And every gras that groweth upon rote

It were right good that al swiche thing were know.” She shal eke know; and whom it wol do bote, Another rowned to his felaw low, Al be his woundes never so depe and wide. And sayd: "He lieth, for it is rather like

“ This naked swerd, that hangeth by my side, An apparence ymade by some magike, Swiche vertue hath, that what man that it smite As jogelours plaien at thise festes grete." Thurghout his armure it wol kerve and bite, Of sondry doutes thus they jangle and trete, Were it as thick as is a braunched oke;

As lewed peple demen comunly
And what man that is wounded with the stroke Of thinges, that ben made more subtilly,
Slial never be hole, til that you list of grace

Than they can in hir lewednesse comprehende,
To stroken him with the platte in thilke place They demen gladly to the badder ende.
Ther he is hurt; this is as much to sain,

And som of hem wondred on the mirrour Ye moten, with the platte swerd, again

That born was up in to the maister tour, Stroken him in the wound, and it wol close. How men mighte in it swiche thinges see. This is the veray soth withouten glose:

Another answerd and sayd: “ It might wel be It failleth not while it is in your hold.”

Naturelly by compositions
And whan this knight hath thus his tale told, Of angles, and of slie reflections;"
He rideth out of halle, and doun he light.

And sayd, that in Rome was swiche on.
His stede, which that shone as sonne bright, They speke of Alhazen and Vitellon,
Stant in the court as stille as any ston.

And Aristotle ; that writen, in hir lives, This knight is to his chambre ladde, anon,

Of queinte mirrours and of prospectives, And is unarmed, and to the mete ysette.

As knowen they that han hir bookes herd. Thise presents ben, ful richelich yfette,

And other folk han wondred on the swerd This is to sain, the swerd and the mirrour;

That wolde percen thurghout every thing, And borne, anon, into the highe tour

And fell in speche of Telephus the king, With certain officers ordained therfore;

And of Achilles for his queinte spere, And unto Canace the ring is bore

For he coude with-it bothe hele and dere, Solempnely, ther she sat at the table.

Right in swiche wise as men may with the swerd But, sikerly, withouten any fable,

Of which, right now, ye have yourselven herd. The hors of bras, that may not be remued;

They speken of sondry harding of metall, It stant as it were to the ground yglued:

And speken of medicines therwithall, Ther may no man out of the place it drive

And how and whan it shuld yharded be, For non engine, of windas or polive;

Which is unknow algates unto me. And cause why, for they con not the craft,

Tho, speken they of Canacees ring, And therfore in the place they han it laft

And saiden all, that swiche a wonder thing Til that the knight hath taught hem the manere

Of craft of ringes herd they never non,To voiden him, as ye shul after here.

Save that he Moises, and King Salomon, Gret was the prees that swarmed to and fro Hadden a name of conning in swiche art. To gauren on this hors that stondeth so;

Thus sain the peple, and drawen hem apart. For it so high was, and so brod and long,

But, natheles, som saiden that it was So wel proportioned for to be strong,

Wonder to maken of ferne ashen glas, Right as it were a stede of Lumbardie;

And yet is glas nought like ashen of ferne, Therwith so horsly, and so quik of eye,

But for they han yknowen it so, ferne, As it a gentil Poileis courser were;

Therforth ceseth hir jangling and hir wonder. For certes fro his tayl unto his ere

As sore wondren som on cause of thunder, Nature ne art ne coud him not amend

On ebbe and floud, on gossomer and on mist, In no degree, as all the peple wend.

And on all thing, til that the cause is wist. But evermore hir moste wonder was

Thus janglen they, and demen and devise, How that it coude gon, and was of bras;

Til that the king gan fro his bord arise. It was of Faerie, as the peple semed.

Phæbus hath left the angle meridional, Diverse folk diversely han demed ;

And yet ascending was the beste real, As many heds, as many wittes ben.

The gentil Leon, with his Aldrian, They murmured as doth a swarme of been,

Whan that this Tartre king, this Cambuscan, And maden skilles after hir fantasies,

Rose from his bord, ther as he sat ful hie: Rehersing of the olde poetries.

Beforne him goth the loude minstralcie, And says it was ylike the Pegasee,

Til he come to his chambre of parements, The hors that hadde winges for to flee;

Ther as they sounden divers instruments, Or, elles, it was the Grekes hors Sinon,

That it is like an heven for to here. That broughte Troye to destruction,

Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere ; As men moun in thise olde gestes rede.

For in the Fish hir lady set ful hie, Myn herte," quod on,“ is evermore in drede; And loketh on hem with a frendly eye, I trow some men of armes ben therin,

This noble king is set upon his trone; That shapen hem this citee for to win:

This straunge knight is fet to him, ful sone,

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And on the daunce he goth with Canace.

