by John Dryden
From Point to Point as after it befel:
All Circumstances to his Nurse he told,
(A Wonder, from a Child of sev’n Years old) 365
The Dream with Horror heard, the good old Wife
From Treason counsell’d him to guard his Life:
But close to keep the Secret in his Mind,
For a Boy’s Vision small Belief would find.
The pious Child, by Promise bound, obey’d, 370
Nor was the fatal Murther long delay’d:
By Quenda slain, he fell before his time,
Made a young Martyr by his Sister’s Crime.
The Tale is told by venerable Bede,
Which, at your better leisure, you may read. 375
Macrobius too relates the Vision sent
To the great Scipio with the fam’d event;
Objections makes, but after makes Replies,
And adds, that Dreams are often Prophecies.
Of Daniel you may read in Holy Writ, 380
Who, when the King his Vision did forget,
Cou’d Word for Word the wond’rous Dream repeat.
Nor less of Patriarch Joseph understand,
Who by a Dream inslav’d th’ Egyptian Land,
The Years of Plenty and of Dearth foretold, 385
When, for their Bread, their Liberty they sold.
Nor must th’ exalted Buttler be forgot,
Nor he whose Dream presag’d his hanging Lot.
And did not Cræsus the same Death foresee,
Rais’d in his Vision on a lofty Tree? 390
The wife of Hector in his utmost Pride,
Dreamt of his Death the Night before he dy’d:
Well was he warn’d from Battle to refrain;
But Men to Death decreed are warn’d in vain:
He dar’d the Dream, and by his fatal Foe was slain. 395
Much more I know, which I forbear to speak,
For see the ruddy Day begins to break:
Let this suffice, that plainly I foresee
My Dream was bad, and bodes Adversity:
But neither Pills nor Laxatives I like, 400
They only serve to make a well-man sick:
Of these his Gain the sharp Phisician makes,
And often gives a Purge, but seldom takes:
They not correct, but poyson all the Blood,
And ne’er did any but the Doctors good. 405
Their Tribe, Trade, Trinkets, I defy them all,
With ev’ry work of ‘Pothecary’s Hall.
These melancholy Matters I forbear;
But let me tell Thee, Partlet mine, and swear,
That when I view the Beauties of thy Face, 410
I fear not Death, nor Dangers, nor Disgrace:
So may my Soul have Bliss, as when I spy
The Scarlet Red about thy Partridge Eye,
While thou art constant to thy own true Knight,
While thou art mine, and I am thy delight, 415
All Sorrows at thy Presence take their flight.
For true it is, as in Principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.
Madam, the meaning of this Latin is,
That Woman is to Man his Soveraign Bliss. 420
For when by Night I feel your tender Side,
Though 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. 425
He said, and downward flew from off the Beam,
For Day-light now began apace to spring,
The Thrush to whistle, and the Lark to sing.
Then crowing clap’d his Wings, th’ appointed call,
To chuck his Wives together in the Hall. 430
By this the Widow had unbarr’d the Door,
And Chanticleer went strutting out before,
With Royal Courage, and with Heart so light,
Asshew’d he scorn’d the Visions of the Night.
Now roaming in the Yard, he spurn’d the Ground, 435
And gave to Partlet the first Grain he found.
Then often feather’d her with wanton Play,
And trod her twenty times e’er prime of Day
And took by turns and gave so much delight,
Her Sisters pin’d with Envy at the Sight. 440
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, 445
(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 right; 450
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, said to Partlet, See, my Dear, 455
How lavish Nature has adorn’d the Year;
How the pale Primrose, and blue Violet spring,
And Birds essay their Throats disus’d to sing:
All these are ours; and I with pleasure see
Man strutting on two Legs, and aping me! 460
An unfledg’d Creature, of a lumpish frame,
Indew’d with fewer Particles of Flame:
Our Dame sits couring o’er the Kitchin-fire,
I draw fresh Air, and Nature’s Works admire:
And ev’n this Day, in more delight abound, 465
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 Master-piece below; 470
And learn the latter end of Joy is Woe.
