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1. The Squire’s Prologue
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The Prologue to the Squire’s Tale
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‘Squire, come near, if your wish it be,
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And speak somewhat of love, for certainly
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You know as much of it as any man.’
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‘Nay, sire,’ quoth he, ‘but what I can
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I will right heartily, I’ll not rebel
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Against your wish; a tale will I tell.
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Excuse me, if I should speak amiss.
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My intent is good; lo, my tale is this.’
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2. The Squire’s Tale
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Here begins the Squire’s Tale
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2.1. (Part One)
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At Sarai, in the land of Tartary,
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There dwelt a king who warred with Muscovy,
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In which wars died many a mighty man.
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This noble king was called Cambiuskan,
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Who in his time was of such great renown
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That there was nowhere in no region found
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So excellent a lord in everything.
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He lacked naught that does befit a king.
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As to the sect in which he had been born,
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He kept the law, to serve which he had sworn;
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Added to this he was wise, brave and rich,
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And merciful, and just, constantly fixed
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On truthful speech, benign and honourable,
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As firmly set as the centre of a circle,
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Young, fresh and strong, he war espoused
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As keenly as any true knight of his house.
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A fair person he was and fortunate,
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And ever so maintained his royal state
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That there was nowhere such another man.
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This noble king, this Tartar, Cambiuskan,
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Had two sons by Elpheta his wife;
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The eldest of the two named Algarsife,
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The other son in turn called Cambalo.
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A daughter had this noble king also,
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Youngest of all; her name was Canace.
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But to tell you of all her beauty,
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Lies not in my tongue nor understanding.
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I dare not undertake so great a thing;
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My English too would prove insufficient.
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Only a rhetorician, excellent
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In all the frills belonging to that art,
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Could describe her to you in every part.
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I am none; I must speak then as I can.
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And so befell it, when this Cambiuskan
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Had twenty winters worn his diadem,
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He held a feast, a custom among them,
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To celebrate his own nativity
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Which was proclaimed through Sarai city,
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On the Ides of March, in the new year;
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Phoebus the sun shone bright and clear,
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For he was near his exaltation,
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In Mars’ face, and in his mansion
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In Aries, the choleric hot sign.
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Cheerful was the weather and benign,
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So that the birds in the sun’s gleam –
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What with the season and the fresh green –
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Full loudly sang out their affection.
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Feeling they had at last won protection
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Against the sword of winter, keen and cold.
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This Cambiuskan, of whom I have told,
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In royal vestments sat on his dais,
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With diadem, full high in his palace,
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And held his feast, so solemn and so rich
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That in this world there was none other which
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Could match it: and if I told of its array,
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Then would I occupy a summer’s day;
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Nor is there reason for me to advise
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You of the order of the meal in any wise.
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I’ll not list the exotic dishes, swans
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In any number, also young herons.
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And in that land too, so say the knights old,
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There are meats that men as dainties hold,
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Though in this country their worth is small.
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There is no man who could tell them all;
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I will not delay you now, for it is prime,
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It would be fruitless, simply wasted time;
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To my initial theme, then, I’ll have recourse.
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It so befell that after the third course,
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While the King in splendour sat, I say,
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Listening to his minstrels sing and play
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Before him at the table, delightfully,
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In at the hall door, all suddenly,
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There came a knight upon a horse of brass,
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And in his hand a mirror, broad, of glass;
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Upon his thumb he had a golden ring,
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And by his side a naked sword hanging,
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And up he rode to the King’s high board.
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In all the hall was spoken never a word
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For wonder at this knight; him to behold
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Full eagerly they waited, young and old.
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The unknown knight who came thus suddenly,
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All armed, save for his head, full richly,
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Saluted King and Queen and lords all,
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In order, as were seated through the hall,
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With such deep reverence and obeisance,
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As much in speech as in his countenance,
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That Gawain, with his ancient courtesy,
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Though he were come again, out of Faery,
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Could not have bettered him in any word.
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And after this, before the King’s high board,
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He in a manly voice proclaimed his message,
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According to the manner of his language,
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Without defect of syllable or letter.
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And that his tale might appear the better,
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As his words did, so did his face appear,
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Like those who learn the art of speech here.
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And though I cannot imitate his style,
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Nor can I climb over so high a stile,
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Yet say I this: as to the general intent,
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What follows next adds up to what he meant –
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If it be that I have it still in mind.
