The Greater Testament of Master François Villon

IN the year thirty of my age,Wherein I've drunk so deep of shame,Neither all fool nor yet all sage,For all my misery and blame—Which latter all upon me cameThrough Bishop Thibault d'Aussigny:(If bishop such an one folk name;At all events, he's none for me :

He's nor my bishop nor my lord ;I hold of him nor land nor fee,Owe him nor homage nor accord,Am nor his churl nor beast, perdie).A summer long he nourished meUpon cold water and dry bread;God do by him as he by me,Whom passing scurvily he fed.

If any go about to sayI do miscall him—I say no:I wrong him not in any way,If one aread me rightly. Lo!Here's all I say, nor less nor mo ;If he had mercy on my dole,May Christ in heaven like mercy showUnto his body and his soul!

And if he wrought me pain and illMore than herein I do relate,God of His grace to him fulfilLike measure and proportionate !But the Church bids us not to hate,But to pray rather for our foes:I'll own I'm wrong and leave his fateTo God that all things can and knows.

And pray for him I will, to boot,By Master Cotard's soul I swear!But soft: 'twill then be but by rote;I'm ill at reading; such a prayerI'll say for him as Picards' were.(If what I mean he do not know—Ere 'tis too late to learn it there—To Lille or Douai let him go).

Yet, if he needs must have't that IShould, willy nilly, for him pray,(Though I proclaim it not on high)As I'm a chrisom man, his wayHe e'en shall get; but, sooth to say,When I the Psalter ope for him,I take the seventh verse alwayOf the psalm called " Deus laudem."

I DO implore God's blessèd Son,To whom I turn in every need,So haply my poor orisonFind grace with Him—from whom indeedBody and soul I hold—who's freedMe oft from blame and evil chance.Praised be our Lady and her SeedAnd Louis the good King of France!

Whom God with Jacob's luck endow,And glory of great Solomon!Of doughtiness he has enow,In sooth, and of dominion.In all the lands the sun shines on,In this our world of night and day,God grant his fame and memory wonneAs long as lived Methusaleh!

May twelve fair sons perpetuateHis royal lineage, one and allAs valorous as Charles the Great,Conceived in matrix conjugal,As doughty as Saint Martial!The late Lord Dauphin fare likewise;No worser fortune him befallThan this and after, Paradise !

FEELING my self upon the wane,Even more in goods than body spent,Whilst my full senses I retain,What little God to me hath sent(For on no other have I leant),I have set down of my last willThis very stable Testament,Alone and irrevocable.

Written in the same year, sixty-one,Wherein the good king set me freeFrom the dour prison of MehunAnd so to life recovered me:Whence I to him shall bounden beAs long as life in me fail not:I'm his till death ; assuredly,Good deeds should never be forgot.

NOW is it true that, after yearsOf anguish and of sorrowing,Travail and toil and groans and tearsAnd many a weary wandering,Trouble hath wrought in me to bringTo point each shifting sentiment,Teaching me many another thingThan Averrhöes his Comment.

However, at my trials' worst,When wandering in the desert ways,God, who the Emmäus pilgrims erstDid comfort, as the Gospel says,Showed me a certain resting-placeAnd gave me gift of hope no less ;Though vile the sinner be and base,Nothing He hates save stubbornness.

Sinned have I oft, as well I know ;But God my death doth not require,But that I turn from sin and soLive righteously and shun hellfire.Whether one by sincere desireOr counsel turn unto the Lord,He sees and casting off His ire,Grace to repentance doth accord.

And as of its own motion shows,Ev'n in the very first of it,The noble Romaunt of the Rose,Youth to the young one should remit,So manhood do mature the wit.And there, alack! the song says sooth :They that such snares for me have knitWould have me die in time of youth.

If for my death the common wealMight anywise embettered be,Death, my own hand to me should dealAs felon, so God 'stablish me!But unto none, that I can see,Hindrance I do, alive or dead ;The hills, for one poor wight, perdie,Will not be stirred out of their stead.

WHILOM, when Alexander reigned,A man that hight DiomedesBefore the Emperor was arraigned,Bound hand and foot, like as one seesA thief. A skimmer of the seasOf those that course it far and nighHe was, and so, as one of these,They brought him to be doomed to die.

The emperor bespoke him thus:" Why art thou a sea-plunderer?'The other, no wise timorous :' Why dost thou call me plunderer, sir?Is it, perchance, because I earUpon so mean a bark the sea ?Could I but arm me with thy gear,I would be emperor like to thee.

'What wouldst thou have? From sorry Fate,That uses me with such despiteAs I on no wise can abate,Arises this my evil plight.Let me find favour in thy sightAnd have in mind the common saw:In penury is little right ;Necessity knows no man's law?

Whenas the emperor to his suitHad hearkened, much he wonderèd ;And I thy fortune will commuteFrom bad to good,' to him he said;And did. Thenceforward DiomedWronged none, but was a true man aye.Thus have I in Valerius read,Of Rome styled Greatest in his day.

If God had granted me to findA king of like greatheartedness,That had fair fate to me assigned,Stooped I thenceforward to excessOr ill, I would myself confessWorthy to die by fire at stake.Necessity makes folk transgressAnd want drives wolven from the brake.

MY time of youth I do bewail,That more than most lived merrily,Until old age 'gan me assail,For youth had passed unconsciously.It wended not afoot from me,Nor yet on horseback. Ah, how then ?It fled away all suddenlyAnd never will return again.

It's gone, and I am left behind,Poor both in knowledge and in wit,Black as a berry, drear and dwined,Coin, land and goods, gone every whit ;Whilst those by kindred to me knit,The due of Nature all forgot,To disavow me have seen fit,For lack of pelf to pay the scot.

Yet have I not my substance spentIn wantoning or gluttonyNor thorow love incontinent;None is there can reproach it me,Except he rue it bitterly;I say it in all soothfastness—Nor can you bate me of this plea—Who's done no wrong should none confess.

True is it I have loved whilereAnd willingly would love again :But aching heart and paunch that ne'erDoth half its complement contain,The ways of Love allure in vain;'Deed, none but those may play its gameWhose well-lined belly wags amain ;For the dance comes of the full wame.

If in my time of youth, alack !I had but studied and been sageNor wandered from the beaten track,I had slept warm in my old age.But what did I? As bird from cage,I fled the schools; and now with pain,In setting down this on the page,My heart is like to cleave in twain.

I have construed what SolomonIntended, with too much largesse,When that he said, 'Rejoice, my son,In thy fair youth and lustiness :But elsewhere speaks he otherguess ;'For youth and adolescence be'(These are his words, nor more nor less)' But ignorance and vanity'

Like as the loose threads on the loom,Whenas the weaver to them laysThe flaming tow, burn and consume,So that from ragged ends (Job says)The web is freed,—even so my daysAre gone a-wand'ring past recall.No more Fate's buffs nor her affraysI fear, for death assuageth all.

WHERE are the gracious gallants nowThat of old time I did frequent,So fair of fashion and of show,In song and speech so excellent?Stark dead are some, their lives are spent ;There rests of them nor mark nor trace:May they in Heaven have content;God keep the others of His grace !

Some, Christ-a-mercy, are becomeMasters and lords of high degree;Some beg all naked and no crumbOf bread save in some window see;Some, having put on monkery,Carthews, Celestines and what not,Shod, breeched like oysterfishers be;Look you, how divers is their lot !

God grant great lords to do aright,That live in luxury and ease !We cannot aught to them requite,So will do well to hold our peace.But to the poor (like me), that ceaseNever from want, God patience give!For that they need it; and not these,That have the wherewithal to live,—

That drink of noble wines and eatFish, soups and sauces every day,Pasties and flawns and roasted meatAnd eggs served up in many a way.Herein from masons differ they,That with such toil their bread do earn :These need no cupbearer, folk say,For each one pours out in his turn.

TO this digression I've been led,That serves in nothing my intent.I am no Court, empanellèdFor quittance or for punishment:I am of all least diligent.Praised be Christ! May each man's needBy me of Him have full content!That which is writ is writ indeed.

So let that kite hang on the wallAnd of more pleasing subjects treat;For this finds favour not with all,Being wearisome and all unsweet:For poverty doth groan and greet,Full of despite and strife alway;Is apt to say sharp things in heatOr think them, if it spare to say.

