Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  That twenty tyme she changed hir colour;

  And in hir slepe, right for impressioun

  Of hir mirour, she hadde a visioun.

  Wherfore, er that the sonne gan up glyde,

  She cleped on hir maistresse hir bisyde,

  And seyde, that hir liste for to ryse.

  Thise olde wommen that been gladly wyse,

  As is hir maistresse, answerde hir anoon,

  And seyde, “madame, whider wil ye goon

  Out of their sight; you get no more of me.

  But thus I leave in joy and jollity

  This Genghis Khan and his lords feasting

  Till well nigh the day began to spring.

  PART TWO

  The nourishment of digestion, the sleep,

  Began on them to wink and bade them take heed

  That much drink and labor will have rest;

  And with a gaping yawn he all them kissed,

  And said that it was time to lie adown,

  For blood was in his domination.

  “Cherish blood, nature’s friend;” said he.

  They thanked him, yawning, by two, by three,

  And every person began to draw him to rest,

  As sleep them bade; they took it for the best.

  Their dreams shall not now be told by me;

  Full were their heads of fumosity,

  That causes dreams with no meaning.

  They slept until it was prime,

  The most part, except for Canacee.

  She was full moderate, as women be;

  For of her father had she taken leave

  To go to rest soon after it was eve.

  She wished not to be pale,

  Nor on the morrow unfestive to appear,

  And slept her sleep, and then awoke.

  For such a joy she in her heart took

  Both of her magic ring and her mirror,

  That twenty times she changed her color;

  And in her sleep, right from the impression

  Made by her mirror, she had a vision.

  Therefore, before that the sun began up to glide,

  She called her governess to her side,

  And said that she wished to rise.

  These old women who are often wise,

  As was her governess, answered her anon,

  And said, “Madam, whither will you go

  Thus erly? for the folk ben alle on reste.”

  “I wol,” quod she, “aryse, for me leste

  No lenger for to slepe, and walke aboute.”

  Hir maistresse clepeth wommen a gret route,

  And up they rysen, wel a ten or twelve;

  Up ryseth fresshe Canacee hir-selve,

  As rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne,

  That in the Ram is four degrees up-ronne;

  Noon hyer was he, whan she redy was;

  And forth she walketh esily a pas,

  Arrayed after the lusty seson sote

  Lightly, for to pleye and walke on fote;

  Nat but with fyve or six of hir meynee;

  And in a trench, forth in the park, goth she.

  The vapour, which that fro the erthe glood,

  Made the sonne to seme rody and brood;

  But nathelees, it was so fair a sighte

  That it made alle hir hertes for to lighte,

  What for the seson and the morweninge,

  And for the foules that she herde singe;

  For right anon she wiste what they mente

  Right by hir song, and knew al hir entente.

  The knotte, why that every tale is told,

  If it be taried til that lust be cold

  Of hem that han it after herkned yore,

  The savour passeth ever lenger the more,

  For fulsomnesse of his prolixitee.

  And by the same reson thinketh me,

  I sholde to the knotte condescende,

  And maken of hir walking sone an ende.

  Amidde a tree fordrye, as whyt as chalk,

  As Canacee was pleying 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.

  Y-beten hath she hir-self so pitously

  With bothe hir winges, til the rede blood

  Ran endelong the tree ther-as she stood.

  And ever in oon she cryde alwey and shrighte,

  This early, for the folk be all at rest?”

  “I will,” said she, ”arise, for I wish

  No longer for to sleep, and walk about.”

  Her governess called the women in a rout,

  And up they rose, some ten or twelve;

  And up rose fresh Canacee herself,

  As ruddy and bright as shines the young sun,

  That in the Ram is four degrees uprisen12—

  No higher when she ready was—

  And forth she walked with easy step,

  Arrayed for the lusty, fragrant season

  Lightly, for to play and walk on foot,

  Not but with five or six of her many;

  And in a path forth in the park went she.

  The vapor that from the earth rose

  Made the sun seem ruddy and broad;

  But nevertheless it was so fair a sight

  That it made all their hearts light,

  What for the season and the morning,

  And for the birds that she heard sing.

  For right anon she knew what they meant

  Right by their song, and knew all their intent.

  The gist of every tale that is told,

  If delayed until the curiosity is cold

  Among those who have it heard before,

  So diminishes its enjoyment ever the more

  With the fulsomeness of its prolixity,

  That for that reason, I think,

  I should to the essence quickly wend,

  And make of her walking soon an end.

  Amid a tree, from dryness as white as chalk,

  As Canacee was playing in her walk,

  There sat a falcon over her head full high,

  That with a piteous voice so began to cry

  That all the wood resounded of her cry.

  She had bitten herself so piteously

  Upon both her wings till the red blood

  Ran endlong the tree there where she stood.

