,

With Royal Courage, and with Heart so light,

Asshew’d he scorn’d the Visions of the Night.

Now roaming in the Yard, he spurn’d the Ground,

And gave to Partlet the first Grain he found.

Then often feather’d her with wanton Play,

And trod her twenty times e’er prime of Day

And took by turns and gave so much delight,

Her Sisters pin’d with Envy at the Sight.

He chuck’d again, when other Corns he found,

And scarcely deign’d to set a Foot to Ground,

But swagger’d like a Lord about his Hall,

And his sev’n Wives came running at his call.

’Twas now the Month in which the World began,

(If March beheld the first created Man:)

And since the vernal Equinox, the Sun

In Aries twelve Degrees, or more had run;

When, casting up his Eyes against the Light,

Both Month, and Day, and Hour, he measur’d right;

And told more truly, than th’ Ephemeris,

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

Thus numb’ring Times, and Seasons in his Breast,

His second crowing the third Hour confess’d.

Then turning, said to Partlet, See, my Dear,

How lavish Nature has adorn’d the Year;

How the pale Primrose, and blue Violet spring,

And Birds essay their Throats disus’d to sing:

All these are ours; and I with pleasure see

Man strutting on two Legs, and aping me!

An unfledg’d Creature, of a lumpish frame,

Indew’d with fewer Particles of Flame:

Our Dame sits couring o’er the Kitchin-fire,

I draw fresh Air, and Nature’s Works admire:

And ev’n this Day, in more delight abound,

Than, since I was an Egg, I ever found.

The time shall come when Chanticleer shall wish

His Words unsaid, and hate his boasted Bliss:

The crested Bird shall by Experience know,

Jove made not him his Master-piece below;

And learn the latter end of Joy is Woe.

The Vessel of his Bliss to Dregs is run,

And Heav’n will have him tast his other Tun.

Ye Wise, draw near, and hearken to my Tale,

Which proves that oft the Proud by Flatt’ry fall;

The Legend is as true I undertake

As Tristram is, and Launcelot of the Lake:

Which all our Ladies in such rev’rence hold,

As if in Book of Martyrs it were told.

A Fox full fraught with seeming Sanctity,

That fear’d an Oath, but like the Devil, would lie,

Who look’d like Lent, and had the holy Leer,

And durst not sin before he say’d his Pray’r:

This pious Cheat, that never suck’d the Blood,

Nor chaw’d the Flesh of Lambs, but when he cou’d,

Had pass’d three Summers in the neighb’ring Wood;

And musing long whom next to circumvent,

On Chanticleer his wicked Fancy bent;

And in his high imagination cast,

By Stratagem to gratify his Tast.

The Plot contriv’d, before the break of Day,

Saint Reynard through the Hedge had made his way;

The Pale was next, but proudly, with a bound

He lept the Fence of the forbidden Ground:

Yet fearing to be seen, within a Bed

Of Coleworts he conceal’d his wily Head;

Then sculk’d till Afternoon, and watch’d his time,

(As Murd’rers use) to perpetrate his Crime.

O Hypocrite, ingenious to destroy,

O Traytor, worse than Sinon was to Troy;

O vile Subverter of the Gallick Reign,

More false than Gano was to Charlemaign!

O Chanticleer, in an unhappy Hour

Did’st thou forsake the Safety of thy Bow’r:

Better for Thee thou had’st believ’d thy Dream,

And not that Day descended from the Beam!

But here the Doctors eagerly dispute:

Some hold Predestination absolute:

Some Clerks maintain, that Heav’n at first foresees,

And in the virtue of Foresight decrees.

If this be so, then Prescience binds the Will,

And Mortals are not free to Good or Ill

For what he first foresaw, he must ordain

Or its eternal Prescience may be vain

As bad for us as Prescience had not bin:

For first, or last, he’s Author of the Sin.

And who says that, let the blaspheming Man

Say worse ev’n of the Devil, if he can.

For how can that Eternal Pow’r be just

To punish Man, who Sins because he must?

Or, how can He reward a vertuous Deed,

Which is not done by us; but first decreed?

I cannot boult this Matter to the Bran,

As Bradwardin and holy Austin can:

If Prescience can determine Actions so

That we must do, because he did foreknow

Or that foreknowing, yet our Choice is free,

Not forc’d to Sin by strict necessity;

This strict necessity they simple call,

Another sort there is, conditional.

The first so binds the Will that Things foreknown

By Spontaneity, not Choice, are done.

