Pars
Secunda
The norice of digestión, the sleep,
Gan on them wink, and bade them takë keep,
That muchë mirth and labour will have rest:
And with a gaping mouth he all them kest,
And said, that it was timë to lie down,
For blood was in his dominatioún:
“Cherish the blood, natúrë’s friend,” quoth he.
They thanked him gaping, by two and three;
And every wight gan draw him to his rest;
As sleep them bade, they took it for the best.
Their dreamës shall not now be told for me;
Full are their headës of fumosity,
That caused dreams of which there is no charge.
They sleptë till that, it was primë large,
The mostë part, but it was Canacé;
She was full measuráble, as women be.
For of her father had she ta’en her leave,
To go to rest, soon after it was eve;
Her listë not appalled for to be,
Nor on the morrow unfeastly for to see;
And slept her firstë sleep, and then awoke.
For such a joy she in her heartë took
Both of her quaintë a ring and her mirroúr,
That twenty times she changed her coloúr;
And in her sleep, right for th’ impressión
Of her mirrór, she had a visión.
Wherefore, ere that the sunnë gan up glide,
She call’d upon her mistress’ her beside,
And saidë, that her listë for to rise.
These oldë women, that be gladly wise,
As are her mistresses, answér’d anon,
And said; “Madamë, whither will ye gon
Thus early? for the folk be all in rest.”
“I will,” quoth she, “arisë, for me lest
No longer for to sleep, and walk about.”
Her mistresses call’d women a great rout,
And up they rosë, well a ten or twelve;
Up rosë freshë Canacé herselve,
As ruddy and bright as is the youngë sun
That in the Ram is four degrees y-run;
No higher was he, when she ready was;
And forth she walked easily a pace,
Array’d after the lusty season swoot,
Lightëly for to play, and walk on foot,
Nought but with five or six of her meinie;
And in a trench forth in the park went she.
The vapour, which up from the earthë glode,
Made the sun to seem ruddy and broad:
But, natheless, it was so fair a sight
That it made all their heartës for to light,
What for the season and the morrowning,
And for the fowlës that she heardë sing.
For right anon she wistë what they meant
Right by their song, and knew all their intent.
The knottë, why that every tale is told,
If it be tarried till the lust be cold
Of them that have it hearken’d after yore,
The savour passeth ever longer more,
For fulsomness of the prolixitý:
And by that samë reason thinketh me
I should unto the knottë condescend,
And maken of her walking soon an end.
Amid a tree fordry, as white as chalk,
As Canacé was playing in her walk,
There sat a falcon o’er her head full high,
That with a piteous voice so gan to cry;
That all the wood resounded of her cry,
And beat she had herself so piteouslý
With both her wingës, till the reddë blood
Ran endëlong the tree, there as she stood.
And ever-in-one alway she cried and shright,
And with her beak herselfë she so pight,
That there is no tiger, nor cruel beast,
That dwelleth either in wood or in forést;
But would have wept, if that he weepë could,
For sorrow of her, she shriek’d alway so loud.
For there was never yet no man alive,
If that he could a falcon well descrive;
That heard of such another of fairnéss
As well of plumage, as of gentleness,
Of shape, of all that mightë reckon’d be.
A falcon peregrinë seemed she,
Of fremdë land; and ever as she stood
She swooned now and now for lack of blood,
Till well-nigh is she fallen from the tree.
This fairë kingë’s daughter Canacé,
That on her finger bare the quaintë ring,
Through which she understood well every thing
That any fowl may in his leden sayn,
And could him answer in his leden again,
Hath understoodë what this falcon said,
And well-nigh for the ruth almost she died;
And to the tree she went, full hastily,
And on this falcon looked piteously,
And held her lap abroad, for well she wist
The falcon mustë fallë from the twist
When that she swooned next, for lack of blood.
A longë while to waitë her she stood,
Till at the last she apake in this mannére
Unto the hawk, as ye shall after hear.
“What is the cause, if it be for to tell,
That ye be in this furial pain of hell?”
Quoth Canacé unto this hawk above;
“Is this for sorrow of death, or loss of love?
For, as I trow, these be the causes two,
That causë most a gentle heartë woe.
