He singeth out, and saith,--"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"
"Hey!" crieth Phoebus, "here be something new;
Thy song was wont to cheer me. What is this?"
"By Jove!" quoth Corvus, "I sing not amiss.
Phoebus," quoth he; "for all thy worthiness,
For all thy beauty and all thy gentilesse,
For all thy song and all thy minstrelsy,
And all thy watching, bleared is thine eye;
Yea, and by one no worthier than a gnat,
Compared with him should boast to wear thine hat."

What would you more? the crow hath told him all;
This woful god hath turned him to the wall
To hide his tears: he thought 'twould burst his heart;
He bent his bow, and set therein a dart,
And in his ire he hath his wife yslain;
He hath; he felt such anger and such pain;
For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,
Both harp and lute, gittern and psaltery,
And then he brake his arrows and his bow,
And after that, thus spake he to the crow:-

"Traitor," quoth he, "behold what thou hast done;
Made me 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!