Canterbury Tales and Other Poems, Geoffrey Chaucer [good fiction books to read txt] 📗

two; Ye muste name him to what place also,

Or to what country that you list to ride.

And when ye come where you list abide, Bid him descend, and trill another pin (For therein lies th’ effect of all the gin*), *contrivance <10>

And he will down descend and do your will, And in that place he will abide still; Though all the world had the contrary swore, He shall not thence be throwen nor be bore.

Or, if you list to bid him thennes gon, Trill this pin, and he will vanish anon Out of the sight of every manner wight, And come again, be it by day or night, When that you list to clepe* him again *call In such a guise, as I shall to you sayn Betwixte you and me, and that full soon.

Ride <24> when you list, there is no more to do’n.’

Informed when the king was of the knight, And had conceived in his wit aright

The manner and the form of all this thing, Full glad and blithe, this noble doughty king Repaired to his revel as beforn.

The bridle is into the tower borne,

And kept among his jewels lefe* and dear; cherished The horse vanish’d, I n’ot in what mannere, *know not Out of their sight; ye get no more of me: But thus I leave in lust and jollity

This Cambuscan his lordes feastying, entertaining <25>

Until well nigh the day began to spring.

 

*Pars Secunda. Second Part*

 

The norice* of digestion, the sleep, *nurse Gan on them wink, and bade them take keep, heed That muche mirth and labour will have rest.

And with a gaping* mouth he all them kest,* yawning **kissed And said, that it was time to lie down, For blood was in his dominatioun: <26>

“Cherish the blood, nature’s friend,” quoth he.

They thanked him gaping, by two and three; And every wight gan draw him to his rest; As sleep them bade, they took it for the best.

Their dreames shall not now be told for me; Full are their heades of fumosity,<27>

That caused dreams *of which there is no charge: of no significance*

They slepte; till that, it was *prime large, late morning*

The moste part, but* it was Canace; except She was full measurable, as women be: *moderate For of her father had she ta’en her leave To go to rest, soon after it was eve;

Her liste not appalled* for to be; to look pale Nor on the morrow unfeastly for to see; to look sad, depressed*

And slept her firste sleep; and then awoke.

For such a joy she in her hearte took

Both of her quainte a ring and her mirrour,.

That twenty times she changed her colour; And in her sleep, right for th’ impression Of her mirror, she had a vision.

Wherefore, ere that the sunne gan up glide, She call’d upon her mistress’ her beside, governesses And saide, that her liste for to rise.

 

These olde women, that be gladly wise

As are her mistresses answer’d anon,

And said; “Madame, whither will ye gon Thus early? for the folk be all in rest.”

“I will,” quoth she, “arise; for me lest No longer for to sleep, and walk about.”

Her mistresses call’d women a great rout, And up they rose, well a ten or twelve; Up rose freshe Canace herselve,

As ruddy and bright as is the yonnge sun That in the Ram is four degrees y-run; No higher was he, when she ready was;

And forth she walked easily a pace,

Array’d after the lusty* season swoot,* pleasant **sweet Lightely for to play, and walk on foot, Nought but with five or six of her meinie; And in a trench* forth in the park went she. *sunken path The vapour, which up from the earthe glode, glided Made the sun to seem ruddy and broad:

But, natheless, it was so fair a sight That it made all their heartes for to light, be lightened, glad What for the season and the morrowning, And for the fowles that she hearde sing.

For right anon she wiste* what they meant *knew Right by their song, and knew all their intent.

The knotte,* why that every tale is told, nucleus, chief matter If it be tarried till the list* be cold delayed *inclination Of them that have it hearken’d *after yore, for a long time*

The savour passeth ever longer more;

For fulsomness of the prolixity:

And by that same reason thinketh me.

I shoulde unto the knotte condescend,

And maken of her walking soon an end.

 

Amid a tree fordry*, as white as chalk, *thoroughly dried up There sat a falcon o’er her head full high, That with a piteous voice so gan to cry; That all the wood resounded of her cry, And beat she had herself so piteously

With both her winges, till the redde blood Ran endelong* the tree, there as she stood from top to bottom And ever-in-one alway she cried and shright;* incessantly **shrieked And with her beak herselfe she so pight, wounded That there is no tiger, nor cruel beast, That dwelleth either in wood or in forest; But would have wept, if that he weepe could, For sorrow of her; she shriek’d alway so loud.

For there was never yet no man alive,

If that he could a falcon well descrive; describe That heard of such another of fairness As well of plumage, as of gentleness;

Of shape, of all that mighte reckon’d be.

A falcon peregrine seemed she,

Of fremde* land; and ever as she stood *foreign <28>

She swooned now and now for lack of blood; Till wellnigh is she fallen from the tree.

