CANTERBURY TALES by Geoffry Chaucer The Squire's Tale

"Squier, come neer, if it your wille be,  And sey somwhat of love, for certes, ye  Konnen theron as muche as any man."        "Nay sir," quod he, "but I wol seye as I kan, 5 With hertly wyl, for I wol nat rebelle  Agayn your lust. A tale wol I telle,  Have me excused if I speke amys;  My wyl is good, and lo, my tale is this." Heere bigynneth the Squieres Tale.        At Sarray, in the land of Tartarye, 10 Ther dwelte a kyng that werreyed Russye,  Thurgh which ther dyde many a doughty man.  This noble kyng was cleped Cambyuskan,  Which in his tyme was of so greet renoun,  That ther was nowher in no regioun 15 So excellent a lord in alle thyng.  Hym lakked noght that longeth to a kyng;  And of the secte, of which that he was born,  He kepte his lay, to which that he was sworn;  And therto he was hardy, wys, and riche, 20 And pitous, and just, and everemoore yliche,  Sooth of his word, benigne, and honurable,  Of his corage as any centre stable,  Yong, fressh, strong, and in armes desirous  As any bacheler of al his hous. 25 A fair persone he was, and fortunat,  And kepte alwey so wel roial estat  That ther was nowher swich another man.        This noble kyng, this Tarte Cambyuskan,  Hadde two sones on Elpheta his wyf, 30 Of whiche the eldeste highte Algarsyf,  That oother sone was cleped Cambalo.  A doghter hadde this worthy kyng also,  That yongest was, and highte Canacee.  But for to telle yow al hir beautee, 35 It lyth nat in my tonge nyn my konnyng.  I dar nat undertake so heigh a thyng;  Myn Englissh eek is insufficient.  I moste been a rethor excellent,  That koude his colours longynge for that art, 40 If he sholde hir discryven every part.  I am noon swich; I moot speke as I kan.        And so bifel, that whan this Cambyuskan  Hath twenty wynter born his diademe,  As he was wont fro yeer to yeer, I deme, 45 He leet the feeste of his nativitee  Doon cryen thurghout Sarray his citee,  The last Idus of March after the yeer.  Phebus the sonne ful joly was and cleer,  For he was neigh his exaltacioun 50 In Martes face, and in his mansioun  In Aries, the colerik hoote signe.  Ful lusty was the weder, and benigne,  For which the foweles agayn the sonne sheene,  What for the sesoun and the yonge grene, 55 Ful loude songen hir affecciouns;  Hem semed han geten hem protecciouns  Agayn the swerd of wynter, keene and coold.        This Cambyuskan, of which I have yow toold,  In roial vestiment sit on his deys, 60 With diademe, ful heighe in his paleys,  And halt his feeste so solempne and so ryche,  That in this world ne was ther noon it lyche.  Of which, if I shal tellen al th'array,  Thanne wolde it occupie a someres day, 65 And eek it nedeth nat for to devyse,  At every cours the ordre of hire servyse.  I wol nat tellen of hir strange sewes,  Ne of hir swannes, nor of hire heronsewes;  Eek in that lond, as tellen knyghtes olde, 70 Ther is som mete that is ful deynte holde,  That in this lond men recche of it but smal;  Ther nys no man that may reporten al.  I wol nat taryen yow, for it is pryme,  And for it is no fruyt but los of tyme. 75 Unto my firste I wole have my recours.        And so bifel, that after the thridde cours  Whil that this kyng sit thus in his nobleye,  Herknynge hise mynstrals hir thynges pleye  Biforn hym at the bord deliciously, 80 In at the halle dore al sodeynly  Ther cam a knyght, upon a steede of bras,  And in his hand a brood mirour of glas,  Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ryng,  And by his syde a naked swerd hangyng. 85 And up he rideth to the heighe bord.  In al the hall ne was ther spoken a word  For merveille of this knyght; hym to biholde  Ful bisily ther wayten yonge and olde.        This strange knyght, that cam thus sodeynly 90 Al armed, save his heed, ful richely,  Saleweth kyng, and queene, and lordes alle,  By ordre, as they seten in the halle,  With so heigh reverence and obeisaunce,  As wel in speche as in contenaunce, 95 That Gawayn, with his olde curteisye,  Though he were comen ayeyn out of Fairye,  Ne koude hym nat amende with a word.  And after this, biforn the heighe bord  He with a manly voys seith his message, 100 After the forme used in his langage,  Withouten vice of silable or of lettre.  And, for his tale sholde seme the bettre,  Accordant to hise wordes was his cheere,  As techeth art of speche hem that it leere. 105 l be it that I kan nat sowne his stile,  Ne kan nat clymben over so heigh a style,  Yet seye I this, as to commune entente,  Thus muche amounteth al that evere he mente,  If it so be that I have it in mynde. 110 He seyde, "The kyng of Arabe and of Inde,  My lige lord, on this solempne day  Saleweth yow, as he best kan and may;  And sendeth yow, in honour of your feeste,  By me, that am al redy at your heeste, 115 This steede of bras, that esily and weel  Kan in the space of o day natureel,  This is to seyn, in foure and twenty houres,  Wher-so yow lyst, in droghte or elles shoures,  Beren youre body into every place 120 To which youre herte wilneth for to pace,  Withouten wem of yow, thurgh foul or fair.  Or if yow lyst to fleen as hye in the air  As dooth an egle, whan that hym list to soore,  This same steede shal bere yow evere moore 125 Withouten harm, til ye be ther yow leste,  Though that ye slepen on his bak or reste;  And turne ayeyn, with writhyng of a pyn.  He that it wroghte, koude ful many a gyn;  He wayted many a constellacion 130 Er he had doon this operacion;  And knew ful many a seel, and many a bond.        This mirrour eek, that I have in myn hond,  Hath swich a myght, that men may in it see  Whan ther shal fallen any adversitee 135 Unto your regne, or to yourself also,  And openly who is your freend, or foo.        And over al this, if any lady bright  Hath set hir herte in any maner wight,  If he be fals, she shal his tresoun see, 140 His newe love, and al his subtiltee  So openly, that ther shal no thyng hyde.  Wherfore, ageyn this lusty someres tyde,  This mirour and this ryng that ye may see,  He hath sent unto my lady Canacee, 145 Your excellente doghter that is heere.        The vertu of the ryng, if ye wol heere,  Is this, that if hir lust it for to were  Upon hir thombe, or in hir purs it bere,  Ther is no fowel that fleeth under the hevene 150 That she ne shal wel understonde his stevene,  And knowe his menyng openly and pleyn,  And answere hym in his langage ageyn.  And every gras that groweth upon roote,  She shal eek knowe, and whom it wol do boote, 155 Al be hise woundes never so depe and wyde.        This naked swerd, that hangeth by my syde  Swich vertu hath, that what man so ye smyte  Thurgh out his armure it wole kerve and byte,  Were it as thikke as is a branched ook. 160 And what man that is wounded with a strook  Shal never be hool, til that yow list of grace  To stroke hym with the plate in thilke place  Ther he is hurt; this is as muche to seyn,  Ye moote with the plate swerd ageyn 165 Stroke hym in the wounde, and it wol close.  This is a verray sooth withouten glose.  It faileth nat, whils it is in youre hoold."        And whan this knyght hath thus his tale toold,  He rideth out of halle, and doun he lighte. 170 His steede, which that shoon as sonne brighte,  Stant in the court, as stille as any stoon.  This knyght is to his chambre lad anoon,  And is unarmed and unto mete yset.        