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126

Till no more deniers can he show,

Unless within his barns they grow;

His plumes our maids will so pluck out,

That bare he’ll walk till new ones sprout,

And make him sell his lands, unless

He drive them off with fearlessness.

Poor men have made of me their lord,

And though they oft can scarce afford

To pasture me, I scorn them not,

Nor do good men do so, I wot.

Towards them is Richesse hard and rude,

With selfish love alone imbued;

But poor men truer lovers are

Than rich, whose wealth doth but debar

True love, and, by my father’s soul,

Better is loyalty than dole.

Ever on me their thought is spent,

And thereof is my heart content,

And they so doing, oft mine eye

Looks on their service kindlily;

And if instead of God of Love

God Plutus were I, then above

Their hopes I’d give poor lovers all

Great wealth, for in mine ear their call

And plaint resounds, and specially

That of one faithful unto me;

For if he died for love, small then

Were Love esteemed ’mong mortal men.

Great sir, the Barons cried, we find

Your speech wise, bountiful, and kind;