No More Learning

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.

Oh, grant him now eternal peace.
Ballade: Du Concours De Blois

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

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.