I know the truth. All false the oaths you swore.
Never shall lying lips deceive me more.
O perjured wanton, this your quiet sleep
And these the lonely vigils that you keep!
Has your fair Cleon? — Ah, but threats are vain:
Begone, base creature, nor return again,
But no: that were indeed your game to play:
You'd fly to meet him. Here a prisoner stay.

High-brow house was furnished well
With many a goblet fair;
So when they brought the Holy Grail,
There was never a space to spare.
Simple Cottage was clear and clean,
With room to store at will;
So there they laid the Holy Grail,
And there you'll find it still.

I know you, wanton: prayers will not avail:
Those scented locks tell all too plain a tale,
Your eyes with watching red, those perfumes wet,
That garland still upon your tresses set.
See how your curls in wild confusion twine,
How all your limbs are still bemused with wine.
Go, common wench, whither the loud harps call
And castanets from clattering fingers fall.

Sweet are the notes of Phoebus' lyre;
But by great Love I swear,
Far sweeter Heliodora's voice
When soft it strikes my ear.

Her breast she laid upon my breast,
My bosom on her bosom pressed;
And as I took her lips to mine
I felt her arms about me twine.
The rest is silence. None could see,
Except our lamp, love's mystery.

My miss Europa is an Attic maid;
A crown's her price, nor need you be afraid;
No one is there to trouble your repose,
And all you ask right willingly she does.
Her room is clean; in winter there's a fire;
Dear Zeus, what more could any bull desire?

As soundes from hollow things,
doe nought but ayre implie:
So words from faythlesse friends,
shewe nought but flatterie.

Ard Macha is the capital of Ireland, a noble place of a high prince; he has come upon the beautiful citadel of many masses that is like blue Colt, full of valleys. Never let your contention be with Ard Macha of the white-washed wall, even if you go as far as ancient Corcach of the fair feasts among the chief places of the men of Ireland. Taillte and Nas Laighean of the slopes, Aileach and Eamhain, red with wine — no man leaves them sorrowful — Uisneach and Cruachain and Caiseal.

KEIP YOW FRA PRODIGALITIE ,
OPPRESSIOUN, WRANG, AND CREWELTIE ;
AND FRA ALL VYCE, AND VANITIE :
AND GRUND YOW UPON TREUTH .
HANT GUDE AND HONEST CUMPANIE ;
USE WYSE COUNSALE, AND GRAVITIE ;
DO ALL YOUR MATERS DISCREITLIE ;
AND OF THE PUIR HAVE REUTH .

The four most generous men whom Flann found from the day he sold his first quatrain, when the slender-fingered poet of Maonmhagh had traversed all of Ireland: Maol Doraidh, noble Eigneachan, Aonghus, generous and fierce Flaithbheartach — a noble family that rewarded every poem — of the progeny of Conall of Connluan. Flann, son of Lonan, brought a pure lay to Eigneachan, Dalach's heir, having praised each most excellent spirit, having tried the generosity of Ireland. ├ëigneachan of Eas Ruaidh gave at once to the ollave of Ireland — few to whom the judgment is given — seven ploughlands to till.