“Well, sire,” quoth he, “now hark to what I say.”
The Manciple’s Tale of Phœbus and the Crow.
When Phœbus dwelt with men, in days of yore,
He was the very lustiest bachelor
Of all the world; and shot in the best bow.
’Twas he, as the old books of stories show,
That shot the serpent Python, as he lay
Sleeping against the sun, upon a day:
And many another noble worthy deed
He did with that same bow, as men may read.
He played all kinds of music: and so clear
His singing was, and such a heaven to hear,
Men might not speak during his madrigal.
Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall
About the city with his melody,
Certainly sang not half so well as he.
And add to this, he was the seemliest man
That is, or has been, since the world began.
What needs describe his beauty? since there’s none
With which to make the least comparison.
In brief, he was the flower of gentilesse, [21]
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:
And yet, take note, for all this mastery,
This Phœbus was of cheer so frank and free,
That for his sport, and to commend the glory
He gat him o’er the snake (so runs the story),
He used to carry in his hand a bow.
Now this same god had in his house a crow,
Which in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay.
White was the crow; as is a snow-white swan,
And could repeat a tale told by a man,
And sing. No nightingale, down in a dell,
Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well.
Now had this Phœbus in his house a wife
Which that he loved beyond his very life:
And night and day did all his diligence
To please her well, and do her reverence;
Save only, to speak truly, inter nos,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her close:
He wished not to be treated monstrously:
Neither does any man, no more than he;
Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought;—
A good wife, that is clean of work and thought,
No man would dream of hindering such a way.
And just as bootless is it, night or day,
Hindering a shrew; for it will never be.
I hold it for a very foppery,
Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives,
Old writers always say so, in their Lives.
But to my story, as it first began.
This worthy Phœbus doeth all he can
To please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her,
That she, for her part, would herself bestir
Discreetly, so as not to lose his grace;
But, Lord he knows, there’s no man shall embrace
A thing so close, as to restrain what Nature
Hath naturally set in any creature.
Take any bird, and put it in a cage,
And do thy best and utmost to engage
The bird to love it; give it meat and drink,
And every dainty housewives can bethink,
And keep the cage as cleanly as you may,
And let it be with gilt never so gay,
Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold,
Rather be in a forest wild and cold,
And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness;
Yea, ever will he tax his whole address
To get out of the cage when that he may:—
His liberty the bird desireth aye.
So, take a cat, and foster her with milk
And tender meat, and make her bed of silk,
Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall,
The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all,
And every dainty that is in the house;
Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.
Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination,
And appetite renounceth education.
A she-wolf likewise hath a villain’s kind:
The worst and roughest wolf that she can find,
Or least of reputation, will she wed,
When the time comes to make her marriage-bed.