No More Learning

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: Ballade: A S'amye

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

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.

Note: The ballade was written for Robert to present to his wife Ambroise de Lore, as though composed by him.

Le Testament: Rondeau

Death, I cry out at your harshness,

That stole my girl away from me,

Yet you're not satisfied I see

Until I languish in distress.

Since then I've lost all liveliness:

What harm alive, to you, was she?

Death, I cry out at your harshness,

That stole my girl away from me.

Two we were, with one heart blessed:

If heart's dead, yes, then I foresee,

I'll die, or I must lifeless be,

Like those statues made of lead.

Le Testament: Epitaph et Rondeau

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 Francois 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:

Rondeau

Oh, grant him now eternal peace,

Lord, and everlasting light,

He wasn't worth a candle bright,

Nor even a sprig of parsley.

Of eyebrows, hair, and beard he's free,

A turnip scraped with a spade, all right:

Oh, grant him now eternal peace.

Exiled with strict severity,

Rapped behind with a spade, despite

It all he cried: 'Appeal, for me! '

-Which wasn't the height of subtlety.