The presentes been ful roially yfet, 175 This is to seyn, the swerd and the mirrour,  And born anon into the heighe tour  With certeine officers ordeyned therfore.  And unto Canacee this ryng was bore,  Solempnely, ther she sit at the table. 180 But sikerly, withouten any fable,  The hors of bras, that may nat be remewed,  It stant as it were to the ground yglewed.  Ther may no man out of the place it dryve,  For noon engyn of wyndas ne polyve; 185 And cause why? For they kan nat the craft,  And therfore in the place they han it laft,  Til that the knyght hath taught hem the manere  To voyden hym, as ye shal after heere.        Greet was the prees that swarmeth to and fro 190 To gauren on this hors, that stondeth so.  For it so heigh was, and so brood, and long,  So wel proporcioned for to been strong,  Right as it were a steede of Lumbardye;  Therwith so horsly and so quyk of eye, 195 As it a gentil Poilleys courser were.  For certes, fro his tayl unto his ere,  Nature ne art ne koude hym nat amende  In no degree, as al the peple wende.  But everemoore hir mooste wonder was 200 How that it koude go, and was of bras.  It was a fairye, as al the peple semed.  Diverse folk diversely they demed;  As many heddes, as manye wittes ther been.  They murmureden as dooth a swarm of been, 205 And maden skiles after hir fantasies,  Rehersynge of thise olde poetries,  And seyde that it was lyk the Pegasee,  The hors that hadde wynges for to flee;  Or elles, it was the Grekes hors Synoun, 210 That broghte Troie to destruccioun,  As men in thise olde geestes rede.  "Myn herte," quod oon, "is everemoore in drede.  I trowe som men of armes been therinne,  That shapen hem this citee for to wynne. 215 It were right good that al swich thyng were knowe."  Another rowned to his felawe lowe,  And seyde, "He lyeth; it is rather lyk  An apparence ymaad by som magyk,  As jogelours pleyen at thise feestes grete." 220 Of sondry doutes thus they jangle and trete,  As lewed peple demeth comunly  Of thynges that been maad moore subtilly  Than they kan in hir lewednesse comprehende;  They demen gladly to the badder ende. 225       And somme of hem wondred on the mirour  That born was up into the maister-tour,  How men myghte in it swiche thynges se.        Another answerde, and seyde, it myghte wel be  Naturelly by composiciouns 230 Of anglis and of slye reflexiouns;  And seyden, that in Rome was swich oon.  They speken of Alocen and Vitulon,  And Aristotle, that writen in hir lyves  Of queynte mirours and of perspectives, 235 As knowen they that han hir bookes herd.        And oother folk han wondred on the swerd,  That wolde percen thurgh out every thyng;  And fille in speche of Thelophus the kyng  And of Achilles with his queynte spere, 240 For he koude with it bothe heele and dere,  Right in swich wise as men may with the swerd,  Of which right now ye han youreselven herd.  They speken of sondry hardyng of metal,  And speke of medicynes therwithal, 245 And how and whanne it sholde yharded be,  Which is unknowe, algates unto me.        Tho speeke they of Canacees ryng,  And seyden alle, that swich a wonder thyng  Of craft of rynges herde they nevere noon; 250 Save that he Moyses, and kyng Salomon  Hadde a name of konnyng in swich art.  Thus seyn the peple, and drawen hem apart.  But nathelees, somme seiden that it was  Wonder to maken of fern asshen glas, 255 And yet nys glas nat lyk asshen of fern;  But for they han knowen it so fern,  Therfore cesseth hir janglyng and hir wonder.  As soore wondren somme on cause of thonder,  On ebbe, on flood, on gossomer, and on myst, 260 And alle thyng, til that the cause is wyst.  Thus jangle they, and demen, and devyse,  Til that the knyg gan fro the bord aryse.        Phebus hath laft the angle meridional,  And yet ascendynge was the beest roial, 265 The gentil Leoun, with his Aldiran,  Whan that this Tartre kyng, this Cambyuskan  Roos fro his bord, ther that he sat ful hye.  Toforn hym gooth the loude mynstralcye  Til he cam to his chambre of parementz, 270 Ther as they sownen diverse intrumentz  That it is lyk an hevene for to heere.  Now dauncen lusty Venus children deere,  For in the Fyssh hir lady sat ful hye,  And looketh on hem with a freendly eye. 275       This noble kyng is set up in his trone;  This strange knyght is fet to hym ful soone,  And on the daunce he gooth with Canacee.  Heere is the revel and the jolitee  That is nat able a dul man to devyse; 280 He moste han knowen love and his servyse,  And been a feestlych man as fressh as May,  That sholde yow devysen swich array.        Who koude telle yow the forme of daunces,  So unkouthe and so fresshe contenaunces, 285 Swich subtil lookyng and dissymulynges,  For drede of jalouse mennes aperceyvynges?  No man but Launcelot, and he is deed.  Therfore I passe of al this lustiheed;  I sey namoore, but in this jolynesse 290 I lete hem, til men to the soper dresse.        The styward bit the spices for to hye,  And eek the wyn, in al this melodye;  The usshers and the squiers been ygoon,  The spices and the wyn is come anoon, 295 They ete and drynke, and whan this hadde an ende,  Unto the temple, as reson was, they wende.  The service doon, they soupen al by day;  What nedeth me rehercen hir array?  Ech man woot wel, that at a kynges feeste 300 Hath plentee, to the mooste and to the leeste,  And deyntees mo than been in my knowyng.  At after soper gooth this noble kyng,  To seen this hors of bras, with al the route  Of lordes, and of ladyes hym aboute. 305       Swich wondryng was ther on this hors of bras,  That syn the grete sege of Troie was,  Theras men wondreden on an hors also,  Ne was ther swich a wondryng as was tho.  But fynally, the kyng axeth this knyght 310 The vertu of this courser, and the myght;  And preyde hym to telle his governaunce.        This hors anoon bigan to trippe and daunce,  Whan that this knyght leyde hand upon his reyne,  And seyde, "Sire, ther is namoore to seyne, 315 But whan yow list to ryden any where,  Ye mooten trille a pyn, stant in his ere,  Which I shal telle yow bitwix us two.  Ye moote nempne hym to what place also,  Or to what contree, that yow list to ryde, 320 And whan ye com ther as yow list abyde,  Bidde hym descende, and trille another pyn,  For therin lith th'effect of al the gyn  And he wol doun descende, and doon youre wille.  And in that place he wol stonde stille, 325 Though al the world the contrarie hadde yswore;  He shal nat thennes been ydrawe ne ybore.  Or, if yow liste, bidde hym thennes goon,  Trille this pyn, and he wol vanysshe anoon  Out of the sighte of every maner wight, 330 And com agayn, be it day or nyght,  Whan that yow list to clepen hym ageyn,  In swich a gyse as I shal to yow seyn,  Bitwixe yow and me, and that ful soone.  Ride whan yow list; ther is namoore to doone." 335       Enformed whan the kyng was of that knyght,  And hath conceyved in his wit aright  The manere and the forme of al this thyng,  Thus glad and blithe this noble doughty kyng  Repeireth to his revel as biforn, 340 The brydel is unto the tour yborn,  And kept among hise jueles, leeve and deere.  The hors vanysshed, I noot in what manere,  Out of hir sighte; ye gete namoore of me.  But thus I lete in lust and jolitee 345 This Cambyuskan, hise lordes festeiynge,  Til wel ny the day bigan to sprynge. Explicit prima pars