Repaireth to his revel, as beforne, Here is the revell and the jolitee,

The bridel is in to the tour y borne, That is not able a dull man to devise:

And kept among his jewels lefe and dere: He must han knowen Love and his service,

The hors vanisht, I n'ot in what manere, And ben a festlich man, as fresh as May,

Out of hir sight: ye get no more of me; That shulde you devisen swiche array.

But thus I lete, in lust and jolitee,
Who coude tellen you the forme of daunces This Cambuscan his lordes festeying,
So uncouth, and so freshe contenaunces,

Til that wel nigh the day began to spring.
Swiche subtil lokings and dissimulings,
For dred of jalous mennes apperceivings?

PARS SECUNDA.
No man but Launcelot, and he is ded:

The norice of digestion, the slepe, Therfore I passe over all this lustyhed;

Gan on hem winke, and bad hem taken kepe I say no more, but in this jolinesse

That mochel drinke and labour wol have rest, I lete hem, til men to the souper hem dresse. And with a galping mouth hem all he kest The steward bit the spices for to bie,

And said that it was time to lie adoun, And eke the win, in all this melodie;

For blood was in his dominatioun: The ushers and the squierie ben gon;

Cherisheth blood, nature's frend, quod he. The spices and the win is come anon:

They thanken him galping, by two, by three; They ete and drinke, and whan this had an end And every wight gan drawe him to his rest, Unto the temple, as reson was, they wend:

As slepe him bade; they take it for the best. The service don, they soupen all by day.

Hir dremes shul not now be told for me; What nedeth you rehersen hir array ?

Ful were hir hedes of fumositee, Eche man wot wel that at a kinges feste

That causeth dreme, of which ther is no charge : Is plentee, to the most and to the lest,

They slepen, til that it was prime large, And deintees mo than ben in my knowing.

The moste parte, but it were Canace; At after souper goth this noble king

She was ful mesurable as women be. To seen the hors of bras, with all a route

For of hire father had she taken hire leve Of lordes and of ladies him aboute.

To gon to rest, sone after it was eve; Swiche wondring was ther on this hors of bras, Hire liste not appalled for to be, That sin the gret assege of Troye was,

Nor on the morwe unfestliche for to see, Ther as men wondred on an hors also,

And slept hire firste slepe and than awoke. Ne was ther swiche a wondring, as was,

tho.

For swiche a joy she in her herte toke But, finally, the king asketh the knight

Both of hire queinte ring, and of hire mirrour, The vertue of this courser, and the might,

That twenty time she chaunged hire colour; And praied him to tell his governaunce.

And in hire slepe right for the impression This hors, anon, gan for to trip and daunce, Of hire mirrour she had a vision ;Whan that the knight laid hond upon his rein; Wherfore, or that the sonne gan up glide, And said, “ Sire! ther n'is no more to sain, She clepeth upon hire maistresse hire beside, But whan you list to riden any where,

And saide that hire luste for to arise. Ye moten trill a pin, stant in his ere,

Thise olde women that ben gladly wise, Which I shal tellen you betwixt us two,

As is hire maistresse, answerd hire anon; Ye moten nempne him to what place also

And said: “ Madam! whider wol ye gon Or to what contree, that you list to ride.

Thus erly? for the folk ben all in rest.' “ And whan ye come ther as you list abide,

“I wol," quod she," arisen (for me lest Bid him descend, and trill another pin,

No longer for to slepe) and walken aboute.” (For therin tieth the effect of all the gin,)

Hire maistresse clepeth women a gret route, And he wol doun descend and don your will, And up they risen, wel a ten or twelve; And in that place he wol abiden still:

Up riseth freshe Canace hireselve, Though al the world had the contrary swore,

As rody and bright, as the yonge sonne, He shal not thennes be drawe ne be bore.

That in the Ram is four degrees yronne; Or if you list to bid him thennes gon,

No higher was he whan she redy was: Trille this pin, and he wol vanish anon

And forth she walketh esily a pas, Out of the sight of every maner wight,

Arrayed after the lusty seson sote And come agen, be it day or night,

Lightely for to playe, and walken on fote, Whan that you list to clepen him, again,

Nought but with five or sixe of hire meinie; In swiche a guise as I shal to you sain

And in a trenche forth in the park goth she. Betwixen you and me, and that ful sone.

