This poem summarizes 14 stanzas of poetry from various medieval sources in 3 sentences: The first section describes a knight contemplating honor, wealth, and health while sitting alone on a stone. The second references political instability and violence plaguing the realm. The final section urges the reader to choose God's grace over being poor or unfamed. It summarizes poems focused on themes of medieval courtly love, politics, religion, and daily life.

1. POEMS IN MOCK MEDIEVAL VEIN
After Walther von der Vogelweide's "Ich saz ûf eime Steine”
(composed around the year 1200)

2. Froma collection of illustrations pertaining to poetic works written in Middle High
German of the Minnesang genre in the CodexManesse , a document completed
in Zurich around 1340
My mind fromworldly cares once lost
elbow on knee, hand to cheek, legs crossed,
I sat upon a seat of stone
thankfulwith thoughts to be alone.

3. and contemplate, now free fromstrife,
whate’er gives meaning to this life.
I saw, uplifted by strange wings
that life combines naughtbut three things
one so-called honour, oneworldly wealth,
one given by God, soul-blessing health.
Honour and wealth in conflict toss
unless God's blessing heal their loss.
Thus violence roams fromtown to town
And men shed blood to own the crown.
As life's three parts ne'er share one
space
Unfamed or poor Iet’s chooseGod's grace.
LAURA
Mine ne'er to be, yet mine always;
Laura, spirit of dawn. Darkest night
Cannot hide thee nor obscure thy rays.
Though Black Death hath by his temporal right
Claimed thee, dost thou, my love , indwell this
heart.
Though Charon's hammer this clay vessel break,
The winds ne 'er scathed by Time's envenomed dart
Shall of its pure content aye possession take
And spread abroad thy fragrance to all Man,
Fill the valleys and linger o'er the seas.
'Tis not my part all future times to scan,
But thankfully to muse by pastures, groves and leas,
Await thy returning, nightly count the hours
"Till I rejoice with singing birds and flowers."

4. Langland's Piers the Ploughman Much
Shrunk
<
This time of trouble so torn by terror,
time of deep darkness and all-devouring death,
this time of woe, high wages and much
wenching
is no time for pleasant pastorals and praises.
I wander weary this winding way and wonder
what future ills befall our faltering folk.
Lady Favour fools high judges with her
frippery.
.Edward wends from week to week more
bedward,
grieving and grave and given much to groan,
his grown heir new buried, his sole heir just a
boy.
In two palaces two popes preside and prate.
O time of doubt and dismal dread of doom
But tarry, till then is time to talk.
I will not lie in Latin or fabricate in French.
Shepherds shear sheep; the manor munches
mutton.
The bull in the field is the beef on the board.
Thanks to a brute, that Norman nasty bully
we have our mixed, of late much muzzled
tongue.
I have but this, but this is all I need,
apart, that is, from a goblet full of mead.
After a Medieval German Rhyme by an
Anonymous Poetess
Iam yours.You are mine.
This is thesure andcertain sign
Youare enclosed within myheart.

5. Itslittle key noman shall find.
Here thenremain as longas time
Woe to the realm where none is
mindful of the helm
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternitas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternitas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternitas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,

6. you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternitas,
et haec est aeternitas.
******************************
The Tragic Story of Rosamond
Clifford
By some urge to learn more, beckoned,
I read up the life of Henry the Second.
With Thomas Becket he picked a bone.
This well known fact I'll leave alone.
Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine
became his wife and brought much gain,
but in one matter not enough.
The lack was relieved by a piece of fluff.
In charm and beauty sans pareille
was Rosamund, a bloom in May.
Lest her appearance eyebrows raise
he hid his love in a secret maze,
Or so he thought but his wife got wind
that he and someone else had sinned.
Thus it was that the wily queen
found her way to the hideaway scene.
"By dagger or poison, take your choice,"
said the queen with rasping voice.
No true event but a pure invention
was this encounter, let me mention.
To Hereford this rose they sent
there in a convent to repent.
Still young and fair, alas she died.
For shame once more, she had to hide.
Far from any royal palace
in stone were written words of malice:
"In life her scent was sweet to smell,
but not so now, the truth to tell."
Hic jacet in tumba Rosamundi non Rosamunda, non redolet sed olet, quae redolere
solet.

7. HOW SIREGADDABOUT UNTO HIS NUPTIALSCAME
Sire Gaddaboutonespring-tidemorn
his sturdydappledsteeddidmount.
forhe wouldwedthehighly born
Maid Ethrelda Holyfount
He pluckedhis luteandsang an air,
butscarce a league wastrod
thancame acry."Beware, beware!
Here comes theknave, Sire Heaviplodde.
"Sire Heaviplodde,my mortal foe?
Seekshe thisday afight?
'Tis him orme amortal blow
mustsoon dispatchtoendless night."
Sir Heaviploddein armor black
rodeuptomock andjeer.
Thensaid he,holding highaa sack:

8. "Yourheadwill serve assouvenir."
"Make good,blackknight,yourfoolish boast,"
stern-faced Sire Gaddaboutdidcry,
"orbyye saints yourwretchedghost
full soontheStygianstrait must ply."
Theshields didclash,the horsessnort,
thedustdidfly,the swordsdidring,
and,tocuta longtale short,
'twasHeaviplodde whoknewdeath’s sting.
Afulsome wench withbabeatbreast
stoodsteadfastin theway.
Sire Gaddaboutatherbehest
stoppedfortohear whatshemight say.
Sheraised her babefor himtosee,
she cockedherhead andwitha sneer

9. said:"Knightat arms, remember me?
Youleft behindthissouvenir."
Onseeing this theknightdidblush.
He badehis squiregofetch some beer.
Thensaid he totheyounggirl "Hush,
thisbagof goldshouldhelpout,dear."
Pasthill, pasthamlet, woodandmire,
herode withnoblecarriage.
Mighteven yet thefates conspire
todashall hopes ofmarriage?
Whostoodwithvisage grim andold
toguardtheway before?
Aman in blackheld upascroll,
whereon werewrit thedebtsofyore.

10. Notall thegoldthe knightdidhold,
notlands,notherds,his dowry,
coulde'er redeem his debtsofold
accrued in youthfulfolly.
"Ihave sinned"the knightdidweep,
"andmercy is my plea.
Imust tochurchmy pledgetokeep
in holymatrimony."
Thegrim collector smiled andsaid:
"Asbridegroomyou todayare free.
Yourpast islike a shadowfled.
Whatcountstodayis whatshall be."
The final dragon
Fair Hilda, pass, I pray, that flagon.
I now must face my final dragon.
Whence courage comes what do I care
As I approach my dragon’s lair?

11. Dragons twain are by me slain.
Dragon-slayer is my name.
Those days were spent in bygone youth,
And now grey age comes on forsooth!
Hilda, beetle not thy brow.
Old men can show ‘em young’uns how.
What now I cannot, yet once could
Experience, doubt not, makes good.
Alone my fearful reputation
Ensures an easy amputation.
Yet of the issue irrespective,
Loss and gain are all perspective.
And what though “the worst” transpired,
Knights, once pensioned off, grow tired.
For life’s a drag, when dragons are no more.
To dragons then this flagon’s dregs let’s
pour.
On the Bridge of Avignon
Lazy-bones, forsake your bed!
Shake off dull sloth, rise from the dead!
On the bridge of Avignon
there is dancing. Join the fun!
Ye gold-laden, ye who beg,
Young men dance with dash and vigour,
old men cut a less bold figure.
A priest and soldier back to back
flash their colours, red or black.
To the sprightly, to the lame

12. the piper's call is just the same.
Will you dance or will you nay,
all must dance, come end of day.