POOR was I from my earliest youth,Born of a poor and humble race:My sire was never rich, in sooth,Nor yet his grandfather Erace;Want follows hard upon our traceNor on my forbears' tombs, I ween,(Whose souls the love of God embrace!)Are crowns or sceptres to be seen.

When I of poverty complain,Ofttimes my heart to me hath said,'Man, wherefore murmur thus in vain ?If thou hast no such plentiheadAs had Jacques Cœur, be comforted:Better to live and rags to wearThan to have been a lord, and dead,Rot in a splendid sepulchre'

(Than to have been a lord! I say.Alas, no longer is he one ;As the Psalm tells of it,—to-dayHis place of men is all unknown.)As for the rest, affair 'tis noneOf mine, that but a sinner be :To theologians aloneThe case belongs, and not to me.

For I am not, as well I know,An angel's son, that crowned with lightAmong the starry heavens doth go:My sire is dead—God have his spright!His body's buried out of sight.I know my mother too must die—She knows it too, poor soul, aright—And soon her son by her must lie.

I know full well that rich and poor,Villein and noble, high and low,Laymen and clerks, gracious and dour,Wise men and foolish, sweet of showOr foul of favour, dames that goRuffed and rebatoed, great or small,High-tired or hooded, Death (I know)Without exception seizes all.

Paris or Helen though one be,Who dies, in pain and drearihead,For lack of breath and blood dies he,His gall upon his heart is shed;Then doth he sweat, God knows how dreadA sweat, and none there is to allayHis ills, child, kinsman, in his stead,None will go bail for him that day.

Death makes him shiver and turn pale,Sharpens his nose and swells his veins,Puffs up his throat, makes his flesh fail,His joints and nerves greatens and strains.Fair women's bodies, soft as skeinsOf silk, so tender, smooth and rare,Must you too suffer all these pains?Ay, or alive to heaven fare.

TELL me where, in what land of shade,Bides fair Flora of Rome, and whereAre Thaïs and Archipiade,Cousins-german of beauty rare,And Echo, more than mortal fair,That, when one calls by river-flowOr marish, answers out of the air?But what is become of last year's snow?

Where did the learn'd Heloïsa vade,For whose sake Abelard might not spare(Such dole for love on him was laid)Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?And where is the queen who willed whilereThat Buridan, tied in a sack, should goFloating down Seine from the turret-stair?But what is become of last year's snow?

Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that madeSweet music as if she a siren were;Broad-foot Bertha; and Joan the maid,The good Lorrainer, the English bareCaptive to Rouen and burned her there;Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys,—lo !Where are they, Virgin debonair?But what is become of last year's snow?

Prince, you may question how they fareThis week, or liefer this year, I trow:Still shall the answer this burden bear,But what is become of last year's snow?

WHERE is Calixtus, third of the name,That died in the purple whiles ago,Four years since he to the tiar came?And the King of Aragon, Alfonso?The Duke of Bourbon, sweet of show,And the Duke Arthur of Brittaine?And Charles the Seventh, the Good? Heigho!But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

Likewise the King of Scots, whose shameWas the half of his face (or folk say so),Vermeil as amethyst held to the flame,From chin to forehead all of a glow?The King of Cyprus, of friend and foeRenowned; and the gentle King of Spain,Whose name, God 'ield me, I do not know ?But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

Of many more might I ask the same,Who are but dust that the breezes blow;But I desist, for none may claimTo stand against Death, that lays all low.Yet one more question before I go:Where is Lancelot, King of Behaine?And where are his valiant ancestors, trow?But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

Where is Du Guesclin, the Breton prow?Where Auvergne's Dauphin and where againThe late good duke of Alençon? Lo!But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

WHERE are the holy apostles gone,Alb-clad and amice-tired and stoledWith the sacred tippet and that alone,Wherewith, when he waxeth overbold,The foul fiend's throttle they take and hold?All must come to the self-same bay;Sons and servants, their days are told:The wind carries their like away.

Where is he now that held the throneOf Constantine with the hands of gold?And the King of France, o'er all kings knownFor grace and worship that was extolled,Who convents and churches manifoldBuilt for God's service? In their dayWhat of the honour they had? Behold,The wind carries their like away.

Where are the champions every one,The Dauphins, the counsellors young and old?The barons of Salins, Dôl, Dijon,Vienne, Grenoble? They all are cold.Or take the folk under their banners enrolled, —Pursuivants, trumpeters, heralds, (hey !How they fed of the fat and the flagon trolled!)The wind carries their like away.

Princes to death are all foretold,Even as the humblest of their array:Whether they sorrow or whether they scold,The wind carries their like away.

SINCE, then, popes, princes great and small,That in queens' wombs conceivèd were,Are dead and buried, one and all,And other heads their crownals wear,Shall Death to smite poor me forbear?Shall I not die? Ay, if God will.So that of life I have my share,An honest death I take not ill.

This world is not perpetual,Deem the rich robber what he may:Under death's whittle are we all.Old men to heart this comfort lay,That had repute in their young dayOf being quick at jest and flout,—Whom folk, if, now that they are gray,They should crack jokes, as fools would scout.

Now haply must they beg their bread,(For need thereto doth them constrain ;)Each day they wish that they were dead ;Sorrow so straitens heart and brainThat, did not fear of God restrain,Some dreadful deed they might essay;Nay, whiles they take HIs law in vainAnd with themselves they make away.

For if in youth men spoke them fair,Now do they nothing that is right ;(Old apes, alas ! ne'er pleasing were;No trick of theirs but brings despite.)If they are dumb, for fear of slight,Folk them for worn-out dotards hold ;Speak they, their silence folk invite,Saying they pay with others' gold.

So with poor women that are oldAnd have no vivers in the chest,When that young wenches they beholdFare at their ease and well addrest,They ask God why before the restThemselves were born. They cry and shout:God answers not; for second-bestHe'd come off at a scolding-bout.

Methought I heard the fair complain—The fair that erst was helm-maker—And wish herself a girl again.After this fashion did I hear:' Alack ! old age, felon and drear,Why hast so early laid me low?What hinders but I slay me hereAnd so at one stroke end my woe?

'Thou hast undone the mighty thrallIn which my beauty held for meClerks, merchants, churchmen, one and all:For never man my face might see,But would have given his all for fee,—Without a thought of his abuse,—So I should yield him at his greeWhat churls for nothing now refuse.

'I did to many me deny(Therein I showed but little guile)For love of one right false and sly,Whom without stint I loved erewhile.Whomever else I might bewile,I loved him well, sorry or glad:But he to me was harsh and vileAnd loved me but for what I had.

'Ill as he used me, and howe'erUnkind, I loved him none the less :Even had he made me faggots bear,One kiss from him or one caress,And I forgot my every stress.The rogue! 'twas ever thus the sameWith him. It brought me scant liesse:And what is left me? Sin and shame.

'Now is he dead this thirty year,And I'm grown old and worn and gray:When I recall the days that wereAnd think of what I am to-dayAnd when me naked I surveyAnd see my body shrunk to nought,Withered and shrivelled,—wellaway!For grief I am well-nigh distraught.

'Where is that clear and crystal brow?Those eyebrows arched and golden hair ?And those bright eyes, where are they now,Wherewith the wisest ravished were?The little nose so straight and fair;The tiny tender perfect ear:Where is the dimpled chin and whereThe pouting lips so red and clear?

'The shoulders gent and strait and small;Round arms and white hands delicate ;The little pointed breasts withal;The haunches plump and high and straight,Right fit for amorous debate ;Wide hips and dainty quelquechose,Betwixt broad firm thighs situate,Within its little garden-close.

'Brows wrinkled sore and tresses gray;The brows all fall'n and dim the eyneThat wont to charm men's hearts away;The nose, that was so straight and fine,Now bent and swerved from beauty's line;Chin peaked, ears furred and hanging down;Faded the face and quenched its shineAnd lips mere bags of loose skin grown.

'Such is the end of human grace:The arms grown short and hands all thrawn;The shoulders bowed out of their place;The breasts all shrivelled up and gone;The haunches like the paps withdrawn;The thighs no longer like to thighs,Withered and mottled all like brawn,And fie on that between them lies!

