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To sing a song is what I crave, my subject, though, is truly grave:
no more will I be Cupid's slave in Limousin or old Poitou.
I find that I'm at exile's door: in peril, fearful to the core;
I'll have to leave my son at war: the neighbors never will be true.
I find that I'm reduced to tears, to leave my city of Poitiers!
in charge, I'll leave Fulk of Angiers - in charge of land and of his kin.
If Fulk of Angiers will not hear, nor yet the king, who I hold dear,
then he'll have lots of folk to fear: the Gascon thieves and Anjevins.
Unless he's wise beyond his years, when I have gone from you, my dears,
they'll overthrow him, it appears, because they'll think he's young, perchance.
I beg my friends, forgive me, do, if I have done some wrong to you;
I pray to heavenly Jesus, too, the same in Latin, and Romance.
With power and joy I've been aligned but now I leave that all behind
to look for solace of a kind with him whom sinners find a friend.
I have been happy and content: our Lord no longer gave assent;
the burden has me sad and bent now that I'm coming to my end.
All that I've loved I've left behind, the chivalry and pomp combined:
if it please God, I am resigned; I pray he'll keep me with him there.
I pray my friends across the earth will come and recognize my worth,
for I have had my joy and mirth: afar, at home, both here and there.
So now I give up joy and mirth such things as miniver and vair. Trans. by James H. Donaldson