Ballad of Fortune

I of old times by makers Fortune hight,
Whom, François, thou dost rail at and decry, —
Far better men than thou, poor nameless wight,
I grind into the dust with poverty
And gar them delve i' the quarries till they die :
Wherefore complainest thou ? If thou live ill,
Thou art not singular : so, peace, be still.
Think but how many mighty men of yore
I've laid stark dead to stiffen in their gore,
By whom thou'rt but a scullion knave, perdie.
Content thee, then, and chide thy fate no more ;
I rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree.

Oft have I girded me to wreak my spite
Upon great kings : lo, in the days gone by,
Priam I slew ; and all his warlike might
Availed him nought, towers, walls nor ramparts high.
'Gainst Hannibal no less did I apply,
Who was attaint in Carthage by my skill :
And Scipio Africanus did I kill :
Great Caesar to the Senate I gave o'er
And wrecked stout Pompey upon Egypt shore :
Jason I drowned by tempest on the sea
And burned both Rome and Romans heretofore :
I rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree.

Nay, Alexander, that renowned knight,
Who longed to reach the backward of the sky
And shed much blood, with poison did I blight ;
I made Arphaxad on the field to lie,
Dead, by his royal standard. Thus did I
Full many a time and yet more will fulfil :
Nor time nor reason can awry my will.
Huge Holophernes, too, that did adore
Strange gods, whom Judith with his sword of war
Slew as he slept ; and Absalom, as he
Fled, by the love-locks hanged I that he wore.
I rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree.

Envoi
Poor François, set my rede in thy heart's core :
If I could aught without God's leave or lore,
I'd leave no rag to one of all that be ;
For each ill done I'd compass half a score :
I rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree.