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The Debate Between Villon And His Heart Read Poem

Who's that I hear?

—It's me—Who?

—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?

—
What's it to you?

—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?

—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?

—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
What's your idea?

—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?

—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?

—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?

—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?

—How can I say it better?

If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?

—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Why are you miserable?

—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?

—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Want to live?

—God give me the strength—
It's necessary…—What is?

—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?

—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?

—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.

Trans.

Galway Kinnell

Abor Amorris Read Poem

I have a tree, a graft of Love,
That in my heart has taken root;
Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
So greatly hath its shadow spread,
That underneath all joy is dead,
And all my pleasant days are flown,
Nor can I slay it, nor instead
Plant any tree, save this alone.

Ah, yet, for long and long enough
My tears were rain about its root,
And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
I scarcely looked for better fruit
Than this, that carefully I put
In garner, for the bitter bread
Whereon my weary life is fed:
Ah, better were the soil unsown
That bears such growths; but Love instead
Will plant no tree, but this alone.

Ah, would that this new spring, whereof
The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,
I might have succour and aid of Love,
To prune these branches at the root,
That long have borne such bitter fruit,
And graft a new bough, comforted
With happy blossoms white and red;
So pleasure should for pain atone,
Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead
Plant any tree, but this alone.

L’ENVOY.

Princess, by whom my hope is fed,
My heart thee prays in lowlihead
To prune the ill boughs overgrown,
Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead
Another tree, save this alone.

Ballad Of The Gibbet Read Poem

Brothers and men that shall after us be,
Let not your hearts be hard to us:
For pitying this our misery
Ye shall find God the more piteous.

Look on us six that are hanging thus,
And for the flesh that so much we cherished
How it is eaten of birds and perished,
And ashes and dust fill our bones’ place,
Mock not at us that so feeble be,
But pray God pardon us out of His grace.

Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn,
Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to die;
Ye wot no man so wise is born
That keeps his wisdom constantly.

Be ye then merciful, and cry
To Mary’s Son that is piteous,
That His mercy take no stain from us,
Saving us out of the fiery place.

We are but dead, let no soul deny
To pray God succour us of His grace.

The rain out of heaven has washed us clean,
The sun has scorched us black and bare,
Ravens and rooks have pecked at our eyne,
And feathered their nests with our beards and hair.

Round are we tossed, and here and there,
This way and that, at the wild wind’s will,
Never a moment my body is still;
Birds they are busy about my face.

Live not as we, nor fare as we fare;
Pray God pardon us out of His grace.

L’ENVOY.

Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee
We pray Hell gain no mastery,
That we come never anear that place;
And ye men, make no mockery,
Pray God pardon us out of His grace.

[An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villon wrote of himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.

]
Sometimes referred to as 'The Ballad of the Hanged Man'

Ballade of the Gibbet Read Poem

Ballade of the Gibbet (From the French of Francois Villon)
[An epitaph in the form of a ballade that Francois Villon wrote of himself and his company, then expecting shortly to be hanged]
Brothers and men that follow after us,
Let not your hearts be hard as we lie here,
For if you pity our state most dolorous
God will grant you his mercy on your bier.

Look on the six of us that hang in fear;
Look on our bodies, once in youth's full flower,
Now only food that birds and worms devour,
And dust and ashes mark our resting place.

Not at our corpses mock and be venomous,
But pray God grant us sinners his true grace.

Listen, we ask your prayers; look not in scorn
Upon our bodies, doomed to early death.

However wise he is, not a man born
Is always wise: so, with a kindly breath,
Pray Mary's son, in whom we place our faith,
To show us mercy, take our sins away,
Although they brought us where we are today,
Save us, we beg you, from that fiery place
Called hell.

We but hang here in sorrowful death:
God grant us sinners his true grace.

The rain from heaven above has washed us clean;
The sun has bleached us black and bare.

Rooks and ravens from our bodies glean
The trophies for their nests: our hair,
Beards, eyes.

Buffetted by the frisky air
We dance the tune of the wild wind,
Our bodies never rest, we never find
Peace upon earth.

