No tere out of his yën for that sighte

Ne cam, but seyde, ‘a fair womman was she.’

Gret wonder is, how that he coude or mighte

Be domesman of hir dede beautee.

The wyn to bringen him comaunded he,

And drank anon; non other wo he made.

Whan might is Ioyned un-to crueltee,

Allas! to depe wol the venim wade!

In youthe a maister hadde this emperour,

To teche him letterure and curteisye,

For of moralitee he was the flour,

As in his tyme, but-if bokes lye;

And whyl this maister hadde of him maistrye,

He maked him so conning and so souple

That longe tyme it was er tirannye

Or any vyce dorste on him uncouple.

This Seneca, of which that I devyse,

By-cause Nero hadde of him swich drede,

For he fro vyces wolde him ay chastyse

Discreetly as by worde and nat by dede;—

‘Sir,’ wolde he seyn, ‘an emperour moot nede

Be vertuous, and hate tirannye’—

For which he in a bath made him to blede

On bothe his armes, til he moste dye.

This Nero hadde eek of acustumaunce

In youthe ageyn his maister for to ryse,

Which afterward him thoughte a greet grevaunce;

Therfor he made him deyen in this wyse.

But natheles this Seneca the wyse

Chees in a bath to deye in this manere

Rather than han another tormentyse;

And thus hath Nero slayn his maister dere.

Now fil it so that fortune list no lenger

The hye pryde of Nero to cheryce;

For though that he were strong, yet was she strenger;

She thoughte thus, ‘by god, I am to nyce

To sette a man that is fulfild of vyce

In heigh degree, and emperour him calle.

By god, out of his sete I wol him tryce;

When he leest weneth, sonest shal he falle.’

The peple roos up-on him on a night

For his defaute, and whan he it espyed,

Out of his dores anon he hath him dight

Alone, and, ther he wende han ben allyed,

He knokked faste, and ay, the more he cryed,

The faster shette they the dores alle;

Tho wiste he wel he hadde him-self misgyed,

And wente his wey, no lenger dorste he calle.

The peple cryde and rombled up and doun,

That with his eres herde he how they seyde,

‘Wher is this false tyraunt, this Neroun?’

For fere almost out of his wit he breyde,

And to his goddes pitously he preyde

For socour, but it mighte nat bityde.

For drede of this, him thoughte that he deyde,

And ran in-to a gardin, him to hyde.

And in this gardin fond he cherles tweye

That seten by a fyr ful greet and reed,

And to thise cherles two he gan to preye

To sleen him, and to girden of his heed,

That to his body, whan that he were deed,

Were no despyt y-doon, for his defame.

Him-self he slow, he coude no better reed,

Of which fortune lough, and hadde a game.

De Oloferno (Holofernes).

Was never capitayn under a king

That regnes mo putte in subieccioun,

Ne strenger was in feeld of alle thing,

As in his tyme, ne gretter of renoun,

Ne more pompous in heigh presumpcioun

Than Oloferne, which fortune ay kiste

So likerously, and ladde him up and doun

Til that his heed was of, er that he wiste.

Nat only that this world hadde him in awe

For lesinge of richesse or libertee,

But he made every man reneye his lawe.

‘Nabugodonosor was god,’ seyde he,

‘Noon other god sholde adoured be.’

Ageyns his heste no wight dar trespace

Save in Bethulia, a strong citee,

Wher Eliachim a prest was of that place.

But tak kepe of the deeth of Olofern;

Amidde his host he dronke lay a night,

With-inne his tente, large as is a bern,

And yit, for al his pompe and al his might,

Iudith, a womman, as he lay upright,

Sleping, his heed of smoot, and from his tente

Ful prively she stal from every wight,

And with his heed unto hir toun she wente.

De Rege Anthiocho illustri.

What nedeth it of King Anthiochus

To telle his hye royal magestee,

His hye pryde, his werkes venimous?

For swich another was ther noon as he.

Rede which that he was in Machabee,

And rede the proude wordes that he seyde,

And why he fil fro heigh prosperitee,

And in an hil how wrechedly he deyde.

Fortune him hadde enhaunced so in pryde

That verraily he wende he mighte attayne

Unto the sterres, upon every syde,

And in balance weyen ech montayne,

And alle the flodes of the see restrayne.

And goddes peple hadde he most in hate,

Hem wolde he sleen in torment and in payne,

Wening that god ne mighte his pryde abate.

