Tristan I cannot go today because
A fever has attacked my little son
Our son for I am certain he is yours
He cries and I must stay my dearest one
Tomorrow we have Mark's established night
He takes a bath and sprays expensive scents
Should I neglect my duty then he might
Have further doubts about my innocence
Next day we'll see the envoy of the king
Of Burgundy it's whispered that he bears
A matchless ruby as an offering
I must be careful these are the state affairs
In three days time we'll give a ball we must
Receive the Cornish aristocracy
– those decked-out wives – then hiding my disgust
I'll take their homage with due courtesy
I cannot go I'm busy as you see
But heaven knows your wound torments me too
I'll fly to you as soon as I am free
And then my dearest I will die with you.
