Pars Prima
There is, right at the west side of Itále, Down at the root of Vesulus the cold, A lusty plain, abundant of vitáille; There many a town and tow’r thou may’st behold, That founded were in time of fathers old, And many another délectáble sight; And Saluces this noble country hight.
A marquis whilom lord was of that land, As were his worthy elders him before, And obedient, aye ready to his hand, Were all his lieges, bothë less and more: Thus in delight he liv’d, and had done yore, Belov’d and drad, through favour of fortúne, Both of his lordës and of his commúne.
Therewith he was, to speak of lineage, The gentilest y-born of Lombardy, A fair persón, and strong, and young of age, And full of honour and of courtesy: Discreet enough his country for to gie, Saving in some things that he was to blame; And Walter was this youngë lordë’s name.
I blame him thus, that he consider’d not In timë coming what might him betide, But on his present lust was all his thought, And for to hawk and hunt on every side; Well nigh all other carës let he slide, And eke he would (that was the worst of all) Weddë no wife for aught that might befall.
Only that point his people bare so sore, That flockmel on a day to him they went, And one of them, that wisest was of lore (Or ellës that the lord would best assent That he should tell him what the people meant, Or ellës could he well shew such mattére), He to the marquis said as ye shall hear.