And for that Nichanor and Thimothee

Of Iewes weren venquisshed mightily,

Unto the Iewes swich an hate hadde he

That he bad greithe his char ful hastily,

And swoor, and seyde, ful despitously,

Unto Ierusalem he wolde eft-sone,

To wreken his ire on it ful cruelly;

But of his purpos he was let ful sone.

God for his manace him so sore smoot

With invisible wounde, ay incurable,

That in his guttes carf it so and boot

That his peynes weren importable.

And certeinly, the wreche was resonable,

For many a mannes guttes dide he peyne;

But from his purpos cursed and dampnable

For al his smert he wolde him nat restreyne;

But bad anon apparaillen his host,

And sodeynly, er he of it was war,

God daunted al his pryde and al his bost.

For he so sore fil out of his char,

That it his limes and his skin to-tar,

So that he neither mighte go ne ryde,

But in a chayer men aboute him bar,

Al for-brused, bothe bak and syde.

The wreche of god him smoot so cruelly

That thurgh his body wikked wormes crepte;

And ther-with-al he stank so horribly,

That noon of al his meynee that him kepte,

Whether so he wook or elles slepte,

Ne mighte noght for stink of him endure.

In this meschief he wayled and eek wepte,

And knew god lord of every creature.

To al his host and to him-self also

Ful wlatsom was the stink of his careyne;

No man ne mighte him bere to ne fro.

And in this stink and this horrible peyne

He starf ful wrecchedly in a monteyne.

Thus hath this robbour and this homicyde,

That many a man made to wepe and pleyne,

Swich guerdon as bilongeth unto pryde.

De Alexandro.

The storie of Alisaundre is so comune,

That every wight that hath discrecioun

Hath herd somwhat or al of his fortune.

This wyde world, as in conclusioun,

He wan by strengthe, or for his hye renoun

They weren glad for pees un-to him sende.

The pryde of man and beste he leyde adoun,

Wher-so he cam, un-to the worldes ende.

Comparisoun might never yit be maked

Bitwixe him and another conquerour;

For al this world for drede of him hath quaked,

He was of knighthode and of fredom flour;

Fortune him made the heir of hir honour;

Save wyn and wommen, no-thing mighte aswage

His hye entente in armes and labour;

So was he ful of leonyn corage.

What preys were it to him, though I yow tolde

Of Darius, and an hundred thousand mo,

Of kinges, princes, erles, dukes bolde,

Whiche he conquered, and broghte hem in-to wo?

I seye, as fer as man may ryde or go,

The world was his, what sholde I more devyse?

For though I write or tolde you evermo

Of his knighthode, it mighte nat suffyse.

Twelf yeer he regned, as seith Machabee;

Philippes sone of Macedoyne he was,

That first was king in Grece the contree.

O worthy gentil Alisaundre, allas!

That ever sholde fallen swich a cas!

Empoisoned of thyn owene folk thou were;

Thy sys fortune hath turned into as;

And yit for thee ne weep she never a tere!

Who shal me yeven teres to compleyne

The deeth of gentillesse and of fraunchyse,

That al the world welded in his demeyne,

And yit him thoughte it mighte nat suffyse?

So ful was his corage of heigh empryse.

Allas! who shal me helpe to endyte

False fortune, and poison to despyse,

The whiche two of al this wo I wyte?

De Iulio Cesare.

By wisdom, manhede, and by greet labour

Fro humble bed to royal magestee,

Up roos he, Iulius the conquerour,

That wan al thoccident by lond and see,

By strengthe of hond, or elles by tretee,

And un-to Rome made hem tributarie;

And sitthe of Rome the emperour was he,

Til that fortune wex his adversarie.

O mighty Cesar, that in Thessalye

Ageyn Pompeius, fader thyn in lawe,

That of thorient hadde al the chivalrye

As fer as that the day biginneth dawe,

Thou thurgh thy knighthode hast hem take and slawe,

Save fewe folk that with Pompeius fledde,

Thurgh which thou puttest al thorient in awe.

Thanke fortune, that so wel thee spedde!

But now a litel whyl I wol biwaille

This Pompeius, this noble governour

Of Rome, which that fleigh at this bataille;

I seye, oon of his men, a fals traitour,

His heed of smoot, to winnen him favour

Of Iulius, and him the heed he broghte.

Allas, Pompey, of thorient conquerour,

That fortune unto swich a fyn thee broghte!

To Rome ageyn repaireth Iulius

With his triumphe, laureat ful hye,

But on a tyme Brutus Cassius,

That ever hadde of his hye estaat envye,

Ful prively hath maad conspiracye

Ageins this Iulius, in subtil wyse,

And cast the place, in whiche he sholde dye

With boydekins, as I shal yow devyse.

