He lov’d her so, that well was him therewith.
But such a joy it was to hear them sing,
When that the brightë sunnë gan to spring,
In sweet accord, “My lefe4270 is fare4271 in land.”4272
For, at that time, as I have understand,
Beastës and birdës couldë speak and sing.
And so befell, that in a dawëning,
As Chanticleer among his wivës all
Sat on his perchë, that was in the hall,
And next him sat this fairë Partelote,
This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat,
As man that in his dream is dretched4273 sore,
And when that Partelote thus heard him roar,
She was aghast,4274 and saidë, “Heartë dear,
What aileth you to groan in this mannére?
Ye be a very sleeper, fy for shame!”
And he answer’d and saidë thus; “Madame,
I pray you that ye take it not agrief;4275
By God, me mette4276 I was in such mischíef,4277
Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright’.
Now God,” quoth he, “my sweven4278 read aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoún.
Me mette,4279 how that I roamed up and down
Within our yard, where as I saw a beast
Was like an hound, and would have made arrest4280
Upon my body, and would have had me dead.
His colour was betwixt yellow and red;
And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,
With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.
His snout was small, with glowing eyen tway;
Yet of his look almost for fear I dey;4281
This caused me my groaning, doubtëless.”
“Away,”4282 quoth she, “fy on you, heartëless!4283
Alas!” quoth she, “for, by that God above!
Now have ye lost my heart and all my love;
I cannot love a coward, by my faith.
For certes, what so any woman saith,
We all desiren, if it mightë be,
To have husbandës hardy, wise, and free,
And secret, and no niggard nor no fool,
Nor him that is aghast4284 of every tool,4285
Nor no avantour,4286 by that God above!
How durstë ye for shame say to your love
That anything might makë you afear’d?
Have ye no mannë’s heart, and have a beard?
Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenës?4287
Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is,
Swevens engender of4288 repletións,
And oft of fume, and of complexións,
When humours be too abundant in a wight.
Certes this dream, which ye have mette tonight,
Cometh of the great supefluity
Of yourë redë cholera,4289 pardie,
Which causeth folk to dreaden in their dreams
Of arrows, and of fire with redë beams,
Of redë beastës, that they will them bite,
Of conteke,4290 and of whelpës great and lite;4291
Right as the humour of meláncholy
Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry,
For fear of bullës, or of bearës blake,
Or ellës that black devils will them take,
Of other humours could I tell also,
That workë many a man in sleep much woe;
That I will pass as lightly as I can.
Lo, Cato, which that was so wise a man,
Said he not thus, ‘Ne do no force of4292 dreams,’
Now, Sir,” quoth she, “when we fly from these beams,4293
For Goddë’s love, as take some laxatife;
On peril of my soul, and of my life,
I counsel you the best, I will not lie,
That both of choler, and meláncholy,
Ye purgë you; and, for ye shall not tarry,
Though in this town is no apothecáry,
I shall myself two herbës teachë you,
That shall be for your health, and for your prow;4294
And in our yard the herbës shall I find,
The which have of their property by kind4295
To purgë you beneath, and eke above.
Sirë, forget not this for Goddë’s love;
Ye be full choleric of complexión;
Ware that the sun, in his ascensión,
You findë not replete of humours hot;
And if it do, I dare well lay a groat,
That ye shall have a fever tertiane,
Or else an ague, that may be your bane,
A day or two ye shall have digestives
Of wormës, ere ye take your laxatives,
Of laurel, centaury,4296 and fumeterére,4297
Or else of elder-berry, that groweth there,
Of catapuce,4298 or of the gaitre-berries,4299
Or herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is:
Pick them right as they grow, and eat them in,
Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin;
Dreadë no dream; I can say you no more.”
“Madame,” quoth he, “grand mercy of your lore,
But natheless, as touching Dan Catoún,
That hath of wisdom such a great renown,
Though that he bade no dreamës for to dread,
By God, men may in oldë bookës read
Of many a man more of authority
Than ever Cato was, so may I thé,4300
That all the reversë say of his senténce,4301
And have well founden by experience
That dreamës be significatións
As well of joy, as tribulatións
That folk enduren in this life presént.
There needeth make of this no argument;
The very prevë4302 sheweth it indeed.
One of the greatest authors that men read4303
Saith thus, that whilom two fellówës went
On pilgrimage in a full good intent;
And happen’d so, they came into a town
Where there was such a congregatioún
Of people, and eke so strait of herbergage,4304
That they found not as much as one cottáge
In which they bothë might y-lodged be:
Wherefore they musten of necessity,
As for that night, departë company;
And each of them went to his hostelry,4305
And took his lodging as it wouldë fall.
The one of them was lodged in a stall,
Far in a yard, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was lodged well enow,
As was his áventúre, or his fortúne,
That us govérneth all, as in commúne.
And so befell, that, long ere it were day,
This man mette4306 in his bed, there as he lay,
How that his fellow gan upon him call,
And said, ‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall
This night shall I be murder’d, where I lie.
Now help me, dearë brother, or
