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This widow, now, of whom I tell my tale, Since that same day when she'd been last a wife Had led, with patience, her strait simple life, For she'd small goods and little incomerent; By husbanding of such as God had sent She kept herself and her young daughters twain. Three large sows had she, and no more, 'tis plain, Three cows and a lone sheep that she called Moll. Right sooty was her bedroom and her hall, Wherein she'd eaten many a slender meal. Of sharp sauce, why she needed no great deal, For dainty morsel never passed her throat; Her diet well accorded with her coat. Repletion never made this woman sick; A temperate diet was her whole physic, And exercise, and her heart's sustenance. The gout, it hindered her nowise to dance, Nor apoplexy spun within her head; And no wine drank she, either white or red; Her board was mostly garnished, white and black, With milk and brown bread, whereof she'd no lack, Broiled bacon and sometimes an egg or two, For a small dairy business did she do. A yard she had, enclosed all roundabout With pales, and there was a dry ditch without, And in the yard a cock called Chanticleer. In all the land, for crowing, he'd no peer. His voice was merrier than the organ gay On Mass days, which in church begins to play; More regular was his crowing in his lodge Than is a clock or abbey horologe. By instinct he'd marked each ascension down Of equinoctial value in that town; For when fifteen degrees had been ascended, Then crew he so it might not be amended. His comb was redder than a fine coral, And battlemented like a castle wall. His bill was black and just like jet it shone; Like azure were his legs and toes, each one; His spurs were whiter than the lily flower; And plumage of the burnished gold his dower. This noble cock had in his governance Seven hens to give him pride and all pleasance, Which were his sisters and his paramours And wondrously like him as to colours, Whereof the fairest hued upon her throat The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 175Was called the winsome Mistress Pertelote. Courteous she was, discreet and debonnaire, Companionable, and she had been so fair Since that same day when she was seven nights old, That truly she had taken the heart to hold Of Chanticleer, locked in her every limb; He loved her so that all was well with him. But such a joy it was to hear them sing, Whenever the bright sun began to spring, In sweet accord, "My love walks through the land." For at that time, and as I understand, The beasts and all the birds could speak and sing. So it befell that, in a bright dawning, As Chanticleer 'midst wives and sisters all Sat on his perch, the which was in the hall, And next him sat the winsome Pertelote, This Chanticleer he groaned within his throat Like man that in his dreams is troubled sore. And when fair Pertelote thus heard him roar, She was aghast and said: "O sweetheart dear, What ails you that you groan so? Do you hear? You are a sleepy herald. Fie, for shame!" And he replied to her thus: "Ah, madame, I pray you that you take it not in grief: By God, I dreamed I'd come to such mischief, Just now, my heart yet jumps with sore affright. Now God," cried he, "my vision read aright And keep my body out of foul prison! I dreamed, that while I wandered up and down Within our yard, I saw there a strange beast Was like a dog, and he'd have made a feast Upon my body, and have had me dead. His colour yellow was and somewhat red; And tipped his tail was, as were both his ears, With black, unlike the rest, as it appears; His snout was small and gleaming was each eye. Remembering how he looked, almost I die; And all this caused my groaning, I confess." "Aha," said she, "fie on you, spiritless! Alas!" cried she, "for by that God above, Now have you lost my heart and all my love; I cannot love a coward, by my faith. For truly, whatsoever woman saith, We all desire, if only it may be, To have a husband hardy, wise, and free, And trustworthy, no niggard, and no fool, Nor one that is afraid of every tool, Nor yet a braggart, by that God above! How dare you say, for shame, unto your love That there is anything that you have feared? Have you not man's heart, and yet have a beard? The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 176Alas! And are you frightened by a vision? Dreams are, God knows, a matter for derision.