Birds peck about my face;
Live not like us: do not die in despair,.

God grant us sinners his true grace!
Envoi:
Prince Jesus, Lord of all, be not unkind,
And save us from the fiery gates of hell;
Though we deserve to dwell in that dark place
Let us not live in fields of asphodel.

God, grant us sinners your true grace.

Ballade To Our Lady Read Poem

WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER
Dame du ciel, regents terrienne,
Emperiere des infemaux palus….

Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,—
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.

But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.

Even in this faith I choose to live and die.

Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious.

Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss,
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus,
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.

Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass
(Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!)
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.

A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old,
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.

Within my parish-cloister I behold
A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore,
And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore:
One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.

That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,—
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I;
And that which faith desires, that let it see.

For in this faith I choose to live and die.

O excellent Virgin Princess! thou didst bear
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter,
Who even of this our weakness craved a share
And for our sake stooped to us from on high,
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.

Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,
And in this faith I choose to live and die.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.

Ballade: Du Concours De Blois Read Poem

I’m dying of thirst beside the fountain,
Hot as fire, and with chattering teeth:
In my own land, I’m in a far domain:
Near the flame, I shiver beyond belief:
Bare as a worm, dressed in a furry sheathe,
I smile in tears, wait without expectation:
Taking my comfort in sad desperation:
I rejoice, without pleasures, never a one:
Strong I am, without power or persuasion,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.

Nothing is sure for me but what’s uncertain:
Obscure, whatever is plainly clear to see:
I’ve no doubt, except of everything certain:
Science is what happens accidentally:
I win it all, yet a loser I’m bound to be:
Saying: ‘God give you good even!’ at dawn,
I greatly fear I’m falling, when lying down:
I’ve plenty, yet I’ve not one possession,
I wait to inherit, yet I’m no heir I own,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.

I never take care, yet I’ve taken great pain
To acquire some goods, but have none by me:
Who’s nice to me is one I hate: it’s plain,
And who speaks truth deals with me most falsely:
He’s my friend who can make me believe
A white swan is the blackest crow I’ve known:
Who thinks he’s power to help me, does me harm:
Lies, truth, to me are all one under the sun:
I remember all, have the wisdom of a stone,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.

Merciful Prince, may it please you that I’ve shown
There’s much I know, yet without sense or reason:
I’m partial, yet I hold with all men, in common.

What more can I do?

Redeem what I’ve in pawn,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.

Ballade: Epistre Read Poem

Have pity now, have pity now on me,
If you at least would, friends of mine.

I’m in the depths, not holly or may,
In exile, where I’ve been consigned
By Fortune, as God too has designed.

Girls, lovers, youngsters, fresh to hand,
Dancers, tumblers that leap like lambs,
Agile as arrows, like shots from a cannon,
Throats tinkling, clear as bells on rams,
Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Singers, singing in lawless freedom,
Jokers, pleasant in word and deed,
Run free of false gold, alloy, come,
Men of wit – somewhat deaf indeed –
Hurry, be quick now, he’s dying poor man.

Makers of lays, motets and rondeaux,
Will you bring him warmth when he’s down below?

No lightning or storm reach where he’s gone.

With these thick walls they’ve blinded him so.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Come see him here, in his piteous plight,
Noblemen, free of tax and tithe,
Holding nothing by king or emperor’s right,
But by grace of the God of Paradise.

Sundays and Tuesdays he fasts and sighs,
His teeth are as sharp as the rats’ below,
After dry bread, and no gateaux,
Water for soup that floats his guts along.

With no table or chair, he’s lying low.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Princes of note, old, new, don’t fail:
Beg the king’s pardon for me, and seal,
And a basket to raise me, I’ll sit upon:
So pigs behave, to each other, they say,
When one pig squeals, all rush that way.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Epitaph In The Form Of A Ballade Read Poem

Freres humains qui apres nous vivez,
N'ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis…
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.

Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit always to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dr-y well-head
For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

The rain has washed and laundered us all five,
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie,
Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee
Our beards and eyebrows; never we are free,
Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,
Driven at its wild will by the wind's change led,
More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall;
Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;
We have nought to do in such a master's hall.

Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, trans.

Le Testament: Ballade: A S’amye Read Poem

F alse beauty that costs me so dear,
R ough indeed, a hypocrite sweetness,
A mor, like iron on the teeth and harder,
N amed only to achieve my sure distress,
C harm that’s murderous, poor heart’s death,
O covert pride that sends men to ruin,
I mplacable eyes, won’t true redress
S uccour a poor man, without crushing?

M uch better elsewhere to search for
A id: it would have been more to my honour:
R etreat I must, and fly with dishonour,
T hough none else then would have cast a lure.

H elp me, help me, you greater and lesser!
E nd then?

With not even one blow landing?

Or will Pity, in line with all I ask here,
Succour a poor man, without crushing?

That time will come that will surely wither
Your bright flower, it will wilt and yellow,
Then if I can grin, I’ll call on laughter,
But, yet, that would be foolish though:
You’ll be pale and ugly: and I’ll be old,
Drink deep then, while the stream’s still flowing:
And don’t bring trouble on all men so,
Succour a poor man, without crushing.

Amorous Prince, the greatest lover,
I want no evil that’s of your doing,
But, by God, all noble hearts must offer
To succour a poor man, without crushing.

Le Testament: Ballade: Pour Robert d’Estouteville Read Poem

A t dawn of day, when falcon shakes his wing,
M ainly from pleasure, and from noble usage,
B lackbirds too shake theirs then as they sing,
R eceiving their mates, mingling their plumage,
O, as the desires it lights in me now rage,
I ’d offer you, joyously, what befits the lover.

S ee how Love has written this very page:
E ven for this end are we come together.

D oubtless, as my heart’s lady you’ll have being,
E ntirely now, till death consumes my age.

L aurel, so sweet, for my cause now fighting,
O live, so noble, removing all bitter foliage,
R eason does not wish me unused to owing,
E ven as I’m to agree with this wish, forever,
Duty to you, but rather grow used to serving:
Even for this end are we come together.

And, what’s more, when sorrow’s beating
Down on me, through Fate’s incessant rage,
Your sweet glance its malice is assuaging,
Nor more or less than wind blows smoke away.

As, in your field, I plant I lose no grain,
For the harvest resembles me, and ever
God orders me to plough, and sow again:
Even for this end are we come together.

Princess, listen to this I now maintain:
That my heart and yours will not dissever:
So much I presume of you, and claim:
Even for this end are we come together.

Le Testament: Ballade: ‘Item: Donne A Ma Povre Mere’ Read Poem

Item
This I give to my poor mother
As a prayer now, to our Mistress
– She who bore bitter pain for me,
God knows, and also much sadness –
I’ve no other castle or fortress,
That my body and soul can summon,
When I’m faced with life’s distress,
Nor has my mother, poor woman:
Ballade
‘Lady of Heaven, earthly queen,
Empress of the infernal regions,
Receive me, a humble Christian,
To live among the chosen ones,
Though I’m worth less than anyone.

Your grace, my Lady and Mistress
Is greater than my sinfulness,
Grace without which, I tell no lie,
None deserve their blessedness.

In this faith let me live and die.

Say to your Son that I am His.

Through Him all my sins are lost:
Forgive me, as Mary Egypt was,
Or, so they say, Theophilus,
Who by your grace was still blameless,
Though he vowed the Devil a guest.

Protect me always from like excess,
Virgin, who bore, without a cry,
Christ whom we celebrate at Mass.

In this faith let me live and die.

I am a woman, poor and old,
I can neither read nor spell.

At Mass in church, here, I behold,
A painted Heaven, with harps: a Hell,
Where the damned are boiled, as well.

One gives me joy: one strikes me cold,
Grant me the joy, Great Goddess,
On whom all sinners must rely,
Fill me with faith and no slackness.

In this faith let me live and die.

V  irgin, you bore, O High Princess,
I   ssue, whose kingdom is endless,
L  ord, who took on a littleness
L  ike ours: to save us left the sky,
O ffering his lovely youth to death.

