Aurelius ful ofte soore siketh,
Wo was Aurelie, whan that he this herde,
300 And with a sorweful herte he thus answered.
       "Madame," quod he, "this were an inpossible;
Thanne moot I dye of sodeyn deth horrible."
And with that word he turned hym anon.
Tho coome hir othere freendes many oon,
305 And in the aleyes romeden up and doun,
And nothyng wiste of this conclusioun,
But sodeynly bigonne revel newe,
Til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe,
For th'orisonte hath reft the sonne his lyght -
310 This is as muche to seye as it was nyght -
And hoom they goon in joye and in solas,
Save oonly wrecche Aurelius, allas!
He to his hous is goon with sorweful herte;
He seeth he may nat fro his deeth asterte;
315 Hym semed that he felte his herte colde;
Up to the hevene hise handes he gan holde,
And on hise knowes bare he sette hym doun,
And in his ravyng seyde his orisoun.
For verray wo out of his wit he breyde;
320 He nyste what he spak, but thus he seyde:
With pitous herte his pleynt hath he bigonne
Unto the goddes, and first unto the sonne


       Deep sighs Aurelius did then emit;
Woe was Aurelius when this he heard,
300 And with a sorrowful heart he thus answered:
       "Madam," said he, "this were impossible!
Then must I die a sudden death and fell."
And with that word he turned away anon.
Then came her other friends, and many a one,
305 And in the alleys wandered up and down,
And nothing knew of this decision shown,
But suddenly began to dance anew
Until the bright sun lost his golden hue;
For the horizon had cut off his light;
310 This is as much as saying, it was night.
And home they went in joy and with solace,
Except the wretch Aurelius, alas!
He to his house went with a woeful heart;
He saw he could not from his near death part.
315 It seemed to him he felt his heart grow cold;
Up toward Heaven his two hands did he hold,
And on his bare knees did he kneel him down
And in his raving said his orison.
For very woe out of his wits he fled.
320 He knew not what he spoke, but thus he said;
With mournful heart his plaint had he begun
Unto the gods, and first unto the sun.

       "Aurelie," quod she, "by heighe God above,
Yet wolde I graunte yow to been youre love,
Syn I yow se so pitously complayne.
Looke, what day that endelong Britayne
285 Ye remoeve alle the rokkes, stoon by stoon,
That they ne lette shipe ne boot to goon, -
I seye, whan ye han maad the coost so clene
Of rokkes that ther nys no stoon ysene,
Thanne wol I love yow best of any man,
290 Have heer my trouthe in al that evere I kan."
       "Is ther noon oother grace in yow?" quod he.
       "No, by that lord," quod she, "that maked me;
For wel I woot that it shal nevere bityde;
Lat swiche folies out of your herte slyde.
295 What deyntee sholde a man han in his lyf
For to go love another mannes wyf,
That hath hir body whan so that hym liketh?"


       "Aurelius," said she, "by God above,
Yet would I well consent to be your love,
Since I hear you complain so piteously,
On that day when, from coasts of Brittany,
285 You've taken all the black rocks, stone by stone,
So that they hinder ship nor boat - I own,
I say, when you have made the coast so clean
Of rocks that there is no stone to be seen,
Then will I love you best of any man;
290 Take here my promise - all that ever I can."
       "Is there no other grace in you?" asked he.
       "No, by that Lord," said she, "Who has made me!
For well I know that it shall ne'er betide.
Let suchlike follies out of your heart slide.
295 What pleasure can a man have in his life
Who would go love another man's own wife,
That has her body when he wishes it?"

       She gan to looke upon Aurelius:
"Is this youre wyl!" quod she, "and sey ye thus?
Nevere erst," quod she, "ne wiste I what ye mente.
But now, Aurelie, I knowe youre entente.
275 By thilke God, that yaf me soule and lyf,
Ne shal I nevere been untrewe wyf,
In word ne werk, as fer as I have wit.
I wol been his to whom that I am knyt.
Taak this for fynal answere as of me."
280 But after that, in pley thus seyde she,


       So then she looked upon Aurelius:
"Is this your will?" asked she, "And say you thus?
Never before have I known what you meant.
But since, Aurelius, I know your intent,
275 By that same God Who gave me soul and life,
Never shall I become an untrue wife
In word or deed, so far as I have wit:
I will remain his own to whom I'm knit;
Take this for final answer as from me."
280 But after that she said thus, sportively:

       "Madame," quod he, "by God that this world made,
260 So that I wiste it myghte your herte glade,
I wolde that day that youre Arveragus
Wente over the see, that I, Aurelius,
Hadde went ther nevere I sholde have come agayn.
For wel I woot my servyce is in vayn,
265 My gerdoun is but brestyng of myn herte.
Madame, reweth upon my peynes smerte,
For with a word ye may me sleen or save.
Heere at your feet, God wolde that I were grave,
I ne have as now no leyser moore to seye,
270 Have mercy, sweete, or ye wol do me deye."


       "Madam," said he, "by God who this world made,
260 So that I knew it might your sad heart aid,
I would, that day when your Arviragus
Went overseas, that I, Aurelius,
Had gone whence never I should come again;
For well I know my service is in vain.
265 My reward is the breaking of my heart;
Madam, have pity on my pains that smart;
For with a word you may slay me or save,
Here at your feet would God I found my grave!
Time to say more, at present naught have I;
270 Have mercy, sweet, or you will make me die!"

