“But let us speak of mirth, and stint all this; Madamë Partelote, so have I bliss, Of one thing God hath sent me largë grace; For when I see the beauty of your face, Ye be so scarlet-hued about your eyen, I maketh all my dreadë for to dien, For, all so sicker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio. (Madam, the sentence of this Latin is, Woman is mannë’s joy and mannë’s bliss.) For when I feel at night your softë side— Albeit that I may not on you ride, For that our perch is made so narrow, alas!— I am so full of joy and of solas, That I defy both sweven and eke dream.” And with that word he flew down from the beam, For it was day, and eke his hennës all; And with a chuck he gan them for to call, For he had found a corn, lay in the yard. Royal he was, he was no more afear’d; He feather’d Partelotë twenty time, And as oft trode her, ere that it was prime. He looked as it were a grim lioún, And on his toes he roamed up and down; He deigned not to set his feet to ground; He chucked, when he had a corn y-found, And to him rannë then his wivës all. Thus royal, as a prince is in his hall, Leave I this Chanticleer in his pastúre; And after will I tell his áventúre.
When that the month in which the world began, That hightë March, when God first maked man, Was cómplete, and y-passed were also, Sincë March ended, thirty days and two, Befell that Chanticleer in all his pride, His seven wivës walking him beside, Cast up his eyen to the brightë sun, That in the sign of Taurus had y-run Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more; He knew by kind, and by none other lore, That it was prime, and crew with blissful steven. “The sun,” he said, “is clomben up in heaven Twenty degrees and one, and more y-wis. Madamë Partelote, my worldë’s bliss, Hearken these blissful birdës how they sing, And see the freshë flowers how they spring; Full is mine heart of revel and solace.” But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case; For ever the latter end of joy is woe: God wot that worldly joy is soon y-go: And, if a rhetor couldë fair indite, He in a chronicle might it safely write, As for a sov’reign notability. Now every wise man, let him hearken me; This story is all as true, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot du Lake, That women hold in full great reverence. Now will I turn again to my senténce.