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His court to you, and do your will,

All other good he counts but ill.

He swears by God and good saint Foy,

That unto him the greatest joy

On earth would be to gain one smile

Or word from you, therefor exile

He’d count as nought though he should be

To Pavia sent all nakedly.

Reckless is he of all beside,

If only he may near you bide.

Fair-Welcome straight desires to know

What kindly hand would fain bestow

On him the chaplet, for no will

Hath he to take the gift, until

He knows the quarter whither sent

Hath been this graceful compliment.

Forthwith the harridan reveals

The tale at full, nor aught conceals.

’Tis from that youth, you know right well,

Of whom you oft have heard me tell,

And surely ’twas for his dear sake

That Evil-Tongue foul war did make

Against you—ah! vile child of vice!

He’s gone—but not to paradise.

Full many a man hath he defamed,

But now the fiends his soul have claimed.

His death from fear of slander frees

All men, none care for him two peas.