       Upon this daunce, amonges othere men,
Daunced a squier biforn Dorigen
That fressher was, and jolyer of array,
220 As to my doom, than is the monthe of May.
He syngeth, daunceth, passynge any man
That is or was, sith that the world bigan.
Therwith he was, if men sholde hym discryve,
Oon of the beste farynge man of lyve;
225 Yong, strong, right vertuous, and riche, and wys,
And wel biloved, and holden in greet prys.
And shortly, if the sothe I tellen shal,
Unwityng of this Dorigen at al,
This lusty squier, servant to Venus,
230 Which that ycleped was Aurelius,
Hadde loved hir best of any creature
Two yeer and moore, as was his aventure;
But nevere dorste he tellen hir his grevaunce,
Withouten coppe he drank al his penaunce.
235 He was despeyred, no thyng dorste he seye
Save in his songes somwhat wolde he wreye
His wo, as in a general compleynyng.
He seyde he lovede, and was biloved no thyng,
Of swich matere made he manye layes,
240 Songes, compleintes, roundels, virelayes,
How that he dorste nat his sorwe telle,
But langwissheth, as a furye dooth in helle,
And dye he moste, he seyde, as dide Ekko
For Narcisus, that dorste nat telle hir wo,
245 In oother manere than ye heere me seye,
Ne dorste he nat to hir his wo biwreye,
Save that paraventure som tyme at daunces,
Ther yonge folk kepen hir observaunces,
It may wel be he looked on hir face,
250 In swich a wise as man that asketh grace;
But nothyng wiste she of his entente.
Nathelees it happed, er they thennes wente,
By cause that he was hir neighebour,
And was a man of worshipe and honour,
255 And hadde yknowen hym of tyme yoore,
They fille in speche, and forthe moore and moore
Unto this purpos drough Aurelius.
And whan he saugh his tyme, he seyde thus:


       Amid these mazes, with the other men,
There danced a squire before this Dorigen,
That was more blithe, and prettier of array,
220 In my opinion, than the month of May.
He sang and danced better than any man
That is, or was, since first the world began.
Therewith he was, description to contrive,
One of best conditioned men alive;
225 Young, strong, right virtuous, and rich, and wise,
And well beloved, and one to idealize.
And briefly, if I tell the truth withal,
Unknown to Dorigen - nay, least of all -
This pleasant squire, servant to Queen Venus,
230 The name of whom was this, Aurelius,
Had loved her best of anyone alive
Two years and more (since she did first arrive),
But never dared he tell her of his state;
Without a cup he drank his draught of fate.
235 He had despaired, for nothing dared he say,
Except that in songs he would somewhat betray
His woe, as of a general complaint;
He loved, but none loved him, though he went faint.
Of such a subject made he many lays,
240 Songs and complaints, rondels and virelays,
How that he dared not his deep sorrow tell,
But languished, as a fury does in Hell;
And die he must, he said, as did Echo
For her Narcissus, daring not tell her woe.
245 In other manner than you hear me say
Dared he not unto her his woe betray;
Except that, perchance, there would be times at dances,
Where young folk honoured all that makes romances,
It may well be he looked upon her face
250 In such wise as a man who sued for grace;
But nothing knew she of his love's intent.
Nevertheless it chanced, before thence they went,
Because it happened he was her neighbour,
And was a man of worship and honour,
255 And she had known him in the time of yore,
They fell to talking; and so, more and more,
Unto his purpose drew Aurelius,
And when he saw his time addressed her thus:

       So on a day, right in the morwe tyde,
Unto a gardyn that was ther bisyde,
195 In which that they hadde maad hir ordinaunce
Of vitaille and of oother purveiaunce,
They goon and pleye hem al the longe day.
And this was in the sixte morwe of May,
Which May hadde peynted with his softe shoures
200 This gardyn ful of leves and of floures,
And craft of mannes hand so curiously
Arrayed hadde this gardyn trewely,
That nevere was ther gardyn of swich prys,
But if it were the verray Paradys.
205 The odour of floures and the fresshe sighte
Wolde han maked any herte lighte
That evere was born, but if to greet siknesse
Or to greet sorwe helde it in distresse;
So ful it was of beautee with plesaunce.
210 At after-dyner gonne they to daunce
And synge also, save Dorigen allone,
Which made alwey hir compleint and hir moone
For she ne saugh hym on the daunce go
That was hir housbonde, and hir love also.
215 But nathelees she moste a tyme abyde,
And with good hope lete hir sorwe slyde.


       So on a day, all in the morningtide,
Unto a garden which was there beside,
195 Wherein they'd given command that there should be
Food and whatever else was necessary,
They went for pleasure all the livelong day.
And this was on the morning sixth of May,
And May had painted with his soft warm showers
200 This garden full of foliage and of flowers;
And work of man's hand had so curiously
Arrayed this lovely garden, truthfully,
That never was another of such price,
Unless it were the very Paradise.
205 The scent of flowers and the fair fresh sight
Would have made any heart dance for delight
That ever was born, unless too great sickness
Or too great sorrow held it in distress;
So full it was of beauty and pleasance.
210 After their dinner all began to dance,
And sing, also, except Dorigen alone,
Who made alway her same complaint and moan.
For him she saw not through the dancing go,
Who was her husband and her love also.
215 Nevertheless, she must a time abide,
And with good hope held, let her sorrow slide.