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He said: ‘The King of Araby and Inde,
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My liege lord, upon this solemn day
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Salutes you as best he can and may,
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And sends you, in honour of your feast,
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By me who am ready to serve your needs,
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This horse of brass, that easily and well
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Can in the space of one day natural –
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That is to say, in four and twenty hours –
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Wherever you wish, in drought or in showers,
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Transport your body into every place
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Where your heart wishes you to pace,
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Without harming you, through foul and fair.
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Or if you choose to fly as high in air
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As an eagle does when he seeks to soar,
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This same steed will bear you evermore,
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Unharmed, till you are where you think best,
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Though you sleep on his back or rest,
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And return again, when you twist this pin.
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Who wrought it knew many a cunning thing;
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Through many a starry configuration
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He waited to perform this operation,
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And many a seal and bond did understand.
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This mirror, too, that I have in my hand
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Has such a power that a man may in it see
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When will befall any adversity
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Unto your kingdom, and to yourself also,
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And openly who is your friend or foe.
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And moreover, if any lady bright
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Has set her heart on any manner of knight,
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If he is false, she shall his treason see –
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His new love and all his secrecy –
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So clearly then, that he shall nothing hide.
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Wherefore, again, this cheerful summer-tide,
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The mirror and the ring that you can see
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He has sent to my lady Canace,
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Your excellent daughter sitting here.
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The virtue of the ring, if you will hear,
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Is this: that if she should choose to wear
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It on her thumb, or in her purse it bear,
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There is no bird flying in the heavens
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Whose tongue she’ll not understand as given,
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And know its meaning openly and plain,
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And answer it in its language once again;
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And every herb that grows on its root,
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She shall know too, and whom it will suit,
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Although his wound be ever so deep and wide.
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This naked sword that hangs by my side
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Such virtue has, that whoever shall you smite,
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Through his armour it will carve and bite,
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Though it were thick as is a branching oak.
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And whoever is wounded by its stroke,
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Shall never be whole till you choose, of grace,
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To stroke him with the flat of it in the place
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Where he is hurt; that’s as much as to say
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You must with the flat of the sword again
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Stroke the wound and it will swiftly close.
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This is the truth indeed, may all men know;
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It will not fail while it is in your hold.’
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And when the knight had thus his tale told,
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He rode out of the hall and did alight.
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His horse that glittered as the sun so bright,
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Stood in the courtyard, still as any stone.
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The knight to a chamber was led alone,
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His armour off, to the table then he sat.
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The gifts were carried, royally at that –
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That is to say, the sword and the mirror –
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In procession into the high tower,
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By certain officers to this so sworn.
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And unto Canace the ring was born
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Solemnly, to where she sat at table.
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But assuredly, without a touch of fable,
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The horse of brass itself could not be moved,
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It stands as if to earth it has been glued.
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It cannot be stirred by any man alive
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Though with pulley and windlass they may strive.
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And why, then? – Because they lack the skill.
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And therefore in that place they leave it still,
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Until the knight shall teach them the manner
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Of moving it, as you shall shortly hear.
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Great was the crowd that swarmed to and fro
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To gaze at the horse that stood there so,
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For it was that high, and broad and long,
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And well proportioned, so that it was strong,
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As if it had been a steed of Lombardy;
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And withal so quick of eye and lively
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As if it an Apulian courser were.
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Indeed, from its tail up to its ear,
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Nature and art could not the horse amend
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For the better, so all said in the end.
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But always the greatest wonder was
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How it could move about if it were brass.
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It was a work of faery, so it seemed.
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Various folk, they variously scheme,
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As many minds as heads, yet none agrees,
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Murmuring as does a swarm of bees,
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And think according to their fantasy,
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Repeating fragments of old poetry,
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Saying it is in truth like Pegasus,
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Who fled through the air, the winged horse;
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Or else like the Greek horse of Sinon,
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That brought great Troy to its destruction,
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As they had in the oldest stories read.
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‘My heart,’ quoth one, ‘is evermore in dread;
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I fear some men at arms lie there within,
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Whose intent is this city for to win.
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It would be well if we such things could know.’
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Another whispered to his neighbour, low,
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And said: ‘He’s wrong: it’s rather, by my logic,
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An apparition fashioned by some magic,
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As tricksters conjure things, at feasts of state.’
