I am not like the little page
who seeks a master that will treat him well,
to keep him warm in the time of frost
and cool in summer when the heat comes;
little valuing his master's worth
and taking displeasure in his behaviour,
seeing very well that the way is hard
to change his lot for the better.
How will he manage to live without suffering
having lost the good he once possessed?
He sees right well, unless he is a fool,
that he will never have a better station.
What will he do, for no other good is left to him,
except to lament the good of the time lost?
Seeing full well that he has deceived himself,
he will never find anyone to treat him better.
I am that man who in time of storms,
when most people make merry round the fire
and I could join in with their games,
walks barefooted on the snow, with my head bare,
serving a master who never was a vassal
and who never thought of paying homage,
who in all base deeds showed a savage heart,
and who only says I will not lack a good reward.
My wise Lady, I cut out base desires;
no bad weeds grow on my riverbank.
Let it be known that within my soul
my thoughts will never fall beneath me.
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