This Iulius to the Capitolie wente

Upon a day, as he was wont to goon,

And in the Capitolie anon him hente

This false Brutus, and his othere foon,

And stikede him with boydekins anoon

With many a wounde, and thus they lete him lye;

But never gronte he at no strook but oon,

Or elles at two, but-if his storie lye.

So manly was this Iulius at herte

And so wel lovede estaatly honestee,

That, though his deedly woundes sore smerte,

His mantel over his hippes casteth he,

For no man sholde seen his privitee.

And, as he lay on deying in a traunce,

And wiste verraily that deed was he,

Of honestee yit hadde he remembraunce.

Lucan, to thee this storie I recomende,

And to Sweton, and to Valerie also,

That of this storie wryten word and ende,

How that to thise grete conqueroures two

Fortune was first freend, and sithen fo.

No man ne truste up-on hir favour longe,

But have hir in awayt for ever-mo.

Witnesse on alle thise conqueroures stronge.

Cresus.

This riche Cresus, whylom king of Lyde,

Of whiche Cresus Cyrus sore him dradde,

Yit was he caught amiddes al his pryde,

And to be brent men to the fyr him ladde.

But swich a reyn doun fro the welkne shadde

That slow the fyr, and made him to escape;

But to be war no grace yet he hadde,

Til fortune on the galwes made him gape.

Whan he escaped was, he can nat stente

For to biginne a newe werre agayn.

He wende wel, for that fortune him sente

Swich hap, that he escaped thurgh the rayn,

That of his foos he mighte nat be slayn;

And eek a sweven up-on a night he mette,

Of which he was so proud and eek so fayn,

That in vengeaunce he al his herte sette.

Up-on a tree he was, as that him thoughte,

Ther Iuppiter him wesh, bothe bak and syde,

And Phebus eek a fair towaille him broughte

To drye him with, and ther-for wex his pryde;

And to his doghter, that stood him bisyde,

Which that he knew in heigh science habounde,

He bad hir telle him what it signifyde,

And she his dreem bigan right thus expounde.

‘The tree,’ quod she, ‘the galwes is to mene,

And Iuppiter bitokneth snow and reyn,

And Phebus, with his towaille so clene,

Tho ben the sonne stremes for to seyn;

Thou shalt anhanged be, fader, certeyn;

Reyn shal thee wasshe, and sonne shal thee drye;’

Thus warned she him ful plat and ful pleyn,

His doughter, which that called was Phanye.

Anhanged was Cresus, the proude king,

His royal trone mighte him nat availle.—

Tragedie is noon other maner thing,

Ne can in singing crye ne biwaille,

But for that fortune alwey wol assaille

With unwar strook the regnes that ben proude;

For when men trusteth hir, than wol she faille,

And covere hir brighte face with a cloude.

Explicit Tragedia.

Here stinteth the Knight the Monk of his Tale.

The prologue of the Nonne Preestes Tale.

‘Ho!’ quod the knight, ‘good sir, na-more of this,

That ye han seyd is right y-nough, y-wis,

And mochel more; for litel hevinesse

Is right y-nough to mochel folk, I gesse.

I seye for me, it is a greet disese

Wher-as men han ben in greet welthe and ese,

To heren of hir sodeyn fal, allas!

And the contrarie is Ioie and greet solas,

As whan a man hath been in povre estaat,

And clymbeth up, and wexeth fortunat,

And ther abydeth in prosperitee,

Swich thing is gladsom, as it thinketh me,

And of swich thing were goodly for to telle.’

‘Ye,’ quod our hoste, ‘by seint Poules belle,

Ye seye right sooth; this monk, he clappeth loude,

He spak how “fortune covered with a cloude”

I noot never what, and als of a “Tragedie”

Right now ye herde, and parde! no remedie

It is for to biwaille, ne compleyne

That that is doon, and als it is a peyne,

As ye han seyd, to here of hevinesse.

Sir monk, na-more of this, so god yow blesse!

Your tale anoyeth al this companye;

Swich talking is nat worth a boterflye;

For ther-in is ther no desport ne game.

Wherfor, sir Monk, or dan Piers by your name,

I preye yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles,

For sikerly, nere clinking of your belles,

That on your brydel hange on every syde,

By heven king, that for us alle dyde,

I sholde er this han fallen doun for slepe,

Although the slough had never been so depe;

Than had your tale al be told in vayn.

