What marvel that my heart is sad and sore
 When my own lord torments my helpless lands! 
 Well do I know that, if he held his hands,
 Remembering the common oath we swore,
 I should not here imprisoned with my song,
 Remain a prisoner long.

They know this well who now are rich and strong
 Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine,
 That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain. 
 They loved me much, but have not loved me long. 
 Their plains will see no more fair lists arrayed,
 While I lie here betrayed.

Companions, whom I loved, and still do love,
 Geoffroi du Perche and Ansel de Caleux,
 Tell them, my song, that they are friends untrue.

Never to them did I false-hearted prove;
 But they do villainy if they war on me,
 While I lie here, unfree.

Countess sister! your sovereign fame
 May he preserve whose help I claim,
 Victim for whom am I! 
 I say not this of Chartres’ dame,
 Mother of Louis!

Richard’s prison-song, one of the chief monuments of English literature, sounds to every ear, accustomed to twelfth-century verse, as charming as when it was household rhyme to

                 mi ome et mi baron
    Englois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon.

Not only was Richard a far greater king than any Louis ever was, but he also composed better poetry than any other king who is known to tourists, and, when he spoke to his sister in this cry of the heart altogether singular among monarchs, he made law and style, above discussion.  Whether he meant to reproach his other sister, Alix of Chartres, historians may tell, if they know.  If he did, the reproach answered its purpose, for the song was written in 1193; Richard was ransomed and released in 1194; and in 1198 the young Count “Loweis” of Chartres and Blois leagued with the Counts of Flanders, Le Perche, Guines, and Toulouse, against Philip Augustus, in favor of Coeur-de-Lion to whom they rendered homage.  In any case, neither Mary nor Alice in 1193 was reigning Countess.  Mary was a widow since 1181, and her son Henry was Count in Champagne, apparently a great favourite with his uncle Richard Coeur-de-Lion.  The life of this Henry of Champagne was another twelfth-century romance, but can serve no purpose here except to recall the story that his mother, the great Countess Mary, died in 1198 of sorrow for the death of this son, who was then King of Jerusalem, and was killed, in 1197, by a fall from the window of his palace at Acre.  Coeur-de-Lion died in 1199.  In 1201, Mary’s other son, who succeeded Henry,—­Count Thibaut iii,—­died, leaving a posthumous heir, famous in the thirteenth century as Thibaut-le-Grand—­the Thibaut of Queen Blanche.