'And so the litany goes round,Lamenting the good time gone by,Among us crouched upon the ground,Poor silly hags, to-huddled byA scanty fire of hempstalks dry,Kindled in haste and soon gone out;(We that once held our heads so high!)So all take turn and turn about?

Now think on't, Nell the glover fair,That wont my scholar once to be,And you, Blanche Slippermaker there,Your case in mine I'd have you see :Look all to right and left take ye;Forbear no man; for trulls that binOld have nor course nor currency,No more than money that's called in.

You, Sausage-huckstress debonair,That dance and trip it brisk and free,And Guillemette Upholstress, there,Look you transgress not Love's decree:Soon must you shut up shop, perdie;Soon old you'll grow, faded and thin,Worth, like some old priest's visnomy,No more than money that's called in.

Jenny the hatter, have a careLest some false lover hamper thee ;And Kitty Spurmaker, beware;Deny no man that proffers fee;For girls that are not bright o bleeMen's scorn and not their service win:Foul eld gets neither love nor gree,No more than money that's called in.

Wenches, give ear and list (quo' she)Wherefore I weep and make this din;'Tis that there is no help for me,No more than money that's called in.

THIS lesson unto them gives she,The bellibone of days gone by.Ill said or well, worth what they be,These things enregistered have IBy my clerk Fremin (giddy fry!),Being as composed as well I may.I curse him if he make me lie :Like clerk, like master, people say.

Nay, the great danger well I seeWherein a man in love doth fall ...Suppose that some lay blame on meFor this speech, saying, 'Listen, all:If this do make you love miscall,The tricks of wantons named above,Your doubts are too chimerical,For these are women light o' love.

'For if they love not but for gain,Folk do but love them for a day;In sooth, they roundly love all men,And when purse weeps, then are they gay:Not one but questeth after prey.But honest men, so God me spare,With honest women will alwayHave dealing, and not otherwhere.'

I put it that one thus devise:He doth in nothing me gainsay;In sooth, I think no otherwise,And well I ween that one should ayeIn worthy place love's homage pay.But were not these, of whom I rhyme(God wot) and reason all the day,Once honest women aforetime ?

Aye, they were honest, in good sooth,Without reproach or any blame;But, in her first and prime of youth,Ere she had loren her good name,Each of these women thought no shameTo take some man for her desire,Laic or clerk, to quench love's flame,That burns worse than St. Anthony's fire.

Of these, as Love ordains, they madeTheir lovers, as appeareth well :Each loved her gallant in the shadeAnd none else had with her to mell.But this first love's not durable ;For she, that loved but one erewhen,Soon tires of him to her that fellAnd sets herself to love all men.

What moves them thus ? I do opine,Without their honour gainsaying,That 'tis their nature feminine,Which tends to cherish everything:No other reason with the thingWill rhyme, but if this saw it be,That everywhere folk say and sing:Six workmen do more work than three.

The shuttlecock light lovers be ;Their ladie-loves the battledore.This is love's way in verity:Spite clips and kisses, evermoreBy constancy it sets small store.For everyone this wise complainsOf dogs and horses, love and war:Each pleasure's bought with fifty pains.

Serve love and ladies day and night,Frequenting feasts and revelries;You'll get nor profit nor delight,But only broken heads and sighs:Light loves make asses of the wise,As witness Solomon, God wot;And Samson thereby lost his eyes.Happy is he who knows them not.

Orpheus, the minstrel fair and wight,That fluted in such dulcet guise,Did hardly 'scape the deadly biteOf Cerberus, in love's emprize;Narcissus did so idolizeHis own fair favour, that (poor sot)He drowned himself, as none denies.Happy is he who knows them not.

Sardana also, the good knight,That conquered Creté, did disguiseHim as a wench and so bedight,Span among maids; and on like wiseDavid the king, for palliardize,The fear of God awhile forgotAt sight of white well-shapen thighs.Happy is he who knows them not.

And David's son, that Ammon hight,Deflowered his sister, for with lies,Feigning desire for manchets white,Incest most foul he did devise;And Herod (history testifies)Paid with John Baptist's head the scotFor a girl's dancing deviltries.Happy is he who knows them not.

And even I, poor silly wight,Was beaten as linen is that liesIn washers' tubs for bats to smite;And who gat me this sour surpriseBut Vaucel's Kate, the cockatrice?And Noël, too, his good share gotOf cuffs at those festivities.Happy is he who knows them not.

And yet before a young man mightBe brought to leave this merchandise,Well might you burn him bolt upright,Witch-like that on a besom flies.Above all, wenches doth he prize:But there's no trusting them a jot;Blonde or brunette, this rhyme applies,Happy is he who knows them not.

IF she whom I did serve of oldSo whole of heart and loyally,For whom I wasted years and goldAnd only won much misery,—If she at first had told to me(But no, alas!) her true intent,I had essayed assuredlyTo cast off my entanglement.

Whatever I to her would sayShe always ready was to hearNor ever said me ay or nay;Nay more, she suffered me draw near,Sit close and whisper in her ear,And so with me played fast and looseAnd let me tell my all to her,Intending only my abuse.

She fooled me, being in her power;For she did make me think, alas !That one was other, ashes flour,That a felt hat a mortar was ;Of rusty iron, that 'twas brass;Of double ace, that it was trey.So would she make a man an assAnd lead him by the nose alway.

On this wise did she me persuade,Till heaven a brazen canopy,The clouds of calfskin to be madeAnd morning evening seemed to be;Ill beer new wine, a hank of threeA halter, navews cabbage-plant,A sow a windmill was for meAnd a fat priest a pursuivant.

THUS Love hath wrought me to deceiveAnd bandied me from cold to hot:There is no man, I do believe,Were he as cunning as I'm not,But he would leave with Love for scotPourpoint and hose, and fare as I,That everywhere am called, God wot,The lover flouted and laid by.

Love now and wenches I forswear;War to the knife to them I mete;For death (and not a rap they care)Through them treads hard upon my feet.I've put my lute beneath the seat;Lovers no longer I'll ensue:If ever I with them did treat,I'm none henceforward of their crew.

'Gainst Love my standard I've unfurled;Let those that love him follow still;I'm his no longer in this world ;For I intend to do my will.Wherefore if any take it illThat I Love venture to impeach,Let this content him, will or nill,'A dying man is free of speech.'

I FEEL the droughts of death draw nigh;Gobbets of phlegm, as white as snowAnd big as tennis-balls, spit I;By token Jehanneton no mo'Doth me for squire and servant owe,But for a worn-out rook. Ah, well!I have the voice and air, I know;Yet am I but a cockerel.

Thanks be to God and Jacques Thibault,Who made me drink of water coldSo much within a dungeon lowAnd also chew gags manifold.When on these things I think of old,I pray for him, . . . et reliqua;God give him .. . what at heart I holdTo be his due ... et cætera.

Yet do I mean no ill to himOr his lieutenant; nought but wellOf his official eke I deem,Who's merry and conformable.Nor with the rest have I to mell,Save Master Robert . . . Great and small,As God loves Lombards, sooth to tell,I love the whole lot, one and all.

I DO remember (so God please)In the year '56 I made,Departing, sundry legacies,That some without my leave or aidTo call my Testament essayed.(Their pleasure 'twas, and theirs alone.But what? Is't not in common saidThat none is master of his own?)

And should it happen that of theseSome peradventure be unpaid,I order, after my decease,That of my heirs demand be made.Who are they? If it should be said;To Moreau, Provins and TurgisBy letters sealed I have conveyedEven to the mattress under me.

Towards the Bastard de la BarreCompassion still at heart I bear.Beside his straw, (and these words areHis old bequest, though more it were,Not to revoke) I do declareI give him my old mats for seat:Well will they serve him to sit squareAnd keep him steady on his feet.

In fine; but one more word I'll sayOr ever I begin to test:Before my clerk, who hears alway(If he's awake), I do protestThat knowingly I have opprestNo man in this my ordinance:Nor will I make it manifestExcept unto the realm of France.

I feel my heart that's growing deadNor breath for further prate have I.Fremin, sit down close to my bed,And look that no one us espy.Take pen, ink, paper, by and byAnd what I say write thou therein;Then have it copied far and nigh:And this is how I do begin.

