|
Whan that the monthe in which the world bigan |
| That highte March, whan God first maked man, |
| Was compleet, and passed were also |
| Syn March was gon, thritty dayes and two, |
| 425 | Bifel that Chauntecleer in al his pryde, |
| Hise sevene wyves walkynge by his syde, |
| Caste up hise eyen to the brighte sonne, |
| That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne |
| Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat moore; |
| 430 | And knew by kynde, and by noon oother loore, |
| That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. |
| "The sonne," he seyde, "is clomben upon hevene |
| Fourty degrees and oon, and moore, ywis. |
| Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, |
| 435 | Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they synge, |
| And se the fresshe floures how they sprynge. |
| Ful is myn herte of revel and solas." |
| But sodeynly hym fil a sorweful cas, |
| For evere the latter ende of joye is wo. |
| 440 | God woot that worldly joye is soone ago, |
| And if a rethor koude faire endite, |
| He in a cronycle saufly myghte it write, |
| As for a sovereyn notabilitee. |
| Now every wys man, lat him herkne me: |
| 445 | This storie is al so trewe, I undertake, |
| As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, |
| That wommen holde in ful greet reverence. |
| Now wol I come agayn to my sentence. |
|
|
When that same month wherein the world began, |
| Which is called March, wherein God first made man, |
| Was ended, and were passed of days also, |
| Since March began, full thirty days and two, |
| 425 | It fell that Chauntecleer, in all his pride, |
| His seven wives a-walking by his side, |
| Cast up his two eyes toward the great bright sun |
| Which through die sign of Taurus now had run |
| Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more, |
| 430 | And knew by instinct and no other lore |
| That it was prime, and joyfully he crew, |
| "The sun, my love," he said, "has climbed anew |
| Forty degrees and one, and somewhat more. |
| My lady Pertelote, whom I adore, |
| 435 | Mark now these happy birds, hear how they sing, |
| And see all these fresh flowers, how they spring; |
| Full is my heart of revelry and grace." |
| But suddenly he fell in grievous case; |
| For ever the latter end of joy is woe. |
| 440 | God knows that worldly joys do swiftly go; |
| And if a rhetorician could but write, |
| He in some chronicle might well indite |
| And mark it down as sovereign in degree. |
| Now every wise man, let him hark to me: |
| 445 | This tale is just as true, I undertake, |
| As is the book of Launcelot of the Lake, |
| Which women always hold in such esteem. |
| But now I must take up my proper theme. |
|
