When Phoebus’ wife had sent for her lemán, Anon they wroughten all their lust volage. 4977 This whitë crow, that hung aye in the cage, Beheld their work, and said never a word; And when that home was come Phoebus the lord, This crowë sung, “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!” “What? bird,” quoth Phoebus, “what song sing’st thou now? Wert thou not wont so merrily to sing, That to my heart it was a réjoicíng To hear thy voice? alas! what song is this?” “By God,” quoth he, “I singë not amiss. Phoebus,” quoth he, “for all thy worthiness, For all thy beauty, and all thy gentleness, For all thy song, and all thy minstrelsý, For all thy waiting, 4978 bleared is thine eye 4979 With one of little reputatión, Not worth to thee, as in comparison, The mountance 4980