In the eternal Father's nameAnd His that's present in the Host,One with the Father and the same,Together with the Holy Ghost,—[By whom was saved what Adam lost,And in the light of heaven arrayed,(Who best believes this merits most,)Dead sinners little gods were made :

Dead were they, body and soul as well,Doomed to eternal punishment :Flesh rotted, soul in flames of hell,What way soe'er their lives were spent.But I except, in my intent,Prophets and Patriarchs all and sheer:Meseems they never could have brentWith over-muckle heat arear.

If any ask, ' What maketh theeWith questions such as this to mell,That art not of theologyDoctor, or therein capable?''Tis Jesus His own parable,Touching the rich man that did lie,Buried in burning flames of hell,And saw the leper in the sky.

If he had seen the lazar burn,He had not asked him, well I wot,To give him water or in turnTo cool his dry and parchèd throat.There folk will have a scurvy lotThat to buy drink their hosen sell ;Since drink is there so hardly got,God save us all from thirst in hell !]

Now, in God's name and with His aidAnd in our Lady's name no less,Let without sin this say be saidBy me grown haggard for duresse.If I nor light nor fire possess,God hath ordained it for my sin ;But as to this and other stressI will leave talking and begin.

First, my poor soul (which God befriend)Unto the blessed TrinityAnd to our Lady I commend,The fountain of Divinity,Beseeching all the charityOf the nine orders of the sky,That it of them transported beUnto the throne of God most high.

Item, my body I ordainUnto the earth, our grandmother :Thereof the worms will have small gain;Hunger hath worn it many a year.Let it be given straight to her;From earth it came, to earth apaceReturns ; all things, except I err,Do gladly turn to their own place.

Item, to Guillaume de Villon,—(My more than father, who indeedTo me more tenderness hath shownThan mothers to the babes they feed,Who me from many a scrape hath freedAnd now of me hath scant liesse,—I do entreat him, bended-kneed,He leave me to my present stress,-)

I do bequeath my library,—The " Devil's Crake" Romaunt, whilereBy Messire Guy de Tabarie,—A right trustworthy man,—writ fair.Beneath a bench it lies somewhere,In quires. Though crudely it be writ,The matter's so beyond compareThat it redeems the style of it.

I give the ballad followingTo my good mother, —who of me(God knows!) hath had much sorrowing,—That she may worship our Ladie :I have none other sanctuaryWhereto, when overcome with dole,I may for help and comfort flee;Nor hath my mother, poor good soul !

Lady of Heaven, Regent of the earth,Empress of all the infernal marshes fell,Receive me, Thy poor Christian, 'spite my dearth,In the fair midst of Thine elect to dwell :Albeit my lack of grace I know full well;For that Thy grace, my Lady and my Queen,Aboundeth more than all my misdemean,Withouten which no soul of all that sighMay merit Heaven. 'Tis sooth I say, for e'enIn this belief I will to live and die.

Say to Thy Son I am His,—that by His birthAnd death my sins be all redeemable,—As Mary of Egypt's dole He changed to mirthAnd eke Theophilus', to whom befellQuittance of Thee, albeit (so men tell)To the foul fiend he had contracted been.Assoilzie me, that I may have no teen,Maid, that without breach of virginityDidst bear our Lord that in the Host is seen.In this belief I will to live and die.

A poor old wife I am, and little worth:Nothing I know, nor letter aye could spell:Where in the church to worship I fare forth,I see Heaven limned, with harps and lutes, and Hell,Where damned folk seethe in fire unquenchable.One doth me fear, the other joy serene:Grant I may have the joy, O Virgin clean,To whom all sinners lift their hands on high,Made whole in faith through Thee their go-bet ween.In this belief I will to live and die.

Thou didst conceive, Princess most bright of sheen,Jesus the Lord, that hath nor end nor mean,Almighty, that, departing Heaven's demesneTo succour us, put on our frailty,Offering to death His sweet of youth and green:Such as He is, our Lord He is, I ween!In this belief I will to live and die.

Item, upon my dearest RoseNor heart nor liver I bestow:Thereat she would turn up her nose,Albeit she hath coin eno',—A great silk purse, as well I know,Stuffed full of crowns, both new and old.May he be hanged, or high or low,That leaves her silver aught or gold!

For she without me has enow:To me it matters not a jot:My salad days are past, I trow;No more desire in me is hot:All that I leave unto Michot,That was surnamed the good gallant—Or rather to his heirs; God wot,At St. Satur his tomb's extant.

This notwithstanding, to acquitMe toward Love rather than her,(For never had I any whitOf hope from her: I cannot hear,Nor do I care, if a deaf earTo all she turns as well as me;But by Saint Maudlin I aver,Therein but laughing-stuff I see.)

This ballad shall she have of me,That all with rhymes in R doth end:Who shall be bearer? Let me see :Pernet the Bastard I will send,Provided, if, as he doth wend,He come across my pugnosed frow,This question he to her commend;'Foul wanton, wherefrom comest thou?'

False beauty, that hast cost me many a sigh;Fair-seeming sweetness in effect how sour;Love-liking, harder far than steel, that IMay sister name of my defeasance dour;Traitorous charms, that did my heart devour;Pride, that puts folk to death with secret scorn;Pitiless eyes, will rigour ne'er allow her,Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn ?

Well were it for me elsewhere to applyFor succour: well I know that in her bowerThe load of love I never shall lay by;Sure 'twere no shame to fly from such a stoure.Haro! I cry—both great and small implore.But what avails me? I shall die outworn,Without blow struck, excepting pity bow her,Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn.

A time will come to wither and make dry,Yellow and pale, thy beauty's full-blown flower:Then should I laugh, if yet my heart were high.But no, alas! I then shall have no powerTo laugh, being old in that disastrous hour.Wherefore drink deep, before the river's frorne;Neither refuse, whilst grace is still thy dower,Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn.

Great God of Love, all lovers' governour,Ill falleth thy disfavour to be borne:True hearts are bound, by Christ our Saviour,Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn.

Item, to Master Ythier,To whom I left my sword of yore,I give (to set to song) this lay,Containing verses half a score ;Being a De profundis forHis love of once upon a day:Her name I must not tell you, orHe'd hate me like the deuce alway.

Death, of thy rigour I complain,That hast my lady torn from meAnd wilt not yet contented be,Save from me too all strength be ta'en,For languishment of heart and brain.What harm did she in life to thee,Death?

One heart we had betwixt us twain;Which being dead, I too must dreeDeath, or, like carven saints we seeIn choir, sans life to live be fain,Death!

Item, a new bequest I willTo make to Master Jehan Cornu;Who in my need hath helped me stillAnd done me favours not a few;Wherefore the garden him untoI give that Peter BobignonLeased me, so but he hang anewThe door and fix the gable on.

I there did lose, for lack of door,A hone and handle of a hoe:Thenceforward, falcons half a scoreHad not there caught a lark, I trow.The hostel's safe, but keep it so.I put a hook there in sign-stead :God grant the robber nought but woe,A bloody night and earthen bed!

Item, considering that the wifeOf Master Peter St. Amant(Yet if therein be blame or strife,God grant her grace and benison)Me as a beggar looks upon,For the White Horse that will not stir,A Mare, and for the Mule, anon,A Brick-red Ass I give to her.

Item, I give unto Denis(Elect of Paris) Hesselin,Of wine of Aulnis, from TurgisTaken at my peril, casks fourteen.If he to drink too much begin,That so his wit and sense decline,Let them put water therewithin:Many a good house is lost by wine.

Item, upon my advocate,Whose name is Guillaume Charriau,—Though he's a chapman by estate,My sword, (without the scabbard, though,)And a gold royal I bestow,In sous, to swell his purse's space,Levied on those that come and goWithin the Temple cloister-place.

Item, my proctor FournierShall handfuls four-for all his painAnd travail for me night and day,—Have from my purse; for suits amainHe hath ywrought to gar me gain,—Just ones, by Jesus be it said!Even as the judgment did ordain :The best of rights has need of aid.

