Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu! To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true; The studies that we loved I may no more pursue; Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you, Love-laden! As many as the flowers that Hybla's valley cover, As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover, As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over, So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover, For ever! With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns; Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns; How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns, "Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returns With anguish!" Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss! In lovers' hearts the flame's too hot for happiness; For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distress When once the enamoured soul is taken with excess Of sweetness! The third introduces us to a little episode of medieval private life which must have been frequent enough. It consists of a debate between a father and his son upon the question whether the young man should enter into a monastic brotherhood. The youth is lying on a sickbed, and thinks that he is already at the point of death. It will be noticed that he is only diverted from his project by the mention of a student friend (indicated, as usual, by an N), whom he would never be able to see again if he assumed the cowl. I suspect, however, that the poem has not been transmitted to us entire. IN ARTICULO MORTIS. No. 44. _Son_. Oh, my father! help, I pray! Death is near my soul to-day; With your blessing let me be Made a monk right speedily! See the foe my life invade! Haste, oh haste, to give me aid! Bring me comfort and heart's ease, Strengthen me in this disease! _Father_. Oh, my best-belovèd son, What is this thou wouldst have done? Weigh it well in heart and brain: Do not leave me here in pain. _Son_. Father, this thy loving care Makes me weep full sore, I swear; For you will be childless when I have joined those holy men. _Father_. Therefore make a little stay, Put it off till the third day; It may be your danger is Not unto the death, I wis. _Son_. Such the anguish that I feel Through my inmost entrails steal, That I bide in doubt lest death Ere to-morrow end my breath. _Father_. Those strict rules that monks observe, Well I know them! They must serve Heaven by fasting every day, And by keeping watch alway. _Son_. Who for God watch through the night Shall receive a crown of light; Who for heaven's sake hungers, he Shall be fed abundantly.