 

This faire kinge’s daughter Canace,

That on her finger bare the quainte ring, Through which she understood well every thing That any fowl may in his leden* sayn, **language <29>

And could him answer in his leden again; Hath understoode what this falcon said, And wellnigh for the ruth* almost she died;. *pity And to the tree she went, full hastily, And on this falcon looked piteously;

And held her lap abroad; for well she wist The falcon muste falle from the twist twig, bough When that she swooned next, for lack of blood.

A longe while to waite her she stood;

Till at the last she apake in this mannere Unto the hawk, as ye shall after hear: “What is the cause, if it be for to tell, That ye be in this furial* pain of hell?” *raging, furious Quoth Canace unto this hawk above;

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

For; as I trow,* these be the causes two; *believe That cause most a gentle hearte woe:

Of other harm it needeth not to speak.

For ye yourself upon yourself awreak; inflict Which proveth well, that either ire or dread fear Must be occasion of your cruel deed,

Since that I see none other wight you chase: For love of God, as *do yourselfe grace; have mercy on Or what may be your help? for, west nor east, yourself*

I never saw ere now no bird nor beast

That fared with himself so piteously

Ye slay me with your sorrow verily;

I have of you so great compassioun.

For Godde’s love come from the tree adown And, as I am a kinge’s daughter true,

If that I verily the causes knew

Of your disease,* if it lay in my might, distress I would amend it, ere that it were night, So wisly help me the great God of kind. surely **nature And herbes shall I right enoughe find, To heale with your hurtes hastily.”

Then shriek’d this falcon yet more piteously Than ever she did, and fell to ground anon, And lay aswoon, as dead as lies a stone, Till Canace had in her lap her take,

Unto that time she gan of swoon awake: And, after that she out of swoon abraid, awoke Right in her hawke’s leden thus she said: “That pity runneth soon in gentle heart (Feeling his simil’tude in paines smart), Is proved every day, as men may see,

As well *by work as by authority; by experience as by doctrine*

For gentle hearte kitheth* gentleness. *sheweth I see well, that ye have on my distress Compassion, my faire Canace,

Of very womanly benignity

That nature in your princples hath set.

But for no hope for to fare the bet, better But for t’ obey unto your hearte free, And for to make others aware by me,

As by the whelp chastis’d* is the lion, *instructed, corrected Right for that cause and that conclusion, While that I have a leisure and a space, Mine harm I will confessen ere I pace.” depart And ever while the one her sorrow told, The other wept, *as she to water wo’ld, as if she would dissolve Till that the falcon bade her to be still, into water*

And with a sigh right thus she said *her till: to her*

“Where I was bred (alas that ilke* day!) *same And foster’d in a rock of marble gray

So tenderly, that nothing ailed me,

I wiste* not what was adversity, knew Till I could flee full high under the sky. fly Then dwell’d a tercelet <30> me faste by, That seem’d a well of alle gentleness; All were he* full of treason and falseness, although he was

It was so wrapped *under humble cheer, under an aspect And under hue of truth, in such mannere, of humility*

Under pleasance, and under busy pain,

That no wight weened that he coulde feign, So deep in grain he dyed his colours.

Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs, Till he may see his time for to bite,

Right so this god of love’s hypocrite

Did so his ceremonies and obeisances,

And kept in semblance all his observances, That sounden unto gentleness of love. are consonant to

As on a tomb is all the fair above,

And under is the corpse, which that ye wet, Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot; And in this wise he served his intent, That, save the fiend, none wiste what he meant: Till he so long had weeped and complain’d, And many a year his service to me feign’d, Till that mine heart, too piteous and too nice, foolish, simple All innocent of his crowned malice,

*Forfeared of his death,* as thoughte me, greatly afraid lest Upon his oathes and his surety he should die

Granted him love, on this conditioun,

That evermore mine honour and renown

Were saved, bothe *privy and apert; privately and in public*

This is to say, that, after his desert, I gave him all my heart and all my thought (God wot, and he, that other wayes nought), in no other way

And took his heart in change of mine for aye.

But sooth is said, gone since many a day, A true wight and a thiefe *think not one. do not think alike*

And when he saw the thing so far y-gone, That I had granted him fully my love,

In such a wise as I have said above,

And given him my true heart as free

As he swore that he gave his heart to me, Anon this tiger, full of doubleness,

Fell on his knees with so great humbleness, With so high reverence, as by his cheer, mien So like a gentle lover in mannere,

So ravish’d, as it seemed, for the joy, That never Jason, nor Paris of Troy, —

Jason? certes, nor ever other man,

Since