Though thou well dost wish me ill br Audiart, Audiart, br Where thy bodice laces start br As ivy fingers clutching through br Its crevices, br Audiart, Audiart, br Stately, tall and lovely tender br Who shall render br Audiart, Audiart, br Praises meet unto thy fashion? br Here a word kiss ! br Pass I on br Unto Lady ‘Miels-de-Ben’, br Having praised thy girdle's scope br How the stays ply back from it; br I breath no hope br That thou shouldst . . . br Nay no whit br Bespeak thyself for anything. br Just a word in thy praise, girl, br Just for the swirl br Thy satins make upon the stair, br 'Cause never a flaw was there br Where thy torse and limbs are met br Though thou hate me, read it set br In rose and gold. br Or when the minstrel, tale half told, br Shall burst to lilting at the praise br 'Audiart, Audiart' . . br Bertrans, master of his lays, br Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise br Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, br Yea though thou wish me ill, br Audiart, Audiart. br Thy loveliness is here writ till, br Audiart, br Oh, till thou come again. br And being bent and wrinkled, in a form br That hath no perfect limning, when the warm br Youth dew is cold br Upon thy hands, and thy old soul br Scorning a new, wry'd casement, br Churlish at seemed misplacement, br Finds the earth as bitter br As now seems it sweet, br Being so young and fair br As then only in dreams, br Being then young and wry'd, br Broken of ancient pride, br Thou shalt then soften, br Knowing, I know not how, br Thou wert once she br Audiart, Audiart br For whose fairness one forgave br Audiart, br Audiart br Que be-m vols mal.