N  ow, such is our Lord: such we confess:
In this faith let me live and die.

Le Testament: Epitaph et Rondeau Read Poem

Epitaph
Here there lies, and sleeps in the grave,
One whom Love killed with his scorn,
A poor little scholar in every way,
He was named François Villon.

He never reaped a morsel of corn:
Willed all away, as all men know:
Bed, table, and basket all are gone.

Gallants, now sing his song below:

Les Regrets De La Belle Hëaulmiere Read Poem

The Regrets Of La Belle Hëaulmiere
ADVIS me is that I oy regret
The beauty who was hëaulmiere,
Soy young girl underhaicter
And speak in such a way:
`Ha! crooked and proud old age,
Why did you shoot me down so soon
Who holds me?

Who?

what am I proud of?

And why don't I kill myself?

`Tollu got me the high frankness
That beauty ordered me
On Clerks, Merchants and Church People:
For then he was not a man born
Who would not have given me all his,
Whatever the repentances,
But that he had abandoned
What truandailles refuse.

Many a man has refused it,
That was not my great wisdom,
For the love of a crafty boy,
To which I give largesse.

To whomever I do finesse,
By my soul, I love him well!
Gold only made me harsh,
And only love me for mine.

'If I don't know how to deceive me so much,
Trample, lest it amass,
And had it made me the rains milker,
If he had told me that I would lower him,
May I not forget all my misfortunes.

The glutton, badly entrenched,
kissed me.

.

.

I'm much fatter!
What do I have left?

Shame and sin.

Now is he dead, over thirty years old,
And I remain old, hoary.

As I think, tired! at the right time,
What was, what became;
As I look at me completely naked,
And I see myself so much changed,
Pepper, cuttlefish, mesgre, small,
I am almost completely enraged.

`What happened to this front poly,
These blond hair, eyebrows voultiz,
Grant interoeil, the joly gaze,
Of which takes the most subtle;
This beautiful straight nose, grant ne petit;
These little ear joints,
Forked chin, cler vis traictiz,
And those beautiful red lips?

`These small shoulders;
Those long arms and those slender hands;
Small nipples, fleshy hips,
Raised, clean, made
To keep amorous smooth;
These wide rains, this sadinet
Sitting on big firm thighs,
Dedens his little garden?

`The wrinkled forehead, the gray hair,
The eyebrows cheuz, the yeulz estains,
Who looked and laughed,
Whose merchant hands were reached;
Curved noses, of distant beauty;
Ears drooping and mossy;
The vis pally, death and destains;
Puckered chin, leathery lips:
'It's d'umaine beauty l'yssue!
The outstretched arms and contracted hands,
Shoulders all hunchbacked;
Breasts, what! all pensions;
Such hips as heads.

Sadinet, fy! As for the thighs,
Thighs are no more, but thighs,
Grilled like sausages.

`So the good times regret
Between us, poor old fools,
Low, crouched seats,
All in a heap like balls,
A small fire of chenevots
Soon lit, soon off;
And once were so cute! .

.

.

So take it over and over again.

'
French translation:
The Testament: The Regrets of La Belle Heaulmière
By chance, I heard the beautiful complain,
The one we called the Armoress,
Longing to be a girl again,
Talking like this, more or less:
'Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,
You've beaten me so, and why?

Who cares, who, for my distress,
Or whether at all your blows I die?

You've stolen away that great power
My beauty ordained for me
Over priests and clerks, my hour,
When never a man I'd see
Would fail to offer his all in fee,
Whatever remorse he'd later show,
But what was abandoned readily,
Beggars now scorn to know.

Many a man I then refused –
Which wasn't wise of me, no jest –
For love of a boy, cunning too,
To whom I gave all my largesse.

I pretended to him unwillingness,
But, by my soul, I loved him bad.

What he showed was his roughness,
Loving me only for what I had.

He could drag me through the dirt,
Trample me underfoot, I'd love him,
Break my back, whatever's worse,
If only he'd ask for a kiss again,
I'd soon forget then every pain.

