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 sisters pined 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 seven 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 measured right; 450
  And told more truly than the Ephemeris: 
  For art may err, but nature cannot miss. 
  Thus numbering times and seasons in his breast,
  His second crowing the third hour confess’d. 
  Then turning, said to Partlet, See, my dear,
  How lavish nature has adorn’d the year;
  How the pale primrose and blue violet spring,
  And birds essay their throats disused to sing: 
  All these are ours; and I with pleasure see
  Man strutting on two legs, and aping me:  460
  An unfledged creature, of a lumpish frame,
  Endow’d with fewer particles of flame;
  Our dame sits cowering o’er a kitchen fire,
  I draw fresh air, and nature’s works admire: 
  And even 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 masterpiece below; 470
  And learn the latter end of joy is woe. 
  The vessel of his bliss to dregs is run,
  And Heaven will have him taste his other tun.

    Ye wise, draw near, and hearken to my tale,
  Which proves that oft the proud by flattery fall: 
  The legend is as true, I undertake,
  As Tristran is, and Launcelot of the lake: 
  Which all our ladies in such reverence 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 said his prayer;
  This pious cheat, that never suck’d the blood,
  Nor chew’d the flesh of lambs, but when he could,
  Had pass’d three summers in the neighbouring 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 taste. 490