And with that word this falcon gan to cry, And swooned eft 3196 in Canacéë’s barme. 3197 Great was the sorrow, for that hawkë’s harm, That Canacé and all her women made; They wist not how they might the falcon glade. 3198 But Canacé home bare her in her lap, And softëly in plasters gan her wrap, There as she with her beak had hurt herselve. Now cannot Canacé but herbës delve Out of the ground, and makë salvës new Of herbës precioús and fine of hue, To healë with this hawk; from day to night She did her business, and all her might. And by her beddë’s head she made a mew, 3199 And cover’d it with velouettës blue, 3200 In sign of truth that is in woman seen; And all without the mew is painted green, In which were painted all these falsë fowls,