The Canterbury Tales: The Squire's Tale (Part Two)


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; 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, 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. 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. 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, 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, 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?" "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, 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, 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; 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 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, 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, 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 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 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, 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 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 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, 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, 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, "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, 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 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, 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! 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, 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, 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 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, 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." 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! - 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 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, 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, 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, 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, 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 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! - 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, 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, 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 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; 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; 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, 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 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, 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; 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 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 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. 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, 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, 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. 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, 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. 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, 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.' 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; 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 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, 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, 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 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, 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, 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. And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne.

Explicit secunda pars

The Squire's Tale: Part One | The Squire's Tale: Part Three

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.