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 breathe 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 phrase

“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.