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Of sundry doubts they chatter, and debate
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As the unknowing will do, commonly,
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Regarding things fashioned far more subtly
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Than they in their ignorance can comprehend;
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Yet leap to the wrong conclusion in the end.
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And some of them marvelled at the mirror,
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That had been carried to the master tower,
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Wondering how men things in it could see.
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Another answered and said it might well be
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Naturally, and by combinations
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Of angles and skilful reflections,
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And said that in Rome was such a one,
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They spoke of Witelo and Alhazen,
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And Aristotle, who all left directives
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Concerning curious mirrors and perspectives,
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As men know who have their works explored.
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And other folk marvelled at the sword
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That would pierce clear through everything,
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And spoke of Telephus the Mysian king,
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And of Achilles with his wondrous spear,
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For he could wound and heal, as you may hear,
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Just in the way that men may with this sword,
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Of which right now heard our king and lord.
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They spoke of clever tempering of metal,
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And spoke of the agents to be used withal,
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And how and when it should tempered be,
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A thing unknown – at least it is to me.
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Then they spoke about Canace’s ring,
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And all conceded such a wondrous thing
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Of ring-craft they had never heard, not one,
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Except that Moses and King Solomon
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Were said to have true knowledge of the art;
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Thus said the people, gathering apart.
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And in addition, some declared, it was
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Marvellous to make of fern-ash glass,
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And yet glass is unlike the ash of fern,
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Though since this was nothing new to learn,
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Those soon ceased their chattering and wonder.
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Some wonder just as deeply about thunder,
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And ebb and flood, and gossamer, and mist,
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And other things as long as doubts exist.
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Thus they chatter, wrangle and advise,
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Till the King from the table deigns to rise.
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Phoebus had left the line meridional,
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And still ascending was the beast royal,
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The noble Lion, and his star, Aldiran,
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When the Tartar King, Cambiuskan,
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Rose from the table, at which sat he.
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259
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Before him went the sound of minstrelsy
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260
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Till in the state room all men were present
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261
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Where sounded there diverse instruments
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262
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That it was heavenly for them to hear.
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263
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Then there danced sweet Venus’ children dear,
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264
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For their Lady in the Fishes sat, on high,
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265
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And gazed on them with a friendly eye.
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266
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The noble King was seated on his throne;
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267
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The unknown knight was fetched: he alone
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268
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Into the dance he goes with Canace.
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269
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Now is there revelling and jollity
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270
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That no dull man might easily devise!
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271
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He must have known of love in every guise,
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272
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And be a jovial man, as fresh as May,
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273
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Who could devise for you a like array.
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274
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For who could describe for you the dances
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275
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So strange in form, the fresh countenances,
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276
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Such secret glances and dissimulations,
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277
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For dread of jealous men’s observations?
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278
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No man but Lancelot, and he long dead.
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279
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Therefore I pass from all this joy, instead;
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280
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I say no more, but in their happiness
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281
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I leave them, till their supper they address.
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282
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The steward orders spices, by and by,
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283
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And also wine, the minstrelsy’s ally.
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284
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The ushers and the squires swiftly gone,
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285
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The spices and the wine arrive anon.
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286
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They eat and drink, and when that’s at an end,
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287
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Unto the temple, as is right, they wend.
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288
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The service done, they feasted all the day.
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289
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What need to tell you of all this array?
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290
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Each man well knows, that at a king’s feast
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291
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There’s plenty for the greatest and the least,
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292
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And more dainties than are in my knowing.
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293
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After the supper went the noble King
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294
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To see the horse of brass, with a whole rout
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295
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Of lords and ladies gathered round about.
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|
296
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Such marvelling was there at this horse of brass
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297
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That, since the great siege of Troy came to pass,
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298
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Where men marvelled at a horse also,
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299
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There was never such wonder here below.
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300
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But finally, the King asked the knight
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301
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The virtues of the courser, and its might,
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302
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And prayed him to explain its governance.
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303
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The horse soon began to frisk and dance,
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304
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When the knight laid hand upon its rein,
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305
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And said: ‘Sire, there’s no more to explain
|
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306
|
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But, when you wish to ride off anywhere,
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307
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You turn the pin inserted in its ear,
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308
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Which I shall tell you of, between us two.
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309
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You must tell him the places to which you
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310
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Wish to go, or the country where you’d ride.
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311
|
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And when you reach a place where you would bide,
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312
|
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Bid him descend, then turn another pin –
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313
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For the action of the creature lies therein –
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314
|
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And he’ll descend and execute your will.