The Squire's Prologue Squire, come nearer, if your will it be, And speak to us of love; for certainly You know thereof as much as any man." "Nay, sir," said he, "but I'll do what I can With hearty will; for I will not rebel Against your wishes, but a tale will tell. Hold me excused if I say aught amiss, My aim is good, and lo, my tale is this."  Here begins the Squire's Tale At Sarai, in the land of Tartary, There dwelt a king who warred on Russia, he, Whereby there died full many a doughty man. This noble king was known as Cambinskan, Who in his time was of so great renown That there was nowhere in the wide world known So excellent a lord in everything; He lacked in naught belonging to a king. As for the faith to which he had been born, He kept its law to which he had been sworn; And therewith he was hardy, rich, and wise, And merciful and just in all men's eyes, True to his word, benign and honourable, And in his heart like any center stable; Young, fresh, and strong, in warfare ambitious As any bachelor knight of all his house. Of handsome person, he was fortunate, And kept always so well his royal state That there was nowhere such another man. This noble king, this Tartar Cambinskan Had got two sons on Elpheta, his wife, Of whom the elder's name was Algarsyf, And that same second son was Cambalo. A daughter had this worthy king, also, Who was the youngest, and called Canace. But to describe to you all her beauty, It lies not in my tongue nor my knowing; I dare not undertake so high a thing. My English is quite insufficient for What must require a finished orator Who knew the colours needful to that art If he were to describe her every part. I am none such, I must speak as I can. And so befell that, when this Cambinskan Had twenty winters worn his diadem, As he was wont from year to year, I deem, He let the feast of his nativity Be cried throughout all Sarai, his city, The last Idus of March, as 'twas that year. Phoebus the sun right festive was, and clear; For he was near his exaltation grown In face of Mars, and in his mansion known In Aries, the choleric hot sign. Right pleasant was the weather, and benign, For which the wild birds in the sun's gold sheen, What of the season and the springing green, Full loudly sang their love and their affection; It seemed that they had got themselves protection Against the sword of winter keen and cold. This Cambinskan, of whom I have you told, High in the palace, mounted on his throne With crown and royal vestments sat alone, And held his feast, so splendid and so rich That in this world its like was not, of which, If I should tell you all of the array, Then would it occupy a summer's day. Besides, it needs not here that I apprise Of every course the order of service. I will not tell you of their each strange sauce, Nor of their swans, nor of their heronshaws. Moreover, in that land, as tell knights old, There are some foods which they for dainties hold. Of which in this land the esteem is small; There is no man that can report them all. I will not so delay you, for it's prime, And all the fruit of this were loss of time; Unto my first theme I will have recourse. And so befell that, after the third course, While this great king sat in his state that day, Hearing his minstrels on their instruments play Before him at the board, deliciously, In at the hall door, and all suddenly, There came a knight upon a steed of brass, Holding in hand a mirror broad of glass. Upon his thumb he had a golden ring, And by his side a naked sword hanging; And up he rode right to the highest board. In all the hall there was not spoken word For marvel of this knight; him to behold, They stared ,stretched and craned, both young and old. This stranger knight, who came thus suddenly, Armed at all points, except his head, richly, Saluted king and queen and those lords all, In order of rank, as they sat there in hall, Showing such humble courtesy to each In manner of behaviour and in speech, That Gawain, with his old-time courtesy, Though he were come again from Faery, Could not have bettered him in any word. And after this, before the king's high board, He with a manly voice said his message, After the form in use in his language, Without mistake in syllable or letter; And, that his tale should seem to all the better, According to his language was his cheer, As men teach art of speech both there and here; Albeit that I cannot ape his style, Nor can I climb across so high a stile, Yet sky I this, as to his broad intent, To this amounts the whole of what he meant, If so be that I have it yet in mind. He said: "The king of Araby and Ind, My liege-lord, on this great and festive day Salutes you as he now best can and may, And sends to you, in honour of your feast, By me, that am prepared for your behest, This steed of brass, that easily and well Can, in one natural day ('tis truth I tell), That is to say, in four and twenty hours, Where'er you please, in drought or else in showers, Bear you in body unto every place To which your heart wills that you go apace, Without least hurt to you, through foul or fair; Or, if you please to fly as high in air As does an eagle when he wills to soar, This self-same steed will bear you evermore Without least harm, till you have gained your quest, Although you sleep upon his back, or rest; And he'll return, by twisting of a pin. He that made this could make full many a gin; He waited, watching many a constellation Before he did contrive this operation; And he knew many a magic seal and band. "This mirror, too, which I have in my hand, Has power such that in it men may see When there shall happen any adversity Unto your realm, and to yourself also; And openly who is your friend or foe. More than all this, if any lady bright Has set her heart on any kind of wight, If he be false she shall his treason see, His newer love and all his subtlety So openly that nothing can he hide. Wherefore, upon this pleasant summertide, This mirror and this ring, which you may see, He has sent to my Lady Canace, Your most surpassing daughter, who is here. "The virtue of the ring, if you will hear, Is this: that if she pleases it to wear Upon her thumb, or in her purse to bear, There is no bird that flies beneath the heaven But she shall understand his language, even To know his meaning openly and plain, And answer him in his own words again. And every herb that grows upon a root She shall know, too, and whom 'twill heal, to boot, Although his wounds be never so deep and wide. "This naked sword that's hanging by my side Such virtue has that any man you smite, Right through his armour will it carve and bite, Were it as thick as is a branching oak; And that man who is wounded by its stroke Shall never be whole until you please, of grace, To strike him with the flat in that same place Where he is hurt; which is to say, 'tis plain, That you may with the flat sword blade again Strike him upon the wound and it will close; This is the truth, I seek not to impose, For it shall fail not while it's in your hold." And when this knight had thus his message told, He rode out of the hall and did alight. His steed, which shone as sun does, and as bright, Stood in the courtyard, still as any stone. This knight was to a chamber led anon, And was unarmed, and there at meat sat down. The gifts were brought and royally were shown. That is to say, the sword and glass of power, And borne anon into the donjon tower By certain officers detailed thereto; The ring to Canace was borne also With ceremony, where she sat at table. But certainly, it is no lie or fable, The horse of brass could no way be removed; It stood as it were glued to ground. 