A plait! Love is a fetter of hot iron; so my song shall be iron-cruel like the bidding of Jehane.

Say now, shall I set the song?
The love-cry is the cry of a man who drags his way with his side torn; and the colour of it is dry red, like old blood; and the sound thereof maketh the hearers ache, so it quavers and shrills.

For it cries only two things: sorrow and shame.' He misconceived his adversary who thought to quell him by such vapours.
Richard took the viol.
'Bertran, it is well seen that thou art pinched and have a torn side; but ask of thy itching fingers who graved the wound.

Dry thou art, Bertran, for thy trough is dry; the husks prick thy gums, but there is no other meat.

Well may the hearers' ears go aching; for thy cry, man, proceedeth from thy aching belly.