Forbecause a prisoner lies

With no air or exercise

He has need, to save his health,

Of thoughts that will not give him grief:

I have friends of name and wealth,

But few of them have sent relief.

Ask what they have done for me,

Those who yet go rich and free,

All my barons, tall young men

Of Poitou, England and Touraine;

Once they were my friends, and then

They never knew me false or vain.

Much dishonour they may fear,

Should I lie two winters here.

Men and barons, they all know

Not one could be so poor to me,

I would let him stifle so

For want of money paid in fee.

Some may think my capture sent

As deserved, in punishment;

Others resting from alarms

Live unconcerned in heart or head,

Though the fields are bare of arms

And I do homage to a bed.