And “woman is the fairest flower even in heaven.”
He thus continues:—
From heaven all joy and gladness flow;
All sadness from the depths below:
My song the sorrows can assuage
Of health and sickness, youth and age;
And natural is poesy
To me, as preaching is to thee.
And justly hospitality
Is prized by me, as alms by thee.
There is, sir priest, a proper time
Alike for sermons and for rhyme;
Verse was intended to delight,
Amid the banquet, ladies bright;
In church the Pater Nosters rise
To raise the soul to paradise.
Well did the brave Ystudfach say,
Regaling with the bardic throng,
That “plenty lives with spirits gay,”
But evil dwells with faces long!
He adds that every body can say his prayers, but very few can sing sweet stanzas! This singular poem concludes with a series of maledictions, which the monk and his penitent lavish on each other; and to which a translator cannot hope to do justice.
