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For when by night I feel your tender fide,
Tho' for the narrow perch I cannot ride,
Yet I have such a solace in my mind,
That all my boding cares are cast behind;
And ev'n already I forget my dream:
He said, and downward few from off the beam.
For day light now began apace to spring,
The thrush to whiftle, and the lark to fing.
Then crowing clapp'd his wings, th' appointed call,
To chuck his wives together in the hall,

By this the widow had unbarr'd the door,
And Chanticleer went strutting out before,
With royal courage, and with heart so light,
As shew'd he scorn'd the visions of the night.
Now roaming in the yard he spurn'd the ground,
And gave to Partlet the first grain he found.
Then often feather'd her with wanton play,
And trod her twenty times ere prime of day:
And took by turns and gave so much delight,
Her fifters pin'd with envy at the fight.
He chuck'd again, when other corns he found,
And scarcely deign’d to set a foot to ground.
But swagger'd like a lord about his hall,
And his sev'n wives came running at his call.

'Twas now the month in which the world began,
(If March beheld the first created man:
And since the vernal equinox, the sun,
In Aries twelve degrees, or more, had run;
When casting up his eyes against the light,
Both month and day, and hour he measur'd rights
And told more truly, than th’Ephemeris:
For art may err, but nature cannot miss.

Thus numb'ring times and seasons in his breast,
His second crowing the third hour confess’d.
Then turning, faid to Partlet, See, my dear,
*How lavith nature has adorn'd the year;

How

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How the pale primrose and blue violet spring,
And birds essay their throats disus’d to fing:
All these are ours; and I with pleasure fee
Man ftrutting on two legs, and aping me:
An unfledg'd creature, of a lumpish frame,
Endow'd with fewer particles of flame,
Our dame fits couring o’er a kitchen fire,
I draw fresh air, and nature's works admire:
And ev'n this day in more delight abound,
Than, since I was an egg, I ever found.

The time shall come when Chanticleer shall wish
His words unsaid, and hate his boasted bliss:
The crested bird shall by experience know,
Jove made not him his mader-piece below;
And learn the latter end of joy is woe.
The veffel of his bliss to dregs is run,
And Heav'n will have him talte his other tun.

Ye wise draw near, and hearken to my tale,
Which proves that oft the proud by flatt'ry fall:
The legend is as true I undertake
As Tristran is, and Launcelot of the lake:
Which all our ladies in such rey'rence hold,
As if in book of martyrs it were told.

A fox full-fraught with seeming fanctity,
That fear'd an oath, but, like the devil, would lie;
Who look'd like Lent, and had the holy leer,
And durft not fin before he said his pray'r;
This pious cheat, that never suck'd the blood,
Nor chew'd the Aesh of lambs, but when he cou'd;
Had pafs'd three summers in the neighb’ring wood:
And musing long, whom next to circumvent,
On Chanticleer his wicked fancy bent:
And in his high imagination caft,
By stratagem to gratify his taste.

The plot contriv'd, before the break of day, Saiot Reynard thro' the hedge had made his way;

The

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The pale was next, but proudly with a bound
He leapt the fence of the forbidden ground:
Yet fearing to be seen, within a bed
Of coleworts he conceal'd his wily head;
Then sculk'd till afternoon, and watch'd his time,
(As murd'rers use) to perpetrate his crime.

O hypocrite, ingenious to destroy,
O traitor, worse than Simon was to Troy;
O vile subverter of the Gallic reign,
More false than Gano was to Charlemaign!
O Chanticleer in an unhappy hour
Didít thou forsake the fafety of thy bow'r:
Better for thee thou hadft believed thy dream,
And not that day descended from the beam!

But here the doctors eagerly dispute:
Some hold predestination absolute :
Some clerks maintain, that Heav'n at first forefees,
And in the virtue of foresight decrees.
If this be so, then prescience binds the will,
And mortals are not free to good or ill;
For what he first foresaw, he must ordain,
Or its eternal prescience may be vain:
As bad for us as prescience had not been :
For first, or last, he's author of the fin.
And who says that, let the blafpheming man,
Say worse ev'n of the devil, if he can.
For how can that eternal pow'r be juft
To punish man, who fins because he must!
Or, how can he reward a virtuous deed,
Which is not done by us; but first decreed.

I cannot bolt this matter to the bran,
As Bradwardin and holy Austin can;
If prescience can determine actions fo
That we must do, because he did foreknow,
Or that foreknowing, yet our choice is free,
No: forc'd to în by strict neceffity;

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How the pale primrose and blue violet spring,
And birds essay their throats disus’d to fing:
All these are ours; and I with pleasure see
Man ftrutting on two legs, and aping me:
An unfledg'd creature, of a lumpish frame,
Endow'd with fewer particles of fame,
Ous dame fits couring o'er a kitchen fire,
I draw fresh air, and nature's works admire:
And ev’n this day in more delight abound,
Than, since I was an egg, I ever found.

The time shall come when Chanticleer shall wish
His words unsaid, and hate his boasted bliss:
The crested bird shall by experience know,
Jove made not him his mater-piece below;
And learn the latter end of joy is woe.
The vetfel of his bliss to dregs is run,
And Heav'n will have him taste his other tun.

Ye wife draw near, and hearken to my tale,
Which

proves that oft the proud by Aatt'ry fall:
The legend is as true I undertake
As Tristran is, and Launcelot of the lake:
Which all our ladies in such rey'rence hold,
As if in book of martyrs it were told.

A fox full-fraught with seeming fanctity,
That fear'd an oath, but, like the devil, would lie;
Who look'd like Lent, and had the holy leer,
And durft not fin before he said his pray'r;
This pious cheat, that never suck'd the blood,
Nor chew'd the Aleíh of lambs, but when he cou'd;
Had pass'd three summers in the neighb'ring wood :
And musing long, whom next to circumvent,
On Chanticleer his wicked fancy bent:
And in his high imagination caft,
By stratagem to gratify his taste.

The plot contriv’d, before the break of day,
Saint Reynard thro' the hedge had made his way;

The .

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