'Twas proved There was no man could lead it out or drive With any windlass that he might contrive. And why? Because they hadn't craft to heave it. And therefore in that place they had to leave it Until the knight had taught them the manner Of moving it, as you'll hereafter hear. Great was the press of people to and fro Swarming to see this horse that stood there so; For it so high was, and so broad and long, So well proportioned as to be most strong, Just as it were a steed of Lombardy; Therewith as horselike and as quick of eye As if a gentle Apulian courser 'twere. For truly, from his tail unto his ear Nature nor art could better nor amend In any wise, as people did contend. But evermore their greatest wonder was, How it could go, being made all of brass; It was of Faery, as to people seemed. And divers folk diversely of it deemed; So many heads, so many wits, one sees. They buzzed and murmured like a swarm of bees, And played about it with their fantasy, Recalling what they'd learned from poetry; Like Pegasus it was that mounted high, That horse which had great wings and so could fly; Or else it was the horse of Greek Sinon Who brought Troy to destruction, years agone. As men in these old histories may read. "My heart," said one, "is evermore in dread; I think some men-at-arms are hid therein Who have in mind this capital to win. It were right well that of such things we know." Another whispered to his fellow, low, And said: "He lies, for it is rather like Some conjured up appearance of magic, Which jugglers practise at these banquets great." Of sundry doubts like these they all did treat, As vulgar people chatter commonly Of all things that are made more cunningly Than they San in their ignorance comprehend; They gladly judge they're made for some base end. And some much wondered on the mirror's power, That had been borne up to the donjon tower, And how men in it such strange things could see. Another answered, saying it might be Quite natural, by angles oddly spaced And sly reflections thus within it placed, And said, at Rome was such a one, men know. They spoke of Alhazen and Vitello And Aristotle, who wrote, in their lives, On mirrors strange and on perspectives, As all they know who've read their published word. And other folk did wonder on the sword That had the power to pierce through anything; And so they spoke of Telephus the king, And of Achilles with his magic spear, Wherewith he healed and hurt too, 'twould appear, Even as a man might do with this new sword Of which, but now, I've told and you have heard. They spoke of tempering metal sundry wise, And medicines therewith, which men devise, And. how and when such steel should hardened be; Which, nevertheless, is all unknown to me. Then spoke they of fair Canace's gold ring, And all men said that such a wondrous thing They'd ne'er heard of as being in ring-craft done, Except that Moses and King Solomon Had each a name for cunning in such art. Thus spoke the people and then drew apart, But notwithstanding, some said that it was Wondrous to make fern-ashes into glass, Since glass is nothing like the ash of fern; But since long since of this thing men did learn, Therefore they ceased their gabble and their wonder, As sorely wonder some on cause of thunder, Of ebb, of flood, of gossamer, of mist, And each thing, till they know what cause exist. Thus did they chatter and judge and thus surmise Until the king did from the board arise. Phoebus had left the angle meridional, And yet ascending was that beast royal, The noble Lion, with his Aldiran, When that this Tartar king, this Cambinskan Rose from his board where he had sat full high. Before him went the sounding minstrelsy, Into a room hung with rich ornaments, Wherein they sounded divers instruments Till it was like a heavenly thing to hear. And now danced merry Venus' children dear, For in the Fish their lady sat on high And looked upon them with a friendly eye. This noble king sat high upon his throne. And this strange knight was brought to him anon, And then to dance he went with Canace. Here was such revel and such jollity As no dull man is able to surmise; He must have known and served love's high emprise, And be a festive man as fresh as May Who could for you describe such an array. Who could tell you the figures of the dances, So odd and strange and the blithe countenances, The subtle glances and dissimulation For fear of jealous persons' observation? No man but Launcelot, and he is dead! I therefore pass the joyous life they led And saw no more, but in this jolliness I leave them till to supper all did press. The steward bade them serve the spices, aye, And the rich wine through all this melody. The ushers and the squires got them gone; The spices and the wine were come anon. They ate and drank, and when this had an end, Unto the temple, as was right, did wend. The service done, they supped while yet 'twas day. What needs it that I tell all their array? Each man knows well that at a kingly feast There's plenty for the greatest and the least, And dainties more than are in my knowing. Then, after supper, went this noble king To see the horse of brass, with all the rout Of lords and ladies thronging him about. Such wondering was there on this horse of brass That, since the siege of Troy did overpass, When once a horse seemed marvellous to men. Was there such wondering as happened then. But finally the king asked of this knight The virtue of this courser, and the might, And prayed him tell the means of governance. This horse anon began to trip and dance When this strange knight laid hand upon the rein And said: "Sire, there's no more I need explain Than, when you wish to journey anywhere, You must but twirl a peg within his ear, Which I will show you when alone with you. You must direct him to what place also, Or to what country you may please to ride. And when you come to where you would abide, Bid him descend, and twirl another pin, For therein lies the secret of the gin, And he will then descend and do your will; And there he'll stand, obedient and still. Though all the world the contrary had sworn, He shall not thence be drawn nor thence be borne. Or, if you wish to bid him thence be gone, Twirl but this pin and he'll depart anon And vanish utterly from all men's sight, And then return to you, by day or night, When you shall please to call him back again In such a fashion as I will explain When we two are alone, and that full soon. Ride when you choose, there's no more to be done." Instructed when the king was by that knight, And when he'd stablished in his mind aright The method and the form of all this thing, Then glad and blithe this noble doughty king Repaired unto his revels as before. The bridle to the donjon tower they bore, And placed among his jewels rich and dear. How I know not, the horse did disappear Out of their sight; you get no more of me. But thus I leave, in joy and jollity, This Cambinskan with all his lords feasting Well nigh until the day began to spring. Explicit prima pars.