The Vessel of his Bliss to Dregs is run,
And Heav’n will have him tast his other Tun.
Ye Wise, draw near, and hearken to my Tale,
Which proves that oft the Proud by Flatt’ry fall; 475
The Legend is as true I undertake
As Tristram is, and Launcelot of the Lake:
Which all our Ladies in such rev’rence hold,
As if in Book of Martyrs it were told.
A Fox full fraught with seeming Sanctity, 480
That fear’d an Oath, but like the Devil, would lie,
Who look’d like Lent, and had the holy Leer,
And durst not sin before he say’d his Pray’r:
This pious Cheat, that never suck’d the Blood,
Nor chaw’d the Flesh of Lambs, but when he cou’d, 485
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 cast,
By Stratagem to gratify his Tast. 490
The Plot contriv’d, before the break of Day,
Saint Reynard through the Hedge had made his way;
The Pale was next, but proudly, with a bound
He lept the Fence of the forbidden Ground:
Yet fearing to be seen, within a Bed 495
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 Traytor, worse than Sinon was to Troy; 500
O vile Subverter of the Gallick Reign,
More false than Gano was to Charlemaign!
O Chanticleer, in an unhappy Hour
Did’st thou forsake t
he Safety of thy Bow’r:
Better for Thee thou had’st believ’d thy Dream, 505
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 foresees,
And in the virtue of Foresight decrees. 510
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 bin: 515
For first, or last, he’s Author of the Sin.
And who says that, let the blaspheming Man
Say worse ev’n of the Devil, if he can.
For how can that Eternal Pow’r be just
To punish Man, who Sins because he must? 520
Or, how can He reward a vertuous Deed,
Which is not done by us; but first decreed?
I cannot boult this Matter to the Bran,
As Bradwardin and holy Austin can:
If Prescience can determine Actions so 525
That we must do, because he did foreknow
Or that foreknowing, yet our Choice is free,
Not forc’d to Sin by strict necessity;
This strict necessity they simple call,
Another sort there is, conditional. 530
The first so binds the Will that Things foreknown
By Spontaneity, not Choice, are done.
Thus Galley-Slaves 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. 535
That other does not Liberty constrain,
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 foresaw the Will.
Freedom was first bestow’d on human Race, 540
And Prescience only held the second place.
If he could make such Agents wholly free,
I not dispute; the Point’s too high for me;
For Heav’n’s unfathom’d Pow’r what Man can sound,
Or put to his Omnipotence a Bound? 545
He made us to his Image all agree;
That Image is the Soul, 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 Sin, 550
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, 555
Pervert, with bad Advice, our better Mind.
A Woman’s Counsel brought us first to Woe,
And made her Man his Paradice forego,
Where at Heart’s ease he liv’d, and might have bin
As free from Sorrow as he was from Sin. 560
For what the Devil had their Sex to do,
That, born to Folly, they presum’d to know,
And could not see the Serpent in the Grass?
But I my self presume, and let it pass.
Silence in times of Suff’ring is the best, 565
’Tis dang’rous to disturb a Hornet’s Nest.
In other Authors you may find enough,
But all they say of Dames is idle Stuff.
Legends of lying Wits together bound,
The Wife of Bath would throw ‘em to the Ground: 570
These are the words of Chanticleer, not mine,
I honour Dames, and think their Sex divine.
Now to continue what my Tale begun.
Lay Madam Partlet basking in the Sun,
Breast-high in Sand: Her Sisters, in a row, 575
Enjoyed 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 cast his Eye
Among the Colworts on a Butterfly, 580
He saw false Reynard where he lay full low,
I need not swear he had no list to Crow:
But cry’d, Cock, Cock, and gave a suddain Start,
As sore dismaid and frighted at his Heart.
For Birds and Beasts, inform’d by Nature, know 585
Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their Foe.
So, Chanticleer, who never saw a Fox,
Yet shun’d him as a Sailor shuns the Rocks.
