1. Alas, my friends! Never would I sell,
These tapestries which fame and glory tell.

2. Though now in ruins my old workshop dwells,
You still recall me as the Lord of Tapestries.

3. My trade has failed; my goods no longer sell.
What profits verse when hearths no longer swell?

4. The baker, whom I’d fed full well,
Repaid me with ingratitude and lies.

5. By God! I had not planned at all
To sell his bread, except at need and call.

6. I have a boy, so fair of face,
Yet paralyzed, headstrong and weak.

7. He seeks what harms him, like the worm
That bores the wood it feeds upon.

8. By day he sells some cloth, and buys us bread,
As evening through the marketplace he treads.