The Squieres Prologe 'Squier, com neer, if it your wille be, And sey somwhat of love; for, certes, ye Connen ther-on as muche as any man.' 'Nay, sir,' quod he, 'but I wol seye as I can With hertly wille; for I wol nat rebelle Agayn your lust; a tale wol I telle. Have me excused if I speke amis, My wil is good; and lo, my tale is this. Here biginneth the Squieres Tale. At Sarray, in the land of Tartarye, Ther dwelte a king, that werreyed Russye, Thurgh which ther deyde many a doughty man. This noble king was cleped Cambinskan, Which in his tyme was of so greet renoun That ther nas no-wher in no regioun So excellent a lord in alle thing; Him lakked noght that longeth to a king. As of the secte of which that he was born He kepte his lay, to which that he was sworn; And ther-to be was hardy, wys, and riche, And pietous and Iust alwey yliche Sooth of his word, benigne and honurable, Of his corage as any centre stable; Yong, fresh, and strong, in armes desirous As any bacheler of al his hous. A fair persone he was and fortunat, And kepte alwey so wel royal estat, That ther was nowher swich another man. This noble king, this Tartre Cambinskan Hadde two sones on Elpheta his wyf, Of whiche the eldeste highte Algarsyf, That other sone was cleped Cambalo. A doghter hadde this worthy king also, That yongest was, and highte Canacee. But for to telle yow al hir beautee, It lyth nat in my tonge, nin my conning; I dar nat undertake so heigh a thing. Myn English eek is insufficient; It moste been a rethor excellent, That coude his colours longing for that art, If he sholde hir discryven every part. I am non swich, I moot speke as I can.   And so bifel that, whan this Cambinskan Hath twenty winter born his diademe, As he was wont fro yeer to yeer, I deme, He leet the feste of his nativitee Don cryen thurghout Sarray his citee, The last Idus of March, after the yeer. Phebus the sonne ful Iory was and cleer; For he was neigh his exaltacioun In Martes face, and in his mansioun In Aries, the colerik hote signe. Ful lusty was the weder and benigne, For which the foules, agayn the sonne shene, What for the seson and the yonge grene, Ful loude songen hir affecciouns; Him semed han geten hem protecciouns Agayn the swerd of winter kene and cold.   This Cambinskan, of which I have yow told, In royal vestiment sit on his deys, With diademe, ful heighe in his paleys, And halt his feste, so solempne and so riche That in this world ne was ther noon it liche. Of which if I shal tellen al tharray, Than wolde it occupye a someres day; And eek it nedeth nat for to devyse At every cours the ordre of hir servyse. I wol nat tellen of hir strange sewes, Ne of hir swannes, ne of hir heronsewes. Eek in that lond, as tellen knightes olde, Ther is som mete that is ful deyntee holde, That in this lond men recche of it but smal; Ther nis no man that may reporten al. I wol nat tarien yow, for it is pryme, And for it is no fruit but los of tyme; Un-to my firste I wol have my recours.   And so bifel that, after the thridde cours, Whyl that this king sit thus in his nobleye, Herkninge his minstralles hir thinges pleye Biforn him at the bord deliciously, In at the halle-dore al sodeynly Ther cam a knight up-on a stede of bras, And in his hand a brood mirour of glas. Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ring, And by his syde a naked swerd hanging; And up he rydeth to the heighe bord. In al the halle ne was ther spoke a word For merveille of this knight; him to biholde Ful bisily ther wayten yonge and olde.   This strange knight, that cam thus sodeynly, Al armed save his heed ful richely, Saluëth king and queen, and lordes alle, By ordre, as they seten in the halle, With so heigh reverence and obeisaunce As wel in speche as in contenaunce, That Gawain, with his olde curteisye, Though he were come ageyn out of Fairye, Ne coude him nat amende with a word. And after this, biforn the heighe bord, He with a manly voys seith his message, After the forme used in his langage, With-outen vyce of sillable or of lettre; And, for his tale sholde seme the bettre, Accordant to his wordes was his chere, As techeth art of speche hem that it lere; Al-be-it that I can nat soune his style, Ne can nat climben over so heigh a style, Yet seye I this, as to commune entente, Thus muche amounteth al that ever he mente, If it so be that I have it in minde.   