In it I found grapes lovely sweet;
But my conscience inward grieves me,
Grapes like these I will not eat.
Mordomo ran with rapid vigour
In order that the king may flee.
—‘Alas a slipper I have lost.’
—‘Take one of mine I give to thee.’
They fled, but in another instant
Since the whistle they did hear,
Descends the Count from off the mountain.