For certeinly, as that thise clerkes seyn,

“Wher-as a man may have noon audience,

Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence.”

And wel I woot the substance is in me,

If any thing shal wel reported be.

Sir, sey somwhat of hunting, I yow preye.’

‘Nay,’ quod this monk, ‘I have no lust to pleye;

Now let another telle, as I have told.’

Than spak our host, with rude speche and bold,

And seyde un-to the Nonnes Preest anon,

‘Com neer, thou preest, com hider, thou sir Iohn,

Tel us swich thing as may our hertes glade,

Be blythe, though thou ryde up-on a Iade.

What though thyn hors be bothe foule and lene,

If he wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene;

Look that thyn herte be mery evermo.’

‘Yis, sir,’ quod he, ‘yis, host, so mote I go,

But I be mery, y-wis, I wol be blamed:‘—

And right anon his tale he hath attamed,

And thus he seyde un-to us everichon,

This swete preest, this goodly man, sir Iohn.

Explicit.

Here biginneth the Nonne Preestes Tale of the Cok

and Hen, Chauntecleer and Pertelote.

A povre widwe, somdel stope in age,

Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage,

Bisyde a grove, stonding in a dale.

This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale,

Sin thilke day that she was last a wyf,

In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf,

For litel was hir catel and hir rente;

By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente,

She fond hir-self, and eek hir doghtren two.

Three large sowes hadde she, and namo,

Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle.

Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle,

In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel.

Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel.

No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte;

Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote.

Repleccioun ne made hir never syk;

Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk,

And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.

The goute lette hir no-thing for to daunce,

Napoplexye shente nat hir heed;

No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed;

Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak,

Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no lak,

Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye,

For she was as it were a maner deye.

A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute

With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute,

In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer,

In al the land of crowing nas his peer.

His vois was merier than the mery orgon

On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon;

Wel sikerer was his crowing in his logge,

Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge.

By nature knew he ech ascencioun

Of equinoxial in thilke toun;

For whan degrees fiftene were ascended,

Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended.

His comb was redder than the fyn coral,

And batailed, as it were a castel-wal.

His bile was blak, and as the Ieet it shoon;

Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;

His nayles whytter than the lilie flour,

And lyk the burned gold was his colour.

This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce

Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce,

Whiche were his sustres and his paramours,

And wonder lyk to him, as of colours.

Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte

Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote.

Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire,

And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire,

Sin thilke day that she was seven night old,

That trewely she hath the herte in hold

Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith;

He loved hir so, that wel was him therwith.

But such a Ioye was it to here hem singe,

Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe,

In swete accord, ‘my lief is faren in londe.’

For thilke tyme, as I have understonde,

Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe.

And so bifel, that in a daweninge,

As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle

Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,

And next him sat this faire Pertelote,

This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte,

As man that in his dreem is drecched sore.

And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,

She was agast, and seyde, ‘O herte dere,

What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere?

Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!’

And he answerde and seyde thus, ‘madame,

I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief:

By god, me mette I was in swich meschief

Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright.

Now god,’ quod he, ‘my swevene recche aright,

And keep my body out of foul prisoun!

Me mette, how that I romed up and doun

Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste,

Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste

Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.

His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;

And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres,

With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres;

His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye.

Yet of his look for fere almost I deye;

This caused me my groning, doutelees.’

‘Avoy!’ quod she, ‘fy on yow, hertelees!

Allas!’ quod she, ‘for, by that god above,

Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love;

I can nat love a coward, by my feith.

For certes, what so any womman seith,

We alle desyren, if it mighte be,

To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,

And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool,

Ne him that is agast of every tool,

Ne noon avauntour, by that god above!

How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your love,

That any thing mighte make yow aferd?

Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?

Allas! and conne ye been agast of swevenis?

No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven is.

Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,

And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns,

Whan humours been to habundant in a wight.

Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night,

Cometh of the grete superfluitee

Of youre rede colera, pardee,

Which causeth folk to dreden in here dremes

Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes,

Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte,

Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte;

Right as the humour of malencolye

Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,

For fere of blake beres, or boles blake,

Or elles, blake develes wole hem take.

Of othere humours coude I telle also,

That werken many a man in sleep ful wo;

But I wol passe as lightly as I can.

Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man,

Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes?

Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes,

For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;

Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,

I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye,

That bothe of colere and of malencolye

Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie,

Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,

I shal my-self to herbes techen yow,

That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow;

And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde,

The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde,

To purgen yow binethe, and eek above.