       Now stood hir castel faste by the see;
140 And often with hir freendes walketh she
Hire to disporte, upon the bank an heigh,
Where as she many a ship and barge seigh
Seillynge hir cours, where as hem liste go.
But thanne was that a parcel of hir wo,
145 For to hirself ful ofte "Allas," seith she,
"Is ther no ship of so many as I se
Wol bryngen hoom my lord? Thanne were myn herte
Al warisshed of hisse bittre peynes smerte."
       Another tyme ther wolde she sitte and thynke
150 And caste hir eyen dounward fro the brynke;
But whan she saugh the reisly rokkes blake,
For verray feere, so wolde hir herte quake
That on hire feet she myghte hir noght sustene.
Thanne wolde she sitte adoun upon the grene,
155 And pitously into the see biholde,
And seyn right thus, with sorweful sikes colde:


       Now stood her castle very near the sea,
140 And often with her good friends wandered she
For pleasure on the cliffs that reared so high,
Whence she saw many a ship and barge go by,
Sailing their courses where they wished to go;
But that was part and parcel of her woe.
145 For to herself full oft, "Alas!" said she,
"Is there no ship, of many that I see,
Will bring me home my lord? Then were my heart
Recovered of its bitter pains that smart."
       At other times there would she sit and think,
150 And cast her two eyes downward from the brink.
But when she saw the grisly rocks all black,
For very fear her heart would start aback
And quake so that her feet would not sustain
Her weight. Then on the grass she'd sit again
155 And piteously upon the sea she'd stare,
And say, with dull sighs on the empty air:


       "Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveiaunce
Ledest the world by certein governaunce,
In ydel, as men seyn, ye no thyng make.
160 But, lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake,
That semen rather a foul confusioun
Of werk, than any fair creacioun
Of swich a parfit wys God and a stable,
Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable?
165 For by this werk, south, north, ne west ne eest
Ther nys yfostred man, ne bryd, ne beest.
It dooth no good, to my wit, but anoyeth,
Se ye nat, lord, how mankynde it destroyeth?
An hundred thousand bodyes of mankynde
170 Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in mynde;
Which mankynde is so fair part of thy werk
That thou it madest lyk to thyn owene merk.
Thanne semed it ye hadde a greet chiertee
Toward mankynde; but how thanne may it bee
175 That ye swiche meenes make it to destroyen,
Whiche meenes do no good, but evere anoyen?
I woot wel clerkes wol seyn, as hem leste,
By argumentz, that al is for the beste,
Though I ne kan the causes nat yknowe,
180 But thilke God that made wynd to blowe
As kepe my lord; this my conclusioun.
To clerkes lete I al this disputisoun-
But wolde God, that alle thise rokkes blake,
Were sonken into helle for his sake!
185 Thise rokkes sleen myn herte for the feere!"
Thus wolde she seyn, with many a pitous teere.


       "Eternal God, who by your providence
Leadest the world with a true governance,
Idly, as men say, do you nothing make;
160 But, Lord, these grisly, fiendish rocks, so black,
That seem but rather foul confusion thrown
Awry than any fair world of your own,
Aye of a perfect wise God and stable,
Why have you wrought this insane work, pray tell?
165 For by this work, north, south, and west and east,
There is none nurtured, man, nor bird, nor beast;
It does no good, to my mind, but annoys.
See'st you not, Lord, how mankind it destroys?
A hundred thousand bodies of mankind
170 Have died on rocks, whose names are not in mind,
And man's a creature made by you most fair,
After your image, as you did declare.
Then seemed it that you had'st great charity
Toward mankind; but how then may it be
175 That you had wrought such means man to destroy,
Which means do never good, but ever annoy?
I know well, clerics gladly do attest,
By arguments, that all is for the best,
Though I can never the real causes know.
180 But O you God who made'st the wind to blow,
Keep you my lord! This is my argument;
To clerks I leave disputing on what's meant.
But O would God that all these rocks so black
Were sunken down to Hell for my lord's sake!
185 These rocks, they slay my very heart with fear."
Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.


       Hir freendes sawe that it was no disport
To romen by the see, but disconfort,
And shopen for to pleyen somwher elles;
190 They leden hir by ryveres and by welles,
And eek in othere places delitables;
They dauncen, and they pleyen at ches and tables.


       Her friends saw that to her it was no sport
To wander by the sea, but discomfort;
And so arranged to revel somewhere else.
190 They led her along rivers and to wells,
And such delightful places; and told fables,
They danced, and they played at chess and tables.