He seyde, 'the king of Arabie and of Inde, My lige lord, on this solempne day Saluëth yow as he best can and may, And sendeth yow, in honour of your feste, By me, that am al redy at your heste, This stede of bras, that esily and wel Can, in the space of o day naturel, This is to seyn, in foure and twenty houres, Wher-so yow list, in droghte or elles shoures, Beren your body in-to every place To which your herte wilneth for to pace With-outen wem of yow, thurgh foul or fair; Or, if yow list to fleen as hye in the air As doth an egle, whan him list to sore, This same stede shal bere yow ever-more With-outen harm, til ye be ther yow leste, Though that ye slepen on his bak or reste; And turne ayeyn, with wrything of a pin. He that it wroghte coude ful many a gin; He wayted many a constellacioun Er he had doon this operacioun; And knew ful many a seel and many a bond.   This mirour eek, that I have in myn hond, Hath swich a might, that men may in it see Whan ther shal fallen any adversitee Un-to your regne or to your-self also; And openly who is your freend or foo. And over al this, if any lady bright Hath set hir herte on any maner wight, If he be fals, she shal his treson see, His newe love and al his subtiltee So openly, that ther shal no-thing hyde. Wherfor, ageyn this lusty someres tyde, This mirour and this ring, that ye may see, He hath sent to my lady Canacee, Your excellente doghter that is here.   The vertu of the ring, if ye wol here, Is this; that, if hir lust it for to were Up-on hir thombe, or in hir purs it bere, Ther is no foul that fleeth under the hevene That she ne shal wel understonde his stevene, And knowe his mening openly and pleyn, And answere him in his langage ageyn. And every gras that groweth up-on rote She shal eek knowe, and whom it wol do bote, Al be his woundes never so depe and wyde.   This naked swerd, that hangeth by my syde, Swich vertu hath, that what man so ye smyte, Thurgh-out his armure it wol kerve and byte, Were it as thikke as is a branched ook; And what man that is wounded with the strook Shal never be hool til that yow list, of grace, To stroke him with the platte in thilke place Ther he is hurt: this is as muche to seyn, Ye mote with the platte swerd ageyn Stroke him in the wounde, and it wol close; This is a verray sooth, with-outen glose, It failleth nat whyl it is in your hold.'   And whan this knight hath thus his tale told, He rydeth out of halle, and doun he lighte. His stede, which that shoon as sonne brighte, Stant in the court, as stille as any stoon. This knight is to his chambre lad anon, And is unarmed and to mete y-set.   The presentes ben ful royally y-fet, This is to seyn, the swerd and the mirour, And born anon in-to the heighe tour With certeine officers ordeyned therfore; And un-to Canacee this ring was bore Solempnely, ther she sit at the table. But sikerly, with-outen any fable, The hors of bras, that may nat be remewed, It stant as it were to the ground y-glewed. Ther may no man out of the place it dryve For noon engyn of windas or polyve; And cause why, for they can nat the craft. And therefore in the place they han it laft Til that the knight hath taught hem the manere To voyden him, as ye shal after here.   Greet was the prees, that swarmeth to and fro, To gauren on this hors that stondeth so; For it so heigh was, and so brood and long, So wel proporcioned for to ben strong, Right as it were a stede of Lumbardye; Ther-with so horsly, and so quik of yë As it a gentil Poileys courser were. For certes, fro his tayl un-to his ere, Nature ne art ne coude him nat amende In no degree, as al the peple wende. But evermore hir moste wonder was, How that it coude goon, and was of bras; It was of Fairye, as the peple semed. Diverse folk diversely they demed; As many hedes, as many wittes ther been. They murmureden as dooth a swarm of been, And maden skiles after hir fantasyes, Rehersinge of thise olde poetryes, And seyden, it was lyk the Pegasee, The hors that hadde winges for to flee; Or elles it was the Grekes hors Synon, That broghte Troye to destruccion, As men may in thise olde gestes rede, 'Myn herte,' quod oon, 'is evermore in drede; I trowe som men of armes been ther-inne, That shapen hem this citee for to winne. It were right good that al swich thing were knowe.' Another rowned to his felawe lowe, And seyde, 'he lyeth, it is rather lyk An apparence y-maad by som magyk, As Iogelours pleyen at thise festes grete.' Of sondry doutes thus they Iangle and trete, As lewed peple demeth comunly Of thinges that ben maad more subtilly Than they can in her lewednes comprehende; They demen gladly to the badder ende.   