Of other harm it needeth not to speak.
For ye yourself upon yourself awreak;
Which proveth well, that either ire or dread
Must be occasion of your cruel deed,
Since that I see none other wight you chase.
For love of God, as do yourselfë grace,
Or what may be your help? for, west nor east,
I never saw ere now no bird nor beast
That fared with himself so piteously.
Ye slay me with your sorrow verily,
I have of you so great compassioún.
For Goddë’s love come from the tree adown;
And, as I am a kingë’s daughter true,
If that I verily the causes knew
Of your disease, if it lay in my might,
I would amend it, ere that it were night,
So wisly help me the great God of kind.
And herbës shall I right enoughë find,
To healë with your hurtës hastily.”
Then shriek’d this falcon yet more piteously
Than ever she did, and fell to ground anon,
And lay aswoon, as dead as lies a stone,
Till Canacé had in her lap her take,
Unto that time she gan of swoon awake:
And, after that she out of swoon abraid,
Right in her hawkë’s leden thus she said:
“That pity runneth soon in gentle heart
(Feeling his simil’tude in painë’s smart),
Is proved every day, as men may see,
As well by work as by authority;
For gentle heartë kitheth gentleness.
I see well, that ye have on my distress
Compassión, my fairë Canacé,
Of very womanly benignity
That nature in your princples hath set.
But for no hopë for to fare the bet,
But for t’ obey unto your heartë free,
And for to make others aware by me,
As by the whelp chastis’d is the lión,
Right for that cause and that conclusión,
While that I have a leisure and a space,
Mine harm I will confessen ere I pace.”
And ever while the one her sorrow told,
The other wept, as she to water wo’ld,
Till that the falcon bade her to be still,
And with a sigh right thus she said her till:
“Where I was bred (alas that ilkë day!)
And foster’d in a rock of marble gray
So tenderly, that nothing ailed me,
I wistë not what was adversitý,
Till I could flee full high under the sky.
Then dwell’d a tercëlet me fastë by,
That seem’d a well of allë gentleness;
All were he full of treason and falsenéss,
It was so wrapped under humble cheer,
And under hue of truth, in such mannére,
Under pleasánce, and under busy pain,
That no wight weened that he couldë feign,
So deep in grain he dyed his coloúrs.
Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs,
Till he may see his timë for to bite,
Right so this god of lovë’s hypocrite
Did so his ceremonies and obeisánces,
And kept in semblance all his óbservánces,
That sounden unto gentleness of love.
As on a tomb is all the fair above,
And under is the corpse, which that ye wot,
Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot;
And in this wise he served his intent,
That, save the fiend, none wistë what he meant:
Till he so long had weeped and complain’d,
And many a year his service to me feign’d,
Till that mine heart, too piteous and too nice,
All innocent of his crowned malíce,
Forfeared of his death, as thoughtë me,
Upon his oathës and his surëtý
Granted him love, on this conditioún,
That evermore mine honour and renown
Were saved, bothë privy and apert;
This is to say, that, after his desert,
I gave him all my heart and all my thought
(God wot, and he, that other wayës nought),
And took his heart in change of mine for aye.
But sooth is said, gone since many a day,
A true wight and a thiefë think not one.
And when he saw the thing so far y-gone,
That I had granted him fully my love,
In such a wise as I have said above,
And given him my truë heart as free
As he swore that he gave his heart to me,
Anon this tiger, full of doubleness,
Fell on his knees with so great humbleness,
With so high reverence, as by his cheer,
So like a gentle lover in mannére,
So ravish’d, as it seemed, for the joy,
That never Jason, nor París of Troy—
Jason? certes, nor ever other man,
Since Lamech was, that alderfirst began
To lovë two, as writë folk beforn,
Nor ever since the firstë man was born,
Couldë no man, by twenty thousand part,
Counterfeit the sophimës of his art;
Nor worthy were t’ unbuckle his galoche,
Where doubleness of feigning should approach,
Nor could so thank a wight, as he did me.
His manner was a heaven for to see
To any woman, were she ne’er so wise;
So painted he and kempt, at point devise,
As well his wordës as his countenánce.