        Now wol I stynten of this Arveragus,
And speken I wole of Dorigene his wyf,
That loveth hir housbonde as hir hertes lyf.
For his absence wepeth she and siketh,
110 As doon thise noble wyves whan hem liketh.
She moorneth, waketh, wayleth, fasteth, pleyneth,
Desir of his presence hir so destreyneth,
That al this wyde world she sette at noght,
Hir freendes whiche that knewe hir hevy thoght,
115 Conforten hir in al that ever they may.
They prechen hir, they telle hir nyght and day
That causelees she sleeth hirself, allas!
And every confort possible in this cas
They doon to hir, with all hir bisynesse,
120 Al for to make hir leve hir hevynesse.
       By proces, as ye knowen everichoon,
Men may so longe graven in a stoon,
Til som figure therinne emprented be.
So longe han they conforted hir, til she
125 Receyved hath by hope and by resoun
The emprentyng of hir consolacioun,
Thurgh which hir grete sorwe gan aswage;
She may nat alwey duren in swich rage.


       Now will I hold from this Arviragus,
And I will speak of Dorigen his wife,
Who loved her husband as her heart's own life.
For all his absence wept she and she sighed,
110 As noble wives do at a lone fireside.
She mourned, watched, wailed, she fasted and complained;
Desire for him so bound her and constrained,
That all this wide world did she set at naught.
Her friends, who knew her grief and heavy thought,
115 Comforted her as they might do or say;
They preached to her, they told her night and day
That for no cause she killed herself, alas!
And every comfort possible in this pass
They gave to her, in all their busyness,
120 To make her thus put by her heaviness.
       With passing time, as you know, every one,
Men may so long with tools engrave a stone
That thereon will some figure printed be.
And so long did they comfort her that she
125 Received at last, by hope and reason grown,
Imprinted consolations as her own,
Whereby her sorrow did somewhat assuage;
She could not always live in such a rage.


       And eek Arveragus, in al this care,
130 Hath sent hir lettres hoom of his welfare,
And that he wol com hastily agayn,
Or elles hadde this sorwe hir herte slayn.
       Hir freendes sawe hir sorwe gan to slake,
And preyde hir on knees, for Goddes sake,
135 To com and romen hir in compaignye,
Awey to dryve hir derke fantasye.
And finally she graunted that requeste,
For wel she saugh that it was for the beste.


       And, then, Arviragus, through all her care,
130 Had sent her letters home, of his welfare.
And that he would come speedily again;
Otherwise had this sorrow her heart slain.
       Her friends saw that her grief began to slake,
And prayed her on their knees, for dear God's sake,
135 To come and wander in their company
And drive away her gloomy fantasy.
And finally she granted that request;
For well she saw that it was for the best.

95        Who koude telle, but he hadde wedded be,
The joye, the ese, and the prosperitee
That is bitwixe an housbonde and his wyf?
A yeer and moore lasted this blisful lyf,
Til that the knyght of which I speke of thus,
100 That of Kayrrud was cleped Arveragus,
Shoop hym to goon, and dwelle a yeer or tweyne,
In Engelond, that cleped was eek Briteyne,
To seke in armes worshipe and honour-
For al his lust he sette in swich labour-
105 And dwelled there two yeer, the book seith thus.


95        Who could relate, except those that wedded be,
The joy, the ease, and the prosperity
That are between a husband and a wife?
A year and more endured this blissful life,
Until the knight, of whom I've spoken thus,
100 Who at Kayrrud was called Arviragus,
Arranged to go and dwell a year or twain
In England, which was then known as Britain,
To seek in arms renown and great honour;
For his desire was fixed in such labour;
105 And there he lived two years, the book says thus.

       For o thyng, sires, saufly dar I seye,
That freendes everych oother moot obeye,
55 If they wol longe holden compaignye.
Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrye;
Whan maistrie comth, the God of Love anon
Beteth hise wynges, and farewel, he is gon!
Love is a thyng as any spirit free.
60 Wommen, of kynde desiren libertee,
And nat to been constreyned as a thral;
And so doon men, if I sooth seyen shal.
Looke who that is moost pacient in love,
He is at his avantage al above.
65 Pacience is an heigh vertu, certeyn,
For it venquysseth, as thise clerkes seyn,
Thynges that rigour sholde nevere atteyne.
For every word men may nat chide or pleyne,
Lerneth to suffre, or elles, so moot I goon,
70 Ye shul it lerne, wherso ye wole or noon.
For in this world, certein, ther no wight is
That he ne dooth or seith som tyme amys.
Ire, siknesse, or constellacioun
Wyn, wo, or chaungynge of complexioun
75 Causeth ful ofte to doon amys or speken.
On every wrong a man may nat be wreken;
After the tyme moste be temperaunce
To every wight that kan on governaunce.
And therfore hath this wise worthy knyght,
80 To lyve in ese, suffrance hir bihight,
And she to hym ful wisly gan to swere
That nevere sholde ther be defaute in here.