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315
|
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And in that place he will bide, quite still;
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316
|
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Though all men to the contrary be sworn,
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317
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He cannot be dragged from there or drawn.
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318
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But if you choose to bid him hence be gone,
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319
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Turn the pin, and he will vanish anon
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320
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Out of every man and woman’s sight,
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321
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|
Yet return once more, whether by day or night,
|
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322
|
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When you choose to summon him again,
|
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323
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In such a manner as I will explain
|
|
324
|
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|
Between us two, and that full soon. Now you,
|
|
325
|
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|
May ride when you wish; there’s no more to do.’
|
| |
|
326
|
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Informed as the King was, by the knight,
|
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327
|
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|
When he had grasped all in his mind aright
|
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328
|
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|
Both the manner and form of the whole thing,
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329
|
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|
Full glad and blithe, the fine and noble King
|
|
330
|
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|
Repaired to his revels as before.
|
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331
|
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|
The bridle then into the tower they bore,
|
|
332
|
|
|
And kept it with his jewels, prized and dear;
|
|
333
|
|
|
The horse then vanished – how I am not clear –
|
|
334
|
|
|
Out of his sight; you get no more of me!
|
|
335
|
|
|
But thus I leave, in joy and jollity,
|
|
336
|
|
|
Cambuskian, with his lords a-feasting,
|
|
337
|
|
|
Till well nigh the day began to spring.
|
| |
| |
|
|
2.2. (Part Two)
|
|
0
|
|
|
The nourisher of our digestion, Sleep,
|
|
1
|
|
|
Began to wink on them, and bade them keep
|
|
2
|
|
|
Note that much drink and labour must have rest.
|
|
3
|
|
|
And with a yawning mouth all there he kissed,
|
|
4
|
|
|
And told them all that sleep must have its hour,
|
|
5
|
|
|
For the humour of blood was now in power.
|
|
6
|
|
|
‘Cherish your blood, Nature’s friend,’ quoth he.
|
|
7
|
|
|
They thanked him, yawning, by two and three,
|
|
8
|
|
|
And everyone began to seek their rest,
|
|
9
|
|
|
As sleep commanded, and all thought it best.
|
| |
|
10
|
|
|
Their dreams shall not be told, or not by me;
|
|
11
|
|
|
Their heads were those of inebriety,
|
|
12
|
|
|
That fashions dreams with no significance,
|
|
13
|
|
|
They slept till it was prime, at a glance,
|
|
14
|
|
|
Or most of them – except for Canace.
|
|
15
|
|
|
She was quite temperate, as women be;
|
|
16
|
|
|
For of her father she had taken leave
|
|
17
|
|
|
To go and rest soon after it was eve –
|
|
18
|
|
|
She had no wish both pale and wan to be,
|
|
19
|
|
|
Nor jaded the next morn, for all to see –
|
|
20
|
|
|
And slept her first sleep, and then awoke.
|
|
21
|
|
|
For such a joy in her heart now spoke,
|
|
22
|
|
|
Telling of her curious ring and mirror,
|
|
23
|
|
|
That twenty times she had changed colour.
|
|
24
|
|
|
And in her sleep, due to the impression
|
|
25
|
|
|
The mirror made on her, she had a vision.
|
|
26
|
|
|
Wherefore she, ere the sun began to glide
|
|
27
|
|
|
Skywards, called the governess at her side,
|
|
28
|
|
|
And told her that she wished to rise.
|
| |
|
29
|
|
|
This old woman, pleased to appear wise,
|
|
30
|
|
|
Being her governess, answered her anon,
|
|
31
|
|
|
And said: ‘Madame, shall you be gone,
|
|
32
|
|
|
And where this early, folk are all at rest?’
|
|
33
|
|
|
‘I will arise,’ quoth she, ‘I think it best
|
|
34
|
|
|
To sleep no longer, and to walk about.’
|
| |
|
35
|
|
|
The governess summoned then a great rout
|
|
36
|
|
|
Of women, and up they rose, ten or twelve.
|
|
37
|
|
|
And up rose fresh Canace herself,
|
|
38
|
|
|
As rosy and bright as does the new sun
|
|
39
|
|
|
That of the Ram has four degrees now run –
|
|
40
|
|
|
No higher was he when she ready was.
