For yet was there no man that him pursu’d. O destiny, that may’st not be eschew’d! 4408 Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams! Alas, his wifë raughtë 4409 nought of dreams! And on a Friday fell all this mischance. O Venus, that art goddess of pleasánce, Since that thy servant was this Chanticleer And in thy service did all his powére, More for delight, than the world to multiply, Why wilt thou suffer him on thy day to die? O Gaufrid, dearë master sovereign, That, when thy worthy king Richárd was slain 4410 With shot, complainedest his death so sore, Why n’ had I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chiden, as did ye? (For on a Friday, soothly, slain was he), Then would I shew you how that I could plain For Chanticleerë’s dread, and for his pain.