       For one thing, sirs, I safely dare to say,
That friends each one the other must obey
55 If they'd be friends and long keep company.
Love will not be constrained by mastery;
When mastery 'comes, the god of love anon
Beats his fair wings, and farewell! He is gone!
Love is a thing as any spirit free;
60 Women by nature love their liberty,
And not to be constrained like any thrall,
And so do men, if say the truth I shall.
Observe who is most patient in his love,
He is advantaged others all above.
65 Patience is virtue high, and that's certain;
For it does vanquish, as these clerks make plain,
Things that oppression never could attain.
One must not chide for trifles nor complain.
Learn to endure, or else, so may I go,
70 You'll have to learn it, whether you will or no.
For in this world, it's certain, no one is
Who never does or says sometimes amiss.
Sickness, or woe, or what the stars have sent,
Anger, or wine, or change of temperament
75 Causes one oft to do amiss or speak.
For every wrong one may not vengeance wreak;
Conditions must determine temperance
In all who understand good governance.
And therefore did this wise and worthy knight,
80 To live in quiet, patience to her plight,
And unto him full truly did she swear
That never should he find great fault in her.


       Heere may men seen an humble wys accord!
Thus hath she take hir servant and hir lord,
85 Servant in love, and lord in mariage;
Thanne was he bothe in lordship and servage-
Servage? Nay, but in lordshipe above,
Sith he hath bothe his lady and his love-
His lady, certes, and his wyf also,
90 The which that lawe of love acordeth to.
And whan he was in this prosperitee,
Hoom with his wyf he gooth to his contree,
Nat fer fro Pedmark, ther his dwellyng was,
Where as he lyveth in blisse and in solas.


       Here may men see an humble wise accord;
Thus did she take her servant and her lord,
85 Servant in love and lord in their marriage;
So was he both in lordship and bondage;
In bondage? Nay, but in lordship above,
Since he had both his lady and his love;
His lady truly, and his wife also,
90 To which the law of love accords, we know.
And when he was in this prosperity,
Home with his wife he went to his country,
Not far from Penmarch, where his dwelling was.
And there he lived in bliss and all solace.

       In Armorik, that called is Britayne,
Ther was a knyght that loved and dide his payne
To serve a lady in his beste wise;
And many a labour, many a greet emprise,
25 He for his lady wroghte, er she were wonne.
For she was oon the faireste under sonne,
And eek therto comen of so heigh kynrede
That wel unnethes dorste this knyght for drede
Telle hir his wo, his peyne, and his distresse.
30 But atte laste, she for his worthynesse,
And namely for his meke obeysaunce,
Hath swiche a pitee caught of his penaunce,
That pryvely she fil of his accord
To take hym for hir housbonde and hir lord,
35 Of swich lordshipe as men han over hir wyves-
And for to lede the moore in blisse hir lyves,
Of his free wyl he swoor hir as a knyght,
That nevere in al his lyf he, day ne nyght,
Ne sholde upon hym take no maistrie
40 Agayn hir wyl, ne kithe hir jalousie,
But hir obeye and folwe hir wyl in al
As any lovere to his lady shal,
Save that the name of soveraynetee,
That wolde he have, for shame of his degree.


       In old Armorica, now Brittany,
There was a knight that loved and strove, did he
To serve a lady in the highest wise;
And many a labour, many a great emprise
25 He wrought for her, or ever she was won.
For she was of the fairest under sun,
And therewithal come of so high kindred
That scarcely could this noble knight, for dread,
Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress.
30 But at the last she, for his worthiness,
And specially for his meek obedience,
Had so much pity that, in consequence,
She secretly was come to his accord
To take him for her husband and her lord,
35 Of such lordship as men have over wives;
And that they might be happier in their lives,
Of his free will he swore to her, as knight,
That never in his life, by day or night,
Would he assume a right of mastery
40 Against her will, nor show her jealousy,
But would obey and do her will in all
As any lover of his lady shall;
Except the name and show of sovereignty,
Those would he have, lest he shame his degree


45        She thanked hym, and with ful greet humblesse
She seyde, "Sire, sith of youre gentillesse
Ye profre me to have so large a reyne,
Ne wolde nevere God bitwixe us tweyne,
As in my gilt, were outher werre or stryf.
50 Sir, I wol be youre humble trewe wyf,
Have heer my trouthe til that myn herte breste."
Thus been they bothe in quiete and in reste.


45        She thanked him, and with a great humbleness
She said: "Since, sir, of your own nobleness
You proffer me to have so loose a rein
Would God there never come between us twain,
For any guilt of mine, a war or strife.
50 Sir, I will be your humble, faithful wife,
Take this as truth till heart break in my breast."
Thus were they both in quiet and in rest.

       Thise olde gentil Britouns in hir dayes
Of diverse aventures maden layes,
Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge;
Whiche layes with hir instrumentz they songe,
5 Or elles redden hem, for hir plesaunce.
And oon of hem have I in remembraunce,
Whiche I shal seyn, with good-wyl, as I kan.


       These ancient gentle Bretons, in their days,
Of divers high adventures made great lays
And rhymed them in their primal Breton tongue,
The which lays to their instruments they sung,
5 Or else recited them where joy might be;
And one of them have I in memory,
Which I shall gladly tell you, as I can.


       But sires, by cause I am a burel man,
At my bigynnyng first I yow biseche,
10 Have me excused of my rude speche.
I lerned nevere rethorik, certeyn;
Thyng that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn.
I sleep nevere on the Mount of Parnaso,
Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Scithero.
15 Colours ne knowe I none, withouten drede,
But swiche colours as growen in the mede,
Or elles swiche, as men dye or peynte.
Colours of rethoryk been me to queynte,
My spirit feeleth noght of swich mateere;
20 But if yow list, my tale shul ye heere.