Part 2

Sequitur pars secunda          The norice of digestioun, the sleep,  Gan on hem wynke, and bad hem taken keep,  That muchel drynke and labour wolde han reste; 350 And with a galpyng mouth hem alle he keste,  And seyde that it was tyme to lye adoun,  For blood was in his domynacioun.  'Cherisseth blood, natures freend,' quod he.  They thanken hym, galpynge, by two, by thre, 355 And every wight gan drawe hym to his reste,  As sleep hem bad; they tooke it for the beste.        Hir dremes shul nat been ytoold for me;  Ful were hir heddes of fumositee,  That causeth dreem, of which ther nys no charge. 360 They slepen til that it was pryme large,  The mooste part, but it were Canacee;  She was ful mesurable, as wommen be.  For of hir fader hadde she take leve  To goon to reste, soone after it was eve. 365 Hir liste nat appalled for to be,  Ne on the morwe unfeestlich for to se:  And slepte hir firste sleepe, and thanne awook;  For swich a joye she in hir herte took,  Bothe of hir queynte ryng and hire mirour, 370 That twenty tyme she changed hir colour,  And in hire sleep right for impressioun  Of hire mirrour she hadde a visioun.  Wherfore, er that the sonne gan up glyde,  She cleped on hir maistresse, hir bisyde, 375 And seyde, that hir liste for to ryse.        Thise olde wommen that been gladly wyse,  As hir maistresse answerde hir anon,  And seyde, "Madame, whider wil ye goon  Thus erly, for the folk been alle on reste?" 380       "I wol," quod she, "arise, for me leste  No lenger for to slepe; and walke aboute."  Hir maistresse clepeth wommen a greet route,  And up they rysen wel an ten or twelve.  Up riseth fresshe Canacee hirselve, 385 As rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne,  That in the Ram is foure degrees upronne,  Noon hyer was he, whan she redy was;  And forth she walketh esily a pas,  Arrayed after the lusty seson soote, 390 Lightly for to pleye and walke on foote,  Nat but with fyve or sixe of hir meynee;  And in a trench forth in the park gooth she.        The vapour, which that fro the erthe glood,  Made the sonne to seme rody and brood; 395 But natheless, it was so fair a sighte  That it made alle hir hertes for to lighte,  What for the sesoun and the morwenynge,  And for the foweles that she herde synge;  For right anon she wiste what they mente 400 Right by hir song, and knew al hir entente.        The knotte, why that every tale is toold,  If it be taried til that lust be coold  Of hem that han it after herkned yoore,  The savour passeth ever lenger the moore, 405 For fulsomnesse of his prolixitee;  And by the same resoun thynketh me,  I sholde to the knotte condescende,  And maken of hir walkyng soone an ende.        Amydde a tree fordryed, as whit as chalk, 410 As Canacee was pleyyng in hir walk,  Ther sat a faucon over hir heed ful hye,  That with a pitous voys so gan to crye  That all the wode resouned of hir cry.  Ybeten hath she hirself so pitously 415 With bothe hir wynges, til the rede blood  Ran endelong the tree ther-as she stood,  And evere in oon she cryde alwey and shrighte,  And with hir beek hirselven so she prighte,  That ther nys tygre, ne noon so crueel beest 420 That dwelleth outher in wode or in forest  That nolde han wept, if that he wepe koude  For sorwe of hire, she shrighte alwey so loude.  For ther nas nevere yet no man on lyve  If that I koude a faucon wel discryve, 425 That herde of swich another of fairnesse,  As wel of plumage as of gentillesse  Of shape and al that myghte yrekened be.  A faucon peregryn thanne semed she  Of fremde land, and everemoore as she stood 430 She swowneth now and now for lakke of blood,  Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.        This faire kynges doghter, Canacee,  That on hir fynger baar the queynte ryng,  Thurgh which she understood wel every thyng 435 That any fowel may in his leden seyn,  And koude answeren hym in his ledene ageyn,  Hath understonde what this faucoun seyde,  And wel neigh for the routhe almoost she deyde.  And to the tree she gooth ful hastily, 440 And on this faucoun looketh pitously,  And heeld hir lappe abrood, for wel she wiste  The faucoun moste fallen fro the twiste,  Whan that it swowned next, for lakke of blood.  A longe while to wayten hir she stood, 445 Til atte laste she spak in this manere  Unto the hauk, as ye shal after heere.        "What is the cause, if it be for to telle,  That ye be in this furial pyne of helle?"  Quod Canacee unto the hauk above, 450 "Is this for sorwe of deeth, or los of love?  For, as I trowe, thise been causes two  That causeth moost a gentil herte wo.  Of oother harm it nedeth nat to speke,  For ye yourself upon yourself yow wreke, 455 Which proveth wel, that oother love or drede  Moot been enchesoun of your cruel dede,  Syn that I see noon oother wight yow chace.  For love of God as dooth yourselven grace.  Or what may been your helpe? for west nor est 460 Ne saugh I nevere er now no bryd ne beest  That ferde with hymself so pitously.  Ye sle me with your sorwe, verraily,  I have of yow so greet compassioun.  For Goddes love com fro the tree adoun, 465 And as I am a kynges doghter trewe,  If that I verraily the cause knewe  Of your disese, if it lay in my myght  I wolde amenden it er that it were nyght,  As wisly helpe me, grete god of kynde! 470 And herbes shal I right ynowe yfynde,  To heele with youre hurtes hastily."        Tho shrighte this faucoun moore yet pitously  Than ever she dide, and fil to grounde anon  And lith aswowne, deed, and lyk a stoon, 475 Til Canacee hath in hir lappe hir take  Unto the tyme she gan of swough awake.  And after that she of hir swough gan breyde,  Right in hir haukes ledene thus she seyde:  "That pitee renneth soone in gentil herte, 480 Feelynge his similitude in peynes smerte,  Is preved al day, as men may it see,  As wel by werk as by auctoritee.  For gentil herte kitheth gentillesse.  I se wel, that ye han of my distresse 485 Compassioun, my faire Canacee,  Of verray wommanly benignytee  That Nature in youre principles hath set.  But for noon hope for to fare the bet,  But for to obeye unto youre herte free, 490 And for to maken othere be war by me,  As by the whelp chasted is the leon,  Right for that cause and that conclusion  Whil that I have a leyser and a space,  Myn harm I wol confessen, er I pace." 495       And evere whil that oon hir sorwe tolde,  That oother weep, as she to water wolde,  Til that the faucoun bad hire to be stille;  And with a syk right thus she seyde hir wille.        "Ther I was bred, - allas, that ilke day! - 500 And fostred in a roche of marbul gray  So tendrely, that no thyng eyled me;  I nyste nat what was adversitee,  Til I koude flee ful hye under the sky.  Tho dwelte a tercelet me faste by 505 That semed welle of alle gentillesse,  Al were he ful of tresoun and falsnesse;  It was so wrapped under humble cheere,  And under hewe of trouthe in swich manere,  Under plesance, and under bisy peyne, 510 That I ne koude han wend he koude feyne,  So depe in greyn he dyed his colours.  Right as a serpent hit hym under floures  Til he may seen his tyme for to byte,  Right so this god of love, this ypocryte, 515 Dooth so hise cerymonyes and obeisaunces,  And kepeth in semblant alle hise observaunces  That sownen into gentillesse of love.  As in a toumbe is al the faire above,  And under is the corps swich as ye woot, 520 Swich was this ypocrite, bothe coold and hoot;  And in this wise he served his entente,  That, save the feend-noon wiste what he mente;  Til he so longe hadde wopen and compleyned,  And many a yeer his service to me feyned, 525 Til that myn herte, to pitous and to nyce,  Al innocent of his crouned malice,  Forfered of his deeth, as thoughte me,  Upon his othes and his seuretee,  Graunted hym love up this condicioun 530 That everemoore myn honour and renoun  Were saved, bothe privee and apert.  