Item, to Jamy RaguyerThe Muckle Mug in Grève give I,Provided always that he payFour placks for livery of it; ay,Even though what covers calf and thighTo make the money up sell heAnd fare each morn bare-legged therebyUnto the Fir-cone Hostelry.

Item, for Mairebeuf (I vow)And Nicholas de Louviers,I give them neither ox nor cow,For drovers neither herds are they,But folk that ride a-hawking may,(Think not I'm making mock of you)Partridge and plover night and dayTo fake from Mother Maschicoue.

Item, if Turgis come to me,I'll pay him fairly for his wine:But soft; if where I lodge find he,He'll have more wit than any nine.I leave to him that vote of mine,As citizen of Paris see:If sometimes I speak Poitevine,Two Poitou ladies taught it me.

Damsels they were, both fair and free,Abiding at St Generou,Hard by St. Julian of BrittanyOr in the Marches of Poitou.Natheless, I tell you not for trueWhere all their days and nights they dwell;I am not fool enough, look you,My loves to all the world to tell.

Item, Jehan Raguyer I give(That's Sergeant,—of the Twelve, indeed)Each day, so long as he shall live,A ramakin, that he may feedThereon and stay his stomach's need ;(From Bailly's table be it brought).Let him not ask for wine or mead,But at the fountain quench his drought.

Item, I give the Prince of FoolsA master-fool, Michault du Four,The jolliest jester in the Schools,That sings so well 'Ma douce amour.'With that of him I'll speak no more.Brief, if he's but in vein some jot,He's a right royal fool, be sure,And still is witty, where he's not.

Item, I give unto a pairOf sergeants here whose names I've set—For that they're honest folk and fair—Denis Richer and Jehan Vallette,A tippet each or bandelet,To hang their hats of felt unto;I mean foot-sergeants, for as yetNought with the horse have I to do.

Item, to Pernet I remitFor that he is a cogging jack,(The Bastard of La Barre, to wit,)Three loaded dice or else a packOf cheating cards, marked on the back,To arms, in lieu of bend. But what ?If he be heard to fyst or crack,The quartan ague catch the sot!

Item, I order that CholletNo longer hoop or saw or planeOr head up barrels all the day.Let him his tools change for a cane(Or Lyons sword), so he retainThe cooper's mall; for, sooth to tell,Though noise and strife to hate he feign,At heart he loves them but too well.

Item, I give to Jehan le Loup—For that he's lean and lank and spent,(Though good-cheap man and comrade true)And Chollet too, is slow of scent,A setter, young, but excellent,(No chick he'll miss afield, I trow)And a long cloak, 'gainst 'spial meantTo cover them from top to toe.

Item, to Duboys, goldworker,An hundred cloves, both head and tail,Of Saracenic zinziber;Not cases therewithal to nailOr boxes join, but breech and tailTo knit and couple yard and thigh,So to the cods the blood devailAnd in the teats the milk mount high.

To Captain Riou, as a treatFor him and for his archers too,I give six wolvis-heads (a meatNo swineherds' fare that is, look you)Coursed with great dogs and set to stewIn tavern wine. In sooth, to feedUpon these dainties rare and new,One might do many an ill deed.

'Tis meat a trifle heavierThen either feathers, cork or down :For folk afield 'tis famous fare,In camp or leaguer of a town.But (failing dogs to hunting boun)An if the beasts in trap be ta'en,The skins, to fur his winter gown,As a right tanner, I ordain.

Item, to Robinet Troussecaille(Who's thriven rarely in his trade;He scorns to go afoot like quail,But sits a fat roan stoutly made)My platter, that he is afraidTo borrow, I on him bestow ;So will he now be all arrayed:He needed nothing else, I know.

To Perrot Girard I will well(That's barber sworn at Bourg la Reine)Two basins and a fish-kettle,Since he's so eager after gain.Six years ago, the man was fainFor seven whole days (God have his soul!)Me with fat porkers to sustain;Witness the Abbess of Shaven-poll.

Item, unto the Begging Frères,The Devotees and the Beguines,At Paris, Orleans and elsewhere,Both Turpelins and Turpelines,—Of stout meat soups with flawns beseenI make oblation. Let them eatTheir fill and then, the sheets between,The rogues! of contemplation treat.

NAY, 'tis not I that give them this;But from their loins all children springThrough God that guerdons them ywisFor their much swink and travailing.Each one of them must live, poor thing,—E'en monks of Paris, if they goOur cummers still a-pleasuring,God wot, they love their husbands so.

Whatever Master Jehan PoullieuMissaid of them, et reliqua,Constrained in public place thereto,His words perforce he did unsay:Meung of their fashion in his dayMade mock, and Matheolus too :But honour unto that alwayWhich God's Church honoureth is due.

So I submit me, for my part,In all that I can do or say,To honour them with all my heartAnd yield them service, as I may.Fools only will of them missay:For or in pulpit or elsewhereNone needeth to be told if theyAre wont their enemies to spare.

Item, I give to Brother Baude,In the Mount Carmel Convent whoGood cheer doth make and his abode,A morion and gisarms two,Lest anything Decosta doTo steal from him his wench away.He's old ; unless he quit the stew,There'll be the deuce and all to pay.

Item, for that the ChancellorHath chewed fly-droppings off and onFull many a time, his seal yet more(I give and grant) be spat upon ;And let him sprain his thumb anon,(Him of the diocese,' I mean,)To put my wishes all in one:God keep the others all from teen.

I give my Lords the AuditorsWainscot to make their chamber fair ;And each whose buttocks in the warsHave been, a hollow-bottomed chair,Provided that they do not spareMacée of Orleans, who, God wot,Had my virginity whilere,For she's a thoroughly bad lot,

To Master Francis (if he live),Promoter de la Vacquerie,A Scotchman's collaret I give,Of hemp without embroidery;For, when he put on chivalry,God and St. George he did blasphemeAnd ne'er hears speak of them but heDoth with mad laughter shout and scream.

I give Jehan Laurens, whose poor eyesAre still so red and weak, (I ween,The fault o't with his parents lies,Who drank withouten stint or mean),My hose-linings, to wipe them cleanO' mornings, lest they waxen blear ;Had he of Bourges archbishop been,He had had sendal; but that's dear.

Item, to Master Jehan Cotard,My Church-court proctor, since some groatOr two for fees yet owing are,(That had till now escaped my thought)When action 'gainst me Denise brought,Saying I had miscalled her,—I have this Orison ywrought,So God to heaven his soul prefer.

NOAH, that first the vine plantéd ;Lot, too, that in the grot drank high,By token that Love (the trickster!) ledYour daughters lewdly to draw you nigh,(I say't not to flout you withal, not I)Architriclinus, learn'd in the bowl,—I pray you all three to set in the skyGood Master Cotard, honest soul.

He was of your lineage born and bred;He drank of the best and dearest; ay,Though he'd never a stiver to stand him in stead,The best of all topers he was: for why,Never good liquor found him shy,None could the pot from his grasp cajole.Fair Lords, do not suffer in hell to sighGood Master Cotard, honest soul.

I've seen him oft, when he went to bed,Totter for tipple as like to die;And once he gat him a bump on the head'Gainst a butcher's stall, as he staggered by.Brief, one might question far and nighFor a better fellow the cup to trowl.Let him in, if you hear him the wicket try:Good Master Cotard, honest soul.

He scarce could spit, he was always so dry,And ever 'My throat's like a red-hot coal!'Parched up with thirst, he was wont to cry ;Good Master Cotard, honest soul.

Item, henceforth young Merle shall stillManage my change (for evermo'God wot, it is against my willWith change I intermeddle) soFull change he give to high and low,Three crowns six half-crowns, and two smallAngels one great one; for, you know,A lover should be liberal.

Item, I've seen with my own eyesThat my poor orphans, all the three,Are grown in age, and wit likewise.No sheepsheads are they, I can see;From here to Salins none there beThat better bear them at the schools:Now, by the Confraternity,Lads of this fashion are no fools.

I will that they to college go:Whither ? To Master Pierre Richer.Donatus is too hard, I trow:Thereat I will not have them stay.Id rather they should learn to sayAn Ave Mary and there stand,Without more letters; for alwayScholars have not the upper hand.