       But, sirs, because I am an ignorant man,
At my beginning must I first beseech
10 You will excuse me for my vulgar speech;
I never studied rhetoric, that's certain;
That which I say, it must be bare and plain.
I never slept on Mount Parnassus, no,
Nor studied Marcus Tullius Cicero.
15 Colours I know not, there's no doubt indeed,
Except colours such as grow within the mead,
Or such as men achieve with dye or paint.
Colours of rhetoric I find but quaint;
My spirit doesn't feel the beauty there.
20 But if you wish, my story you shall hear.

侍从的故事没有写完

       Appollo whirleth up his chaar so hye
Til that the god Mercurius hous, the slye ----


      Apollo in his chariot whirled so high
That in the God Mercurius' house, the sly----



      "In feith, Squier, thow hast thee wel yquit,
And gentilly I preise wel thy wit,"
675 Quod the Frankeleyn, "considerynge thy yowthe,
So feelyngly thou spekest, sire, I allow the;
As to my doom, ther is noon that is heere
Of eloquence that shal be thy peere,
If that thou lyve; God yeve thee good chaunce,
680 And in vertu sende thee continuance!
For of thy speche I have greet deyntee;
I have a sone, and, by the Trinitee,
I hadde levere than twenty pound worth lond,
Though it right now were fallen in myn hond,
685 He were a man of swich discrecioun
As that ye been! Fy on possessioun
But if a man be vertuous withal!
I have my sone snybbed, and yet shal,
For he to vertu listneth nat entende,
690 But for to pleye at dees, and to despende
And lese al that he hath, is his usage.
And he hath levere talken with a page
Than to comune with any gentil wight
Where he myghte lerne gentillesse aright."
695       "Straw for youre gentillesse," quod our Hoost,
"What, Frankeleyn, pardee! sire, wel thou woost
That ech of yow moot tellen atte leste
A tale or two, or breken his biheste."


      In faith, sir squire, you have done well with it,
And openly I praise you for your wit,"
675 The franklin said, "Considering your youth,
So feelingly you speak, sir, in good truth!
In my opinion, there is none that's here
In eloquence shall ever be your peer,
If you but live; may God give you good chance
680 And in all virtue send continuance!
For, sir, your speech was great delight to me.
I have a son, and by the Trinity
I'd rather have, than twenty pounds in land,
Though it were right now fallen to my hand,
685 He were a man of such discretion shown
As you, sir; fie on what a man may own,
Unless the man have virtue therewithal.
I've checked my son, and yet again I shall,
For he toward virtue chooses not to wend;
690 But just to play at dice, and gold to spend,
And lose all that he has, is his usage.
And he would rather talk with any page
Than to commune with any gentle wight
From whom he might, learn courtesy aright."
695       "A straw for courtesy!" exclaimed our host;
"What, franklin? Indeed, sir, well you know, I trust,
That each of you must tell us, at the least,
A tale or two, or break his sworn behest."


      "That knowe I wel, sire," quod the Frankeleyn,
700 "I prey yow, haveth me nat in desdeyn
Though to this man I speke a word or two."
      "Telle on thy tale, withouten wordes mo."
      "Gladly, sire Hoost," quod he, "I wole obeye
Unto your wyl; now herkneth what I seye.
705 I wol yow nat contrarien in no wyse
As fer as that my wittes wol suffyse;
I prey to God that it may plesen yow,
Thanne woot I wel that it is good ynow."


      "I know it," said the franklin; "I am fain,
700 And pray you all, you do not me disdain,
Though to this man I speak a word or two."
      "Come, tell your tale, sir, without more ado."
      "Gladly, sir host," said he, "I will obey
Your will, good host; now hearken what I say.
705 For I'll not be contrary in any wise,
At least so far as my wit shall suffice;
I pray to God that it may please you; rough
Though it may be, I'll know 'tis good enough."

      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
655 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,
660 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,
665 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.
670 And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne.


      Thus leave I Canace her hawk keeping,
I will no more, just now, speak of her ring,
Till I come back with purpose to explain
How this poor falcon got her love again
655 Repentant, as the story tells to us,
By mediation of that Cambalus,
The king's son, of whom I've already told.
But henceforth I a straightened course will hold
Great battles and adventures to relate,
660 Whereof were never heard such marvels great.
      First will I tell you of King Cambinskan
Who won so many a town and many a man;
And after will I speak of Algarsyf,
How he won Theodora for his wife,
665 For whom full oft in peril great he was,
Had he been helped not by the steed of brass;
And after that I'll speak of Cambalo,
Who in the lists fought with the brothers two
For Canace, before he could her win.
670 And where I left off, I'll again begin.

      Greet was the sorwe for the haukes harm
That Canacee and alle hir wommen made.
They nyste hou they myghte the faucoun glade;
635 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
640 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,
645 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,
650 Pyes, on hem for to crie and chyde.


