Therfore ceseth hir jangling and hir wonder. As sore wondren som on cause of thonder, On ebbe and floud, on gossomer, and on mist, And on all thing, til that the cause is wist.

Thus janglen they, and demen and devise, Til that the king gan fro his bord arise. Phebus hath left the angle meridional, And yet ascending was the beste real, The gentil Leon, with his Aldrian, Whan that this Tartre king, this Cambuscan, Rose from his bord, ther as he sat ful hie : Beforne him goth the loude minstralcie, Til he come to his chambre of parements, Ther as they sounden divers instruments, That it is like an heven for to here.

Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere: For in the fish hir lady set ful hie, And loketh on hem with a frendly eye.

This noble king is set upon his trone;
This straunge knight is fet to him ful sone,
And on the daunce he goth with Canace.

Here is the revell and the jolitee,
That is not able a dull man to devise:
He must han knowen love and his servise,
And ben a festlich man, as fresh as May,
That shulde you devisen swiche array.

Who coude tellen you the forme of daunces
So uncouth, and so freshe contenaunces,
Swiche subtil lokings and dissimulings,
For dred of jalous mennes apperceivings?
No man but Launcelot, and he is ded.
Therfore I passe over all this lustyhed,
I say no more, but in this jolinesse
I lete hem, til men to the souper hem dresse.

The steward bit the spices for to hie And eke the win, in all this melodie; The ushers and the squierie ben gon, The spices and the win is come anon: They ete and drinke, and whan this had an end, Unto the temple, as reson was, they wend: The service don, they soupen all by day.

What nedeth you rehersen hir array? Eche man wot wel, that at a kinges fest Is plentee, to the most and to the lest, And deintees mo than ben in my knowing.

At after souper goth this noble king To seen this hors of bras, with all a route Of lordes and of ladies him aboute. Swiche wondring was ther on this hors of bras, That sin the gret assege of Troye was, Ther as men wondred on an hors also, Ne was ther swiche a wondring, as was tho. But finally the king asketh the knight The vertue of this courser, and the might, And praied him to tell his governaunce.

This hors anon gan for to trip and daunce, Whan that the knight laid hond up on his rein, And saide, sire, ther n'is no more to sain, But whan you list to riden any where, Ye moten trill a pin, stant in his ere, Which I shal tellen you betwixt us two, Ye moten nempne him to what place also, Or to what contree that you list to ride.

And whan ye come ther as you list abide, Bid him descend, and trill another pin, (For therin lieth the effect of all the gin) And he wol doun descend and don your will, And in that place he wol abiden still:

Though al the world had the contrary swore,
He shal not thennes be drawe ne be bore.
Or if you list to bid him thennes gon,
Trille this pin, and he wol vanish anon
Out of the sight of every maner wight,
And come agen, be it by day or night,
Whan that you list to clepen him again
In swiche a guise, as I shal to you sain
Betwixen you and me, and that ful sone.
Ride whan you list, ther n'is no more to done.
Enfourmed whan the king was of the knight,
And hath conceived in his wit aright
The maner and the forme of all this thing,
Ful glad and blith, this noble doughty king
Repaireth to his revel, as beforne.
The bridel is in to the tour yborne,
And kept among his jewels lefe and dere:
The hors vanisht, I n'ot in what manere,
Out of hir sight, ye get no more of me:
But thus I lete in lust and jolitee
This Cambuscan his lordes festeying,
Til that wel nigh the day began to spring.

PARS SECUNDA.

The norice of digestion, the slepe, Gan on hem winke, and bad hem taken kepe, That mochel drinke, and labour wol have rest: And with a galping mouth hem all he kest, And said, that it was time to lie adoun, For blood was in his dominatioun: Cherisheth blood, natures frend, quod he.

They thanken him galping, by two by three; And every wight gan drawe him to his rest, As slepe hem bade, they toke it for the best.

Hir dremes shul not now be told for me; Ful were hir hedes of fumositee,

That causeth dreme, of which ther is no charge.
They slepen til that it was prime large,
The moste part, but it were Canace;
She was ful mesurable, as women be.
For of hire father had she take hire leve
To gon to rest, sone after it was eve:
Hire liste not appalled for to be,
Nor on the morwe unfestliche for to see;
And slept hire firste slepe, and than awoke.
For swiche a joye she in hire herte toke
Both of hire queinte ring, and of hire mirrour,
That twenty time she chaunged hire colour;
And in hire slepe right for the impression
Of hire mirrour she had a vision.
Wherfore, or that the sonne gan up glide,
She clepeth upon hire maistresse hire beside,
And saide, that hire luste for to arise.

Thise olde women, that ben gladly wise,
As is hire maistresse, answerd hire anon,
And said; Madame, whider wol ye gon
Thus erly? for the folk ben all in rest.

I wol, quod she, arisen (for me lest No longer for to slepe) and walken aboute. Hire maistresse clepeth women a gret route, And up they risen, wel a ten or twelve; Up riseth freshe Canace hireselve, As rody and bright, as the yonge sonne, That in the ram is foure degrees yronne; No higher was he, whan she redy was; And forth she walketh esily a pas, Arrayed after the lusty seson sote Lightely for to playe, and walken on fote,

Nought but with five or sixe of hire meinie; And in a trenche forth in the park goth she.

The vapour, which that fro the erthe glode, Maketh the sonne to seme rody and brode: But natheles, it was so faire a sight, That it made all hir hertes for to light, What for the seson, and the morwening, And for the foules that she herde sing. For right anon she wiste what they ment Right by hir song, and knew al hir entent.

The knotte, why that every tale is tolde, If it be taried til the lust be colde Of hem, that han it herkened after yore, The savour passeth ever lenger the more, For fulsumnesse of the prolixitee: And by that same reson thinketh me I shuld unto the knotte condescende, And maken of hire walking sone an ende. Amidde a tree for-dry, as white as chalk, As Canace was playing in hire walk, Ther sat a faucon over hire hed ful hie, That with a pitous vois so gan to crie, That all the wood resouned of hire cry, And beten had hireself so pitously With bothe hire winges, til the rede blood Ran endelong the tree, ther as she stood. And ever in on alway she cried and shright, And with hire bek hireselven she so twight, That ther n'is tigre, ne no cruel best, That dwelleth other in wood, or in forest, That n'olde han wept, if that he wepen coude, For sorwe of hire, she shright alway so loude. For ther was never yet no man on live, If that he coude a faucon wel descrive,