Let them learn this and there leave off;I do forbid them to proceed :Meseems it is too hard and toughFor boys to understand the Creed.I halve my long gray tabard wedeAnd will one half thereof to sellAnd buy them pancakes: for indeedChildren did ever love cates well.

I will that they well grounded beIn manners, though it cost them dear :Close hoods shall they wear, all the three,And go with thumbs in girdle-gear,Humble to all that come them near,Saying, 'Eh, what?... Don't mention it!'So folk shall say, when they appear," These lads are gently bred,' to wit.

Item, unto my clerklings lean,—To whom my titles and degree(Seeing them fair and well beseenAnd straight as reeds) I gave in fee,And also, without price and free,I did my rent and charge assign,To levy on the pillory,As safe and sure as if 'twere mine:

(Though they be young and of good cheer,In that they nothing me displease:Come twenty, thirty, forty year,They will be other, so God please.Ill doth he that maltreateth these,Since fair they are and in their prime:Fools only will them beat and pheeze;For younglings grow to men in time,)—

The purses of the Clerks EighteenThey'll have, although my back I break:They' re not like dormice, that grow leanWith three months' sleep before they wake.Ill fares he that his sleep doth takeIn youth, when rise and work should he,So that he needs must watch and wakeIn age, when he should sleeping be.

Thereof unto the AlmonerLetters to like effect I write.If they to pray for me demur,Let pull their ears for such despite.Folk often marvel all their mightWhy by these twain such store set I;But, fast or feast days, honour bright,I never came their mothers nigh.

To Michault Culdou I bespeak,As also to Charlot Taranne,One hundred sols. Let neither seekWhence ; 'twill be manna to each man:Also my boots of leather tan,Both soles and uppers, sundry pair;So they forgather not with JehanneNor any other like to her.

Unto the Seigneur de Grigny,To whom I left Bicêtre of yore,I give the castle of Billy ;Provided window, gate and doorHe 'stablish as they were before,That so in good repair it be.Let him make money evermore;For coin I lack and none has he.

To Thibault de la Garde, no less,(Thibault? I lie: his name is John)What can I spare, without distress?I've lost enough this year bygone :May God provide him ! .. . and so on.What if I left him the Canteen?No: Genevoys's the elder oneAnd has more nose to dip therein.

Item, I give to Basanier,The judge's clerk and notary,A frail of cloves, which levied mayOn Master Jehan de Rueil be:Mautainct and Rosnel the like feeShall have, which them I trust will stirTo serve with courage brisk and freeThe Lord who serves Saint Christopher ;

On whom the Ballad followingFor his fair lady I bestow:...If love to us no such prize fling,I marvel not; for, whiles ago,He bore her off from high and low,At that tourney King René made:Hector or Troilus ne'er, I trow,So much performed, so little said.

THE falcon claps his wings at break of day,For noble usance, ay, and lustihead;Frolics for glee and strikes and rends his prey;Stoops to his mate and does of her his need.So now to-you-ward doth desire me leadOf that all lovers long for joyously;Know, Love hath so ordained it in his rede;And to this end we twain together be.

Queen of my heart, unquestioned and alway,Till death consume me, thou shalt be indeed.Clary, that purgest my chagrins, sweet bay,That still as champion for my right dost plead,Reason ordains that I should ne'er be freed(And therewithal my pleasure doth agree)From thy sweet service, while the years succeed ;And to this end we twain together be.

And what is more, when dule doth me essay,Through Fate, that oftime lowers, with all speedThy dulcet looks her malice do away,As wind disperses smoke from hill and mead.In no wise, sweetest, do I lose the seedSown in thy field, when the fruit likeneth me;God wills me delve and fatten it and weed;And to this end we twain together be.

Princess, I pray, to my discourse give heed :My heart shall not dissever aye from theeNor thine from me, if it aright I read:And to this end we twain together be.

Item, I give Jehan Perdryer nought,And to his brother Frank the same;Though still to help me they have wroughtAnd make me sharer in their game ;(Tongues have they, sharp and fierce as flame:)And too, my gossip Frank, of yore,Without command or prayer, my nameAt Bourges commended passing sore.

Let them in Taillevent go seeThe chapters that of frying treat,If they can find my recipeFor dressing up this kind of meat:'Twas Saint Macaire, I once did meet,Cooking a devil, skin and all,That so the roast should smell more sweet,Gave me this Recipe, that I call

With orpiment, with arsenic red and whiteAnd boiling lead, for fitter fricasseeQuicklime, saltpetre, soot and pitch uniteAnd in this mixture, tempered well with leyOf Jewess' excrement, to thin the bree;In water that has lazars' legs made clean,Wherein old boots and hosen steeped have been;In aspics' blood, in deadly drugs and tried,In badgers', wolves' and foxes' gall and spleen,Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried.

In brain of cat that water doth affright,Black and so old that not a tooth has she ;In foam and slaver from a mad dog's bite,Worthless for age, worn out and rickety;In froth of broken-winded mule, that yeHave cut up small with shears; in water greenWith festering slime, wherein there may be seenSerpents and rats that there have lived and died,Lizards, toads, frogs and such like beasts obscene,Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried.

In sublimates, unsafe for mortal wightTo touch, that in a live snake's navel be ;In blood that, drying, when the moon's at height,In barbers' bowls, now green as leeks, we see,Now black, and in those tubs unsavourly,Where soak the foul clouts of the midwife quean;In bloody flux and cancerous pus venene;In baths where whores themselves have purified,(No apple-squire but knows the thing I mean,)Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried.

Prince, all these dainties look you strain and screen,If sieve nor bag you have nor yet tameen,Through shitten hosen, with the breech uptied;But in swine's droppings, first, for greater teen,Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried.

To Andry Courault, next, give IThe Counterblast to Franc-Gontier;As for the Tyrant, set on high,I've nought, indeed, to him to say:Wisdom forbids that in affrayWith mighty men poor folk should strive,Lest they spread nets across the way,To catch the vauntards in alive.

I fear not Gontier, that no menHas nor is better off than I:But now strife is betwixt us twain;For he exalteth poverty :Good luck he deemeth it, perdie,Winter and summer to be poor.Myself, I hold it misery.Who's wrong? Be you judge, I conjure.

ATHWART a hole in the arras, t'other day,I saw a fat priest lie on a down bed,Hard by a fire; and by his side there layDame Sydonie, full comely, white and red:By night and day a goodly life they led.I watched them laugh and kiss and play, drink highOf spiced hypocras; then, putting byTheir clothes, I saw them one another seize,To take their bodies' pleasure. Thence knew IThere is no treasure but to have one's ease.

If, with his mistress Helen, Franc-GontierHad all their life this goodly fashion sped,With cloves of garlic, rank of smell alway,They had no need to rub their oaten bread:For all their curds (sans malice be it said)No jot I care, nor all their cakes of rye.If they delight beneath the rose to lie,What say you? Must we couch afield like these?Like you not better bed and chair therenigh?There is no treasure but to have one's ease.

They eat coarse bread of barley, sooth to say,And drink but water from the heavens shed:Not all the birds that singen all the wayFrom here to Babylon could me persuadeTo spend one day so harboured and so fed.For God's sake let Franc-Gontier none denyTo play with Helen 'neath the open sky!Why should it irk me, if they love the leas?But, vaunt who will the joys of husbandry,There is no treasure but to have one's ease.

Prince, be you judge betwixt us all: for myPoor part I mind me (so it none displease)Whilst yet a child, I heard folk testify,There is no treasure but to have one's ease.

Item, since Madame de BruyèresHer bible knows, to publish it(Barring the Gospels) unto herAnd to her damsels I commit,To bring each glib-tongued wanton chitTo book; but be the preachment notWithin the churchyards; far more fit'Twere in the net-market, God wot.

THOUGH folk deem women young and oldOf Venice and Genoa well enoFavoured with speech, both glib and bold,To carry messages to and fro;Savoyards, Florentines less or mo,Romans and Lombards though folk renown,I, at my peril, I say no;There's no right speech out of Paris town.

The Naples women (so we are told)Can school all comers in speech and show;Prussians and Germans were still extolledFor pleasant prattle of friend and foe;But hail they from Athens or Grand Cairo,Castille or Hungary, black or brown,Greeks or Egyptians, high or low,There's no right speech out of Paris town.

