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Til he so longe hadde wopen and compleyned, And many a yeer his service to me feyned, Til that myn herte, to pitous and to nyce, Al innocent of his corouned malice, For-fered of his deeth, as thoughte me, Upon hise othes and his seuretee, Graunted hym love up this condicioun That everemoore myn honour and renoun Were saved, bothe privee and apert.

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour.

This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, Strecchynge his nekke, and heeld hise eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones, And daun Russell the fox stirte up atones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode hym beer, For yet ne was ther no man that hym sewed.

This Chauntecleer hise wynges gan to bete, As man that koude his traysoun nat espie, So was he ravysshed with his flaterie.

Now was ther thanne a justice in that toun, That governour was of that regioun, And so bifel this juge hise eyen caste Upon this mayde, avysynge hym ful faste As she cam forby, ther as this juge stood.

And whan it fil that he myghte hire espye, He noght with wantowne lookyng of folye Hise eyen caste on hir, but in sad wyse, Upon hir chiere he wolde hym ofte avyse, Commendynge in his herte hir wommanhede And eek hir vertu, passynge any wight Of so yong age, as wel in chiere as dede.

And slepynge in hir barme upon a day She made to clippe or shere hise heres away, And made hise foomen al this craft espyn.

Hise foomen made a feeste upon a day, And made hym as hir fool biforn hem pleye.

A markys whilom lord was of that lond, As were hise worthy eldres hym bifore, And obeisant and redy to his hond Were alle hise liges, bothe lasse and moore.

And so bifel, that after the thridde cours Whil that htis kyng sit thus in his nobleye, Herknynge hise mynstrals hir thynges pleye Biforn hym at the bord deliciously, In at the halle dore al sodeynly Ther cam a knyght, upon a steede of bras, And in his hand a brood mirour of glas, Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ryng, And by his syde a naked swerd hangyng.

Enformed whan the kyng was of that knyght, And hath conceyved in his wit aright The manere and the forme of al this thyng, Thus glad and blithe this noble doughty kyng Repeireth to his revel as biforn, The brydel is unto the tour yborn, And kept among hise jueles, leeve and deere.

Yis, certes, lo, thise stories beren witnesse, Whan thritty tirauntz, ful of cursednesse, Hadde slayn Phidoun in Atthenes, at feste, They comanded hise doghtres for tareste, And bryngen hem biforn hem in despit, Al naked, to fulfille hir foul delit, And in hir fadres blood they made hem daunce Upon the pavement, God yeve hem myschaunce.

And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon, And pulled hise white fetheres everychon, And made hym blak, and refte hym al his song, And eek his speche, and out at dore hym slong, Unto the devel-which I hym bitake!

His false wyf koude hym so plese and preye Til she his conseil knew, and she untrewe Unto hise foos his conseil gan biwreye, And hym forsook, and took another newe.

And whan this riotour, with sory grace, Hadde filed with wyn his grete botels thre, To hise felawes agayn repaireth he.