If my trade a blight upon the nation
preaching loyalty with a drying tongue
England play host to my blood relation
betrayed by the loins of your own treason.
Sardonic riches are the gold I won
that only buys what wealth decides to lose,
gimmickry can never raise my station
or veil me from the deeds that I have done;
but, if this Lady be the one I choose
how fell a grip would my hand dare to use.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem