God for a miracle well should Hold my coming from her away, And hold me in His grace alway That I left her, for holy-rood. An I lose her, no joy for me, Pardi, hath the wide world in fee. Nor could He mend it, if He would. Well did she know sweet wiles to take My heart, when thence I took my way. 'Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a day For that sweet semblance she did make To me, saying all in sorrow: "Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?" "Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?" ENVOI Beyond sea be thou sped, my song, And, by God, to my Lady say That in desirous, grief-filled way My nights and my days are full long. And command thou William the Long-Seer To tell thee to my Lady dear, That comfort be her thoughts among. The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.--E.P. From the Saddle D'AUBIGNE TO DIANE Wearied by wind and wave death goes With gin and snare right near alway Unto my sight. Behind me bay As hounds the tempests of my foes. Ever on ward against such woes, Pistols my pillow's service pay, Yet Love makes me the poet play. Thou know'st the rime demands repose, So if my line disclose distress, The soldier and my restlessness And teen, Pardon, dear Lady mine, For since mid war I bear love's pain 'Tis meet my verse, as I, show sign Of powder, gun-match and sulphur stain. Marvoil A poor clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me, And because I have small mind to sit Day long, long day cooped on a stool A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here. The Vicomte of Beziers's not such a bad lot. I made rimes to his lady this three year: Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging _His_ helmet at Beziers. Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman, Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends: Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers-- Bored to an inch of extinction, Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon, Stringing long verse for the Burlatz; All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the Aragonese, Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.