Ha, ha, the fox!" And after hym they ran,
And eek with staves many another man;
Ranne Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland,
And Malkyn with a dystaf in hir hand;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges,
So were they fered for berkyng of the dogges
And shoutyng of the men and wommen eek.
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte breek;
They yelleden as feendes doon in helle.
The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle,
The gees for feere flowen over the trees,
Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees,
So hydous was the noyse, a! benedicite!
Certes, he Jakke Straw and his meynee
Ne made nevere shoutes half so shrille,
Whan that they wolden any Flemyng kille,
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras they broghten bemes, and of box,
Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and powped,
And therwithal they shriked and they howped:
It semed as that hevene sholde falle.
Now, goode men, I pray yow herkneth alle!
Lo, how fortune turneth sodeynly
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy!
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak,
In al his drede, unto the fox he spak
And seyde: “Sire, if that I were as ye,
Yet sholde I seyn-as wys God helpe me,-
'Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle!
A verray pestilence upon yow falle!
Now am I come unto the wodes side,
Maugree youre heed, the cok shal here abyde;
I wol hym ete in feith, and that anon!"
The fox answerede, “In feith, it shal be don”—
And as he spak that word, al sodeynly
This cok brak from his mouth delyverly,
And heighe upon 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, thanne," quod he, "I shrewe us bothe two,
And first I shrewe myself, bothe blood and bones,
If thou bigyle me ofter than ones.
Thou shalt namore, thurgh thy flaterye,
Do me to synge and wynken with myn eye;
For he that wynketh whan he sholde see,
Al wilfully, God lat hym nevere 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, goode men;
For Seint Paul seith that al that writen is,
To oure doctrine it is y-write, y-wis:
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.
Now, goode God, if that it be Thy wille,
As seith my lord, so make us alle goode men,
And brynge us to His heighe blisse! Amen.
1387?
Fle fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse;
Suffice unto thi good, though it be smal:
For hord hath hate, and clymbynge tykelnesse;
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal.
Savour no more than the byhove shal;
Werke wel thiselfe, that other folke canst rede:
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.
Tempest the noght al croked to redresse,
In trust of hyr that turneth as a bal;
Gret reste stant in lytel bisynesse.
And eek be war to sporne ageynst an al;
Stryve noght as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thiself, that dauntest otheres dede:
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.
That the is sent, receyve in boxomnesse;
The wrastlynge for this worlde axeth a fal.
Here nys non hom, here nys but wyldernesse;
Forth, pilgrim; forth! Forth, beste, out of thi stal!
Knowe thy contree; lok up, thank God of al;
Hold the hye-wey, and lat thi gost the lede:
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.
Therfore, thou vache, leve thine old wrechedenesse;
Unto the worlde leve now to be thral;
Crie Him mercy That of Hys hie godnesse
Made the of nought, and in especial
Draw unto Hym, and pray in general.
For the, and eke for other, hevenelyche mede:
And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.
THE COMPLAYNT OF CHAUCER TO HIS PURSE
To yow, my purse, and to non other wight,
Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!
I am so sory, now that ye be lyght;
For, certes, but ye make me hevy chere,
Me were as leef be layde upon my bere:
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye:
Beth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!
Now voucheth-sauf this day, or hyt be nyght,
That I of yow the blisful soune may here,
Or see your colour lyke the sonne bryght,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere.
Ye be my lyfe, ye be myn hertes stere,
Quene of comfort and of good companye:
Beth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!
Now purse, that ben to me my lyves lyght,
And saveour, as doun in this worlde here,
Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere;
For I am shave as nye as any frere.
But yet I pray unto your curtesye:
Beth hevy ayen, or elles mote I dye!
O conquerour of Brutes Albyoun!
Whiche that by lygne and free eleccion
Been verray kynge, this song to yow I sende;
And ye, that mowen alle myn harme amende,
Have mynde upon my supplicacioun !
THOMAS HOCCLEVE
MI MAISTER CHAUCER
O maister deere and fadir reverent,
Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence,
Mirour of fructuous entendement,
O universel fadir in science,
Allas, that thou thyn excellent prudence
In thi bed mortel mightist naght by-qwethe!
What eiled Deth? allas! whi wold he sle the?
O Deth, thou didest naght harme singuleer
In slaghtere of him, but al this land it smertith.
But nathelees yit hast thou no power
His name sle: his hy vertu astertith
Unslayn fro the, whiche ay us lyfly hertyth
With bookes of his ornat endytyng,
That is to al this land enlumynyng.
Allas! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Dethe, by thi deth, hath harme irreparable
Unto us doon; hir vengeable duresse
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
Of rethorik, for un-to Tullius
Was never man so lyk a-monges us.
Also who was hier in philosophie
To Aristotle, in our tonge, but thow?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thow folwedist eeke, men wot wel y-now.
That combre-world that the, my maistir, slow,
Would I slayne were! Deth was to hastyf,
To renne on the and reve the thi lyf.
Deth hath but smal consideracioun
Unto the vertuous, I have espied;
No more, as shewith the probacioun,
Than to a vicious maistir losel tried.
A-mong an heep every man is maistried
With hire, as wel the porre as is the riche;
Lered and lewde eeke standen al y-liche.
She myghte han taried hir vengeance awhile,
Til that some man had egal to the be.
Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle
May never man forth brynge lyk to the,
And hir office needes do mot she:
God bad hir do so, I truste as for the beste.
O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!
JOHN LYDGATE
LONDON LYCKPENY
To London once my steppes bent,
Where trouth in no wyse should be faynt.
To-Westmynster-ward I forthwith went,
To a man of law to make complaynt:
I sayd, "For Marys love, that holy saynt,
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