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He made us to his image all agree;
That image is the foul, and that must be,
Or not the maker's image, or be free.

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But whether it were better man had been By nature bound to good, not free to fin, I wave, for fear of splitting on a rock, The tale I tell is only of a cock; Who had not run the hazard of his life Had he believ'd his dream, and not his wife: For women, with a mischief to their kind, Pervert, with bad advice, our better mind, A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradife forego, Where at heart's ease he liv'd; and might have been As free from forrow as he was from fin.

For what the devil had their fex to do,

That, born to folly, they prefum'd to know,
And could not fee the ferpent in the grafs?
But I myself prefume, and let it país.

Silence in times of fuff'ring is the best,
'Tis dang'rous to disturb a hornet's nest.
In other authors you may find enough,
But all they fay of dames is idle stuff.
Legends of lying wits together bound,
The wife of Bath would throw 'em to the ground:
These are the words of chanticleer, not mine,
I honour dames, and think their fex divine.

Now to continue what my tale begun.
Lay madam Partlet basking in the sun,

Breast high in fand; her sisters in a row,
Enjoy'd the beams above, the warmth below.
The cock that of his flesh was ever free,
Sung merrier than the mermaid in the fea :
And so befel, that as he caft his eye,
Among the coleworts on a butterfly,
He faw falfe Reynard where he lay full low,
I need not fwear he had no lift to crow:
But cry'd cock, cock, and gave a fudden start,
As fore difmay'd and frighted at his heart.
For birds and beafts, inform'd by nature, know
Kinds oppofite to theirs, and fly their foc.
So, Chanticleer, who never saw a fox,

Yet hunn'd him as a failor fhuns the rocks.

But the falfe loon who could not work his will By open force, employ'd his flatt'ring skill; I hope, my lord, faid he, I not offend, Are you afraid of me, that am your friend? I were a beast indeed to do you wrong, I, who have lov'd and honour'd you so long: Stay, gentle fir, nor take a false alarm, For on my foul I never meant you harm. I come no spy, nor as a traitor press, To learn the fecrets of your soft recefs: Far be from Reynard to profane a thought, But by the fweetness of your voice was brought : For, as I bid my beads, by chance I heard, The fong as of an angel in the yard:

A fong that wou'd have charm'd th' infernal gods, And banish'd horror from the dark abødes:

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This Chanticleer of whom the story fings,

Stood high upon his toes, and clapp'd his wings;
Then stretch'd his neck, and wink'd with both his eyes;
Ambitious, as he fought, th' Olympic prize.

But while he pain'd himself to raise his note,

Falfe Reynard rufh'd, and caught him by the throat.
Then on his back he laid the precious load,
And fought his wonted shelter of the wood;
Swiftly he made his way, the mischief done,
Of all unheeded, and purfu'd by none.

Alas, what stay is there in human state,
Or who can fhun inevitable fated ·

The doom was written, the decree was paft,
Ere the foundations of the world were caft!
In Aries though the fun exalted food,
His patron-planet to procure his good;
Yet Saturn was his mortal foe, and he
In Libra rais'd, oppos'd the fame degrees
The rays both good and bad, of equal pow'r, (
Each thwarting other made a mingled hour.

On friday-morn he dreamt this direful dreams,
Crofs to the worthy native, in his scheme!
Ah blissful Venus, goddess of delight,
How coud'st thou fuffer thy devoted knight,
On thy own day to fall by foe opprefsid,
The wight of all the world who ferv'd thee beft?
Who true to love, was all for recreation,
And minded not the work of propagation.
Gaufride, who could'st so well in rhyme complain,
The death of Richard with an arrow flain,

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Why had not I thy mufe, or thou my heart,
To fing this heavy dirge with equal art!
That I like thee on Friday might complain;
For on that day was Coeur de Lion slain.

Not louder cries when Ilium was in flames, Were fent to heav'n by woful Trojan dames, When Pyrrhus toss'd on high his burnish'd blade, And offer'd Priam to his father's shade,

Than for the cock the widow'd poultry made.
Fair Partlet first, when he was born from fight,
With fov'raign fhrieks bewail'd her captive knight.
Far louder than the Carthaginian wife,
When Afdrubal her husband lost his life,
When she beheld the fmouldring flames afcend,
And all the Punic glories at an end:

Willing into the fires she plung'd her head,
With greater ease than others feek their bed.
Not more aghast the matrons of renown,
When tyrant Nero burn'd th' imperial town,
Shriek'd for the downfal in a doleful cry,
For which their guiltless lords were doom'd to die.
Now to my story I return again,

The trembling widow and her daughters twain,
This woful cackling cry with horror heard,
Of thofe diftracted damfels in the yard;
And ftarting up beheld the heavy fight,
How Reynard to the forest took his flight,
And cross his back as in triumphant feorn,
The hope and pillar of the house was born.

The fox, the wicked fox, was all the cry,
Out from his house ran ev'ry neighbour nigh:
The vicar first, and after him the crew,
With forks and staves the felon to pursue.
Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot with the band,
And Malkin, with her distaff in her hand:
Ran cow and calf, and family of hogs,
In panic horror of pursuing dogs,

With many a deadly grunt and doleful squeak
Poor fwine, as if their pretty hearts would break.
The shouts of men, the women in difmay,
With shrieks augment the terror of the day.
The ducks that heard the proclamation cry'd,
And fear'd a perfecution might betide,
Full twenty mile from town their voyage take,
Obfcure in rushes of the liquid lake.

The geefe fly o'er the barn; the bees in arms,
Drive headlong from their waxen cells in swarms.
Jack Straw at London-ftone with all his rout,
Struck not the city with so loud a shout;
Not when with English hate they did pursue
A Frenchman, or an unbelieving Jew:
Not when the welkin rung with one and all;
And echoes bounded back from Fox's hall;
Earth feem'd to fink beneath, and heav'n above to
With might and main they chas'd the murd'rous fox,
With brazen trumpets, and inflated box,

To kindle Mars with military sounds,
Nor wanted horns t' inspire fagacious hounds.

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