  And again and again she cried and shrieked,

  And with hir beek hir-selven so she prighte,

  That ther nis tygre, ne noon so cruel beste,

  That dwelleth either in wode or in foreste

  That nolde han wept, if that he wepe coude,

  For sorwe of hir, she shrighte alwey so loude.

  For ther nas never yet no man on lyve—

  If that I coude a faucon wel discryve—

  That herde of swich another of fairnesse,

  As wel of plumage as of gentillesse

  Of shap, and al that mighte y-rekened be.

  A faucon peregryn that semed she

  Of fremde land; and evermore, as she stood,

  She swowneth now and now for lakke of blood,

  Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.

  This faire kinges doghter, Canacee,

  That on hir finger bar the queynte ring,

  Thurgh which she understood wel every thing

  That any foul may in his ledene seyn,

  And coude answere him in his ledene ageyn,

  Hath understonde what this faucon seyde,

  And wel neigh for the rewthe almost she deyde.

  And to the tree she gooth ful hastily,

  And on this faucon loketh pitously,

  And heeld hir lappe abrood, for wel she wiste

  The faucon moste fallen fro the twiste,

  When that it swowned next, for lakke of blood.

  A long while to wayten hir she stood

  Till atte laste she spak in this manere

  Un-to the h
auk, as ye shul after here.

  “What is the cause, if it be for to telle,

  That ye be in this furial pyne of helle?”

  Quod Canacee un-to this hauk above.

  “Is this for sorwe of deeth or los of love?

  For, as I trowe, thise ben causes two

  That causen moost a gentil herte wo;

  Of other harm it nedeth nat to speke.

  For ye your-self upon your-self yow wreke,

  Which proveth wel, that either love or drede

  Mot been encheson of your cruel dede,

  And with her beak she herself so pricked

  That there was no tiger, nor any other cruel beast

  That dwelt either in wood or forest,

  That would not have wept, if weep it could,

  For sorrow of her, she shrieked always so loud.

  For there is yet no man alive,

  If I could a falcon well describe,

  Who has heard such another so fair,

  As well of plumage as gentleness

  Of shape, of all that might reckoned be.

  A falcon peregrine then seemed she

  Of foreign land; and evermore, as she stood,

  She swooned now and then for lack of blood,

  Till well nigh was she fallen from the tree.

  This fair king’s daughter, Canacee,

  Who on her finger bore the magic ring,

  Through which she understood well every thing

  That any bird might in his language say,

  And could answer him in his language again,

  Now understood what this falcon said,

  And well nigh for pity she almost died.

  And to the tree she went full hastily,

  And on this falcon looked piteously,

  And spread her skirt broad, for well she knew

  The falcon must fall from the wood,

  When it swooned next, for lack of blood.

  A long while waiting there she stood

  Till she spoke at last in this manner

  Unto the hawk, as you shall after hear:

  “What is the cause, if you can tell,

  That you be in the Furies’ pain of hell?”

  Said Canacee unto this hawk above.

  “Is this for sorrow of death or loss of love?

  For, as I believe, these be the causes two

  That cause most a gentle heart woe;

  Of other harm we need not speak.

  For you upon yourself you wreak,

  Which proves well that either ire or dread

  Must be the reason for your cruel deed,

  Sin that I see non other wight yow chace.

  For love of god, as dooth your-selven grace

  Or what may ben your help; for west nor eest

  Ne sey I never er now no brid ne beest

  That ferde with him-self so pitously

  Ye slee me with your sorwe, verraily;

  I have of yow so gret compassioun.

  For goddes love, com fro the tree adoun;

  And, as I am a kinges doghter trewe,

  If that I verraily the cause knewe

  Of your disese, if it lay in my might,

  I wolde amende it, er that it were night,

  As wisly helpe me gret god of kinde!

  And herbes shal I right y-nowe y-finde

  To hele with your hurtes hastily.”

  Tho shrighte this faucon mor pitously

  Than ever she dide, and fil to grounde anoon,

  And lyth aswowne, deed, and lyk a stoon,

  Til Canacee hath in hir lappe hir take

  Un-to 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 sone in gentil herte,

  Feling his similitude in peynes smerte,

  Is preved al-day, as men may it see,

  As wel by werk as by auctoritee;

  For gentil herte kytheth gentillesse.

  I see wel, that ye han of my distresse

  Compassioun, my faire Canacee,

  Of verray wommanly benignitee

  That nature in your principles hath set.

  But for non hope for to fare the bet,

  But for to obeye un-to your herte free,

  And for to maken other be war by me,

  As by the whelp chasted is the leoun,

  Right for that cause and that conclusioun,

  Whyl that I have a leyser and a space,

  Myn harm I wol confessen, er I pace.”

  And ever, whyl that oon hir sorwe tolde,

  Since I see no other person you chase.

