Bad payments, evil counsellors,
The discord of our warriors,
Gabelles, and burdensome taxation
Again torment this hapless nation.
With wars, which, till our state be mended,
We ne'er shall see or check'd or ended:
For multitudes, with trait'rous arts,
Serve France's king with english hearts;
And service wrought against the will
Can ne'er turn out to aught but ill.
True is the maxim of the sage,
Which saith, The broils of civil rage
Surely befal that wretched state
Whose king his subjects view with hate.
War too delights the ravening train
Who still the royal treasure drain:
Who, midst the strife, with greedy hands,
Seieze gold and silver, house and lands;
Who, aye the first to seize the prey,
Are aye the last their dues to pay.
But, dukes and kings, to me attend:
If thus your warfare know no end,
Be sure at length you'll rue the cost,
When all your lands are waste and lost;
For friends by ready pay are won,
While tardy payers are undone.
No more within your castle's walls
Court libbard ease while honour calls,
But quit your forests and your streams,
And haste where many a banner gleams.
Alas! for France so meek and tame,
No glory dwells upon thy name!
To thee, O duke! to thee, O king!
With honest grief this plaint I bring.