And somme of hem wondred on the mirour, That born was up in-to the maister-tour, How men mighte in it swiche thinges see. Another answerde, and seyde it mighte wel be Naturelly, by composiciouns Of angles and of slye reflexiouns, And seyden, that in Rome was swich oon. They speken of Alocen and Vitulon, And Aristotle, that writen in hir lyves Of queynte mirours and of prospectyves, As knowen they that han hir bokes herd.   And othere folk han wondred on the swerd That wolde percen thurgh-out every-thing; And fille in speche of Thelophus the king, And of Achilles with his queynte spere, For he coude with it bothe hele and dere, Right in swich wyse as men may with the swerd Of which right now ye han your-selven herd. They speken of sondry harding of metal, And speke of medicynes ther-with-al, And how, and whanne, it sholde y-harded be; Which is unknowe algates unto me.   Tho speke they of Canaceës ring, And seyden alle, that swich a wonder thing Of craft of ringes herde they never non, Save that he, Moyses, and king Salomon Hadde a name of konning in swich art. Thus seyn the peple, and drawen hem apart. But nathelees, somme seyden that it was Wonder to maken of fern-asshen glas, And yet nis glas nat lyk asshen of fern; But for they han y-knowen it so fern, Therfore cesseth her Iangling and her wonder. As sore wondren somme on cause of thonder, On ebbe, on flood, on gossomer, and on mist, And alle thing, til that the cause is wist. Thus Iangle they and demen and devyse, Til that the king gan fro the bord aryse.   Phebus hath laft the angle meridional, And yet ascending was the beest royal, The gentil Leon, with his Aldiran, Whan that this Tartre king, this Cambinskan, Roos fro his bord, ther that he sat ful hye. Toforn him gooth the loude minstralcye, Til he cam to his chambre of parements, Ther as they sownen diverse instruments, That it is lyk an heven for to here. Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere, For in the Fish hir lady sat ful hye, And loketh on hem with a freendly yë.   This noble king is set up in his trone. This strange knight is fet to him ful sone, And on the daunce he gooth with Canacee. Heer is the revel and the Iolitee That is nat able a dul man to devyse. He moste han knowen love and his servyse, And been a festlich man as fresh as May, That sholde yow devysen swich array.   Who coude telle yow the forme of daunces, So uncouthe and so fresshe contenaunces, Swich subtil loking and dissimulinges For drede of Ialouse mennes aperceyvinges? No man but Launcelot, and he is deed. Therefor I passe of al this lustiheed; I seye na-more, but in this Iolynesse I lete hem, til men to the soper dresse.   The styward bit the spyces for to hye, And eek the wyn, in al this melodye. The usshers and the squyers ben y-goon; The spyces and the wyn is come anoon. They ete and drinke; and whan this hadde an ende, Un-to the temple, as reson was, they wende.   The service doon, they soupen al by day. What nedeth yow rehercen hir array? Ech man wot wel, that at a kinges feeste Hath plentee, to the moste and to the leeste, And deyntees mo than been in my knowing. At-after soper gooth this noble king To seen this hors of bras, with al the route Of lordes and of ladyes him aboute.   Swich wondring was ther on this hors of bras That, sin the grete sege of Troye was, Ther-as men wondreden on an hors also, Ne was ther swich a wondring as was tho. But fynally the king axeth this knight The vertu of this courser and the might, And preyede him to telle his governaunce.   This hors anoon bigan to trippe and daunce, Whan that this knight leyde hand up-on his reyne, And seyde, 'sir, ther is na-more to seyne, But, whan yow list to ryden any-where, Ye moten trille a pin, stant in his ere, Which I shall telle yow bitwix vs two. Ye mote nempne him to what place also Or to what contree that yow list to ryde. And whan ye come ther as yow list abyde, Bidde him descende, and trille another pin, For ther-in lyth the effect of al the gin, And he wol doun descende and doon your wille; And in that place he wol abyde stille, Though al the world the contrarie hadde y-swore; He shal nat thennes ben y-drawe ne y-bore. Or, if yow liste bidde him thennes goon, Trille this pin, and he wol vanishe anoon Out of the sighte of every maner wight, And come agayn, be it by day or night, When that yow list to clepen him ageyn In swich a gyse as I shal to yow seyn Bitwixe yow and me, and that ful sone. Ryde whan yow list, ther is na-more to done.'   