Forget not this, for goddes owene love!

Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun.

Ware the sonne in his ascencioun

Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote;

And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote,

That ye shul have a fevere terciane,

Or an agu, that may be youre bane.

A day or two ye shul have digestyves

Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves,

Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere,

Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,

Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,

Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is;

Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in.

Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin!

Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.’

‘Madame,’ quod he, ‘graunt mercy of your lore.

But nathelees, as touching daun Catoun,

That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun,

Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,

By god, men may in olde bokes rede

Of many a man, more of auctoritee

Than ever Catoun was, so mote I thee,

Than al the revers seyn of his sentence,

And han wel founden by experience,

That dremes ben significaciouns,

As wel of Ioye as tribulaciouns

That folk enduren in this lyf present.

Ther nedeth make of this noon argument;

The verray preve sheweth it in dede.

Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede

Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente

On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente;

And happed so, thay come into a toun,

Wher-as ther was swich congregacioun

Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage,

That they ne founde as muche as o cotage,

In which they bothe mighte y-logged be.

Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee,

As for that night, departen compaignye;

And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,

And took his logging as it wolde falle.

That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,

Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;

That other man was logged wel y-nough,

As was his aventure, or his fortune,

That us governeth alle as in commune.

And so bifel, that, longe er it were day,

This man mette in his bed, ther-as he lay,

How that his felawe gan up-on him calle,

And seyde, ‘allas! for in an oxes stalle

This night I shal be mordred ther I lye.

Now help me, dere brother, er I dye;

In alle haste com to me,’ he sayde.

This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde;

But whan that he was wakned of his sleep,

He turned him, and took of this no keep;

Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee.

Thus twyës in his sleping dremed he.

And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe

Cam, as him thoughte, and seide, ‘I am now slawe;

Bihold my blody woundes, depe and wyde!

Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde,

And at the west gate of the toun,’ quod he,

‘A carte ful of donge ther shaltow see,

In which my body is hid ful prively;

Do thilke carte aresten boldely.

My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn;’

And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn,

With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.

And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;

For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,

To his felawes in he took the way;

And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle,

After his felawe he bigan to calle.

The hostiler answered him anon,

And seyde, ‘sire, your felawe is agon,

As sone as day he wente out of the toun.’

This man gan fallen in suspecioun,

Remembring on his dremes that he mette,

And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette,

Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond

A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond,

That was arrayed in the same wyse

As ye han herd the dede man devyse;

And with an hardy herte he gan to crye

Vengeaunce and Iustice of this felonye:—

‘My felawe mordred is this same night,

And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.

I crye out on the ministres,’ quod he,

‘That sholden kepe and reulen this citee;

Harrow! allas! her lyth my felawe slayn!’

What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn?

The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde,

And in the middel of the dong they founde

The dede man, that mordred was al newe.

O blisful god, that art so Iust and trewe!

Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway!

Mordre wol out, that see we day by day.

Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable

To god, that is so Iust and resonable,

That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be;

Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three,

Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun.

And right anoon, ministres of that toun

Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned,

And eek the hostiler so sore engyned,

That thay biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon,

And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon.

Here may men seen that dremes been to drede.

And certes, in the same book I rede,

Right in the nexte chapitre after this,

(I gabbe nat, so have I Ioye or blis,)

Two men that wolde han passed over see,

For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree,

If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie,

That made hem in a citee for to tarie,

That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde.

But on a day, agayn the even-tyde,

The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as hem leste.

Iolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste,

And casten hem ful erly for to saille;

But to that oo man fil a greet mervaille.

That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay,

Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day;

Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde,

And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde,

And seyde him thus, ‘if thou to-morwe wende,

Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.’

He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,

And preyde him his viage for to lette;

As for that day, he preyde him to abyde.

His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde,

Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste.

‘No dreem,’ quod he, ‘may so myn herte agaste,

That I wol lette for to do my thinges.

I sette not a straw by thy dreminges,

For swevenes been but vanitees and Iapes.

Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes,

And eke of many a mase therwithal;

Men dreme of thing that nevere was ne shal.

But sith I see that thou wolt heer abyde,

And thus for-sleuthen wilfully thy tyde,

God wot it reweth me; and have good day.’

And thus he took his leve, and wente his way.

But er that he hadde halfe his cours y-seyled,

Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled,

But casuelly the shippes botme rente,

And ship and man under the water wente

In sighte of othere shippes it byside,

That with hem seyled at the same tyde.

And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere,

By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere,

That no man sholde been to recchelees

Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees,

That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.