Fancy, ever wild and fuming
Is the minnesinger's steed,
And his art as shield assuming,
The word turns to sword at need.

Beauteous women, with glances pleasant,
From a draped balcony look down.
But the right one is not present
With the proper laurel crown.

Other combatants, when they spring
To the lists, are sound and whole,
But we minnesingers do bring
A deathly wound in our soul.

And he, from whom the most blood drains,
With songs from his inmost breast,
He is the victor and obtains,
From fair lips, a praise most blest.