'I speak not to implore your grace, 495
Well know I, for one minute's space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500
Vain are your masses too.--
I listen'd to a traitor's tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505
And well my folly's meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.--
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.--
'Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old, 515
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me!