Torrid eyes see yonder,
Come passion of rest,
Wicked reasons let me be,
Enough done, Ni plus! Ni plus!

Doldrums of violent anger,
What nonsense it speaks,
Bon Dieu! Bon Dieu!
Give meaning to peace.

Treason, not hither not thither,
Divine trust credits deceit,
Silence thy killing daggers,
My ale is going weak.

Lament thy selfish fervours,
The blood reeks of defeat,
Harbingers hath ever so told,
Alas! I begot no feel.

What fate brings me asunder,
I must in myself now keep,
For if it breaks, it breaks,
And claim the life of me.