The vapour, which that fro the erthe glode, Ride whan you list, ther n'is no more to done.” Maketh the sonne to seme rody and brode:

Enfourmed whan the king was of the knight, But, natheles, it was so faire a sight, And hath conceived in his wit aright

That it made all hir hertes for to light, The maner and the forme of all this thing,

What for the seson and the morwening Ful glad and blith, this noble doughty king

And for the foules that she herd sing.

a

For, right anon, she wiste what they ment

That ferde with himself so pitously. Right by hir song, and knew all hir entent. Ye sle me with your sorwe veraily, The knotte why that every tale is tolde

I have of you so gret compassioun. If it be taried til the lust be colde

For Goddes love, come fro the tree adoun, Of hem, that han it herkened after yore,

And as I am a kinges daughter trewe The savour passeth, ever lenger the more,

If that I veraily the causes knewe For fulsomnesse of the prolixitee;

Of your disese, if it lay in my might And, by that same reson, thinketh me

I wold amend it, or that it were night, I shuld unto the knotte condescende,

As wisly help me the gret God of kind.
And maken of hire walking sone an ende.

And herbes shal I, right ynough, yfind,
Amidde a tree for-dry, as white as chalk, To helen with your hurtes, hastily.”
As Canace was playing in hire walk,

Tho shright this faucon yet more pitously Ther sat a faucon over hir hed ful hie,

Than ever she did, and fell to ground, anon, That with a pitous vois so gan to crie,

And lithe aswoune, as ded as lith a ston, That all the wood resouned of hire cry,

Til Canace hath in hire lappe hire take And beten had hireself so pitously

Unto that time she gan of swoune awake; With both hire winges, til the rede blood

And after that she out of swoune abraide, Ran endelong the tree ther as she stood;

Right, in hire haukes leden, thus she sayde: And, ever in on, alway she cried and shright; “ That pitee renneth sone in gentil herte, And with hire bek hireselven she so twight; (Feling his similitude in peines smerte,) That ther n'is tigre, ne no cruel best,

Is proved alle day, as men may see That dwelleth other in wood, or in forest,

As wel by werke as by auctoritee, That n'olde han wept, if that he wepen coude, For gentil herte kitheth gentilesse. For sorwe of hire, she shright alway so loude. I se wel that ye have on my distresse For ther was never yet no man on live,

Compassion, my faire Canace! If that he coude a faucon wel descrive,

Of veray womanly benignitee, That herd of swiche another, of fayrenesse

That Nature in your principles hath set. As wel of plumage as of gentilesse,

But, for non hope for to fare the bet, Of shape; of all that might yrekened be.

But, for to obey unto your herte free, A faucon peregrine semed she

And for to maken other yware by me, Of fremde londe; and, ever, as she stood,

As by the whelpe chastised is the leon, She swouned, now and now, for lack of blood, Right for that cause and that conclusion, Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.

While that I have a leiser and a space,

a This faire kinges daughter Canace,

Min harme I wol confessen er 1 pace." That on hire finger bare the queinte ring,

And, ever, while that on hire sorwe told, Thurgh which she understood wel every thing That other wept, as she to water wold, That any foule may in his leden sain,

Til that the faucon bad hire to be still; And coude answere him in his leden again,

And, with a sike, right thus she said hire till: Hath understonden what this faucon seyd,

“ Ther I was bred, (alas that ilke day!) And wel neigh, for the routhe, almost she deyd; And fostred in a rocke of marble gray, And to the tree she goth ful hastily,

So tendrely, that nothing ailed me,
And on this faucon loketh pitously,

I ne wist not what was adversitee,
And held hire lap abrode; for wel she wist Til I coud flee ful high under the skie.
The faucon muste fallen from the twist

“ Tho dwelled a tercelet me faste by.
Whan that she swouned next, for faute of blood. That semed welle of alle gentilesse,
A longe while to waiten hire she stode.

Al were he ful of treson and falsenesse. Til at the last she spake in this manere

It was so wrapped under humble chere, Lato the hauk, as ye shul after here.

And under hew of trouth in swiche manere, ** What is the cause if it be for to tell,

Under plesance, and under besy peine, That ye ben in this furial peine of hell?”

That no wight coud have wend he coude feine; Quod Canace unto this hauk above;

So depe in greyn he died his coloures, * Is this for sorwe of deth, or losse of love?

Right as a serpent hideth him under floures, Far as I trow, thise be the causes two,

Til he may see his time for to bite; That causen most a gentil herte wo.

Right so, this god of loves hypocrite Of other harme it nedeth not to speke,

Doth so his ceremonies and obeisance, Per ye yourself upon yourself awreke,

And kepeth in semblaunt alle his observance, Which preveth wel that other ire or drede

That souneth unto gentillesse of love. Mote ben enchesen of your cruel dede,

As on a tombe is all the faire above, Sin that I se non other wight you chace.

