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,3133
What for the season and the morrowning,
And for the fowlës that she heardë sing.
For right anon she wistë3134 what they meant
Right by their song, and knew all their intent.
The knottë,3135 why that every tale is told,
If it be tarried3136 till the lust3137 be cold
Of them that have it hearken’d after yore,3138
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,3139 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 endëlong3140 the tree, there as she stood.
And ever-in-one3141 alway she cried and shright,3142
And with her beak herselfë she so pight,3143
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;3144
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 fremdë3145 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 quaintë3146 ring,
Through which she understood well every thing
That any fowl may in his leden3147 sayn,
And could him answer in his leden again,
Hath understoodë what this falcon said,
And well-nigh for the ruth3148 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 twist3149
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 furial3150 pain of hell?”
Quoth Canacé unto this hawk above;
“Is this for sorrow of death, or loss of love?
For, as I trow,3151 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;3152
Which proveth well, that either ire or dread3153
Must be occasion of your cruel deed,
Since that I see none other wight you chase.
For love of God, as do yourselfë grace,3154
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,3155 if it lay in my might,
I would amend it, ere that it were night,
So wisly3156 help me the great God of kind.3157
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,3158
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;3159
For gentle heartë kitheth3160 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,3161
But for t’ obey unto your heartë free,
And for to make others aware by me,
As by the whelp chastis’d3162 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.”3163
And ever while the one her sorrow told,
The other wept, as she to water wo’ld,3164
Till that the falcon bade her to be still,
And with a sigh right thus she said her till:3165
“Where I was bred (alas that ilkë3166 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 tercëlet3167 me fastë by,
That seem’d a well of allë gentleness;
All were he3168 full of treason and falsenéss,
It was so wrapped under humble cheer,3169
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 unto3170 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