Switzers nor Bretons know how to scold,Nor Provence nor Gascony women: lo!Two fishfags in Paris the bridge that holdWould slang them dumb in a minute or so.Picardy, England, Lorraine, (heigho !Enough of places have I set down?)Valenciennes, Calais, wherever you go,There's no right speech out of Paris town.

Prince, to the Paris ladies, I trow,For pleasant parlance I yield the crown.They may talk of Italians; but this I know,There's no right speech out of Paris town.

Look at them there, by twos and threes,Upon their gowns' hem seated low,In churches and in nunneries:Speak not, but softly near them goAnd speedily you'll come to knowSuch judgments as Macrobius ne'erDid give. Whate'er you catch, I trow,'Twill all some flower of wisdom bear.

Item, unto Mount Martyr hill(Old past the memory of man)Let them adjoin (it is my will)The knoll called Mount Valerian:I give it for a quarter's spanThe indulgences from Rome I brought ;Whence shall the convent, where no manMight come, of many now be sought.

Item, to serving men and maidsOf good hostels (in no despite),Pheasants, tarts, custards and croustadesAnd high carousal at midnight:Seven pints or eight, the matter's slight,Whilst sound asleep are lord and dame:Thereafter, putting out the light,Commend them to the asses' game.

Item, to honest wenches whoHave fathers, mothers, aunts ... 'Fore God!I've nothing left to give to you :All on the servants I've bestowed.Poor silly wantons, they had showedThemselves with little satisfied!Some scraps might well have gone their roadOf all the convents cast aside.

Cistercians and Celestines,Though they be railed off from the rest,They eat rich meats and drink sweet wines,Whereof poor whores know not the zest:As Jehanne and Perrette can attestAnd Isabeau that says " Is't not?"Since they therefor are so distrest,One scarce were damn'd for it, God wot.

Item, to sturdy stout Margot,Of face and favour fair and feat,A pious creature, too, eno',—I'faith, by God Almighty be't,I love her well, the proper peat,As she (sweet chuck) loves me indeed :If any chance with her to meet,Let him this Ballad to her read.

Because I love and serve a whore sans glose,Think not therefore or knave or fool am I:She hath in her such goods as no man knows.For love of her, target and dirk I ply:When clients come, I hend a pot therenighAnd get me gone for wine, without word said:Before them water, fruit, bread, cheese, I spread.If they pay well, I bid them " Well, God aid!Come here again, when you of lust are led,In this the brothel where we ply our trade."

But surely before long an ill wind blowsWhen, coinless, Margot comes by me to lie.I hate the sight of her, catch up her hose,Her gown, her surcoat and her girdle-tie,Swearing to pawn them, meat and drink to buy.She grips me by the throat and cuffs my head,Cries "Antichrist!" and swears by Jesus dead,It shall not be; till I, to quell the jade,A potsherd seize and score her nose with red,In this the brothel where we ply our trade.

Then she, peace made, to show we're no more foes,A hugeous crack of wind at me lets fly.And laughing, sets her fist against my nose,Bids me " Go to" and claps me on the thigh;Then, drunk, like logs we sleep till, by and by,Awaking, when her womb is hungered,To spare the child beneath her girdlestead,She mounts on me, flat as a pancake laid.With wantoning she wears me to the thread,In this the brothel where we ply our trade.

Hail, rain, freeze, ready baked I hold my bread:Well worth a lecher with a wanton wed !Whether's the worse? They differ not a shred.Ill cat to ill rat; each for each was made.We flee from honour; it from us hath fled:Lewdness we love, that stands us well in stead,In this the brothel where we ply our trade.

Item, to Marion (Statue hight)And to tall Jehanne of Brittany,I give to keep a school by night,Where masters taught of scholars be :A thing you everywhere may see,Except in Mehun gaol alone.Wherefore I say, Out on the fee!Since that the trick is so well known.

Item, to Noel Well-beseenNo other gift I do ordainThan both hands full of osiers green,Out of my garden freshly ta'en:(One should to chastisement be fain ;In sooth it is fair almsgiving :)Eleven score strokes laid on amain,Of Master Hal's administ'ring.

Item, the Hospitals untoWhat to bequeath I hardly know:Here jests are neither right nor due,For sick poor folk have ills eno':Let each man's leavings to them go.The Mendicants have had my goose:Nought but the bones they'll get, I trow:The poor can seldom pick and choose.

I give my barber, (an he list)—By name that Colin Galerne hight,Near Angelot's the Herbalist, —A lump of ice: let him apply'tUpon his paunch and hold it tight,So he may freeze as seems him meet :If thus o' winter deal the wight,He'll not complain of summer heat.

Item, I leave the Foundlings nought :But to the Lostlings comfort's due,Who should, if anywhere, be soughtWhere lodges Marion the Statue.A lesson of my sort to youI'll read: 'twill soon be overpast.Turn not, I pray, deaf ears thereto,But listen sadly: 'tis the last.

FAIR sons, you're wasting, ere you're old,The fairest rose to you that fell.You, that like birdlime take and hold,When to Montpippeau or Ruel(My clerks) you wander, keep you well:For of the tricks that there he played,Thinking to 'scape a second spell,Colin of Cayeulx lost his head.

No trifling game is this to play,Where one stakes soul and body too:If losers, no remorse can stayA shameful death from ending you ;And even the winner, for his due,Hath not a Dido to his wife.Fuolish and lewd I hold him whoDoth for so little risk his life.

Now all of you to me attend:Even a load of wine, folk say,With drinking at last comes to an end,By fire in winter, in woods in May.If you have money, it doth not stay,But this way and that it wastes amain:What does it profit you, any way?Ill-gotten good is nobody's gain.

PEDDLE indulgences, as you may :Cog the dice for your cheating throws :Try if counterfeit coin will pay,At risk of roasting at last, like thoseThat deal in treason. Lie and glose,Rob and ravish: what profits it?Who gets the purchase, do you suppose?Taverns and wenches, every whit.

Rhyme, rail, wrestle and cymbals play:Flute and fool it in mummers' shows:Along with the strolling players strayFrom town to city, without repose;Act mysteries, farces, imbroglios :Win money at gleek or a lucky hitAt the pins: like water, away it flows;Taverns and wenches, every whit.

Turn from your evil courses I pray,That smell so foul in a decent nose :Earn your bread in some honest way.If you have no letters, nor verse nor prose,Plough or groom horses, beat hemp or toze.Enough shall you have if you think but fit:But cast not your wage to each wind that blows;Taverns and wenches, every whit.

Doublets, pourpoints and silken hose,Gowns and linen, woven or knit,Ere your wede's worn, away it goes ;Taverns and wenches, every whit.

Companions in debauchery,Ill souls and bodies well bestead,Beware of that ill sun (look ye)That tans a man when he is dead :'Tis a foul death to die, I dread.Keep yourselves from it, so you may;And be this still rememberèd,That all of you must die some day.

Item, I give the Fifteen-score—(Three hundred just as well 't might be)—For that by them I set great store,(Paris, not Provins ones, for me)—My. goggles (sans the case, perdie)So in the churchyards where they serve,They may the bad to sever seeFrom honest folk that well deserve.

HERE silence doth for ever reign:Nothing it profiteth the deadOn beds of satin to have lainAnd drunk from gold the vine-juice redAnd lived in glee aud lustihead.Soon all such joys must be resigned :All pass away, and in their steadOnly the sin remains behind.

When I consider all the headsThat in these charnels gathered be,Those that are sleeping in these bedsMay have (for aught that I can see)Been mighty lords of high degree,—Bishops and dames,—or else poor churls:There is no difference to me'Twixt watercarriers' bones and earls.

These ladies all, that in their dayEach against each did bend and bow,Whereof did some the sceptre sway,Of others feared and courted,—nowHere are they sleeping all a-row,Heaped up together anydele,Their crowns and honours all laid low.Masters or clerks, there's no appeal.

Now are they dead, God have their sprights!As for their bodies, they are clay:Once they were ladies, lords and knights,That on soft beds of satin layAnd fed on dainties every day.Their bones are mouldered into dust,They reck not now of laugh or play :Christ will assoilzie them, I trust.