Thus Galley-Slaves tug willing, at their Oar,

Content to work, in prospect of the Shore;

But wou’d not work at all, if not constrain’d before.

That other does not Liberty constrain,

But Man may either act, or may refrain.

Heav’n made us Agents free to Good or Ill,

And forc’d it not, tho’ he foresaw the Will.

Freedom was first bestow’d on human Race,

And Prescience only held the second place.

If he could make such Agents wholly free,

I not dispute; the Point’s too high for me;

For Heav’n’s unfathom’d Pow’r what Man can sound,

Or put to his Omnipotence a Bound?

He made us to his Image all agree;

That Image is the Soul, and that must be,

Or not the Maker’s Image, or be free.

But whether it were better Man had been

By Nature bound to Good, not free to Sin,

I wave, for fear of splitting on a Rock.

The Tale I tell is only of a Cock;

Who had not run the hazard of his Life

Had he believ’d his Dream, and not his Wife:

For Women, with a mischief to their Kind,

Pervert, with bad Advice, our better Mind.

A Woman’s Counsel brought us first to Woe,

And made her Man his Paradice forego,

Where at Heart’s ease he liv’d, and might have bin

As free from Sorrow as he was from Sin.

For what the Devil had their Sex to do,

That, born to Folly, they presum’d to know,

And could not see the Serpent in the Grass?

But I my self presume, and let it pass.

Silence in times of Suff’ring is the best,

’Tis dang’rous to disturb a Hornet’s Nest.

In other Authors you may find enough,

But all they say of Dames is idle Stuff.

Legends of lying Wits together bound,

The Wife of Bath would throw ’em to the Ground:

These are the words of Chanticleer, not mine,

I honour Dames, and think their Sex divine.

Now to continue what my Tale begun.

Lay Madam Partlet basking in the Sun,

Breast-high in Sand: Her Sisters, in a row,

Enjoyed the Beams above, the Warmth below.

The Cock, that of his Flesh was ever free,

Sung merrier than the Mermaid in the Sea:

And so befel, that as he cast his Eye

Among the Colworts on a Butterfly,

He saw false Reynard where he lay full low,

I need not swear he had no list to Crow:

But cry’d, Cock, Cock, and gave a suddain Start,

As sore dismaid and frighted at his Heart.

For Birds and Beasts, inform’d by Nature, know

Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their Foe.

So, Chanticleer, who never saw a Fox,

Yet shun’d him as a Sailor shuns the Rocks.

But the false Loon, who cou’d not work his Will

By open Force, employed his flatt’ring Skill:

I hope, my Lord, said he, I not offend,

Are you afraid of me that am your Friend?

I were a Beast indeed to do you wrong,

I, who have lov’d and honour’d you so long:

Stay, gentle Sir, nor take a false Alarm,

For, on my Soul, I never meant you harm.

I come no Spy, nor as a Traytor press,

To learn the Secrets of your soft Recess:

Far be from Reynard so prophane a Thought,

But by the Sweetness of your Voice was brought:

For, as I bid my Beads, by chance I heard

The Song as of an Angel in the Yard:

A Song that wou’d have charm’d th’ infernal Gods,

And banish’d Horror from the dark Abodes:

Had Orpheus sung it in the neather Sphere,

So much the Hymn had pleas’d the Tyrant’s Ear,

The Wife had been detain’d, to keep the Husband there.

My Lord, your Sire familiarly I knew,

A Peer deserving such a Son, as you:

He, with your Lady-Mother (whom Heav’n rest)

Has often grac’d my House, and been my Guest

To view his living Features does me good,

For I am your poor Neighbour in the Wood;

And in my Cottage shou’d be proud to see

The worthy Heir of my Friend’s Family.

But since I speak of Singing let me say,

As with an upright Heart I safely may,

That, save your self, there breaths not on the Ground

One like your Father for a Silver sound.

So sweetly wou’d he wake the Winter-day,

That Matrons to the Church mistook their way,

And thought they heard the merry Organ play.

And he to raise his Voice with artful Care,

(What will not Beaux attempt to please the Fair?)

On Tiptoe stood to sing with greater Strength,

And stretch’d his comely Neck at all the length:

And while he pain’d his Voice to pierce the Skies,

As Saints in Raptures use, would shut his Eyes,

That the sound striving through the narrow Throat,

His winking might avail, to mend the Note.