But the false Loon, who cou’d not work his Will
By open Force, employed his flatt’ring Skill: 590
I hope, my Lord, said 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 Sir, nor take a false Alarm, 595
For, on my Soul, I never meant you harm.
I come no Spy, nor as a Traytor press,
To learn the Secrets of your soft Recess:
Far be from Reynard so prophane a Thought,
But by the Sweetness of your Voice was brought: 600
For, as I bid my Beads, by chance I heard
The Song as of an Angel in the Yard:
A Song that wou’d have charm’d th’ infernal Gods,
And banish’d Horror from the dark Abodes:
Had Orpheus sung it in the neather Sphere, 605
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 Sire familiarly I knew,
A Peer deserving such a Son, as you:
He, with your Lady-Mother (whom Heav’n rest) 610
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 see
The worthy Heir of my Friend’s Family. 615
But since I speak of Singing let me say,
As with an upright Heart I safely may,
That, save your self, there breaths not on the Ground
One like your Father for a Silver sound.
So sweetly wou’d he wake the Winter-day, 620
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 stood to sing with greater Strength, 625
And stretch’d his comely Neck at all the length:
And while he pain’d his Voice to pierce the Skies,
As Saints in Raptures use, would shut his Eyes,
That the sound striving through the narrow Throat,
His winking might avail, to mend the Note. 630
By this, in Song, he never had his Peer,
From sweet Cecilia down to Chanticleer;
Not Maro’s Muse, who sung the mighty Man,
Nor Pindar’s heav’nly Lyre, nor Horace when a Swan.
Your Ancestors proceed from Race divine: 635
From Brennus and Belinus is your Line;
Who gave to sov’raign Rome such loud Alarms,
That ev’n the Priests were not excus’d from Arms.
Besides, a famous Monk of modern times,
Has left of Cocks recorded in his Rhimes, 640
That of a Parish-Priest the Son and Heir
(When Sons 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, 645
And in his Benefice anot
her plac’d.
Now sing, my Lord, if not for love of me,
Yet for the sake of sweet Saint Charity;
Make Hills and Dales, and Earth and Heav’n rejoice,
And emulate your Father’s Angel-voice. 650
The Cock was pleas’d to hear him speak so fair,
And proud beside, as solar 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, 655
He had a high Opinion of himself:
Though sickly, slender, 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, 660
Believe not ev’ry flatt’ring Knave’s report,
There’s many a Reynard lurking in the Court;
And he shall be receiv’d with more regard
And list’ned to, than modest Truth is heard.
This Chanticleer, of whom the Story sings, 665
Stood high upon his Toes, and clap’d his Wings;
Then stretch’d his Neck, and wink’d with both his Eyes,
Ambitious, as he sought th’ Olympick Prize.
But while he pain’d himself to raise his Note,
False Reynard rush’d, and caught him by the Throat. 670
Then on his Back he laid the precious Load,
And sought his wonted shelter of the Wood;
Swiftly he made his way, the Mischief done,
Of all unheeded, and pursu’d by none.
Alas, what stay is there in human State, 675
Or who can shun inevitable Fate?
The Doom was written, the Decree was past,
E’er the Foundations of the World were cast!
In Aries though the Sun exalted stood,
His Patron-Planet to procure his good; 680
Yet Saturn was his mortal Foe, and he
In Libra rais’d, oppos’d the same Degree:
The Rays both good and bad, of equal Pow’r,
Each thwarting other, made a mingled Hour.
On Friday-morn he dreamt this direful Dream, 685
Cross to the worthy Native, in his Scheme!
Ah blissful Venus, Goddess of Delight,
How cou’dst thou suffer thy devoted Knight,
On thy own Day, to fall by Foe oppress’d,
The wight of all the World who serv’d thee best? 690
Who true to Love, was all for Recreation,
And minded not the Work of Propagation.
Gaufride, who could’st so well in Rhime complain
The Death of Richard with an Arrow slain,
Why had not I thy Muse, or thou my Heart, 695
To sing this heavy Dirge with equal Art!
That I like thee on Friday might complain;
For on that Day was Ceur de Lion slain.
