|
This Chauntecleer, whan he gan hym espye, |
| He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon |
| Seyde, "Gentil sire, allas, wher wol ye gon? |
| Be ye affrayed of me that am youre freend? |
| 520 | Now, certes, I were worse than a feend |
| If I to yow wolde harm or vileynye. |
| I am nat come your conseil for t'espye, |
| But trewely, the cause of my comynge |
| Was oonly for to herkne how that ye synge. |
| 525 | For trewely, ye have as myrie a stevene |
| As any aungel hath that is in hevene. |
| Therwith ye han in musyk moore feelynge |
| Than hadde Boece, or any that kan synge. |
| My lord youre fader - God his soule blesse! - |
| 530 | And eek youre mooder, of hir gentillesse |
| Han in myn hous ybeen, to my greet ese; |
| And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. |
| But for men speke of syngyng, I wol seye, |
| So moote I brouke wel myne eyen tweye, |
| 535 | Save yow I herde nevere man yet synge |
| As dide youre fader in the morwenynge. |
| Certes, it was of herte al that he song! |
| And for to make his voys the moore strong, |
| He wolde so peyne hym, that with bothe hise eyen |
| 540 | He moste wynke, so loude he solde cryen, |
| And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal, |
| And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. |
| And eek he was of swich discrecioun, |
| That ther nas no man in no regioun, |
| 545 | That hym in song or wisedom myghte passe. |
| I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse |
| Among hise vers, how that ther was a cok, |
| For that a presstes sone yaf hym a knok, |
| Upon his leg, whil he was yong and nyce, |
| 550 | He made hym for to lese his benefice. |
| But certeyn, ther nys no comparisoun |
| Bitwixe the wisedom and discrecioun |
| Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. |
| Now syngeth, sire, for seinte charitee, |
| 555 | Lat se konne ye youre fader countrefete!" |
|
|
When Chauntecleer the fox did then espy, |
| He would have fled but that the fox anon |
| Said: "Gentle sir, alas! Why be thus gone? |
| Are you afraid of me, who am your friend? |
| 520 | Now, surely, I were worse than any fiend |
| If I should do you harm or villainy. |
| I came not here upon your deeds to spy; |
| But, certainly, the cause of my coming |
| Was only just to listen to you sing. |
| 525 | For truly, you have quite as fine a voice |
| As angels have that Heaven's choirs rejoice; |
| Boethius to music could not bring |
| Such feeling, nor do others who can sing. |
| My lord your father - God his soul pray bless! - |
| 530 | And too your mother, of her gentleness, |
| Have been in my abode, to my great ease; |
| And truly, sir, right fain am I to please. |
| But since men speak of singing, I will say |
| As I still have my eyesight day by day, |
| 535 | Save you, I never heard a man so sing |
| As did your father in the grey dawning; |
| Truly 'twas from the heart, his every song. |
| And that his voice might ever be more strong, |
| He took such pains that, with his either eye, |
| 540 | He had to blink, so loudly would he cry, |
| A-standing on his tiptoes therewithal, |
| Stretching his neck till it grew long and small. |
| And such discretion, too, by him was shown, |
| There was no man in any region known |
| 545 | That him in song or wisdom could surpass. |
| I have well read, in Dan Burnell the Ass, |
| Among his verses, how there was a cock, |
| Because a priest's son gave to him a knock |
| Upon the leg, while young and not yet wise, |
| 550 | He caused the boy to lose his benefice. |
| But, truly, there is no comparison |
| With the great wisdom and the discretion |
| Your father had, or with his subtlety. |
| Now sing, dear sir, for holy charity, |
| 555 | See if you can your father counterfeit." |
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