Na Audiart

Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices, Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion? Here a word kiss ! Pass I on Unto Lady ‘Miels-de-Ben’, Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it; I breath no hope That thou shouldst . . . Nay no whit Bespeak thyself for anything. Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl Thy satins make upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met Though thou hate me, read it set In rose and gold. Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the praise 'Audiart, Audiart' . . Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill, Audiart, Audiart. Thy loveliness is here writ till, Audiart, Oh, till thou come again. And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold Upon thy hands, and thy old soul Scorning a new, wry'd casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter As now seems it sweet, Being so young and fair As then only in dreams, Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride, Thou shalt then soften, Knowing, I know not how, Thou wert once she Audiart, Audiart For whose fairness one forgave Audiart, Audiart Que be-m vols mal.