As of a fox, or of a cok, or hen,
Taketh the moralitee therof, good men.

For Seint Poule sayth, That all that writen is,
To our doctrine it is ywritten ywis.

Taketh the fruit, and let the chaf be stille.

Now, goode God, if that it be thy wille, As sayth my Lord, so make us all good men; And bring us to thy highe blisse. Amen.

Sire Nonnes Preest, our hoste sayd anon,
Yblessed be thy breche and every ston;
This was a mery tale of Chaunteclere.
But by my trouthe, if thou were seculere,
Thou woldest ben a tredefoule a right:
For if thou have corage as thou hast might,
Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,
Ye mo than seven times seventene.

Se, whiche braunes hath this gentil preest,
So gret a necke, and swiche a large breest!
He loketh as a sparhauk with his eyen;
Him nedeth not his colour for to dien
With Brasil, ne with grain of Portingale.
But, sire, faire falle you for your tale.
And after that, he with ful mery chere
Sayd to another, as ye shulen here.

*

THE SECOND NONNES TALE.

THE ministre and the norice unto vices,
Which that men clepe in English idelnesse,
That porter at the gate is of delices,

To eschuen, and by hire contrary hire oppresse, That is to sain, by leful besinesse,

Wel oughte we to don al our entente,

Lest that the fend thurgh idelnesse us hente.

For he that with his thousand cordes slie
Continuelly us waiteth to beclappe,
Whan he may man in idelnesse espie,
He can so lightly cacche him in his trappe,
Til that a man be hent right by the lappe,
He n'is not ware the fend hath him in hond:
Wel ought us werche, and idelnesse withstond.

And though men dradden never for to die,
Yet see men wel by reson douteles,
That idelnesse is rote of slogardie,

Of which ther never cometh no good encrees,
And see that slouthe holdeth hem in a lees,
Only to slepe, and for to ete and drinke,
And to devouren all that other swinke.

And for to put us from swiche idelnesse,
That cause is of so gret confusion,
I have here don my feithful besinesse
After the Legende in translation

Right of thy glorious lif and passion,

Thou with thy gerlond, wrought of rose and lilie, Thee mene I, maid and martir Seinte Cecilie.

And thou, that arte floure of virgines all, Of whom that Bernard list so wel to write, To thee at my beginning first I call, Thou comfort of us wretches, do me endite Thy maidens deth, that wan thurgh hire merite The eternal lif, and over the fend victorie,

As man may after reden in hire storie.

Thou maide and mother, doughter of thy son, Thou well of mercy, sinful soules cure, In whom that God of bountee chees to won; Thou humble and high over every creature, Thou nobledest so fer forth our nature, That no desdaine the maker had of kinde His son in blood and flesh to clothe and winde. Within the cloystre blisful of thy sides, Toke mannes shape the eternal love and pees, That of the trine compas Lord and gide is, Whom erthe, and see, and heven out of relees Ay herien; and thou, virgine wemmeles, Bare of thy body (and dweltest maiden pure) The creatour of every creature.

Assembled is in thee magnificence

With mercy, goodnesse, and with swiche pitee,
That thou, that art the sonne of excellence,
Not only helpest hem that praien thee,
But oftentime of thy benignitee

Ful freely, or that men thin helpe beseche,
Thou goest beforne, and art hir lives leche.

Now helpe, thou meke and blisful faire maide,
Me flemed wretch, in this desert of galle;
Thinke on the woman Cananee, that saide
That whelpes eten som of the cromes alle
That from hir Lordes table ben yfalle;
And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve,
Be sinful, yet accepteth my beleve.

And for that feith is ded withouten werkes, So for to werken yeve me wit and space, That I be quit from thennes that most derke is; O thou, that art so faire and ful of grace, Be thou min advocat in that high place,

Ther as withouten ende is songe Osanne, Thou Cristes mother, doughter dere of Anne.

And of thy light my soule in prison light,
That troubled is by the contagion
Of my body, and also by the wight
Of erthly lust, and false affection:
O haven of refute, o salvation

Of hem that ben in sorwe and in distresse,
Now help, for to my werk I wol me dresse.
Yet pray I you that reden that I write,
Foryeve me, that I do no diligence
This ilke storie subtilly to endite.

For both have I the wordes and sentence
Of him, that at the seintes reverence

The storie wrote, and folowed hire legende,

And pray you that ye wol my werk amende.

First wol I you the name of Seinte Cecilie Expoune, as men may in hire storie see: It is to sayn in English, Hevens lilie, For pure chastnesse of virginitee, Or for she whitnesse had of honestee, And grene of conscience, and of good fame The swote savour, Lilie was hire name.

Or Cecilie is to sayn, the way to blinde, For she ensample was by good teching; Or elles Cecilie, as I writen finde, Is joined by a maner conjoining Of heven and Lia, and here in figuring The heven is set for thought of holinesse, And Lia, for hire lasting besinesse.

Cecilie may eke be sayd in this manere, Wanting of blindnesse, for hire grete light

Of sapience, and for hire thewes clere.
Or elles lo, this maidens name bright

Of heven and Leos cometh, for which by right
Men might hire wel the heven of peple calle,
Ensample of good and wise werkes alle:

For Leos peple in English is to say;
And right as men may in the heven see
The sonne and mone, and sterres every way,
Right so men gostly, in this maiden free
Sawen of faith the magnanimitee,
And eke the clerenesse hole of sapience,
And sondry werkes, bright of excellence.

And right so as thise Philosophres write, That heven is swift and round, and eke brenning, Right so was faire Cecilie the white

Ful swift and besy in every good werking,
And round and hole in good persevering,
And brenning ever in charitee ful bright:
Now have I you declared what she hight.

This maiden bright Cecile, as hire lif saith,
Was come of Romaines and of noble kind,
And from hire cradle fostred in the faith
Of Crist, and bare his Gospel in hire mind:
She never cesed, as I writen find,
Of hire prayere, and God to love and drede,
Beseching him to kepe hire maidenhede.

And whan this maiden shuld until a man
Ywedded be, that was ful yonge of age,
Which that ycleped was Valerian,
And day was comen of hire marriage,
She ful devout and humble in hire corage,
Under hire robe of gold, that sat ful faire,
Had next hire flesh yclad hire in an haire.