Part II · VI. The Lament of Svyatoslav Vsevolodic

Then the mighty Svyatoslav let fall a golden word, commingled with tears, and spake: "Oh my nephews, Igor and Vsevolod! soon have ye begun to harass the land of the Polovtsy with your swords, and to seek fame for yourselves! But, dishonourably have ye conquered, for dishonourably have ye shed the blood of the heathen. Your brave hearts are welded together in heavy steel, and tempered in audacity. This have ye wrought to me to my silvered grey hairs?

Now I no longer see the power of my brother Yaroslav, the mighty and wealthy and well-equipped, with the commanders of the Cernigov mercenaries, with their forces, both with the men from the Tatra, the men from Selbir and Topcak, from Revukha [or Revutsa] and from Olbier. For these without shields conquer the hosts by their yells, echoing to the glory of their forebears. But ye spake: — "Let us play a man's part; let us steal the glory of yore; let us divide the glory to come for ourselves!"

But, what wonder were it, brothers, for an old man to grow young? If a hawk is moulting, it drives the birds afar high up, and will not foul its own nest.

But this disaster, oh my Prince, is irremediable: the seasons have gone backwards to nothingness.

Thus they cry out at Rim beneath the sabres of the Polovtsy, but Vladimir [lies] beneath his wounds, "Woe and sorrow to the son of Gleb!"