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DRYDEN.

THE

COCK AND THE FOX;

OR,

THE TALE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST.

FROM CHAUCER.

THERE lived, as authors tell, in days of yore,
A widow somewhat old, and very poor:
Deep in a dell her cottage lonely stood,
Well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood.
This dowager, on whom my tale I found,
Since last she laid her husband in the ground,
A simple sober life in patience led,

And had but just enough to buy her bread:
But huswifing the little Heaven had lent,
She duly paid a groat for quarter-rent;
And pinch'd her belly, with her daughters two,
To bring the year about with much ado.

The cattle in her homestead were three sows,
An ewe called Mally, and three brinded cows.
Her parlour-window stuck with herbs around,
Of savoury smell; and rushes strew'd the ground.
A maple-dresser in her hall she had,

On which full many a slender meal she made:
For no delicious morsel pass'd her throat;
According to her cloth she cut her coat:
No poignant sauce she knew, nor costly treat;
Her hunger gave a relish to her meat :
A sparing diet did her health assure;
Or sick, a pepper-posset was her cure.
Before the day was done, her work she sped,
And never went by candle-light to bed:
With exercise she sweat ill-humours out;
Her dancing was not hinder'd by the gout.
Her poverty was glad, her heart content,
Nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant.
Of wine she never tasted through the year,
But white and black was all her homely cheer;
Brown bread, and milk (but first she skimm'd her
bowls),

And rashers of singed bacon on the coals.
On holidays, an egg, or two at most;
But her ambition never reach'd to roast.

A yard she had with pales enclosed about,
Some high, some low, and a dry ditch without.
Within this homestead lived, without a peer
For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer:
So hight her cock, whose singing did surpass
The merry notes of organs at the mass.
More certain was the crowing of a cock
To number hours than is an abbey clock;

And sooner than the matin-bell was rung
He clapp'd his wings upon his roost, and sung:
For when degrees fifteen ascended right,

By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night.
High was his comb, and coral-red withal,
In dents embattled like a castle-wall:
His bill was raven-black, and shone like jet;
Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet:
White were his nails, like silver to behold,
His body glittering like the burnish'd gold.

This gentle cock, for solace of his life,
Six misses had, beside his lawful wife :
Scandal, that spares no king, though ne'er so good,
Says they were all of his own flesh and blood;
His sisters both by sire and mother's side,

And sure their likeness show'd them near allied.
But make the worst, the monarch did no more
Than all the Ptolemies had done before:
When incest is for interest of a nation,
"Tis made no sin by holy dispensation.
Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone,
Which by their common ugliness are known.

But passing this, as from our tale apart,
Dame Partlet was the sovereign of his heart:
Ardent in love, outrageous in his play,
He feather'd her a hundred times a day;
And she, that was not only passing fair,
But was withal discreet and debonaire,
Resolved the passive doctrine to fulfil,
Though loth, and let him work his wicked will:
At board and bed was affable and kind,
According as their marriage-vow did bind,
Aud as the church's precept had enjoin'd.

Ev'n since she was a se'nnight old, they say,
Was chaste and humble to her dying day,
Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey.

By this her husband's heart she did obtain ;
What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain?
She was his only joy, and he her pride;
She, when he walk'd, went pecking by his side;
If, spurning on the ground, he sprung a corn,
The tribute in his bill to her was borne.

But O! what joy it was to hear him sing
In summer, when the day began to spring!
Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat
Solus cum solâ, then was all his note :

For in the days of yore the birds of parts

Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal arts.

It happ'd, that perching on the parlour-beam, Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream

Just at the dawn; and sigh'd, and groan'd so fast, As every breath he drew would be his last.

Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his side,

Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cried
For help from gods and men; and, sore aghast,
She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last.
'Dear heart,' said she, for love of heaven, de-

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Your pain, and make me partner of your care.
You groan, sir, ever since the morning light,
As something had disturb'd your noble spright.'
'And, madam, well I might,' said Chanticleer,
Never was Shrovetide cock in such a fear:

Ev'n still I run all over in a sweat,

My princely senses not recover'd yet.

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