Enformed whan the king was of that knight, And hath conceyved in his wit aright The maner and the forme of al this thing, Thus glad and blythe, this noble doughty king Repeireth to his revel as biforn. The brydel is un-to the tour y-born, And kept among his Iewels leve and dere. The hors vanisshed, I noot in what manere, Out of hir sighte; ye gete na-more of me. But thus I lete in lust and Iolitee This Cambinskan his lordes festeyinge, Til wel ny the day bigan to springe. Explicit prima pars. Sequitur pars secunda. The norice of digestioun, the slepe, Gan on hem winke, and bad hem taken kepe, That muchel drink and labour wolde han reste; And with a galping mouth hem alle he keste, And seyde, 'it was tyme to lye adoun, For blood was in his dominacioun; Cherissheth blood, natures freend,' quod he. They thanken him galpinge, by two, by three, And every wight gan drawe him to his reste, As slepe hem bad; they toke it for the beste. Hir dremes shul nat been y-told for me; Ful were hir hedes of fumositee, That causeth dreem, of which ther nis no charge. They slepen til that it was pryme large, The moste part, but it were Canacee; She was ful mesurable, as wommen be. For of hir fader hadde she take leve To gon to reste, sone after it was eve; Hir liste nat appalled for to be, Nor on the morwe unfestlich for to see; And slepte hir firste sleep, and thanne awook. For swich a Ioye she in hir herte took Both of hir queynte ring and hir mirour, That twenty tyme she changed hir colour; And in hir slepe, right for impressioun Of hir mirour, she hadde a visioun. Wherfore, er that the sonne gan up glyde, She cleped on hir maistresse hir bisyde, And seyde, that hir liste for to ryse.   Thise olde wommen that been gladly wyse, As is hir maistresse, answerde hir anoon, And seyde, 'madame, whider wil ye goon Thus erly? for the folk ben alle on reste.' 'I wol,' quod she, 'aryse, for me leste No lenger for to slepe, and walke aboute.'   Hir maistresse clepeth wommen a gret route, And up they rysen, wel a ten or twelve; Up ryseth fresshe Canacee hir-selve, As rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne, That in the Ram is four degrees up-ronne; Noon hyer was he, whan she redy was; And forth she walketh esily a pas, Arrayed after the lusty seson sote Lightly, for to pleye and walke on fote; Nat but with fyve or six of hir meynee; And in a trench, forth in the park, goth she. The vapour, which that fro the erthe glood, Made the sonne to seme rody and brood; But nathelees, it was so fair a sighte That it made alle hir hertes for to lighte, What for the seson and the morweninge, And for the foules that she herde singe; For right anon she wiste what they mente Right by hir song, and knew al hir entente.   The knotte, why that every tale is told, If it be taried til that lust be cold Of hem that han it after herkned yore, The savour passeth ever lenger the more, For fulsomnesse of his prolixitee. And by the same reson thinketh me, I sholde to the knotte condescende, And maken of hir walking sone an ende.   Amidde a tree fordrye, as whyt as chalk, As Canacee was pleying 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. Y-beten hath she hir-self so pitously With bothe hir winges, til the rede blood Ran endelong the tree ther-as she stood. And ever in oon she cryde alwey and shrighte, And with hir beek hir-selven so she prighte, That ther nis tygre, ne noon so cruel beste, That dwelleth either in wode or in foreste That nolde han wept, if that he wepe coude, For sorwe of hir, she shrighte alwey so loude. For ther nas never yet no man on lyve— If that I coude a faucon wel discryve— That herde of swich another of fairnesse, As wel of plumage as of gentillesse Of shap, and al that mighte y-rekened be. A faucon peregryn than semed she Of fremde land; and evermore, as she stood, She swowneth now and now for lakke of blood, Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.   This faire kinges doghter, Canacee, That on hir finger bar the queynte ring, Thurgh which she understood wel every thing That any foul may in his ledene seyn, And coude answere him in his ledene ageyn, Hath understonde what this faucon seyde, And wel neigh for the rewthe almost she deyde. And to the tree she gooth ful hastily, And on this faucon loketh pitously, And heeld hir lappe abrood, for wel she wiste The faucon moste fallen fro the twiste, When that it swowned next, for lakke of blood. A longe while to wayten hir she stood Till atte laste she spak in this manere Un-to the hauk, as ye shul after here.   