High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark—

The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.

The French toiled through them painfully; their march

Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land

Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,

And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,

Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:

Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;

But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns

His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....

By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.


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