He's off to the tourney again.
This time he assures me he'll win.
It's not that I doubt him, or don't care about him
But I know that his chances are slim.
He loves the grand show of the field.
His arms blazoned bright on his shield,
As he couches his lance, he hasn't a chance,
And alas, once again, he must yield.
He wished a rich tabard be sewn,
That on it his arms might be shown,
In silk and in satin, with mottoes in Latin,
And to make it I took out a loan.
I stay home and manage his lands.
English work busies my hands.
I tally the flocks and the trade through the docks
And finance his tourney demands.
I make sure the storerooms are full.
I get the best price for our wool.
I see to our needs and weigh out the seeds,
And take fee for the stud of our bull.
The ransoms are great, I've been told
My harness a small bag of gold
And I've paid even larger to buy back my charger
Where the ransom comes let me be told.
I thought that the answer was clear.
I double the number each year
Of sheep and of beef, that graze on your fief,
They pay for your losses, my dear.
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