XXVII.

“I speak not to implore your grace, Well know I, for one minute’s space Successless might I sue: Nor do I speak your prayers to gain— For if a death of lingering pain, To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, Vain are your masses too. I listened to a traitor’s tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bowed my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride; And well my folly’s meed he gave, Who forfeited, to be his slave, All here, and all beyond the grave. He saw young Clara’s face more fair, He knew her of broad lands the heir, Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more. ’Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne’er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betrayed for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me.