The feld of snow, with the eagle of blak therinne,
Caught by the lioun, like furnace coloured rede,
He brewède al the cursednesse and synne,
The Wikked Nest was werker of this neede.
No warlike Oliver that ay took heede
Of trouthe and honour, but of Brittany
Genilon Oliver, córruptid for mede,
Broughte this worthy king thro for to dye.

De Petro Cipre Rege

O worthy Petro king of Cipres, also,
That Alisaunder won by high maistrýe,
Ful many an hethen wroughtest thou ful wo,
Of which thin oune lieges had envýe;
And for no thing but for thy chivalrie,
Thay in thy bed have slayn thee by the morwe.
Thus can fortune the wheel governe and gye,
And out of joye bringe men into sorwe.

De Barnabo Comite Mediolano

Of Melayn grete Barnabo Viscount,
God of delyt and scourge of Lumbardye,
Why shuld thyn infortúne I nought accounte,
Synce in estaat thou clomben were so hye?
Thy brother sone, that was thy double allie,
For he thy nevew was and sone in lawe,
Withinne his prisoun made thee to dye;
But none know why or how thou wer y-slawe.

De Hugilino Comite Pise

Of Hugilin of Pise the langour
Ther may no tonge telle for pitee.
But litel out of Pise stant a tour,
In whiche tour in prisoun put was he;
And with him be his litel children three,
The eldest skarsly fyf yer was of age;
Allas! fortúne! it was gret crueltee
Suche briddes for to put in such a cage.

Damnyd he was to deye in that prisoun,
For Roger, which that bisshop was of Pise,
Had on him made a fals suggestioun;
Thurgh which the peple gan on him arise,
And putten him in prisoun in such wise
As ye have herd, and mete and drynk he hadde
So smal that scarce wel it may suffise,
And therwithal it was ful pore and badde.

And on a day bifel that in that hour
Whan that his mete was wont to be i-brought,
The gayler shut the dores of that tour.
He herd it wel, but yit he saw it nought,
And in his hert anon ther fel a thought
That thay for hungir wolde doon him dyen.
“Alas!” quoth he, “allas! that I was wrought!”
Therwith the teeres felle fro his eyen.

His yongest sone, that three yer was of age,
Unto him sayde, “Fader, why do ye wepe?
Whan wil the gayler bringen oure potáge?
Is ther no morsel bred that ye do kepe?
I am so hongry that I may not sleepe.
Now wolde God that I might slepen ever!
Than shulde not hunger in my wombe crepe.
Ther is no thing save bred that me were lever.”

Thus day by day this child bigan to crie,
Til in his fadres bosom adoun he lay,
And sayde, “Far wel, fader, I must dye!”
And kist his fader, and dyde the same day.
And whan the fader him not helpen may,
For wo his armes tuo he gan to byte,

And sayde, “Fortúne, alas and waylaway!
Their false wiles to my wo I wyte.”

His childer wende that it for hongir was,
That he his armes gnawed, and nought for wo,
And sayden, “Fader, do nought so, allas!
But rather eet the flesh upon us tuo.
Oure flesh thou gave us, oure flesh take us fro,
And ete ynough;” right thus thay to him seyde.
And after that, withinne a day or tuo,
Thay layde them in his lappe adoun and deyde.

Himself despeired eek for honger starf.
Thus ended is this mighty erl of Pise;
For his estate fortune fro him carf.
Of this tragede it ought ynough suffise;
Who-so will here it in a longer wise,
Rede the grete poet of Itaile
That highte Daunte, for he can it devise,
Fro poynt to poynt nought oon word wil he fayle.