A glutton, full of what he could win,
He'd embrace me – with him I've lain.

What's he left me?

Shame and sin.

Now he's dead, these thirty years:
And I live on, old, and grey.

When I think of those times, with tears,
What I was, what I am today,
View myself naked: turn at bay,
Seeing what I am no longer,
Poor, dry, meager, worn away,
I almost forget myself in anger.

Where's my smooth brow gone:
My arching lashes, yellow hair,
Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones,
That took in the cleverest there:
Nose not too big or small: a pair
Of delicate little ears, the chin
Dimpled: a face oval and fair,
Lovely lips with crimson skin?

The fine slender shoulder-blades:
The long arms, with tapering hands:
My small breasts: the hips well made
Full and firm, and sweetly planned,
All Love's tournaments to withstand:
The broad flanks: the nest of hair,
With plump thighs firmly spanned,
Inside its little garden there?

Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey:
Sparse eyelashes: eyes so dim,
That laughed and flashed once every way,
And reeled their roaming victims in:
Nose bent from beauty, ears thin,
Hanging down like moss, a face,
Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin
Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.

This is the end of human beauty:
Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:
The shoulders hunched up utterly:
Breasts….

what?

In full retreat,
Same with the hips, as with the teats:
Little nest, haha! See the thighs,
Not thighs, thighbones, poor man's meat,
Blotched like sausages, and dried.

That's how the good times we regret
Among us, poor old idiots,
Squatting on our haunches, set
All in a heap like woolen lots
Round a hemp fire men forgot,
Soon kindled, and soon dust,
Once so lovely, that cocotte…
So it goes for all of us.

ADVIS m'est que j'oy regreter
La belle qui fut hëaulmiere,
Soy jeune fille soushaicter
Et parler en telle maniere:
`Ha! viellesse felonne et fiere,
Pourquoi m'as si tost abatue
Qui me tient?

Qui?

que ne me fiere?

Et qu'a ce coup je ne me tue?

`Tollu m'as la haulte franchise
Que beaulté m'avoit ordonné
Sur clers, marchans et gens d'Eglise:
Car lors, il n'estoit homme né
Qui tout le sien ne m'eust donné,
Quoi qu'il en fust des repentailles,
Mais que luy eusse habandonné
Ce que reffusent truandailles.

`A maint homme l'ay reffusé,
Que n'estoit à moy grant sagesse,
Pour l'amour d'ung garson rusé,
Auquel j'en faisoie largesse.

A qui que je feisse finesse,
Par m'ame, je l'amoye bien!
Or ne me faisoit que rudesse,
Et ne m'amoit que pour le mien.

`Si ne me sceut tant detrayner,
Fouler au piez, que ne l'amasse,
Et m'eust il fait les rains trayner,
Si m'eust dit que je le baisasse,
Que tous mes maulx je n'oubliasse.

Le glouton, de mal entechié,
M'embrassoit.

.

.

.

J'en suis bien plus grasse!
Que m'en reste il?

Honte et pechié.

`Or est il mort, passé trente ans,
Et je remains vielle, chenue.

Quant je pense, lasse! au bon temps,
Quelle fus, quelle devenue;
Quant me regarde toute nue,
Et je me voy si tres changée,
Povre, seiche, mesgre, menue,
Je suis presque toute enragée.

`Qu'est devenu ce front poly,
Ces cheveulx blons, sourcilz voultiz,
Grant entroeil, le regart joly,
Dont prenoie les plus soubtilz;
Ce beau nez droit, grant ne petit;
Ces petites joinctes oreilles,
Menton fourchu, cler vis traictiz,
Et ces belles levres vermeilles?

`Ces gentes espaulles menues;
Ces bras longs et ces mains traictisses;
Petiz tetins, hanches charnues,
Eslevées, propres, faictisses
A tenir amoureuses lisses;
Ces larges rains, ce sadinet
Assis sur grosses fermes cuisses,
Dedens son petit jardinet?