This is to seyn, that after his desert  I yaf hym al myn herte and al my thoght -  God woot and he, that ootherwise noght! - 535 And took his herte in chaunge for myn for ay.  But sooth is seyd, goon sithen many a day,  'A trewe wight and a theef thenken nat oon.'  And whan he saugh the thyng so fer ygoon,  That I hadde graunted hym fully my love, 540 In swich a gyse as I have seyd above,  And yeven hym my trewe herte, as free  As he swoor he his herte yaf to me,  Anon this tigre ful of doublenesse  Fil on hise knees, with so devout humblesse, 545 With so heigh reverence, and as by his cheere  So lyk a gentil lovere of manere,  So ravysshed, as it semed, for the joye,  That nevere Jason, ne Parys of Troye -  Jason? Certes, ne noon oother man 550 Syn Lameth was, that alderfirst bigan  To loven two, as writen folk biforn -  Ne nevere, syn the firste man was born,  Ne koude man, by twenty thousand part,  Countrefete the sophymes fo his art; 555 Ne were worhty unbokelen his galoche,  Ther doublenesse or feynyng sholde approche,  Ne so koude thonke a wight as he dide me.  His manere was an hevene for to see  Til any womman, were she never so wys; 560 So peynted he and kembde at point-devys  As wel hise wordes as his contenaunce  And I so loved hym for his oveisaunce  And for the trouthe I demed in his herte,  That if so were that any thyng hym smerte, 565 Al were it nevere so lite, and I it wiste,  Me thoughte I felte deeth myn herte twiste.  And shortly so ferforth this thyng is went,  That my wyl was his willes instrument;  This is to seyn, my wyl obeyed his wyl 570 In alle thyng as fer as resoun fil,  Kepynge the boundes of my worshipe evere.  Ne nevere hadde I thyng so lief, ne levere,  As hym, God woot! ne nevere shal namo.        This lasteth lenger than a yeer or two, 575 That I supposed of hym noght but good.  But finally, thus atte laste it stood,  That Fortune wolde that he moste twynne  Out of that place, which that I was inne.  Wher me was wo that is no questioun; 580 I kan nat make of it discripcioun.  For o thyng dare I tellen boldely,  I knowe what is the peyne of deeth therby.  Swich harm I felte, for he ne myghte bileve;  So on a day of me he took his leve 585 So sorwefully eek, that I wende verraily,  That he had felt as muche harm as I,  Whan that I herde hym speke, and saugh his hewe.  But nathelees, I thoughte he was so trewe,  And eek that he repaire sholde ageyn 590 Withinne a litel while, sooth to seyn,  And resoun wolde eek that he moste go  For his honour, as ofte it happeth so,  That I made vertu of necessitee,  And took it wel, syn that it moste be. 595 As I best myghte, I hidde fro hym my sorwe,  And took hym by the hond, Seint John to borwe,  And seyde hym thus, 'Lo I am youres al.  Beth swich as I to yow have been, and shal.'  What he answerde, it nedeth noght reherce, 600 Who kan sey bet than he? who kan do werse?  Whan he hath al wel seyd, thanne hath he doon;  'Therfore bihoveth hire a ful long spoon  That shal ete with a feend,' thus herde I seye.  So atte laste he moste forth his weye, 605 And forth he fleeth, til he cam ther hym leste.  Whan it cam hym to purpos for to reste,  I trowe he hadde thilke text in mynde  That 'alle thyng repeirynge to his kynde  Gladeth hymself;' thus seyn men, as I gesse. 610 Men loven of propre kynde newefangelnesse,  As briddes doon, that men in cages fede,  For though thou nyght and day take of hem hede,  And strawe hir cage faire and softe as silk,  And yeve hem sugre, hony, breed, and milk, 615 Yet right anon as that his dore is uppe,  He with his feet wol spurne adoun his cuppe,  And to the wode he wole and wormes ete;  So newefangel been they of hir mete,  And loven novelrie of propre kynde. 620 No gentillesse of blood ne may hem bynde.        So ferde this tercelet, allas, the day!  Though he were gentil born, and fressh, and gay,  And goodlich for to seen, humble and free,  He saugh upon a tyme a kyte flee, 625 And sodeynly he loved this kyte so  That al his love is clene fro me ago,  And hath his trouthe falsed in this wyse.  Thus hath the kyte my love in hire servyse,  And I am lorn withouten remedie." 630 And with that word this faucoun gan to crie,  And swowned eft in Canacees barm.        Greet was the sorwe for the haukes harm  That Canacee and alle hir wommen made.  They nyste hou they myghte the faucoun glade; 635 But Canacee hom bereth hir in hir lappe,  And softely in plastres gan hir wrappe,  Ther as she with hir beek hadde hurt hirselve.  Now kan nat Canacee but herbes delve  Out of the ground, and make saves newe 640 Of herbes preciouse and fyne of hewe,  To heelen with this hauk. Fro day to nyght  She dooth hir bisynesse and al hir myght.  And by hir beddes heed she made a mewe,  And covered it with veluettes blewe, 645 In signe of trouthe that is in wommen sene.  And al withoute, the mewe is peynted grene,  In which were ypeynted alle thise false fowles,  As ben thise tidyves, tercelettes, and owles,  Right for despit were peynted hem bisyde, 650 Pyes, on hem for to crie and chyde.        Thus lete I Canacee hir hauk kepyng;  I wol namoore as now speke of hir ryng,  Til it come eft to purpos for to seyn  How that this faucoun gat hire love ageyn 655 Repentant, as the storie telleth us,  By mediacioun of Cambalus,  The kynges sone, of which that I yow tolde.  But hennesforth I wol my proces holde  To speken of aventures and of batailles, 660 That nevere yet was herd so grete mervailles.        First wol I telle yow of Cambyuskan,  That in his tyme many a citee wan;  And after wol I speke of Algarsif,  How that he wan Theodora to his wif, 665 For whom ful ofte in greet peril he was,  Ne hadde he be holpen by the steede of bras;  And after wol I speke of Cambalo  That faught in lystes with the bretheren two  For Canacee, er that he myghte hir wynne. 670 And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne. Explicit secunda pars

Sequitur pars secunda. (Here follows the second part) The nurse of good digestion, natural sleep, Caused them to nod, and bade them they take keep That labour and much drinking must have rest; And with a gaping mouth all these he pressed, And said that it was time they laid them down, For blood was in the ascendant, as was shown, And nature's friend, the blood, must honoured be. They thanked him, gaping all, by two, by three, And every one began to go to rest, As sleep them bade; they took it for the best.       But here their dreams shall not by me be said; The fumes of wine had filled each person's head, Which cause senseless dreams at any time. They slept next morning till the hour of prime, That is, the others, but not Canace; She was right temperate, as women be. For of her father had she taken leave, To go to rest, soon after it was eve; For neither pale nor languid would she be, Nor wear a weary look for men to see; But slept her first deep sleep and then awoke. For so much joy upon her heart there broke When she looked on the mirror and the ring That twenty times she flushed, and sleep did bring- So strong an impress had the mirror made- A vision of it to the slumbering maid. Wherefore, ere up the sun began to glide, She called her mistress, sleeping there beside, And said to her that she was pleased to rise.      Old women like this governess are wise, Or often so, and she replied anon, And said: "My lady, where will you be gone Thus early? For the folk are all at rest." "I will," said she, "arise, for I've no zest For longer sleep, and I will walk about." Her mistress called of women a great rout, And they rose up, a dozen more or less, And up rose lovely Canace to dress, As ruddy and bright as is the warm young sun That in the Ram now four degrees has run; He was no higher when she all ready was; And forth she sauntered at an easy pace, Arrayed according to the season sweet, Lightly, to play and walk on maiden feet; With five or six girls of her company All down an alley, through the park, went she.        