Mi Sone, I am wel paid withal; For wite it wel in special 2450 That love of his verrai justice Above alle othre ayein this vice At alle times most debateth, With al his herte and most it hateth. And ek in alle maner wise Avantarie is to despise, As be ensample thou myht wite, Which I finde in the bokes write. Of hem that we Lombars now calle Albinus was the ferste of alle 2460 Which bar corone of Lombardie, And was of gret chivalerie In werre ayein diverse kinges. So fell amonges othre thinges, That he that time a werre hadde With Gurmond, which the Geptes ladde, And was a myhti kyng also: Bot natheles it fell him so, Albinus slowh him in the feld, Ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld, 2470 That he ne smot his hed of thanne, Wherof he tok awey the Panne, Of which he seide he wolde make A Cuppe for Gurmoundes sake, To kepe and drawe into memoire Of his bataille the victoire. And thus whan he the feld hath wonne, The lond anon was overronne And sesed in his oghne hond, Wher he Gurmondes dowhter fond, 2480 Which Maide Rosemounde hihte, And was in every mannes sihte A fair, a freissh, a lusti on. His herte fell to hire anon, And such a love on hire he caste, That he hire weddeth ate laste; And after that long time in reste With hire he duelte, and to the beste Thei love ech other wonder wel. Bot sche which kepth the blinde whel, 2490 Venus, whan thei be most above, In al the hoteste of here love, Hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felle In the manere as I schal telle.