the saddest wretch beneath the sun: Alas! why was I born! O dearest wife, Jewel of love and joy, my only life, That wert to me so steadfast and so true, There liest thou dead; why am not I so too? Full innocent thou wert, that durst I swear; O hasty hand, to bring me to despair! O troubled wit, O anger without thought, That unadviséd smitest, and for nought: O heart of little faith, full of suspicion, Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion? O every man, hold hastiness in loathing; Believe, without strong testimony, nothing; Smite not too soon, before ye well know why; And be adviséd well and soberly Before ye trust yourselves to the commission Of any ireful deed upon suspicion. Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ire Foully foredone, and brought into the mire. Alas! I’ll kill myself for misery.”

And to the crow, “O thou false thief!” said he, “I’ll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale; Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale, Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go, Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow; Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again; Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain; Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black, And ever shall their voices crone and crack And be a warning against wind and rain, In token that by thee my wife was slain.”

So to the crow he started, like one mad, And tore out every feather that he had, And made him black, and reft him of his stores Of song and speech, and flung him out of doors Unto the devil; whence never come he back, Say I. Amen. And hence all crows are black.

Lordings, by this example I you pray Take heed, and be discreet in what you say; And above all, tell no man, for your life, How that another man hath kissed his wife. He’ll hate you mortally; be sure of that; Dan Solomon, in teacher’s chair that sat, Bade us keep all our tongues close as we can; But, as I said, I’m no text-spinning man, Only, I must say, thus taught me my dame; [26] My son, think on the crow in God his name; My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend; A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend; My son, a fiend’s a thing for to keep down; My son, God in his great discretion Walléd a tongue with teeth, and eke with lips, That man may think, before his speech out slips. A little speech spoken advisedly Brings none in trouble, speaking generally. My son, thy tongue thou always shouldst restrain, Save only at such times thou dost thy pain To speak of God in honour and in prayer; The chiefest virtue, son, is to beware How thou lett’st loose that endless thing, thy tongue; This every soul is taught, when he is young: My son, of muckle speaking ill-advised, And 

 Prev. P 17/113 next