      Great was the sorrow for the falcon's harm
That Canace and all her women made;
They knew not how they might this falcon aid.
635 But Canace home bore her in her lap,
And softly her in poultices did wrap
Where she with her own beak had hurt herself.
Now Canace dug herbs more rich than pelf
Out of the ground, and made up ointments new
640 Of precious herbs, all beautiful of hue,
Wherewith to heal this hawk; from day to night
She nursed her carefully with all her might.
And by her bed's head she contrived a mew
And lined the cage with velvets all of blue,
645 Symbol of truth that is in women seen.
And all without, the mew was painted green,
And there were painted all these treacherous fowls
As are these titmice, tercelets, and these owls,
While for despite were painted there beside
650 Magpies, that they might cry at them and chide.

      "Ther I was bred, - allas, that ilke day! -
500 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
505 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,
510 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,
515 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,
520 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,
525 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
530 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! -
535 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,
540 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,
545 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
550 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;
555 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;
560 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,
565 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
570 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.


      "Where I was born -alas, that cruel day!-
500 And fostered on a rock of marble grey
So tenderly that nothing troubled me,
I knew not what it was, adversity,
Till I could soar on high under the sky.
There dwelt a handsome tercelet there, hard by,
505 Who seemed the dwell of every nobleness;
Though he was full of treason and falseness,
It was so hidden under humble bearing,
And under hues of truth which he was wearing,
And under kindness, never used in vain,
510 That no one could have dreamed that he could feign,
So deeply ingrained were his colours dyed.
But just as serpent under flower will hide
Until he sees the time has come to bite,
Just so this god of love, this hypocrite
515 With false humility for ever served
And seemed a wooer who the rites observed
That so become the gentleness of love.
As of a tomb the fairness is above,
While under is the corpse, such as you know,
520 So was this hypocrite, cold and hot also;
And in this wise he served his foul intent
That except the devil no one knew what he meant,
Till he so long had wept and had complained,
And many a year his service to me feigned,
525 That my poor heart, a pitiful sacrifice,
All ignorant of his supreme malice,
Fearing he'd die, as it then seemed to me,
Because of his great oaths and surety,
Granted him love, on this condition known,
530 That evermore my honour and renown
Were saved, both private fame and fame overt;
That is to say, that, after his desert
I gave him all my heart and all my thought-
God knows, and he, that more I gave him naught-
535 And took his heart in change for mine, for aye.
But true it is, and has been many a day,
A true man and a thief think not at one.
And when he saw the thing so far was gone
That I had fully granted him my love,
540 In such a way as I've explained above,
And given him my faithful heart, as free
As he swore he had given his to me,
Anon this tiger, full of doubleness,
Fell on his knees, devout in humbleness,
545 With so high reverence, and, by his face,
So like a lover in his gentle grace,
So ravished, as it seemed, for very joy,
That never Jason nor Paris of Troy-
Jason? Nay, truly, nor another man
550 Since Lamech lived, who was the first began
To love two women, those that write have sworn,
Not ever, since the primal man was born,
Could any man, by twenty-thousandth part,
Enact the tricks of this deceiver's art;
555 Nor were he worthy to unlace his shoe,
Where double-dealing or deceit were due,
Nor could so thank a person as he me!
His manner was most heavenly to see,
For any woman, were she ever so wise;
560 So painted he, and combed, at point-device,
His manner, all in all, and every word.
And so much by his bearing was I stirred
And for the truth I thought was in his heart,
That, if aught troubled him and made him smart,
565 Though ever so little bit, and I knew this,
It seemed to me I felt death's cruel kiss.
And briefly, so far all these matters went,
My will became his own will's instrument;
That is to say, my will obeyed his will
570 In everything in reason, good or ill,
Keeping within the bounds of honour ever.
Never had I a thing so dear- ah, never!-
As him, God knows! nor ever shall anew.


      This lasteth lenger than a yeer or two,
575 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;
580 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
585 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
590 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.
595 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,
600 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,
605 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.
610 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,
615 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.
620 No gentillesse of blood ne may hem bynde.


      This lasted longer than a year or two
575 While I supposed of him no thing but good.
But finally, thus at the last it stood,
That Fortune did decree that he must win
Out of that place, that home, that I was in.
Whether I felt woe, there's no question, none;
580 I can't describe my feelings, no, not one;
But one thing dare I tell, and that boldly,
I came to know the pain of death thereby;
Such grief I felt for him, none might believe.
So on a day of me he took his leave,
585 So sorrowfully, too, I thought truly
That he felt even as deep a woe as I,
When I had heard him speak and saw his hue.
Nevertheless, I thought he was so true,
And that to me he would come back again
590 Within a little while, let me explain;
And 'twas quite reasonable that he must go
For honour's sake, for oft it happens so,
That I made virtue of necessity,
And took it well, because it had to be.
595 A look of cheer I felt not I put on,
And took his hand, I swear it by Saint John.
And said to him: 'Behold, I'm yours in all;
Be you to me as I have been, and shall.'
What he replied it needs not I rehearse,
600 Who can say better than he, who can do worse?
When he had well said, all his good was done.
'It well behooves him take a lengthy spoon
Who eats with devils,' so I've heard folk say.
So at the last he must be on his way,
605 And forth he flew to where it pleased him best
When it became his purpose he should rest,
I think he must have had this text in mind,
That 'Everything, returning to its kind,
Gladdens itself'; thus men say, as I guess;
610 Men love, and naturally, newfangledness,
As do these birds that men in cages feed.
For though you night and day take of them heed,
And fairly strew their cage as soft as silk,
And give them sugar, honey, bread, and milk,
615 Yet on the instant when the door is up,
They with their feet will spurn their feeding cup,
And to the wood will fly and worms will eat;
So are they all newfangled of their meat,
And love all novelties of their own kind;
620 Nor nobleness of blood may ever bind.