|
|
41
|
|
|
And forth she walked on an easy course,
|
|
42
|
|
|
Arrayed, as for the pleasant season sweet,
|
|
43
|
|
|
Lightly, to play and roam with idle feet,
|
|
44
|
|
|
And only five or six of her company,
|
|
45
|
|
|
By woodland path forth through the park goes she.
|
| |
|
46
|
|
|
The vapours rising from the earth abroad
|
|
47
|
|
|
Made the sun seem redder and full broad;
|
|
48
|
|
|
But nonetheless it was so fair a sight
|
|
49
|
|
|
That it made all their hearts soar with delight,
|
|
50
|
|
|
What with the new season and the morning,
|
|
51
|
|
|
And all the birds that she heard singing,
|
|
52
|
|
|
For right anon she knew what they all meant
|
|
53
|
|
|
By their songs, and all their true intent.
|
| |
|
54
|
|
|
The nub and gist of every tale that’s told,
|
|
55
|
|
|
If it is hidden till desire grows cold
|
|
56
|
|
|
In those who’ve listened to what came before,
|
|
57
|
|
|
The savour passes: the longer it is the more,
|
|
58
|
|
|
Through an abundance of prolixity.
|
|
59
|
|
|
And for the same reason, it seems to me,
|
|
60
|
|
|
I should to the nub and gist now descend,
|
|
61
|
|
|
And make of her walking soon an end.
|
| |
|
62
|
|
|
Upon a tree, from drought as white as chalk,
|
|
63
|
|
|
Where Canace was idling on her walk,
|
|
64
|
|
|
There sat a falcon, over her head full high,
|
|
65
|
|
|
That with a piteous voice began to cry
|
|
66
|
|
|
Till all the wood resounded far and deep.
|
|
67
|
|
|
She had beaten herself so piteously
|
|
68
|
|
|
With both her wings, that the crimson blood
|
|
69
|
|
|
Ran crown to root of the tree on which she stood.
|
|
70
|
|
|
And ever and again she uttered cry and shriek,
|
|
71
|
|
|
And pricked and stabbed herself so with her beak
|
|
72
|
|
|
That there is never a tiger or cruel beast
|
|
73
|
|
|
That dwells in wood or forest deep at least,
|
|
74
|
|
|
That would not have wept, if weep it could,
|
|
75
|
|
|
For pity of her, shrieking where she stood.
|
|
76
|
|
|
For there was never yet a man alive –
|
|
77
|
|
|
If only I could the falcon well describe –
|
|
78
|
|
|
Who has heard of another of such fairness,
|
|
79
|
|
|
Both in her plumage and her nobleness
|
|
80
|
|
|
Of shape, and all things that might valued be.
|
|
81
|
|
|
A peregrine falcon she appeared to be,
|
|
82
|
|
|
From foreign lands; and ever, as she stood,
|
|
83
|
|
|
She swooned now and again for loss of blood,
|
|
84
|
|
|
Till she had well nigh fallen from the tree.
|
| |
|
85
|
|
|
The King’s fair daughter, Canace,
|
|
86
|
|
|
Who on her finger wore the curious ring
|
|
87
|
|
|
By which she comrpehended everything
|
|
88
|
|
|
That any bird might in its language say,
|
|
89
|
|
|
And could give answer in the selfsame way,
|
|
90
|
|
|
Understood now what the falcon said,
|
|
91
|
|
|
And for pity of it was good as dead.
|
|
92
|
|
|
And to the tree she hastened rapidly,
|
|
93
|
|
|
And at the falcon gazed all mercifully,
|
|
94
|
|
|
And held her skirt out wide, for she knew
|
|
95
|
|
|
The falcon must fall from the branch too
|
|
96
|
|
|
When it next swooned, from the lack of blood.
|
|
97
|
|
|
A long while waiting there she stood,
|
|
98
|
|
|
Till at last she spoke in this manner here,
|
|
99
|
|
|
To the hawk, as you shall swiftly hear:
|
| |
|
100
|
|
|
‘What is the reason, if you’re free to tell,
|
|
101
|
|
|
That you so feel the furious pains of Hell?’
|
|
102
|
|
|
Quoth Canace to the hawk high above.
|
|
103
|
|
|
‘Is it for sorrow at death or loss of love?
|
|
104
|
|
|
- For I think those the causes two below
|
|
105
|
|
|
That most may cause a noble heart woe.
