On the Death of Blacatz

I sing Sir Blacatz' death, by sorrow sore constrain'd,
And meet it is I mourn with sighs and tears unfeign'd,
For lord and friend I've lost; no better earth contain'd.
Since by his death we lose all fame and worth unstain'd,
So foul the ill, that I have needs from hope refrain'd,
Yet hope would come if, ere his heart of blood be drain'd,
The cowardly barons ate of it, and thereby gain'd
That courage high and firm that ever in it reign'd.

First let there eat of it, for sore I deem his need,
The Emperor of Rome, if he in very deed
Would rule the Milanese, who, full of hate and greed,
Seek to rule him, and all his Germans little heed;
And then, if he would win Castile's fair realm, I read
The King of France upon that noble heart to feed;
Yet eat he will not if his Mother 'gainst it plead,
For his poor fame well shows, that she his heart does lead.

Fain would I see the English King upon it fare,
Who then a stouter heart within his breast would bear,
To win the land, whose loss his honour does impair,
The land that for his sloth the French as theirs declare;
Then I would give the Castile King a double share,
Who, though he hold two kingdoms, one does merit ne'er;
Yet, if he eat, to tell thereof he must not dare,
Since, if his mother knew't, the rod she'd nowise spare.

Likewise, 'twere well the Count of Toulouse on it fed,
To mind him of that land that he abandoned;
If by another's heart he be not strengthened,
That land he'll ne'er regain, for his own heart is dead;
Then the Provengal Count should taste that heart blood red.
For small the worth methinks of peer disherited,
Full valiantly he fights and sorely is bestead,
Yet eat he must, or 'neath his burdens bow his head.

Ill will the barons brook the honest words I've said.
Know they like scorn to theirs, within my heart is laid.