Are favoring ladies above thee?
  Are there dowries and lands? Do they say
Seven others are fair? But I love thee:
          Aultre n’auray!

All the sea is a lawn in our country;
  All the morrow, our star of delay.
I am King: let me live on thy bounty!
          Aulture n’auray!

To the fingers so light and so rosy
  ...