'What is the cause, if it be for to telle, That ye be in this furial pyne of helle?' Quod Canacee un-to this hauk above. 'Is this for sorwe of deeth or los of love? For, as I trowe, thise ben causes two That causen moost a gentil herte wo; Of other harm it nedeth nat to speke. For ye your-self upon your-self yow wreke, Which proveth wel, that either love or drede Mot been encheson of your cruel dede, Sin that I see non other wight yow chace. For love of god, as dooth your-selven grace Or what may ben your help; for west nor eest Ne sey I never er now no brid ne beest That ferde with him-self so pitously. Ye slee me with your sorwe, verraily; I have of yow so gret compassioun. For goddes love, com fro the tree adoun; And, as I am a kinges doghter trewe, If that I verraily the cause knewe Of your disese, if it lay in my might, I wolde amende it, er that it were night, As wisly helpe me gret god of kinde! And herbes shal I right y-nowe y-finde To hele with your hurtes hastily.'   Tho shrighte this faucon more pitously Than ever she dide, and fil to grounde anoon, And lyth aswowne, deed, and lyk a stoon, Til Canacee hath in hir lappe hir take Un-to 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 sone in gentil herte, Feling his similitude in peynes smerte, Is preved al-day, as men may it see, As wel by werk as by auctoritee; For gentil herte kytheth gentillesse. I see wel, that ye han of my distresse Compassioun, my faire Canacee, Of verray wommanly benignitee That nature in your principles hath set. But for non hope for to fare the bet, But for to obeye un-to your herte free, And for to maken other be war by me, As by the whelp chasted is the leoun, Right for that cause and that conclusioun, Whyl that I have a leyser and a space, Myn harm I wol confessen, er I pace.' And ever, whyl that oon hir sorwe tolde, That other weep, as she to water wolde, Til that the faucon bad hir to be stille; And, with a syk, right thus she seyde hir wille.   'Ther I was bred (allas! that harde day!) And fostred in a roche of marbul gray So tendrely, that nothing eyled me, I niste nat what was adversitee, Til I coude flee ful hye under the sky. Tho dwelte a tercelet me faste by, That semed welle of alle gentillesse; Al were he ful of treson and falsnesse, It was so wrapped under humble chere, And under hewe of trouthe in swich manere, Under plesance, and under bisy peyne, That no wight coude han wend he coude feyne, So depe in greyn he dyed his coloures. Right as a serpent hit him under floures Til he may seen his tyme for to byte, Right so this god of love, this ypocryte, Doth so his cerimonies and obeisaunces, And kepeth in semblant alle his observances That sowneth in-to gentillesse of love. As in a toumbe is al the faire above, And under is the corps, swich as ye woot, Swich was this ypocryte, bothe cold and hoot, And in this wyse he served his entente, That (save the feend) non wiste what he mente. Til he so longe had wopen and compleyned, And many a yeer his service to me feyned, Til that myn herte, to pitous and to nyce, Al innocent of his crouned malice, For-fered of his deeth, as thoughte me, Upon his othes and his seuretee, Graunted him love, on this condicioun, That evermore myn honour and renoun Were saved, bothe privee and apert; This is to seyn, that, after his desert, I yaf him al myn herte and al my thoght— God woot and he, that otherwyse noght— And took his herte in chaunge for myn for ay. But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many a day, "A trew wight and a theef thenken nat oon." And, whan he saugh the thing so fer y-goon, That I had graunted him fully my love, In swich a gyse as I have seyd above, And yeven him my trewe herte, as free As he swoor he his herte yaf to me; Anon this tygre, ful of doublenesse, Fil on his knees with so devout humblesse, With so heigh reverence, and, as by his chere, So lyk a gentil lovere of manere, So ravisshed, as it semed, for the Ioye, That never Iason, ne Parys of Troye, Iason? certes, ne non other man, Sin Lameth was, that alderfirst bigan To loven two, as writen folk biforn, Ne never, sin the firste man was born, Ne coude man, by twenty thousand part, Countrefete the sophimes of his art; Ne were worthy unbokele his galoche, Ther doublenesse or feyning sholde approche, Ne so coude thanke a wight as he did me! His maner was an heven for to see Til any womman, were she never so wys; So peynted he and kembde at point-devys As wel his wordes as his contenaunce. And I so lovede him for his obeisaunce, And for the trouthe I demed in his herte, That, if so were that any thing him smerte, Al were it never so lyte, and I it wiste, Me thoughte, I felte deeth myn herte twiste. And shortly, so ferforth this thing is went, That my wil was his willes instrument; This is to seyn, my wil obeyed his wil In alle thing, as fer as reson fil, Keping the boundes of my worship ever. Ne never hadde I thing so leef, ne lever, As him, god woot! ne never shal na-mo.   