And I so lov’d him for his obeisánce,
And for the truth I deemed in his heart,
That, if so were that any thing him smart,
All were it ne’er so lite, and I it wist,
Methought I felt death at my heartë twist.
And shortly, so farforth this thing is went,
That my will was his willë’s instrumént;
That is to say, my will obey’d his will
In allë thing, as far as reason fill,
Keeping the boundës of my worship ever;
And never had I thing so lefe, or lever,
As him, God wot, nor never shall no mo’.
“This lasted longer than a year or two,
That I supposed of him naught but good.
But finally, thus at the last it stood,
That fortune wouldë that he mustë twin
Out of that placë which that I was in.
Whe’er me was woe, it is no questión;
I cannot make of it descriptión.
For one thing dare I tellë boldëly,
I know what is the pain of death thereby;
Such harm I felt, for he might not byleve.
So on a day of me he took his leave,
So sorrowful eke, that I ween’d verily,
That he had felt as muchë harm as I,
When that I heard him speak, and saw his hue.
But natheless, I thought he was so true,
And eke that he repairë should again
Within a little whilë, sooth to sayn,
And reason would eke that he mustë go
For his honoúr, as often happ’neth so,
That I made virtue of necessitý,
And took it well, since that it mustë be.
As I best might, I hid from him my sorrow,
And took him by the hand, Saint John to borrow,
And said him thus; ‘Lo, I am yourës all;
Be such as I have been to you, and shall.’
What he answér’d, it needs not to rehearse;
Who can say bet than he, who can do worse?
When he had all well said, then had he done.
Therefore behoveth him a full long spoon,
That shall eat with a fiend; thus heard I say.
So at the last he mustë forth his way,
And forth he flew, till he came where him lest.
When it came him to purpose for to rest,
I trow that he had thilkë text in mind,
That allë thing repairing to his kind
Gladdeth himself; thus say men, as I guess;
Men love of [proper] kind newfangleness,
As birdës do, that men in cages feed.
For though thou night and day take of them heed,
And strew their cagë fair and soft as silk,
And give them sugar, honey, bread, and milk,
Yet, right anon as that his door is up,
He with his feet will spurnë down his cup,
And to the wood he will, and wormës eat;
So newëfangle be they of their meat,
And love novelties, of proper kind;
No gentleness of bloodë may them bind.
So far’d this tercëlet, alas the day!
Though he were gentle born, and fresh, and gay,
And goodly for to see, and humble, and free,
He saw upon a time a kitë flee,
And suddenly he loved this kite so,
That all his love is clean from me y-go:
And hath his trothë falsed in this wise.
Thus hath the kite my love in her servíce,
And I am lorn withoutë remedy.”
And with that word this falcon gan to cry,
And swooned eft in Canacéë’s barme.
Great was the sorrow, for that hawkë’s harm,
That Canacé and all her women made;
They wist not how they might the falcon glade.
But Canacé home bare her in her lap,
And softëly in plasters gan her wrap,
There as she with her beak had hurt herselve.
Now cannot Canacé but herbës delve
Out of the ground, and makë salvës new
Of herbës precioús and fine of hue,
To healë with this hawk; from day to night
She did her business, and all her might.
And by her beddë’s head she made a mew,
And cover’d it with velouettës blue,
In sign of truth that is in woman seen;
And all without the mew is painted green,
In which were painted all these falsë fowls,
As be these tidifes, tercëlets, and owls;
And piës, on them for to cry and chide,
Right for despite were painted them beside.
Thus leave I Canacé her hawk keeping.
I will no more as now speak of her ring,
Till it come eft to purpose for to sayn
How that this falcon got her love again
Repentant, as the story telleth us,
By mediatión of Camballus,
The kingë’s son of which that I you told.
But hencëforth I will my process hold
To speak of áventures, and of battailes,
That yet was never heard so great marvailles.
First I will tellë you of Cambuscan,
That in his timë many a city wan;
And after will I speak of Algarsife,
How he won Theodora to his wife,
For whom full oft in great períl he was,
N’ had he been holpen by the horse of brass.
And after will I speak of Camballó,
That fought in listës with the brethren two
For Canacé, ere that he might her win;
And where I left I will again begin.
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