The pale was next, but proudly with a bound
He leapt the fence of the forbidden ground:
Yet fearing to be feen, within a bed
Of coleworts he conceal'd his wiły head;
Then fculk'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 fubverter of the Gallic reign,
More falfe than Gano was to Charlemaign!
O Chanticleer in an unhappy hour
Didst thou forfake the fafety of thy bow'r:
Better for thee thou hadst believed thy dream,
And not that day descended from the beam!
But here the doctors eagerly difpute:
Some hold predeftination abfolute :
Some clerks maintain, that Heav'n at first forefees,
And in the virtue of forefight decrees.
If this be fo, then prescience binds the will,
And mortals are not free to good or ill;
For what he first forefaw, he must ordain,
Or its eternal prescience may be vain:
As bad for us as prefcience had not been:
For first, or laft, he's author of the fin.
And who fays that, let the blafpheming man,
Say worse ev❜n of the devil, if he can.
For how can that eternal pow'r be just
To punish man, who fins because he muft?
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 prefcience can determine actions fo
That we must do, because he did foreknow,
Or that foreknowing, yet our choice is free,
Not forc'd to în by strict neceffity;
This ftrict neceffity they fimple call,
Another fort there is conditional.
The first fo binds the will, that things foreknown
By fpontaneity, not choice, are done.
Thus galley-flaves tug willing at their oar,
Content to work, in prospect of the shore;
But wou'd not work at all if not constrain'd before.
That other does not liberty conftrain,
But man may either act, or may refrain.
Heav'n made us agents free to good or ill,
And forc'd it not, tho' he forefaw the will.
Freedom was firft beftow'd on human race,
And prescience only held the fecond place.
If he could make fuch agents wholly free,
I not difpute, the point's too high for me;
For heaven's unfathom'd pow'r what man can found
Or put to his Omnipotence a bound?
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.
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 sex to do,
That, born to folly, they prefum'd to know,
And could not see the serpent in the grass?
But I myself prefume, and let it pafs.
Silence in times of fuff'ring is the best,
Tis dangerous to disturb an hornet's nest.
In other authors you may find enough,
But all they fay of dames is idle ftuff.
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 bafking in the sun,
Breast-high in fand: her fifters, 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 sea:
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 swear 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 beasts, inform'd by nature, know
Kinds oppofite to theirs, and fly their foe.
So Chanticleer, who never faw a fox,
Yet fhunn'd him as a failor fhuns the rocks.
But the falfe loon, who cou'd not work his will
By open force, employ'd his flatt'ring fkill;
I hope, my lord, faid he, I not offend;
afraid of me, that am your friend?
I were a beaft indeed to do you wrong,
I, who have lov'd and honour'd you fo long:
Stay, gentle Sir, nor take a falfe alarm,
For on my foul I never meant you harm.
I come no spy, nor as a traitor prefs,
To learn the secrets of your foft recess:
Far be from Reynard so profane a thought,
But by the sweetness of your voice was brought:
For, as I bid my beads, by chance I heard
The song as of an angel in the yard;
A fong that wou'd have charm'd th' infernal Gods,
And banish'd horrour from the dark abodes:
Had Orpheus fung it in the nether fphere,
So much the hymn had pleas'd the tyrant's ear,
The wife had been detain'd, to keep the husband there.
My lord, your fire familiarly I knew,
A peer deferving such a son as you :
He, with your lady-mother, (whom Heav'n reft)
Has often grac'd my house, and been my guest:
To view his living features does me good,
For I am your poor neighbour in the wood
And in my cottage shou'd be proud to fee
The worthy heir of my friend's family.
But fince I speak of finging, let me say,
As with an upright heart I fafely may,
That, fave yourself, there breathes not on the ground
One like your father for a filver-found.
So fweetly wou'd he wake the winter-day,
That matrons to the church mistook their way,
And thought they heard the merry organ play.
And he to raise his voice with artful care,
(What will not beaux attempt to please the fair?)
On tiptoe ftood to fing with greater ftrength,
And stretch'd his comely neck at all the length:
And while he ftrain'd his voice to pierce the skies,
As faints in raptures use, would shut his eyes,
That the found ftriving thro' the narrow throat,
His winking might avail to mend the note.
By this, in fong, he never had his peer,
From fweet Cecilia down to Chanticleer;
Not Maro's mufe, who fung the mighty man,
Nor Pindar's heav'nly lyre, nor Horace when a fwan.
Your ancestors proceed from race divine:
From Brennus and Belinus is your line;
Who gave to fov'reign Rome fuch loud alarms,
That ev'n the priests were not excus'd from arms.
Befides, a famous monk of modern times
Has left of cocks recorded in his rhimes,
That of a parish prieft the fon and heir,
(When fons of priests were from the proverb clear)
Affronted once a cock of noble kind,
And either lam'd his legs, or struck him blind
For which the clerk his father was disgrac'd,
And in his benefice another plac'd.
Now fing, my lord, if not for love of me,
Yet for the fake of sweet faint charity;
Make hills, and dales, and earth and heav'n rejoice, And emulate your father's angel voice.
The cock was pleas'd to hear him speak fo fair,
And proud befide, as folar people are;
Nor cou'd the treason from the truth descry,
So was he ravish'd with this flattery:
So much the more, as from a little elf,
He had a high opinion of himself;
Tho' fickly, flender, and not large of limb,
Concluding all the world was made for him.
Ye princes rais'd by poets to the Gods,
And Alexander'd up in lying odes,
Believe not ev'ry flattering knave's report,
There's many a Reynard lurking in the court;
And he fhall be receiv'd with more regard
And liften'd to, than modeft truth is heard.
This Chanticleer, of whom the ftory fings,
Stood high upon his toes, and clapp'd his wings;
Then ftretch'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 rush'd, and caught him by the throat.
Then on his back he laid the precious load,
And fought his wonted shelter of the wood;
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