|
|
106
|
|
|
Of other kinds of harm I need not speak,
|
|
107
|
|
|
For you yourself upon yourself harm wreak,
|
|
108
|
|
|
Which proves that it is either ire or dread
|
|
109
|
|
|
Provides the reason why you cried and bled,
|
|
110
|
|
|
Since I can see no other who does you chase.
|
|
111
|
|
|
For love of God, toward yourself show grace,
|
|
112
|
|
|
Or say how I may help? – For west or east
|
|
113
|
|
|
I never saw before now bird or beast
|
|
114
|
|
|
That behaved towards itself so piteously.
|
|
115
|
|
|
You slay me with your sorrow, verily,
|
|
116
|
|
|
I possess for you such great compassion.
|
|
117
|
|
|
For God’s love, from the tree now come,
|
|
118
|
|
|
And as I am here a king’s daughter true,
|
|
119
|
|
|
If that I in truth all the reason knew
|
|
120
|
|
|
For your distress, if it lay in my might,
|
|
121
|
|
|
I would ease it, before the fall of night,
|
|
122
|
|
|
So help me the great God of kin and kind!
|
|
123
|
|
|
And herbs I shall in plenty for you find,
|
|
124
|
|
|
To heal all your hurts, and that right swiftly.’
|
| |
|
125
|
|
|
Then the falcon shrieked more piteously
|
|
126
|
|
|
Than before, and fell to the ground anon,
|
|
127
|
|
|
And lay in a swoon, dead and like a stone,
|
|
128
|
|
|
Till into her lap did Canace her take,
|
|
129
|
|
|
And she began from the swoon to wake.
|
|
130
|
|
|
And when that she out of her swoon awoke,
|
|
131
|
|
|
Then in her hawk’s language thus she spoke:
|
|
132
|
|
|
‘That pity flows readily in gentle heart,
|
|
133
|
|
|
Feeling its likeness in another’s smart,
|
|
134
|
|
|
Is proved every day, as men may see,
|
|
135
|
|
|
As well by practice as authority,
|
|
136
|
|
|
For gentle heart reveals its gentleness.
|
|
137
|
|
|
I see indeed, you show for my distress
|
|
138
|
|
|
Compassion, now, my fair Canace,
|
|
139
|
|
|
Out of true womanly benignity
|
|
140
|
|
|
Nature in your character has set there.
|
|
141
|
|
|
And not in any hope my fate to better,
|
|
142
|
|
|
But replying to your generosity,
|
|
143
|
|
|
And so that others may be warned by me,
|
|
144
|
|
|
As by the puppy’s punishment the lion,
|
|
145
|
|
|
For that reason and to that conclusion,
|
|
146
|
|
|
While I have opportunity and space,
|
|
147
|
|
|
I will confess my hurt, as I die apace.’
|
| |
|
148
|
|
|
And all the while the one her sorrow told,
|
|
149
|
|
|
The other wept, as if turned to water cold,
|
|
150
|
|
|
Until the falcon bade her to be still;
|
|
151
|
|
|
And with a sigh thus she spoke her will.
|
|
152
|
|
|
‘Where I was bred – alas, that bitter day! –
|
|
153
|
|
|
And fostered on a rock of marble grey,
|
|
154
|
|
|
So tenderly that nothing troubled me,
|
|
155
|
|
|
I never knew a day’s adversity
|
|
156
|
|
|
Till I could fly high beneath the sky.
|
|
157
|
|
|
There dwelt a male falcon close nearby,
|
|
158
|
|
|
Who seemed the well of all gentleness.
|
|
159
|
|
|
Yet was he full of treason and falseness,
|
|
160
|
|
|
That was cloaked so by a humble manner
|
|
161
|
|
|
And the hue of truth, beneath the banner
|
|
162
|
|
|
Of pleasantries, and his taking every pain,
|
|
163
|
|
|
That no one would have known how he could feign,
|
|
164
|
|
|
So deeply ingrained appeared his colours.
|
|
165
|
|
|
Just as a serpent lurks beneath the flowers
|
|
166
|
|
|
And waits the time its evil to commit,
|
|
167
|
|
|
Just so this God of Love’s hypocrite
|
|
168
|
|
|
Did so with ceremony and obeisance,
|
|
169
|
|
|
Kept up appearances with due observance,
|
|
170
|
|
|
Consistent with the courtesies of love.