  For love of God, have on yourself grace,

  Or how may I help you? For west nor east

  Never saw I ever until now any bird or beast

  That fared with itself so piteously.

  You slay me with your sorrow verily,

  I have of you so great compassion.

  For God’s love, come from the tree adown;

  And as I am a king’s daughter true,

  If I verily the cause knew

  Of your misery, if it lay in my might,

  I would amend it before night,

  So wisely help me great God of nature!

  And herbs shall I right enough find

  To heal your hurts hastily!”

  Then shrieked this falcon yet more piteously

  Than ever she did, and fell to the ground anon,

  And lay aswoon, dead and like a stone,

  Till Canacee had in her lap her taken

  Until she began from the swoon to awaken.

  And after that she from her swoon upstarted,

  Right in her hawk’s language thus she said:

  “That pity runs soon in a gentle heart,

  Feeling its compassion in pains smart,

  Is proved always, as men may it see,

  As well by work as by authority;

  For a gentle heart makes known gentleness.

  I see well that you have of my distress

  Compassion, my fair Canacee,

  Of very womanly benignity

  That Nature in your disposition has set.

  And with no hope to fare better,

  But to respond to your generosity,

  And to make others beware by me,

  As by the whelp chastened is the lion,

  Right for that cause and that conclusion

  While I have the leisure and time,

  My pain I will confess before I fly.”

  And ever, while that one her sorrow told,

  That other weep, as she to water wolde,

  Til that the faucon bad hir to be stille;

  And, with a syk, right thus she seyde hir wille.

  “Ther I was bred (alias! that harde day!)

  And fostred in a roche of marbul gray

  So tendrely, that nothing eyled me,

  I niste nat what was adversitee,

  Til I coude flee ful hye under the sky.

  Tho dwelte a tercelet me faste by,

  That semed welle of alle gentillesse;

  Al were he ful of treson and falsnesse,

  It was so wrapped under humble chere,

  And under hewe of trouthe in swich manere,

  Under plesance, and under bisy peyne,

  That no wight coude han wend he coude feyne,

  So depe in greyn he dyed his coloures.

  Right as a serpent hit him under floures

  Til he may seen his tyme for to byte,

  Right so this god of love, this ypocryte,

  Doth so his cerimonies and obeisaunces,

  And kepeth in semblant alle his observances

  That sowneth in-to gentillesse of love.

  As in a toumbe is al the faire above,

  And under is the corps, swich as ye woot,

  Swich was this ypocryte, bothe cold and hoot,

  And in this wyse he served his entente,

  Th
at (save the feend) non wiste what he mente.

  Til he so longe had wopen and compleyned,

  And many a yeer his service to me feyned,

  Til that myn herte, to pitous and to nyce,

  Al innocent of his crouned malice,

  For-fered of his deeth, as thoughte me,

  Upon his othes and his seuretee,

  Graunted him love, on this condicioun,

  That evermore myn honour and renoun

  Were saved, bothe privee and apert;

  This is to seyn, that, after his desert,

  I yaf him al myn herte and al my thoght—

  God woot and he, that otherwyse noght—

  The other wept as if she would dissolve,

  Till the falcon bade her to be still,

  And, with a sigh, right thus she said her will:

  “There I was bred—alas that day!—

  And fostered in a rock of marble gray

  So tenderly that no thing ailed me,

  I knew not what was adversity

  Till I could fly full high under the sky.

  Then dwelt a tercelet me nearby,

  That seemed a spring of all gentleness;

  Although he was full of treason and falseness,

  It was so wrapped behind a humble manner,

  And under a hue of truth in such a way,

  Under a seeming eagerness to please,

  That no person could have known it for a disguise,

  So deep in grain he dyed his colors.

  Right as a serpent hides himself under flowers

  Till he may see his time for to bite,

  Right so this god of love’s hypocrite

  Did so his ceremonies and obeisances,

  And kept in semblance all his observances

  That imitate the gentleness of love.

  As in a tomb is all the fair above,

  And under is the corpse, such as you know,

  Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot.

  And in this way he served his intent

  That, save the fiend, none knew what he meant,

  Till he so long had wept and complained,

  And many a year his service to me feigned,

  Till my heart, too piteous and too nice,

  All innocent of his sovereign malice,

  Feared his death, as I thought,

  And believing his oaths and surety,

  Granted him love, upon this condition,

  That evermore my honor and renown

  Were saved, both privately and otherwise;

  That is to say, that after his desire,

  I gave him all my heart and all my thought—

  God knows and he, nor would have done any other way—

  And took his herte in chaunge for myn for ay.

  But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many a day,

  ‘A trew wight and a theef thenken nat oon’

  And, whan he saugh the thing so fer y-goon

  That I had graunted him fully my love,

  In swich a gyse as I have seyd above,