Belling the Cat

From Piers Plowman

Rectors and parish priests complained to the bishop 
that their parishes were poor since the plague-time, 
they begged a license and leave to live in London 
where they could sell themselves for silver, sweet silver. 
  Bishops and BAs, Doctors of Divinity, 
who're charged under Christ with the care of souls, 
who wear the tonsure as sign they should shrive their flocks,
preach to them, pray for them and feed the poor, 
they stay all Lent in London and out of Lent too. 
Some serve the king by checking figures or by claiming 
what's owed him from wardships, waived estates, 
vacant houses with no heir, sturgeons washed on the seashore. 

  Just then a scour of rats, mice by the nimbling hundreds, 
bunched quick in a conference for a common purpose, 
because a court cat would come when he wanted 
and bite their bums or knock them about a bit. 
"We daren't go out we're that terrified of him 
and if we girn at his games he'll grab us by the neck 
till we loathe this life and cry to be rid of it. 
But if we use our wits and stand up firm to him 
we could live like lords and rest easy." 
  A big powerful rat, famous for miles round, 
put forward this policy in a slick speech: 
"I've seen men," he said, "in the city of London, 
going about with spick collars and neat necklaces on them. 
They've no leads and can walk where they like—anyplace—
coney warrens, waste ground, common land—
other places too, at certain times I hear tell. 
But it strikes me, by Christ, that those boys 
had better each have a bell on his collar. 
Then we'd know where they were and could run if we wanted. 
  So it's clear to me we should buy a bell—
a brass or a silver one, chank and shiny—
stick it to a collar and clip it on the cat's neck. 
Then we can hear if he's running or resting or chasing around. 
In a good mood is he?—we can come out and play then—
but if he gets nasty we can skip off quick." 
  The whole congress of rats agreed this good plan 
but when a bell had been bought and clipped to a collar 
there wasn't one rat in the whole worried crowd 
would dare run out and tie it to the cat's neck. 
We're all scared, they sighed, our work's wasted. 
  A mouse, a most sensible mouse I thought, 
pushed up front and fed these words to the rats: 
"If we killed the cat another'd come to annoy us, 
so I say to our people—best let him alone. 
Seven years since, my father said this to me— 
'Where the cat's just a kitten the court is in chaos.' 
It's there in the scriptures if you'll heed the preacher: 
  Vae terri ubi puer rex est, etc. 
At night no one can rest for fear of the rats. 
So let's be fair, while he's out after rabbits 
we needn't fear for our skins—it's game he feeds on. 
Better a little loss than a long sorrow:
though we kicked that tyrant out there'd be worse trouble, 
we mice would munch many tons of good malt 
and you rats'd rip the clothes off men's backs. 
If that cat wasn't there to walk all over you 
there'd be a right rat-mess, for you'll never rule yourselves. 
Don't cross the cat or the kitten ever—that's my advice. 
All this talk about collars is total crap— 
let the cat jump where he wants when he wants. 
My motto is this: we're all individuals so let's 
each one chase his own interests and be done 
with this gassing in groups: it's getting us nowhere." 
  What this dream of mine means, or what its message is, 
the critics can tell when they lift their eyes from the text.