By this, in Song, he never had his Peer,

From sweet Cecilia down to Chanticleer;

Not Maro’s Muse, who sung the mighty Man,

Nor Pindar’s heav’nly Lyre, nor Horace when a Swan.

Your Ancestors proceed from Race divine:

From Brennus and Belinus is your Line;

Who gave to sov’raign Rome such loud Alarms,

That ev’n the Priests were not excus’d from Arms.

Besides, a famous Monk of modern times,

Has left of Cocks recorded in his Rhimes,

That of a Parish-Priest the Son and Heir

(When Sons of Priests were from the Proverb clear)

Affronted once a Cock of noble Kind,

And either lam’d his Legs, or struck him blind;

For which the Clerk his Father was disgrac’d,

And in his Benefice another plac’d.

Now sing, my Lord, if not for love of me,

Yet for the sake of sweet Saint Charity;

Make Hills and Dales, and Earth and Heav’n rejoice,

And emulate your Father’s Angel-voice.

The Cock was pleas’d to hear him speak so fair,

And proud beside, as solar People are;

Nor cou’d the Treason from the Truth descry,

So was he ravish’d with this Flattery:

So much the more as from a little Elf,

He had a high Opinion of himself:

Though sickly, slender, and not large of Limb,

Concluding all the World was made for him.

Ye Princes, rais’d by Poets to the Gods,

And Alexander’d up in lying Odes,

Believe not ev’ry flatt’ring Knave’s report,

There’s many a Reynard lurking in the Court;

And he shall be receiv’d with more regard

And list’ned to, than modest Truth is heard.

This Chanticleer, of whom the Story sings,

Stood high upon his Toes, and clap’d his Wings;

Then stretch’d his Neck, and wink’d with both his Eyes,

Ambitious, as he sought th’ Olympick Prize.

But while he pain’d himself to raise his Note,

False Reynard rush’d, and caught him by the Throat.

Then on his Back he laid the precious Load,

And sought his wonted shelter of the Wood;

Swiftly he made his way, the Mischief done,

Of all unheeded, and pursu’d by none.

Alas, what stay is there in human State,

Or who can shun inevitable Fate?

The Doom was written, the Decree was past,

E’er the Foundations of the World were cast!

In Aries though the Sun exalted stood,

His Patron-Planet to procure his good;

Yet Saturn was his mortal Foe, and he

In Libra rais’d, oppos’d the same Degree:

The Rays both good and bad, of equal Pow’r,

Each thwarting other, made a mingled Hour.

On Friday-morn he dreamt this direful Dream,

Cross to the worthy Native, in his Scheme!

Ah blissful Venus, Goddess of Delight,

How cou’dst thou suffer thy devoted Knight,

On thy own Day, to fall by Foe oppress’d,

The wight of all the World who serv’d thee best?

Who true to Love, was all for Recreation,

And minded not the Work of Propagation.

Gaufride, who could’st so well in Rhime complain

The Death of Richard with an Arrow slain,

Why had not I thy Muse, or thou my Heart,

To sing this heavy Dirge with equal Art!

That I like thee on Friday might complain;

For on that Day was Ceur de Lion slain.

Not louder Cries, when Ilium was in Flames,

Were sent to Heav’n by woful Trojan Dames,

When Pyrrhus toss’d on high his burnish’d Blade,

And offer’d Priam to his Father’s Shade,

Than for the Cock the widow’d Poultry made.

Fair Partlet first, when he was born from sight,

With soveraign Shrieks bewail’d her Captive Knight:

Far lowder than the Carthaginian Wife,

When Asdrubal her Husband lost his Life,

When she beheld the smouldring Flames ascend,

And all the Punick Glories at an end:

Willing into the Fires she plung’d her Head,

With greater Ease than others seek their Bed.

Not more aghast the Matrons of Renown,

When Tyrant Nero burn’d th’ Imperial Town,

Shriek’d for the downfal in a doleful Cry,

For which their guiltless Lords were doom’d to die.

Now to my Story I return again:

The trembling Widow, and her Daughters twain,

This woful cackling Cry with Horror heard,

Of those distracted Damsels in the Yard;

And starting up, beheld the heavy Sight,

How Reynard to the Forest took his Flight,

And cross his Back, as in triumphant Scorn,

The Hope and Pillar of the House was born.

The Fox, the wicked Fox, was all the Cry,

Out from his House ran ev’ry Neighbour nigh:

The Vicar first, and after him the Crew,

With Forks and Staves the Fellon to pursue.

