bed have slain thee by the morrow; Thus can Fortúne her wheel govérn and gie, And out of joy bringë men into sorrow.
Of Milan greatë Barnabo Viscount , God of delight, and scourge of Lombardy, Why should I not thine infortúne account, Since in estate thou clomben wert so high? Thy brother’s son, that was thy double allý, For he thy nephew was and son-in-law, Within his prison madë thee to die, But why, nor how, n’ot I that thou were slaw.
Of th’ Earl Hugolin of Pise the languoúr There may no tonguë tellë for pitý. But little out of Pisa stands a tow’r, In whichë tow’r in prison put was he, Aud with him be his little children three; The eldest scarcely five years was of age; Alas! Fortúne, it was great crueltý Such birdës for to put in such a cage.
Damned was he to die in that prisón; For Roger, which that bishop was of Pise, Had on him made a false suggestión, Through which the people gan upon him rise, And put him in prisón, in such a wise As ye have heard; and meat and drink he had So small, that well unneth it might suffice, And therewithal it was full poor and bad.
And on a day befell, that in that hour When that his meatë wont was to be brought, The jailor shut the doorës of the tow’r; He heard it right well, but he spakë nought. And in his heart anon there fell a thought, That they for hunger wouldë do him dien; “Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I was wrought!” Therewith the tearës fellë from his eyen.
His youngest son, that three years was of age, Unto him said, “Father, why do ye weep? When will the jailor bringen our pottáge? Is there no morsel bread that ye do keep? I am so hungry, that I may not sleep. Now wouldë God that I might sleepen ever! Then should not hunger in my wombë creep; There is no thing, save bread, that one were lever.”
Thus day by day this child begun to cry, Till in his father’s barme adown he lay, And saidë, “Farewell, father, I must die;” And kiss’d his father, and