“Father,” she said, “thy wretched child Constance, Thy youngë daughter, foster’d up so soft, And you, my mother, my sov’reign pleasance Over all thing, out-taken Christ on loft, Constance your child her recommendeth oft Unto your grace; for I shall to Syrie, Nor shall I ever see you more with eye.
“Alas! unto the barbarous natión I must anon, since that it is your will: But Christ, that starf for our redemptión, So give me grace his hestës to fulfil. I, wretched woman, no force though I spill! Women are born to thraldom and penánce, And to be under mannë’s governance.”
I trow at Troy when Pyrrhus brake the wall, Or Ilion burnt, or Thebes the city, Nor at Rome for the harm through Hannibal, That Romans hath y-vanquish’d timës three, Was heard such tender weeping for pitý, As in the chamber was for her partíng; But forth she must, whether she weep or sing.
O firstë moving cruel Firmament, With thy diurnal sway that crowdest aye, And hurtlest all from East till Occident That naturally would hold another way; Thy crowding set the heav’n in such array At the beginning of this fierce voyáge, That cruel Mars hath slain this marriáge.
Unfortunate ascendant tortuous, Of which the lord is helpless fall’n, alas! Out of his angle into the darkest house; O Mars, O Atyzar, as in this case; O feeble Moon, unhappy is thy pace. Thou knittest thee where thou art not receiv’d, Where thou wert well, from thennës art thou weiv’d.
Imprudent emperor of Rome, alas! Was there no philosópher in all thy town? Is no time bet than other in such case? Of voyage is there none electión, Namely to folk of high conditión, Not when a root is of a birth y-know? Alas! we be too lewëd, or too slow.
To ship was brought this woeful fairë maid Solemnëly, with every circumstance: “Now Jesus Christ be with you all,” she said. There is no