I No prisoner can tell his honest thought Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong; But for his comfort as he may make a song. My friends are many, but their gifts are naught. Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here I lie another year.

II They know this well, my barons and my men, Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou, That I had never follower so low Whom I would leave in prison to my gain. I say it not for a reproach to them, But prisoner I am!

III The ancient proverb now I know for sure; Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie, Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie. Much for myself I grieve; for them still more. After my death they will have grievous wrong If I am a prisoner long.

IV What marvel that my heart is sad and sore When my own lord torments my helpless lands! Well do I know that, if he held his hands, Remembering the common oath we swore, I should not here imprisoned with my song, Remain a prisoner long.

V They know this well who now are rich and strong Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine, That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain. They loved me much, but have not loved me long. Their plans will see no more fair lists arrayed While I lie here betrayed.

VI Companions whom I love, and still do love, Geoffroi du Perche and Ansel de Caieux, Tell them, my song, that they are friends untrue. Never to them did I false-hearted prove; But they do villainy if they war on me, While I lie here, unfree.

VII Countess sister! Your sovereign fame May he preserve whose help I claim, Victim for whom am I!

VIII I say not this of Chartres’ dame, Mother of Louis!

Richard the Lionheart