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The knave was singing blithely: Pus mos Belhs Cavaliers grazitz E joys m'es lunhatz e faiditz, Don no m' venra jamais conortz; Fer qu'ees mayer l'ira e plus fortz The Saracen had said nothing. He showed a jeweled dagger, and the knight arose and followed him out of that uproarious hall.
Vejaire m'es qu'eu senta Un ven de Paradis. The greater part of this poetry repeats, in another language, the well-worn mannerisms of the troubadours: we find the usual introductory references to the spring or winter seasons, the wounding glances of ladies' eyes, the tyranny of love, the reluctance to be released from his chains and so forth, decked out with complications of stanza form and rime-distribution.