|
|
171
|
|
|
As in a tomb all seems fair above,
|
|
172
|
|
|
While beneath it is the corpse, as you know,
|
|
173
|
|
|
Such was this hypocrite, both hot and cold.
|
|
174
|
|
|
And in this way pursued he his intent,
|
|
175
|
|
|
That, save the fiend, none knew what he meant,
|
|
176
|
|
|
Till he so long had wept and complained,
|
|
177
|
|
|
And many a year his service to me feigned,
|
|
178
|
|
|
Until my heart, too merciful and foolish,
|
|
179
|
|
|
All innocent then of his crowned malice,
|
|
180
|
|
|
Fearful of his death, as it seemed to me,
|
|
181
|
|
|
Given his oaths, and from false security,
|
|
182
|
|
|
Granted him its love, on this condition:
|
|
183
|
|
|
That evermore my honour and renown
|
|
184
|
|
|
Be guaranteed, privately and apart.
|
|
185
|
|
|
That is to say, I gave him all my heart
|
|
186
|
|
|
According to his deserts, and all my thought –
|
|
187
|
|
|
God knew, and he, otherwise I would not –
|
|
188
|
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Took his heart in exchange for mine, I say.
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189
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But truth it is, and has been many a day,
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190
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A true man and a thief think not as one.
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191
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And when he saw that things so travelled on
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192
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That I had fully granted him my love,
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193
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In such manner as I have said above,
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194
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And given him my true heart as free
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195
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As he swore he had given his to me,
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196
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Anon this tiger, full of deceitfulness,
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197
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Fell on his knees, in devout humbleness,
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198
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With such deep reverence, seemed there
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199
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So like a noble lover in his manner,
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200
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So ravished, it appeared then, by joy
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201
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That neither Jason nor Paris at Troy –
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202
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Jason, I say? For sure, no other man
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203
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Since Lamech, he who at first began
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204
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To love two women, as was said of yore –
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205
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No never, since the first man was born,
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206
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Could man contrive the twenty thousandth part
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207
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Of the false sophistry of all his art,
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208
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None were worthy to lace his shoe,
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209
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When false duplicity was there to do,
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210
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Nor one who could pay thanks as he to me!
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211
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His manners were so heavenly to see
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212
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To any woman: were she ever so wise;
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213
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So painted he and polished to the eye
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214
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His speech as fine as was his countenance.
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215
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And I so loved him then for his obeisance,
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216
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And for the truth I thought was in his heart,
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217
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If there was anything that caused him smart,
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218
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However slight it was, I could ne’er resist
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219
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The pain, and felt how death my heart did twist.
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220
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And briefly, so far now this matter went,
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221
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That my will was his will’s instrument;
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222
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That is to say, my will obeyed his will
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223
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In everything that was also reasonable,
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224
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Keeping the limits of my honour ever,
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225
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Never was anyone so dear, none dearer,
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226
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Than he to me, none shall be so, God knows.
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227
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This lasted longer than a year or so,
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228
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With I believing of him naught but good.
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229
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Yet finally, so at the last it stood,
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230
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That Fortune herself no longer wished him
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231
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To dwell in the same location I was in.
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232
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Whether I felt woe, is not in question;
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233
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I cannot give you any true description,
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234
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But one thing I’ll say boldly, I
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235
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Know what the pain of death is thereby.
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236
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Such pain I felt, so deeply did I grieve.
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237
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Thus on that day of me he took his leave,
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238
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So sorrowfully too, I thought verily
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239
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That he had felt the hurt as deep as me,
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240
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When I heard him speak, saw his pale hue.
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241
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For despite all, I thought that he was true,
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And also thought that he’d return again
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Within a little while, I should explain –
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And there were reasons why he had to go
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245
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Matters of honour: it often happens so –
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246
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So I made virtue of necessity,
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And took it well, since thus it had to be.
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248
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As I best might, I hid from him my sorrow,
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249
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And took his hand, Saint John keep all us so,
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250
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And said to him thus: “Lo, I am yours, in all.
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251
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Be such as I have been to you, evermore.”
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252
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What he replied, I need not now rehearse.
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253
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Who spoke better than him? Who acted worse?
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254
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After he’d spoken well, came evil soon!
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255
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Therefore is she in need of a long spoon,
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256
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Who sups with the devil; so I’ve heard say.
