Nay, sirrah, an thou believest not, scan well the scars I carry.
Two cursed hounds ye had withal, hounds from the Lombard country,
And fierce upon me sprang the twain, and fierce as wolves their baying.
Then cursèd I thee full bitterly, a curse of very venom,
That no bright day should ever cheer thy miserable body,
That thou shouldst burn, that thou shouldst burn, and have no hope of riddance,
That joy should ever ’scape thy clasp, and sorrow dog thy goings,
That thine own kin should slander thee and thy friends rail upon thee,
Nor strangers nor thy countrymen know aught of love toward thee.
Yet, hapless man, not thine the sin; thy parents’ was the sinning,