Incipit Secunda Pars

The norice of digestioun, the sleep,
Gan to them wynk, and bad of him take keep,
That mirthe and labour wol have eche his reste;
And with a yawning mouth he them alle keste,
And sayd, that it was tyme to lye doun,
For blood was in his dominacioun:
“Cherish the blode, natúres frend,” quoth he.
They thanken him gapyng, by two and thre,
And every wight gan drawe him to his rest,
As sleep them bad; they took it for the best.
Their dremes shal not now be told for me;
Ful were their heedes of fumositee,
That causeth dream, of which ther is no charge.
They slepen til that it was prime large,
The moste part, but it were Canacee;
She was ful mesurable, as wommen be.
For of hir fader hadde she take hir leve
To go to reste, soon after it was eve;
Her liste not awearied for to be,
Nor on the morwe uncomely for to see;
And kept hir firste sleep, and then awook.
For such a joye she in hire herte took,
Bothe of hir queynte ryng, and hir myrróur,
That twenty tyme chaungèd hir coloúr;
And in hir sleep, from that impressioún
Of hir myrroúr, she had a visioún.
Wherfor, ere that the sonne gan up glyde,
She clepèd upon her wommen beside,
And sayde, that she wolde for to ryse.
These olde wommen, that be gladly wise,
Thus to their maystresse, answered her anon,
And sayd, “Madame, whider wold ye gon
Thus erly? for the folk ben alle in reste.”
“I wil,” quoth she, “aryse, for me leste
No longer for to slepe, and walke aboute.”
Her wommen clepeth others a gret route,
And up they risen togider, a ten or twelve.
Up ryseth fresshe Canacee hir selve,
As rody and bright, as is the yonge sonne
That in the ram is ten degrees i-ronne;
No higher was he, whan she redy was;
And forth she walkèd esily a pace,
Arayèd after the lusty sesoun hot
Lightly for to play, and walke on foote,
With fyve or six of al her compaignie;
And in a glade far in the park goth she.
The vapour, which that up the erthe shedde,
Maketh the sonne seme brood and red;
But natheles, it was so fair a sight,
That it made alle their hertes to be light,
What for the sesoun, what for the mornynge,
And for the foules that she herde synge.
For right anon she wiste what they ment
Right by their song, and knew al their entent.

The knotte, why that every tale is told,
If it be taryed til delighte be cold
Of them that have it listned over long,
The savour passeth by, the longer the song,
For fulsomnes of his prolixitee:
And by this same resoun thinketh me
I shulde to the knotte condescende,
And maken of hir walkynge sone an ende.
Amyddes a tree for-drye, as whit as chalk,
As Canacee was pleyyng in hir walk,
There sat a faukoun over hir heed ful hye,
That with a piteous vois bigan to crye,
That al the woode resownèd of hir cry,
I-beten had she hirself so piteously
With bothe hir wynges, til the reede blood
Ran al along the tree, wheron she stood.
And ever the same she cried and she shrieked,
And with hir bek hir selven so she pricked,
There is no tigre nor no cruel beste,
That dwelleth eyther in wood, or in foréste,
Wold not have wept, if wepen that he coude,
For sorrow of hir, she shrieked alway so lowde.
For ther was never yit no man on lyve,
If that he coude a faukoun wele discrive,
That herd of such another in fairnesse
As wel in plumage, as in gentillesse
Of shap, in al that might i-rekened be.
A faukoun peregryn then semède she
O distant lond; and ever as she stood,
She swownede now and now for lak of blood,
Til wel nigh is she fallen fro the tre.
This faire kynges doughter, Canacee,
That on hir fynger bar the queynte ryng,
Thurgh which she understood wel every thing
That eny foul may in his language sayn,
And coude him answer in his tong agayn,
Hath understonde what this faukoun seyde,
And she wel nigh for pitee almost deyde.
And to the tree she goth ful hastily,
And on this faukoun loketh piteously,
And held hir lappe abrod, for wel she knew
The faukoun moste falle fro the bough,
When that it swownede next, for lak of blood.
A longe while to wayten thus she stood,
Til atte last she spak in this manére
Unto the hauk, as ye shal after heere.
“What is the cause, if it be for to telle,
That ye be in that furious peyne of helle?”
Quoth Canacee unto this hauk above;
“Is this for sorwe of deth, or elles love?
For as I trowe, these be causes tuo
That causen most a gentil herte wo.
Of other harm it needeth nought to speke,
For ye upon yourselven vengaunce wreke;
Which proveth wel, that either ire or drede
Must be the reson of your cruel dede,
Since that I see no other wight you chace.
For love of God, so do your selve grace.
Or what maye be your helpe? for west nor este
I never saw ere now no bryd or beste,
That ferde with him-self so piteously.
Ye sle me with your sorwe so verrily,
I have of you so gret compassioún.
For Goddes love, com fro the tree adoun;
And as I am a kynges doughter trewe,
If that I verrayly the cause knewe
Of your disese, if it lay in my might,
I wold amenden it, ere that it wer nyght,
So wisly help me grete God of al.
And herbes right enow I fynde shal,
To helen al your hurtes hastyly.”
Then shrieked this faukoun more piteously
Than ever she did, and fil to ground anon,
And lay aswowne, deed as eny stoon,
Til Canacee hath in hir lap y-take,
Unto that tyme she gan of swowne awake;
And after that she reysèd up her heede,
Right in hir haukes langage thus she sayde.
“That pitee renneth sone in gentil