I make this ditty for the dead:The which I do communicateTo Courts and Pleas, ill doers' dread,. That unjust avarice do hate;That for the welfare of the stateDo work their bones and bodies dry:God and St. Dominick abateTheir sins unto them when they die.

Item, Jacques Cardon nought of me(For nought I have for him) shall get,—Not that he'd throw't away, perdie—Except this roundel; if 'twere setTo some such tune as " Marionette;"Composed for Marion Slow-to-come,Or " Hold your door open, Guillemette,"It might belike the vogue become.

On my release from prison strait,Where I havè left my life well-nigh,If Fate still look at me awry,Judge if she be inveterate !Reason meseemeth, past debate,Her malice she should mollifyOn my release.

Full of unreason is this Fate,Which willeth but that I should die:God grant that in His house on highMy soul be ravished from her hate,On my release.

THIS gift shall Lomer have of me,—As sure as I'm a fairy's son, —That he shall 'well-belovèd' be,But wench or woman love he noneNor lose his head for any one,And that an hundred times a nightThe trick for nought of him be done,In spite of Holger the good knight.

To lovers sick and sorrowful,(As well as Alain Chartier's Lay.)At bedhead, a benature-fullOf tears I give, and eke a sprayOf eglatere or flowering May,(To sprinkle with) in time of green ;Provided they a Psalter say,To save poor Villon's soul from teen.

To Master James, that day and nightHimself at hoarding wealth doth kill,I give as many girls to plight(But none to marry) as he will.For whom doth he his coffers fill?For those that are his kin, alack !That which the sows' was, I hold illShould to the porkers not go back.

Unto the Seneschal I bequeath, —(Who once from debt did me release)Besides the quality of Smith,—The right of shoeing ducks and geese.I send him all these fooleries,To help him pass away the time,Or make him spillets if he please :One wearies of the best of rhyme.

The Captain of the Watch, also—Two proper youths to serve as page ;Marquet the Stout and Philippot,Who for the most part of their ageHave served (whence are they the more sage)The Blacksmiths' Provost. Wellaway!If they should chance to lose their wage,They must go shoeless many a day.

Item, to Chappelain let there passMy simple-tonsure chapelry,Charged but with saying a low mass:There little letters needed be.My cure of souls he should of meHave had; but no one to confess(To go by what he says) cares he,Save chambermaids and mistresses.

Since my intent he well doth know,To Jehan de Calais-(worthy wight!Who saw me thirty years agoAnd hath not since on me set sight,Indeed, nor knoweth how I hight,—If in this Testament befallOr hitch or doubt, I give full rightTo solve and mend them, one and all:

To glose upon it and comment,Define, eliminate, prescribe,Diminish aught or aught augment,To cancel it or it transcribeWith his own hand, although no scribeHe be; such sense as he thinks fit,At pleasure, good or bad, ascribeThereto: I sanction all of it.

And if, perchance, some legatee,Without my knowledge, should be dead,It shall at the discretion beOf Jehan de Calais aforesaidTo see my will interpretedAnd otherwise the gift applyNor take it for himself instead:I charge him on his soul thereby.

Item, my body, I ordain,Shall at St. Avoye buried be:And that my friends may there againMy image and presentment see,Let one the semblant limn of meIn ink, if that be not too dear.No other monument, perdie :'Twould overload the floor, I fear.

Item, I will that over itThat which ensues, without word more,In letters large enough be writ:If ink fail (as I said before),Let them the words with charcoal score,So they do not the plaster drag :'Twill serve to keep my name in store;As that of a good crack-brained wag.

HERE LIES AND SLUMBERS IN THIS PLACEONE WHOM LOVE WREAKED HIS IRE UPON:A SCHOLAR, POOR OF GOODS AND GRACE,THAT HIGHT OF OLD FRANÇOIS VILLON:ACRE OR FURROW HAD HE NONE.TIS KNOWN HIS ALL HE GAVE AWAY ;BREAD, TABLES, TRESSELS, ALL ARE GONE.GALLANTS, OF HIM THIS ROUNDEL SAY.

Æternam Requiem dona,Lord God, and everlasting light,To him who never had, poor wight,Platter, or aught thereon to lay!Hair, eyebrows, beard all fallen away,Like a peeled turnip was his plight.Æternam Requiem dona.

Exile compelled him many a dayAnd death at last his breech did smite,Though, 'I appeal, with all his mightThe man in good plain speech did say.Æternam Requiem dona.

Item, I will they toll for meThe 'Belfry' Bell, that is so greatOf voice, that all astonied beWhen he is tolled, early or late.Many a good city, of old date,He saved, as every one doth know;Thunder or war, all ills abateWhen through the land his voices go.

Four loaves the ringers' wage shall be:If that's too little, six : (that isWhat rich folk wont to give for fee:)But they St. Stephen's loaves, ywis,Shall be. Let Vollant share in this;A man that earns his living hard:'Twill furnish forth a week of his.The other one? Jehan de la Garde.

Item, to carry out this all,As my executors I nameMen who are good to deal withalAnd never shirk an honest claim:They're no great vauntards, all the same,Though they've good cause for it, perdie;They shall fulfil my thought and aim:Write, I will name six names to thee.

First, Master Martin de Bellefaye,The King's Lieutenant-criminel.Who shall be next? Whom shall I say?It shall be Messire Colombel:If, as I think, it like him well,He'll undertake this charge for me.The third one ? Michel Jouvenel:I give the office to these three.

Natheless, in case they should excuseThemselves therefrom, for fear of fees,Or altogether should refuse,I name as their successors these,Good men and true in their degrees:Philip Brunel, the noble squire,For next, his neighbour (an he please),Master Jacques Raguyer, I desire.

Master Jacques James shall be the third:Three men of worth and good renown,That for believers in God's WordAnd right God-fearing souls are known ;Far rather would they spend their ownThan not my full intent fulfil.No auditor on them shall frown :They shall do all at their own will.

The Register of Wills from meShall have nor quid nor quod, I trow:But every penny of his feeTo Tricot, the young priest, shall go ;At whose expense gladly eno'I'd drink, though it my nightcap cost:If but he knew the dice to throw,Of Perrette's Den I'd make him host.

Guillaume du Ru, for funeral,Shall see the chapel duly lit;And as to who shall bear the pall,Let my executors order it.And now, my body every whit(Groin, eyebrows, hair and beard and all)Being racked with pain, the time seems fitTo cry folk mercy, great and small.

FRERES, be they white or be they grey;Nuns, mumpers, chanters awry that treadAnd clink their pattens on each highway;Lackeys and handmaids, apparelledIn tight-fitting surcoats, white and red;Gallants, whose boots o'er their ankles fall,That vaunt and ruffle it unadread;I cry folk mercy, one and all.

Wantons who all their charms display,That so more custom to them be led,Brawlers and jugglers and tumblers gay ;Clowns with their apes and carpet spread;Players that whistle for lustihead,As they trudge it 'twixt village and town and hall;Gentle and simple, living and dead,—I cry folk mercy, one and all.

Save only the treacherous beasts of prey,That garred me batten on prison breadAnd water, many a night and day.I fear them not now, no, not a shred;And gladly (but that I lie a-bedAnd have small stomach for strife or brawl)I'd have my wreak of them, now, instead,I cry folk mercy, one and all.

So but the knaves be ribroastedAnd basted well with an oaken maulOr some stout horsewhip weighted with lead,I cry folk mercy, one and all.

HERE is ended (both great and small)Poor Villon's Testament! When he is dead,Come, I pray, to his funeral,Whilst the bell tinkles overhead.Come in cramozin garmented;For to Love martyr did he die.Thereof he swore on his manlihead,Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

For me, Iwarrant it true in all;For of his love, in shameful stead,He was beaten off, like a bandy-ball.From here to Roussillon as he fled,There's ne'er a bramble but tore some shredOf hose or jerkin from hip or thigh;So, without leasing, Villon said,Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

In such ill places his life did fall,He had but a rag when he was sped:And (yet more luckless) when death did call,Love's prickle galled him; its wounds still bledIn him. His heart was heavy as leadAnd salt tears stood in his dying eye :At his despair we were wonderèd,Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

Prince, that art gent as a yearling gled,Hear what he did with his latest sigh:He drank a long draught of the vine-juice red,Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.