Ballad, by Way of Ending

Here is ended (both great and small)
Poor Villon's Testament ! When he is dead,
Come, I pray, to his funeral,
Whilst the bell tinkles overhead.
Come in cramoisin garmented;
For to Love martyr did he die.
Thereof he swore on his manlihead,
Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

For me, I warrant it true in all ;
For of his love, in shameful stead,
He was beaten off, like a bandy-ball.
From here to Roussillon as he fled,
There's ne'er a bramble but tore some shred
Of hose or jerkin from hip or thigh ;
So, without leasing, Villon said,
Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

In such ill places his life did fall,
He had but a rag when he was sped :
And (yet more luckless) when death did call,
Love's prickle galled him ; its wounds still bled
In him. His heart was heavy as lead
And salt tears stood in his dying eye :
At his despair we were wondered,
Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.

Envoi
Prince, that art gent as a yearling gled,
Hear what he did with his latest sigh :
He drank a long draught of the vine-juice red,
Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.