Ran Coll our Dog, and Talbot with the Band,

And Malkin, with her Distaff in her Hand:

Ran Cow and Calf, and Family of Hogs,

In Panique Horror of pursuing Dogs;

With many a deadly Grunt and doleful Squeak

Poor Swine, as if their pretty Hearts would break.

The Shouts of Men, the Women in dismay,

With Shrieks augment the Terror of the Day.

The Ducks, that heard the Proclamation cry’d,

And fear’d a Persecution might betide,

Full twenty Mile from Town their Voyage take,

Obscure in Rushes of the liquid Lake.

The Geese fly o’er the Barn; the Bees in Arms,

Drive headlong from their Waxen Cells in Swarms.

Jack Straw at London-stone with all his Rout

Struck not the City with so loud a Shout;

Not when with English Hate they did pursue

A French Man, or an unbelieving Jew:

Not when the Welkin rung with one and all;

And Echoes bounded back from Fox’s Hall;

Earth seem’d to sink beneath, and Heav’n above to fall.

With Might and Main they chas’d the murd’rous Fox,

With brazen Trumpets, and inflated Box,

To Kindle Mars with military Sounds,

Nor wanted Horns t’ inspire sagacious Hounds.

But see how Fortune can confound the Wise,

And when they least expect it, turn the Dice.

The Captive Cock, who scarce cou’d draw his Breath,

And lay within the very Jaws of Death,

Yet in this Agony his Fancy wrought,

And Fear supply’d him with this happy Thought:

Yours is the Prize, victorious Prince, said he,

The Vicar my defeat, and all the Village see,

Enjoy your friendly Fortune while you may,

And bid the Churls that envy you the Prey,

Call back their mungril Curs, and cease their Cry,

See, Fools, the shelter of the Wood is nigh,

And Chanticleer in your despight shall die.

He shall be pluck’d and eaten to the Bone.

’Tis well advis’d, in Faith it shall be done;

This Reynard said: but as the Word he spoke,

The Pris’ner with a Spring from Prison broke:

Then stretch’d his feather’d Fans with all his might,

And to the neighb’ring Maple wing’d his flight.

Whom when the Traytor safe on Tree beheld,

He curs’d the Gods, with Shame and Sorrow fill’d;

Shame for his Folly; Sorrow out of time,

For Plotting an unprofitable Crime:

Yet mast’ring both, th’ Artificer of Lies

Renews th’ Assault, and his last Batt’ry tries.

Though I, said he, did ne’er in Thought offend,

How justly may my Lord suspect his Friend!

Th’ appearance is against me, I confess,

Who seemingly have put you in Distress:

You, if your Goodness does not plead my Cause,

May think I broke all hospitable Laws,

To bear you from your Palace-yard by Might,

And put your noble Person in a Fright:

This, since you take it ill, I must repent,

Though Heav’n can witness with no bad intent

I practis’d it, to make you taste your Cheer,

With double Pleasure, first prepared by fear.

So loyal Subjects often seize their Prince,

Forc’d (for his Good) to seeming Violence,

Yet mean his sacred Person not the least Offence.

Descend; so help me Jove as you shall find

That Reynard comes of no dissembling Kind.

Nay, quoth the Cock; but I beshrew us both,

If I believe a Saint upon his Oath:

An honest Man may take a Knave’s Advice,

But Idiots only will be couzen’d twice:

Once warn’d is well bewar’d: No flattering lies

Shall sooth me more to sing with winking Eyes,

And open Mouth, for fear of catching Flies.

Who Blindfold walks upon a Rivers brim,

When he should see, has he deserv’d to swim?

Better, Sir Cock, let all Contention cease,

Come down, said Reynard, let us treat of Peace.

A Peace with all my Soul, said Chanticleer;

But, with your Favour, I will treat it here:

And least the Truce with Treason should be mixt,

’Tis my concern to have the Tree betwixt.

In this plain Fable you th’ Effect may see

Of Negligence, and fond Credulity:

And learn besides of Flatt’rers to beware,

Then most pernicious when they speak too fair.

The Cock and Fox, the Fool and Knave imply;

The Truth is moral, though the Tale a Lie.

Who spoke in Parables, I dare not say;

But sure, he knew it was a pleasing way,

Sound Sense, by plain Example, to convey.

And in a Heathen Author we may find,

That Pleasure with Instruction should be join’d:

So take the Corn, and leave the Chaff behind.