Amid a tree fordry, 3139 as white as chalk, As Canacé was playing in her walk, 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 piteouslý With both her wingës, till the reddë blood Ran endëlong 3140 the tree, there as she stood. And ever-in-one 3141 alway she cried and shright, 3142 And with her beak herselfë she so pight, 3143 That there is no tiger, nor cruel beast, That dwelleth either in wood or in forést; But would have wept, if that he weepë 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;