`Le front ridé, les cheveux gris,
Les sourcilz cheuz, les yeulz estains,
Qui faisoient regars et ris,
Dont mains marchans furent attains;
Nez courbes, de beaulté loingtains;
Oreilles pendans et moussues;
Le vis pally, mort et destains;
Menton froncé, levres peaussues:
`C'est d'umaine beaulté l'yssue!
Les bras cours et les mains contraites,
Les espaulles toutes bossues;
Mamelles, quoy! toutes retraites;
Telles les hanches que les tetes.

Du sadinet, fy! Quant des cuisses,
Cuisses ne sont plus, mais cuissetes,
Grivelées comme saulcisses.

`Ainsi le bon temps regretons
Entre nous, povres vielles sotes,
Assises bas, à crouppetons,
Tout en ung tas comme pelotes,
A petit feu de chenevotes
Tost allumées, tost estaintes;
Et jadis fusmes si mignotes! .

.

.

Ainsi emprent à mains et maintes.

'
English translation:
Le Testament: Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière
By chance, I heard the belle complain,
The one we called the Armouress,
Longing to be a girl again,
Talking like this, more or less:
‘Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,
You’ve battered me so, and why?

Who cares, who, for my distress,
Or whether at all your blows I die?

You’ve stolen away that great power
My beauty ordained for me
Over priests and clerks, my hour,
When never a man I’d see
Would fail to offer his all in fee,
Whatever remorse he’d later show,
But what was abandoned readily,
Beggars now scorn to know.

Many a man I then refused –
Which wasn’t wise of me, no jest –
For love of a boy, cunning too,
To whom I gave all my largesse.

I feigned to him unwillingness,
But, by my soul, I loved him bad.

What he showed was his roughness,
Loving me only for what I had.

He could drag me through the dirt,
Trample me underfoot, I’d love him,
Break my back, whatever’s worse,
If only he’d ask for a kiss again,
I’d soon forget then every pain.

A glutton, full of what he could win,
He’d embrace me – with him I’ve lain.

What’s he left me?

Shame and sin.

Now he’s dead, these thirty years:
And I live on, old, and grey.

When I think of those times, with tears,
What I was, what I am today,
View myself naked: turn at bay,
Seeing what I am no longer,
Poor, dry, meagre, worn away,
I almost forget myself in anger.

Where’s my smooth brow gone:
My arching lashes, yellow hair,
Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones,
That took in the cleverest there:
Nose not too big or small: a pair
Of delicate little ears, the chin
Dimpled: a face oval and fair,
Lovely lips with crimson skin?

The fine slender shoulder-blades:
The long arms, with tapering hands:
My small breasts: the hips well made
Full and firm, and sweetly planned,
All Love’s tournaments to withstand:
The broad flanks: the nest of hair,
With plump thighs firmly spanned,
Inside its little garden there?

Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey:
Sparse eyelashes: eyes so dim,
That laughed and flashed once every way,
And reeled their roaming victims in:
Nose bent from beauty, ears thin,
Hanging down like moss, a face,
Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin
Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.

This is the end of human beauty:
Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:
The shoulders hunched up utterly:
Breasts….

what?

In full retreat,
Same with the hips, as with the teats:
Little nest, hah! See the thighs,
Not thighs, thighbones, poor man’s meat,
Blotched like sausages, and dried.

That’s how the bon temps we regret
Among us, poor old idiots,
Squatting on our haunches, set
All in a heap like woollen lots
Round a hemp fire men forgot,
Soon kindled, and soon dust,
Once so lovely, that cocotte…
So it goes for all of us.

The Ballad Of The Hanged Men Read Poem

Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.

For—if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.

You see us here, attached.

As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.

And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.

Of our pain let nobody laugh,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

If you my brothers I call, do not
scoff at us in disdain, though killed
we were by justice.

Yet þþ you know
all men are not of good sound sense.

Plead our behalf since we are dead naked
with the Son of Mary the Virgin
that His grace be not for us dried up
preserving us from hell's fulminations.

We're dead after all.

Let no soul revile us,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.

Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows.

Never ever have we sat down, but
this way, and that way, at the wind's
good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel,
more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.

Therefore, think not of joining our guild,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship,
care that hell not gain of us dominion.

