On the Death of Beatrice

Nor Spring nor Winter gives me joy,
Nor groves of oak, nor days serene.
Prosperity is grievous teen,
My greatest pleasures breed annoy;
My solace now is weary Care,
My Hopes are turned into Despair;
Yet once Love filled my every wish,
Quickening me more than water fish.
Alas! that ere from Love I went,
For bitter is my banishment!
Like death me seems all other life,
All other comfort — toil and strife.

Brave warriors, the army's flower,
Strong battering-rams and sieges bold,
The fall of ramparts new and old.
The battle won, the scaled tower —
Such sights and sounds are mine, but these
To love-sick hearts bring little ease;
Though where the fight does fiercest rage
Stern war against the foe I wage,
And win me many a goodly prize.
Since love has vanished from my eyes,
This fair world seems but desolate,
And song can ne'er my grief abate.

Riches full ill my pains requite,
Methinks more riches I did gain
When o'er my heart Love held his reign,
And gave me rapturous delight;
More precious far such happiness
Than here great wealth and power possess.
Ever the more my power does grow,
The more of sorrow I do know,
For from my life all joy has flown,
Since my Fair Knight has left me lone,
And nought can bring to me relief,
For aye the fiercer grows my grief.