This lasteth lenger than a yeer or two, That I supposed of him noght but good. But fynally, thus atte laste it stood, That fortune wolde that he moste twinne Out of that place which that I was inne. Wher me was wo, that is no questioun; I can nat make of it discripcioun; For o thing dar I tellen boldely, I knowe what is the peyne of deth ther-by; Swich harm I felte for he ne mighte bileve. So on a day of me he took his leve, So sorwefully eek, that I wende verraily That he had felt as muche harm as I, Whan that I herde him speke, and saugh his hewe. But nathelees, I thoughte he was so trewe, And eek that he repaire sholde ageyn With-inne a litel whyle, sooth to seyn; And reson wolde eek that he moste go For his honour, as ofte it happeth so, That I made vertu of necessitee, And took it wel, sin that it moste be. As I best mighte, I hidde fro him my sorwe, And took him by the hond, seint Iohn to borwe, And seyde him thus: "lo, I am youres al; Beth swich as I to yow have been, and shal." What he answerde, it nedeth noght reherce, Who can sey bet than he, who can do werse? Whan he hath al wel seyd, thanne hath he doon. "Therfor bihoveth him a ful long spoon That shal ete with a feend," thus herde I seye. So atte laste he moste forth his weye, And forth he fleeth, til he cam ther him leste. Whan it cam him to purpos for to reste, I trowe he hadde thilke text in minde, That "alle thing, repairing to his kinde, Gladeth him-self"; thus seyn men, as I gesse; Men loven of propre kinde newfangelnesse, As briddes doon that men in cages fede. For though thou night and day take of hem hede, And strawe hir cage faire and softe as silk, And yeve hem sugre, hony, breed and milk, Yet right anon, as that his dore is uppe, He with his feet wol spurne adoun his cuppe, And to the wode he wol and wormes ete; So newefangel been they of hir mete, And loven novelryes of propre kinde; No gentillesse of blood [ne] may hem binde. So ferde this tercelet, allas the day! Though he were gentil born, and fresh and gay, And goodly for to seen, and humble and free, He saugh up-on a tyme a kyte flee, 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 hir servyse, And I am lorn with-outen remedye!' And with that word this faucon gan to crye, And swowned eft in Canaceës barme.   Greet was the sorwe, for the haukes harme, That Canacee and alle hir wommen made; They niste how they mighte the faucon glade. But Canacee hom bereth hir in hir lappe, And softely in plastres gan hir wrappe, Ther as she with hir beek had hurt hir-selve. Now can nat Canacee but herbes delve Out of the grounde, and make salves newe Of herbes precious, and fyne of hewe, To helen with this hauk; fro day to night She dooth hir bisinesse and al hir might. And by hir beddes heed she made a mewe, And covered it with veluëttes blewe, In signe of trouthe that is in wommen sene. And al with-oute, the mewe is peynted grene, In which were peynted alle thise false foules, As beth thise tidifs, tercelets, and oules, Right for despyt were peynted hem bisyde, And pyes, on hem for to crye and chyde.   Thus lete I Canacee hir hauk keping; I wol na-more as now speke of hir ring, Til it come eft to purpos for to seyn How that this faucon gat hir love ageyn Repentant, as the storie telleth us, By mediacioun of Cambalus, The kinges sone, of whiche I yow tolde. But hennes-forth I wol my proces holde To speke of aventures and of batailles, That never yet was herd so grete mervailles.   First wol I telle yow of Cambinskan, That in his tyme many a citee wan; And after wol I speke of Algarsyf, How that he wan Theodora to his wyf, For whom ful ofte in greet peril he was, Ne hadde he ben holpen by the stede of bras; And after wol I speke of Cambalo, That faught in listes with the bretheren two For Canacee, er that he mighte hir winne. And ther I lefte I wol ageyn biginne. Explicit secunda pars. Incipit pars tercia. Appollo whirleth up his char so hye, Til that the god Mercurius hous the slye—