With it we have no business, fast or loose.

People, here be no mocking,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

The Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore Read Poem

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?

Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?

Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,—
She whose beauty was more than human?

…
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where's Héloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?

(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine?

…
But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden,—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there,—
Mother of God, where are they then?

…
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Save with thus much for an overword,—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

~~~~
Original French
Ballade Des Dames De Temps Jadis
Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.

Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?

Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.

Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?

Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?

Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

The Ballad Of The Proverbs Read Poem

So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep.

So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks.

So long you heat iron, it will glow;
so heavily you hammer it, it shatters.

So good is the man as his praise;
so far he will go, and he's forgotten;
so bad he behaves, and he's despised.

So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.

So glib you talk, you end up in contradictions.

So good is your credit as the favors you got.

So much you promise that you will back out.

So doggedly you beg that your wish is granted;
so high climbs the price when you want a thing;
so much you want it that you pay the price;
so familiar it gets to you, you want it no more.

So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.

So, you love a dog.

Then feed it!
So long a song will run that people learn it.

So long you keep the fruit, it will rot.

So hot the struggle for a spot that it is won;
so cool you keep your act that your spirit freezes;
so hurriedly you act that you run into bad luck;
so tight you embrace that your catch slips away.

So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.

So you scoff and laugh, and the fun is gone.

So you crave and spend, and lose your shirt.

So candid you are, no blow can be too low.

So good as a gift should a promise be.

So, if you love God, you obey the Church.

So, when you give much, you borrow much.

So, shifting winds turn to storm.

So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.

Prince, so long as a fool persists, he grows wiser;
so, round the world he goes, but return he will,
so humbled and beaten back into servility.

So loud you cry Christmas, it is here.

To Death Of His Lady Read Poem

Death, of thee do I make my moan,
Who hadst my lady away from me,
Nor wilt assuage thine enmity
Till with her life thou hast mine own:
For since that hour my strength has flown.

Lo! what wrong was her life to thee,
Death?

Two we were, and the heart was one;
Which now being dead, dead I must be,
Or seem alive as lifelessly
As in the choir the painted stone,
Death!

The Ballad of Villon and Fat Madge Read Poem

‘’Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.

’ -Falstaff
‘The night cometh, when no man can work.

’
What though the beauty I love and serve be cheap,

 Ought you to take me for a beast or fool?

All things a man could wish are in her keep;

 For her I turn swashbuckler in love’s school.

When folk drop in, I take my pot and stool
And fall to drinking with no more ado.

I fetch them bread, fruit, cheese, and water, too;

 I say all’s right so long as I’m well paid;
‘Look in again when your flesh troubles you,

 Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

’
But soon the devil’s among us flesh and fell,

 When penniless to bed comes Madge my whore;
I loathe the very sight of her like hell.

I snatch gown, girdle, surcoat, all she wore,

 And tell her, these shall stand against her score.

She grips her hips with both hands, cursing God,
Swearing by Jesus’ body, bones, and blood,

 That they shall not.

Then I, no whit dismayed,
Cross her cracked nose with some stray shiver of wood

 Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

When all’s made up she drops me a windy word,

 Bloat like a beetle puffed and poisonous:
Grins, thumps my pate, and calls me dickey-bird,

 And cuffs me with a fist that’s ponderous.

We sleep like logs, being drunken both of us;
Then when we wake her womb begins to stir;
To save her seed she gets me under her

 Wheezing and whining, flat as planks are laid:
And thus she spoils me for a whoremonger

 Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

Blow, hail or freeze, I’ve bread here baked rent free!
Whoring’s my trade, and my whore pleases me;

 Bad cat, bad rat; we’re just the same if weighed.

We that love filth, filth follows us, you see;
Honour flies from us, as from her we flee

 Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

I bequeath likewise to fat Madge



This little song to learn and study;



By god’s head she’s a sweet fat fadge,



Devout and soft of flesh and ruddy;



I love her with my soul and body,



So doth she me, sweet dainty thing.

If you fall in with such a lady,



Read it, and give it her to sing.

Poems by François Villon

Harry

Poems