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257
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Well, in the end he set forth on his way,
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258
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And forth he fled, till where it pleased him best
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259
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He chose a place, and there he took his rest.
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260
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I think he must have had this text in mind,
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261
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That “everything according to its own kind
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262
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Takes its delight” – thus men say: I guess,
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263
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Men by their nature love new-fangledness,
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264
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As a bird does that in a cage they feed;
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265
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For though night and day they give him heed
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266
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Strew his cage as fair and soft as silk,
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267
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And give him sugar, honey, bread, and milk,
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268
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Yet, on the instant that his door is up,
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269
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He with his feet will kick away the cup,
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270
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And to the wood he’ll fly and worms eat.
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271
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So newfangled are they in their meat,
|
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272
|
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Novelty love, by nature and by kind;
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273
|
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No nobleness of blood has power to bind.
|
| |
|
274
|
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Such was this tierce, this falcon, woe the day!
|
|
275
|
|
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Though he was gentle born, and fresh, I say,
|
|
276
|
|
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And goodly for to see, humble and free,
|
|
277
|
|
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He saw one day a kite all swiftly flee,
|
|
278
|
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|
And all at once he loved this kite so
|
|
279
|
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That all his love from me did swiftly go,
|
|
280
|
|
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And thus he broke his word in that wise.
|
|
281
|
|
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Now has the kite my love before her eyes,
|
|
282
|
|
|
And I am lost, and there’s no remedy!’
|
|
283
|
|
|
And the falcon cried at that with misery,
|
|
284
|
|
|
And swooned away next on Canace’s arm.
|
| |
|
285
|
|
|
Great was the sorrow at the hawk’s harm,
|
|
286
|
|
|
That Canace and all her women betrayed.
|
|
287
|
|
|
They knew not how the falcon might be saved;
|
|
288
|
|
|
But Canace bore her homeward in her lap,
|
|
289
|
|
|
And softly in bandages then did her wrap,
|
|
290
|
|
|
Wherever she with her beak had hurt herself.
|
|
291
|
|
|
Now Canace must seek for herbs and delve
|
|
292
|
|
|
Them out of the ground, and make salves new
|
|
293
|
|
|
Of herbs both potent and of finest hue
|
|
294
|
|
|
To heal the hawk; to and fro day and night
|
|
295
|
|
|
She works the business and with all her might.
|
|
296
|
|
|
And by her bed-head she wrought a mew,
|
|
297
|
|
|
To house the hawk, covered with velvet blue,
|
|
298
|
|
|
The colour of constancy in women seen.
|
|
299
|
|
|
And all without the mew was painted green,
|
|
300
|
|
|
In which were pictured all the false fowls,
|
|
301
|
|
|
Such as the titmice are, tierces and owls,
|
|
302
|
|
|
And magpies, to screech at them and chide,
|
|
303
|
|
|
Out of spite were painted alongside.
|
| |
|
304
|
|
|
So I leave Canace her hawk nursing.
|
|
305
|
|
|
I will say no more now about her ring
|
|
306
|
|
|
Till it should serve my purpose to explain
|
|
307
|
|
|
How the falcon claimed her love again
|
|
308
|
|
|
Repentant, for the story tells us so,
|
|
309
|
|
|
Through the good offices of Cambalo,
|
|
310
|
|
|
The King’s son of whom I have you told.
|
|
311
|
|
|
But henceforth I will my tale unfold,
|
|
312
|
|
|
By speaking of adventures and of battles,
|
|
313
|
|
|
Of which were never heard greater marvels.
|
| |
|
314
|
|
|
First will I tell you of Cambiuskan,
|
|
315
|
|
|
Who in his day many a city won;
|
|
316
|
|
|
And afterwards I’ll speak of Algarsife,
|
|
317
|
|
|
And how he won Theodora to wife,
|
|
318
|
|
|
For whom he often in great peril was,
|
|
319
|
|
|
For which he sought help of the horse of brass;
|
|
320
|
|
|
And after will I speak of Cambalo,
|
|
321
|
|
|
Who in the lists, her two brothers’ foe,
|
|
322
|
|
|
Fought for Canace, ere he might her win.
|
|
323
|
|
|
And where I left off, I’ll again begin.
|
| |
| |
|
|
2.3. (Part Three)
|
|
0
|
|
|
Apollo whirled his chariot up so high,
|
|
1
|
|
|
Into the god’s house, Mercury the sly –
|
| |
