Who liv’d ever in such delight one day, That him not moved either conscience, Or ire, or talent, or some kind affray, 1736 Envy, or pride, or passion, or offence? I say but for this endë this senténce, 1737 That little while in joy or in pleasance Lasted the bliss of Alla with Constance.

For death, that takes of high and low his rent, When passed was a year, even as I guess, Out of this world this King Alla he hent, 1738 For whom Constance had full great heaviness. Now let us pray that God his soulë bless: And Dame Constancë, finally to say, Toward the town of Romë went her way.