And under is the corps, swiche as ye wote, For the love of God, as doth yourselven grace; Swiche was this hypocrite both cold and hote, Ot what may be your helpe? for west ne est, And in this wise he served his entent, Ne saw I never, er now, no brid ne best,

That, save the fend, non wiste what he ment;

In which were peinted all thise false foules, Right so fare I; and, therfore, I you pray
As ben thise tidises, tercelettes, and owles;

Gideth my song that I shal of you say."
And pies, on hem for to cry and chide,
Right for despit, were peinted hem beside.

Ther was in Asie, in a gret citee,
Thus lete I Canace hire hauk keping.

Amonges Cristen folk a Jewerie, I wol no more, as now, speke of hire ring,

Sustened by a lord (of that contree) Til it come eft to purpos for to sain,

For foul usure and lucre of vilanie, How that this faucon gat hire love again

Hateful to Crist and to his compagnie, Repentant, as the story telleth us,

And thurgh the strete men mighten ride and wende, By mediation of Camballus,

For it was free, and open at eyther ende. The kinges sone, of which that I you told.

A litel scole of Cristen folk there stood But hennesforth I wol my processe hold

Doun at the ferther end, in which ther were To speke of avantures, and of batailles,

Children an hepe, comen of Cristen blood, That yet was never herd so gret mervailles. That lerned in that scole yere by yere First, wol I tellen you of Cambuscan,

Swiche manere doctrine as men used there; That in his time many a citee wan:

This is to say, to singen and to rede, And, after, wol I speke of Algarsif,

As smale children don in hir childhede. How that he wan Theodora to his wif;

Among thise children was a widewes sone, For whom ful oft in gret peril he was,

A litel clergion, sevene yere of age, Ne had he ben holpen by the hors of bras:

That day by day to scole was his wone;
And after wol I speke of Camballo,

And, eke also, wheras he sey the image
That fought in listes, with the brethren two Of Cristes moder, had he in usage,
For Canace er that he might hire winne;

As him was taught, to knele adoun, and say
And ther I left, I wol again beginne.

Ave Marie as he goth by the way.
[The rest is wanting. Thus hath this widewe hire litel sone ytaught

Our blissful Lady, Cristes moder dere,
To worship ay; and he forgate it nought;

For sely childe wol alway sone lere.
THE PRIORESSES TALE.

But, ay, whan I remembre on this matere, * O Lord our Lord! thy name how merveillous

Saint Nicholas stant ever in my presence, Is in this large world yspread!" (quod she)

For he so yong to Crist did reverence. * For, not al only, thy laude precious

This litel childe his litel book lerning, Parfourmed is by men of dignitee;

As he sate in the scole at his primere, But by the mouth of children thy bountee

He Alma Redemptoris herde sing Parfourmed is, for on the brest souking

As children lered hir antiphonere: Somtime shewen they thin herying.

And as he dorst, he drew him nere and nere, “ Wherfore in laude, as I can best and may,

And herkened, ay, the wordes and the note, Of thee and of the white lily flour

Til he the firste vers coude al by rote. Which that thee bare, and is a maide alway

Nought wist he what this Latin was to say, To tell a storie I wol do my labour;

For he so yonge and tendre was of age;
Not that I may encresen hire honour,

But on a day his felaw gan he pray
For she, hireselven, is honour and rote

To expounden him this song in his langage,
Of bountee, next hire sone; and soules bote.

Or telle him why this song was in usage:
* O mother maide! O maide and mother fre!

This prayde he him to construe and declare,
O bushe unbrent! brenning in Moyses sight, • Ful often time upon his knees bare.
That ravishedst doun fro the deitee,

His felaw, which that elder was than he,
Thurgh thin humblesse, the gost that in thee alight: Answer'd him thus ; “ This song, I have herd say,
Of whos vertue, whan he thin herte light,

Was maked of our blissful Lady fre,
Conceived was the fathers sapience;

Hire to salue, and eke hire for to pray
Helpe me to tell it in thy reverence.

To ben our help, and socour, whan we dey.
“ Lady! thy bountee, thy magnificence,

I can no more expound in this matere;
Thy vertue, and thy gret humilitee,

I lerne song; I can but smal gramere."
Ther may no tonge expresse in no science;

“ And is this song maked in reverence
For somtime, Lady! or men pray to thee,

Of Cristes moder?" said this innocent;
Thou gost beforn of thy benignitee,

“ Now, certes, I wil don my diligence
And getest us the light of thy prayere,

To conne it all, or Cristemasse be went,
To giden us unto thy sone so dere.

Though that I for my primer shal be shent,
“ My couning is so weke, O blissful Quene!

And shal be beten thries in an houre,
For to declare thy grete worthinesse,

I wol it conne our Ladie for to honoure.”
That I ne may the weighte not sustene;

His felaw taught him homeward, prively,
But as a child of twelf moneth old or lesse,

Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote,
That can unnethes any word expresse,

And than he song it, wel and boldely,

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