The morning mists that rose from the damp earth Reddened the sun and broadened it in girth; Nevertheless it was so fair a sight That it made all their hearts dance for delight, What of the season and the fair morning, And all the myriad birds that she heard sing; For when she heard, she knew well what they meant, Just by their songs, and learned all their intent. The point of every story, why it's told, If it's delayed till interest grow cold In those who have, perchance, heard it before, The savour passes from it more and more, For fulsomeness of its prolixity. And for this reason, as it seems to me, I should to my tale's major point descend And make of these girls' walking a swift end.      Amidst a dry, dead tree, as white as chalk, As Canace was playing in her walk, There sat a falcon overhead full high, That in a pitiful voice began to cry, rill all the wood resounded mournfully. For she had beaten herself so pitiably With both her wings that the red glistening blood Ran down the tree trunk whereupon she stood. And ever in one same way she cried and shrieked, And with her beak her body she so pricked That there's no tiger, nor a cruel beast That dwells in open wood or deep forest, Would not have wept, if ever weep he could, For pity of her, she shrieked alway so loud. For never yet has been a man alive- If but description I could well contrive- That heard of such a falcon for fairness, As well of plumage as of nobleness Of shape, and all that reckoned up might be. A falcon peregrine she was, and she Seemed from a foreign land; and as she stood She fainted now and then for loss of blood, Till almost she had fallen from the tree.      This king's fair daughter, Princess Canace, Who on her finger bore the magic ring Whereby she understood well everything That any bird might in his language say, And in such language could reply straightway, She understood well what this falcon said, And of her pity well-nigh was she dead. So to the tree she went right hastily, And on this falcon looked she pitifully, And held her lap up wide, for she knew now The falcon must come falling from the bough When next it swooned away from loss of blood. A long while waiting there the princess stood, Till at the last she spoke, in her voice clear, Unto the hawk, as you'll hereafter hear.       "What is the cause, if it be one to tell, That you are in this furious pain of hell?" Said Canace unto this hawk above. "Is this for sorrow of death or loss of love? For, as I think, these are the causes two That torture gentle heart with greatest woe; Of other ills there is no need to speak, Because such harm upon yourself you wreak; Which proves right well that either love or dread Must be the reason for your cruel deed, Since I can see no one that gives you chase. For love of God, come, do yourself some grace, Or say what thing may help; for west nor east Have I before now seen a bird or beast That ever treated self so wretchedly. You slay me with your sorrow, verily, Such great compassion in my heart has grown. For God's dear love, come from the dry tree down; And, as I am a monarch's daughter true, If I but verily the real cause knew Of your distress, if it lay in my might, I would make you amends before the night, As truly help me God of human kind! And even now will I look out and find Some herbs to heal your hurts with, speedily."       Then shrieked this falcon the more piteously Than ever, and to ground fell down anon, And lay there, swooning, deathlike as a stone, Till Canace within her lap did take And hold the bird till she began to wake. And when from out her fainting fit she made, All in her own hawk's language thus she said: "That pity wells up soon in gentle heart, Feeling its likeness in all pains that smart, Is proved, and day by day, as men may see, As well by deeds as by authority; For gentle heart can spy out gentleness. I see well that you have on my distress Compassion, my fair Princess Canace, Of truly womanly benignity That nature in your character has set. Not that I hope much good therefrom to get, But to obey the word of your heart free, And so that others may be warned by me, As by the whelp instructed is the lion, Just for that cause and reason shall I fly on, While yet I have the leisure and the space, The story of my wrongs to you I'll trace."       And ever, while the one her sorrow said, The other wept, as she to water'd fled, Until the falcon bade her to be still; And with a sigh, right thus she said her will.       "Where I was born (alas, that cruel day!) And fostered on a rock of marble grey So tenderly that nothing troubled me, I knew not what it was, adversity, Till I could soar on high under the sky. There dwelt a handsome tercelet there, hard by, Who seemed the dwell of every nobleness; Though he was full of treason and falseness, It was so hidden under humble bearing, And under hues of truth which he was wearing, And under kindness, never used in vain, That no one could have dreamed that he could feign, So deeply ingrained were his colours dyed. But just as serpent under flower will hide Until he sees the time has come to bite, Just so this god of love, this hypocrite With false humility for ever served And seemed a wooer who the rites observed That so become the gentleness of love. As of a tomb the fairness is above, While under is the corpse, such as you know, So was this hypocrite, cold and hot also; And in this wise he served his foul intent That (save the Fiend) no one knew what he meant, Till he so long had wept and had complained, And many a year his service to me feigned, That my poor heart, a pitiful sacrifice, All ignorant of his supreme malice, Fearing he'd die, as it then seemed to me, Because of his great oaths and surety, Granted him love, on this condition known, That evermore my honour and renown Were saved, both private fame and fame overt; That is to say, that, after his desert I gave him all my heart and all my thought- God knows, and he, that more I gave him naught- And took his heart in change for mine, for aye. But true it is, and has been many a day, A true man and a thief think not at one. And when he saw the thing so far was gone That I had fully granted him my love, In such a way as I've explained above, And given him my faithful heart, as free As he swore he had given his to me, Anon this tiger, full of doubleness, Fell on his knees, devout in humbleness, With so high reverence, and, by his face, So like a lover in his gentle grace, So ravished, as it seemed, for very joy, That never Jason nor Paris of Troy- Jason? Nay, truly, nor another man Since Lamech lived, who was the first began To love two women (those that write have sworn), Not ever, since the primal man was born, Could any man, by twenty-thousandth part, Enact the tricks of this deceiver's art; Nor were he worthy to unlace his shoe, Where double-dealing or deceit were due, Nor could so thank a person as he me! His manner was most heavenly to see, For any woman, were she ever so wise; So painted he, and combed, at point-device, His manner, all in all, and every word. And so much by his bearing was I stirred And for the truth I thought was in his heart, That, if aught troubled him and made him smart, Though ever so little bit, and I knew this, It seemed to me I felt death's cruel kiss. And briefly, so far all these matters went, My will became his own will's instrument; That is to say, my will obeyed his will In everything in reason, good or ill, Keeping within the bounds of honour ever. Never had I a thing so dear- ah, never!