A Fortress Against Envy

	The envy (feeble Britons)

	of Cesar's nation (a bold host)

	was a plague upon it, if it were fulfilled,

4	and made it (which is worse than any truth)

	captive to jealousy and obstruction,

	and it is an envious disposition

	that with one intent denies

8	a handsome man his talent and his glory.

	There are more impediments against me,

	by the rood, than against any other —

	I'm a lad who's racked by fear —

12	due to some cold, unfeeling people, from which parish I well know.

	Solid folk (a splendid prophesy)

	bring me ever more prosperity,

	while the scoundrels gossip

16	(give me strength!) and do [me] wrong.

	God, whose way is to protect,

	has granted a fortress to defend me — the heart's fine power,

	the equal (for fear of man's vengeance)

20	of Calais against his enemy.

	Retreat won't prosper – fair heart,

	the citadel of Troy – wretched love,

	a lofty hidden spike of steel,

24	the bosom's sombre Tower of Babylon.

	A single man, of valiant nature,

	would guard a castle (chamber of song)

	against all the gossips,

28	whilst provisions lasted through fine conduct,

	with hope as a rampart

	of gentle Angharad's love,

	and a catapult–stone of pleasantness

32	against scorn or great perversity,

	and the coat of mail (twofold, unbending,

	used to peace) of the true God my Father;

	it is troubled, God Lord of Heaven,

36	by menace born of envy.

	The watchman is a red–brown eye

	upon fine, proud men on the tower's battlement,

	the alert ear upon the governor

40	is a latimer who is reported yonder,

	and the porter (I'll never worry as a long as I live)

	is the tongue by the grace of God;

	the hands and feet

44	are outbuildings, they will not flinch.

	God the Father, it is yours,

	place provisions in your tower;

	do not leave a man inside empty–handed or struggling to speak

48	in case it's captured;

	seek to protect it from villains,

	sanctuary of the saints' land by sky and stars.

	Threaten (a despicable rabble)

52	the threateners of the lively, captive lad,

	we all know as we come and go

	(chilling commands) which ones they are.

	Even if the mighty–anchored sea

56	were to flow through stout King Edward's backside,

	the poet to a fair, bright, generous maid

	is alive and well, and may it be true.