Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face,
Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow,
And the touch of thine embrace.
Who but doth in thee delight?
I for love of thee am bound
In this dungeon underground,
All for loving thee must lie
Here where loud on thee I cry,
Here for loving thee must die
For thee, my love."
Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale:
Aucassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolete, of her
part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer time, the month of May, when
days are warm, and long, and clear, and the night still and serene.
Nicolete lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine clear through a
window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, so she minded
her of Aucassin her lover whom she loved so well. Then fell she to
thoughts of Count Garin de Biaucaire, that hated her to the death;
therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, for that, if
she were told of, and the Count knew whereas she lay, an ill death would
he make her die. Now she knew that the old woman slept who held her
company. Then she arose, and clad her in a mantle of silk she had by
her, very goodly, and took napkins, and sheets of the bed, and knotted
one to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she might, so
knitted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down into the
garden, then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and before, and
kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the
grass, and so went her way down through the garden.
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