      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,
625 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."
630 And with that word this faucoun gan to crie,
And swowned eft in Canacees barm.


      So fared this tercelet, oh, alas the day!
Though he was gently born, and fresh and gay,
And handsome, and well-mannered, aye and free,
He saw a kite fly, and it proved a she,
625 And suddenly he loved this she-kite so
That all his love for me did quickly go,
And all his truth turned falsehood in this wise;
Thus has this kite my love in her service,
And I am love-lorn without remedy."
630 And with that word the hawk began to cry,
And after, swooned on Canace's fair arm.

      Tho shrighte this faucoun moore yet pitously
Than ever she dide, and fil to grounde anon
And lith aswowne, deed, and lyk a stoon,
475 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,
480 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
485 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,
490 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."
495       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.


      Then shrieked this falcon the more piteously
Than ever, and to ground fell down anon,
And lay there, swooning, deathlike as a stone,
475 Till Canace within her lap did take
And hold the bird till she began to wake.
And when from out her fainting fit she made,
All in her own hawk's language thus she said:
"That pity wells up soon in gentle heart,
480 Feeling its likeness in all pains that smart,
Is proved, and day by day, as men may see,
As well by deeds as by authority;
For gentle heart can spy out gentleness.
I see well that you have on my distress
485 Compassion, my fair Princess Canace,
Of truly womanly benignity
That nature in your character has set.
Not that I hope much good therefrom to get,
But to obey the word of your heart free,
490 And so that others may be warned by me,
As by the whelp instructed is the lion,
Just for that cause and reason shall I fly on,
While yet I have the leisure and the space,
The story of my wrongs to you I'll trace."
495 And ever, while the one her sorrow said,
The other wept, as she to water'd fled,
Until the falcon bade her to be still;
And with a sigh, right thus she said her will.

      "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,
450 "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,
455 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
460 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,
465 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!
470 And herbes shal I right ynowe yfynde,
To heele with youre hurtes hastily."


      "What is the cause, if it be one to tell,
That you are in this furious pain of hell?"
Said Canace unto this hawk above.
450 "Is this for sorrow of death or loss of love?
For, as I think, these are the causes two
That torture gentle heart with greatest woe;
Of other ills there is no need to speak,
Because such harm upon yourself you wreak;
455 Which proves right well that either love or dread
Must be the reason for your cruel deed,
Since I can see no one that gives you chase.
For love of God, come, do yourself some grace,
Or say what thing may help; for west nor east
460 Have I before now seen a bird or beast
That ever treated self so wretchedly.
You slay me with your sorrow, verily,
Such great compassion in my heart has grown.
For God's dear love, come from the dry tree down;
465 And, as I am a monarch's daughter true,
If I but verily the real cause knew
Of your distress, if it lay in my might,
I would make you amends before the night,
As truly help me God of human kind!
470 And even now will I look out and find
Some herbs to heal your hurts with, speedily."

      Amydde a tree fordryed, as whit as chalk,
410 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
415 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
420 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,
425 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
430 She swowneth now and now for lakke of blood,
Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.


      Amidst a dry, dead tree, as white as chalk,
410 As Canace was playing in her walk,
There sat a falcon overhead full high,
That in a pitiful voice began to cry,
That all the wood resounded mournfully.
For she had beaten herself so pitiably
415 With both her wings that the red glistening blood
Ran down the tree trunk whereupon she stood.
And ever in one same way she cried and shrieked,
And with her beak her body she so pricked
That there's no tiger, nor a cruel beast
420 That dwells in open wood or deep forest,
Would not have wept, if ever weep he could,
For pity of her, she shrieked alway so loud.
For never yet has been a man alive -
If but description I could well contrive -
425 That heard of such a falcon for fairness,
As well of plumage as of nobleness
Of shape, and all that reckoned up might be.
A falcon peregrine she was, and she
Seemed from a foreign land; and as she stood
430 She fainted now and then for loss of blood,
Till almost she had fallen from the tree.


      This faire kynges doghter, Canacee,
That on hir fynger baar the queynte ryng,
Thurgh which she understood wel every thyng
435 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,
440 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,
445 Til atte laste she spak in this manere
Unto the hauk, as ye shal after heere.


      This king's fair daughter, Princess Canace,
Who on her finger bore the magic ring
Whereby she understood well everything
435 That any bird might in his language say,
And in such language could reply straightway,
She understood well what this falcon said,
And of her pity well-nigh was she dead.
So to the tree she went right hastily,
440 And on this falcon looked she pitifully,
And held her lap up wide, for she knew now
The falcon must come falling from the bough
When next it swooned away from loss of blood.
A long while waiting there the princess stood,
445 Till at the last she spoke, in her voice clear,
Unto the hawk, as you'll hereafter hear.