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Off Melan grete Barnabo Viscounte, |
| God of delit and scourge of Lumbardye, |
| Why sholde I nat thyn infortune acounte, |
| Sith in estaat thow cloumbe were so hye? |
| 515 | Thy brother sone, that was thy double allye |
| For he thy nevew was, and sone-in-lawe, |
| Withinne his prisoun made thee to dye, |
| But why, ne how, noot I that thou were slawe. |
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| Of Milan, great Bernabo Visconti, |
| God of delight and scourge of Lombardy, |
| Why should I tell not of thy misery, |
| Since in all power thou did'st climb so high? |
| 515 | Thy brother's son, and doubly thine ally, |
| For he thy nephew was and son-in-law, |
| Within his prison shut thee up to die, |
| But I know not how death to thee did draw. |
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