- As him, God knows! nor ever shall anew. "This lasted longer than a year or two While I supposed of him no thing but good. But finally, thus at the last it stood, That Fortune did decree that he must win Out of that place, that home, that I was in. Whether I felt woe, there's no question, none; I can't describe my feelings, no, not one; But one thing dare I tell, and that boldly, I came to know the pain of death thereby; Such grief I felt for him, none might believe. So on a day of me he took his leave, So sorrowfully, too, I thought truly That he felt even as deep a woe as I, When I had heard him speak and saw his hue. Nevertheless, I thought he was so true, And that to me he would come back again Within a little while, let me explain; And 'twas quite reasonable that he must go For honour's sake, for oft it happens so, That I made virtue of necessity, And took it well, because it had to be. A look of cheer I felt not I put on, And took his hand, I swear it by Saint John. And said to him: 'Behold, I'm yours in all; Be you to me as I have been, and shall.' What he replied it needs not I rehearse, Who can say better than he, who can do worse? When he had well said, all his good was done. 'It well behooves him take a lengthy spoon Who eats with devils,' so I've heard folk say. So at the last he must be on his way, And forth he flew to where it pleased him best When it became his purpose he should rest, I think he must have had this text in mind, That 'Everything, returning to its kind, Gladdens itself'; thus men say, as I guess; Men love, and naturally, newfangledness, As do these birds that men in cages feed. For though you night and day take of them heed, And fairly strew their cage as soft as silk, And give them sugar, honey, bread, and milk, Yet on the instant when the door is up, They with their feet will spurn their feeding cup, And to the wood will fly and worms will eat; So are they all newfangled of their meat, And love all novelties of their own kind; Nor nobleness of blood may ever bind. So fared this tercelet, oh, alas the day! Though he was gently born, and fresh and gay, And handsome, and well-mannered, aye and free, He saw a kite fly, and it proved a she, And suddenly he loved this she-kite so That all his love for me did quickly go, And all his truth turned falsehood in this wise; Thus has this kite my love in her service, And I am love-lorn without remedy." And with that word the hawk began to cry, And after, swooned on Canace's fair arm. Great was the sorrow for the falcon's harm That Canace and all her women made; They knew not how they might this falcon aid. But Canace home bore her in her lap, And softly her in poultices did wrap Where she with her own beak had hurt herself. Now Canace dug herbs more rich than pelf Out of the ground, and made up ointments new Of precious herbs, all beautiful of hue, Wherewith to heal this hawk; from day to night She nursed her carefully with all her might. And by her bed's head she contrived a mew And lined the cage with velvets all of blue, Symbol of truth that is in women seen. And all without, the mew was painted green, And there were painted all these treacherous fowls As are these titmice, tercelets, and these owls, While for despite were painted there beside Magpies, that they might cry at them and chide. Thus leave I Canace her hawk keeping, I will no more, just now, speak of her ring, Till I come back with purpose to explain How this poor falcon got her love again Repentant, as the story tells to us, By mediation of that Cambalus, The king's son, of whom I've already told. But henceforth I a straightened course will hold Great battles and adventures to relate, Whereof were never heard such marvels great. First will I tell you of King Cambinskan Who won so many a town and many a man; And after will I speak of Algarsyf, How he won Theodora for his wife, For whom full oft in peril great he was, Had he been helped not by the steed of brass; And after that I'll speak of Cambalo, Who in the lists fought with the brothers two For Canace, before he could her win. And where I left off, I'll again begin. Explicit secunda pars.

Part 3

Incipit pars tercia          Appollo whirleth up his chaar so hye  Til that the god Mercurius hous, the slye ----   Heere folwen the wordes of the Frankelyn to the Squier, and the wordes of the hoost to the Frankelyn.        "In feith, Squier, thow hast thee wel yquit,  And gentilly I preise wel thy wit," 675 Quod the Frankeleyn, "considerynge thy yowthe,  So feelyngly thou spekest, sire, I allow the;  As to my doom, ther is noon that is heere  Of eloquence that shal be thy peere,  If that thou lyve; God yeve thee good chaunce, 680 And in vertu sende thee continuance!  For of thy speche I have greet deyntee;  I have a sone, and, by the Trinitee,  I hadde levere than twenty pound worth lond,  Though it right now were fallen in myn hond, 685 He were a man of swich discrecioun  As that ye been! Fy on possessioun  But if a man be vertuous withal!  I have my sone snybbed, and yet shal,  For he to vertu listneth nat entende, 690 But for to pleye at dees, and to despende  And lese al that he hath, is his usage.  And he hath levere talken with a page  Than to comune with any gentil wight  Where he myghte lerne gentillesse aright." 695       "Straw for youre gentillesse," quod our Hoost,  "What, Frankeleyn, pardee! sire, wel thou woost  That ech of yow moot tellen atte leste  A tale or two, or breken his biheste."        "That knowe I wel, sire," quod the Frankeleyn, 700 "I prey yow, haveth me nat in desdeyn  Though to this man I speke a word or two."        "Telle on thy tale, withouten wordes mo."        "Gladly, sire Hoost," quod he, "I wole obeye  Unto your wyl; now herkneth what I seye. 705 I wol yow nat contrarien in no wyse  As fer as that my wittes wol suffyse;  I prey to God that it may plesen yow,  Thanne woot I wel that it is good ynow."

Incipit pars tercia. (Here begins the third part) Apollo in his chariot whirled so high That in the God Mercurius' house, the sly-- (unfinished) Here follow the words of the Franklin to the Squire,  and the Words of the Host to the Franklin  In faith, sir squire, you have done well with it, And openly I praise you for your wit," The franklin said, "Considering your youth, So feelingly you speak, sir, in good truth! In my opinion, there is none that's here In eloquence shall ever be your peer, If you but live; may God give you good chance And in all virtue send continuance! For, sir, your speech was great delight to me. I have a son, and by the Trinity I'd rather have, than twenty pounds in land, Though it were right now fallen to my hand, He were a man of such discretion shown As you, sir; fie on what a man may own, Unless the man have virtue therewithal. I've checked my son, and yet again I shall, For he toward virtue chooses not to wend; But just to play at dice, and gold to spend, And lose all that he has, is his usage. And he would rather talk with any page Than to commune with any gentle wight From whom he might, learn courtesy aright." "A straw for courtesy!" exclaimed our host; "What, franklin? Gad, sir, well you know, I trust, That each of you must tell us, at the least, A tale or two, or break his sworn behest." "I know it," said the franklin; "I am fain, And pray you all, you do not me disdain, Though to this man I speak a word or two." "Come, tell your tale, sir, without more ado." "Gladly, sir host," said he, "I will obey Your will, good host; now hearken what I say. For I'll not be contrary in any wise, At least so far as my wit shall suffice; I pray to God that it may please you; rough Though it may be, I'll know 'tis good enough.

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