Ballad of Villon to His Mistress

False beauty, that hath cost me many a sigh ;
Fair-seeming sweetness in effect how sour ;
Love-liking, harder far than steel, that I
May 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 apply
For succour : well I know that in her bower
The 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 power
To 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.

Envoi
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.