Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/267

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AIR father,’ quoth the damosel,

‘This dream but rings your passing bell;

I count your pride not worth a cock;

The jade hight Fortune doth but mock

And jeer at you; by this portent

I clearly read that she is bent

That you, ere long, on gallows tree

Shall perish; and while mournfully,

The sport of winds, it swings in air,

Heaven’s rain upon your body bare

Shall beat, and then the scorching sun

Shall dry it. So doth Fortune run

Against you. She but gives and takes

As pleaseth her; one while she makes

The highest nought, and then amain

The pauper setteth up again

In wealth or splendour. Why should I

Betray your heart with flattery?

Fortune hath ruthlessly assigned

You to the gibbet, and will bind

The halter close about your neck,

And that gold crown that now doth deck

Your well-loved head will she uplift

Therefrom, and then as royal gift