Stanzas LV–LXXIX

LV
If she whom I did serve of old
So whole of heart and loyally,
For whom I wasted years and gold
And only won much misery, —
If she at first had told to me
(But no, alas !) her true intent,
I had essayed assuredly
To cast off my entanglement.

LVI
Whatever I to her would say
She always ready was to hear
Nor ever said me ay or nay ;
Nay more, she suffered me draw near,
Sit close and whisper in her ear,
And so with me played fast and loose
And let me tell my all to her,
Intending only my abuse.

LVII
She fooled me, being in her power;
For she did make me think, alas !
That one was other, ashes flour,
That a felt hat a mortar was ;
Of rusty iron, that 'twas brass ;
Of double ace, that it was trey.
So would she make a man an ass
And lead him by the nose alway.

LVIII
On this wise did she me persuade,
Till heaven a brazen canopy,
The clouds of calfskin to be made
And morning evening seemed to be ;
Ill beer new wine, a hank of three
A halter, navews cabbage-plant,
A sow a windmill was for me
And a fat priest a pursuivant.

LIX
Thus Love hath wrought me to deceive
And bandied me from cold to hot :
There is no man, I do believe,
Were he as cunning as I'm not,
But he would leave with Love for scot
Pourpoint and hose, and fare as I,
That everywhere am called, God wot,
The lover flouted and laid by.

LX
Love now and wenches I forswear ;
War to the knife to them I mete ;
For death (and not a rap they care)
Through them treads hard upon my feet.
I've put my lute beneath the seat ;
Lovers no longer I'll ensue :
If ever I with them did treat,
I'm none henceforward of their crew.

LXI
'Gainst Love my standard I've unfurled;
Let those that love him follow still ;
I'm his no longer in this world ;
For I intend to do my will.
Wherefore if any take it ill
That I Love venture to impeach,
Let this content him, will or nill,
' A dying man is free of speech.'

LXII
1FEEL the droughts of death draw nigh;
Gobbets of phlegm, as white as snow
And big as tennis-balls, spit I ;
By token Jehanneton no mo*
Doth me for squire and servant owe,
But for a worn-out rook. Ah, well !
I have the voice and air, I know ;
Yet am I but a cockerel.

LXIII
Thanks be to God and Jacques Thibault,
Who made me drink of water cold
So much within a dungeon low
And also chew gags manifold.
When on these things I think of old,
I pray for him, . . . et reliqua ;
God give him . . . what at heart I hold
To be his due . . . et castera.

LXIV
Yet do I mean no ill to him
Or his lieutenant ; nought but well
Of his official eke I deem,
Who's merry and conformable.
Nor with the rest have I to mell,
Save Master Robert . . . Great and small,
As God loves Lombards, sooth to tell,
I love the whole lot, one and all.

LXV
1DO remember (so God please)
In the year '56 I made,
Departing, sundry legacies,
That some without my leave or aid
To call my Testament essayed.
(Their pleasure 'twas, and theirs alone.
But what ? Is't not in common said
That none is master of his own ?)

LXVI
And should it happen that of these
Some peradventure be unpaid,
I order, after my decease,
That of my heirs demand be made.
Who are they ? If it should be said ;
To Moreau, Provins and Turgis
By letters sealed I have conveyed
Even to the mattress under me.

LXVII
Towards the Bastard de la Barre
Compassion still at heart I bear.
Beside his straw, (and these words are
His old bequest, though more it were,
Not to revoke) I do declare
I give him my old mats for seat :
Well will they serve him to sit square
And keep him steady on his feet.

LXVIII
In fine, but one more word I'll say
Or ever I begin to test :
Before my clerk, who hears alway
(If he's awake), I do protest
That knowingly I have opprest
No man in this my ordinance:
Nor will I make it manifest
Except unto the realm of France.

LXIX
I feel my heart that's growing dead
Nor breath for further prate have I.
Fremin, sit down close to my bed,
And look that no one us espy.
Take pen, ink, paper, by and by
And what I say write thou therein ;
Then have it copied far and nigh :
And this is how I do begin.

LXX
In the eternal Father's name
And His that's present in the Host,
One with the Father and the same,
Together with the Holy Ghost, —
[ By whom was saved what Adam lost,
And in the light of heaven arrayed,
(Who best believes this merits most,)
Dead sinners little gods were made :

LXXI
Dead were they, body and soul as well,
Doomed to eternal punishment :
Flesh rotted, soul in flames of hell,
What way soe'er their lives were spent.
But I except, in my intent,
Prophets and Patriarchs all and sheer :
Meseems they never could have brent
With over-muckle heat arear.

LXXII
If any ask, ' What maketh thee
With questions such as this to mell,
That art not of theology
Doctor, or therein capable ? '
'Tis Jesus His own parable,
Touching the rich man that did lie,
Buried in burning flames of hell,
And saw the leper in the sky.

LXXIII
If he had seen the lazar burn,
He had not asked him, well I wot,
To give him water or in turn
To cool his dry and parched throat.
There folk will have a scurvy lot
That to buy drink their hosen sell ;
Since drink is there so hardly got,
God save us all from thirst in hell! ]

LXXIV
Now, in God's name and with His aid
And in our Lady's name no less,
Let without sin this say be said
By me grown haggard for duresse.
If I nor light nor fire possess,
God hath ordained it for my sin ;
But as to this and other stress
I will leave talking and begin.

LXXV
First, my poor soul (which God befriend )
Unto the blessed Trinity
And to our Lady I commend,
The fountain of Divinity,
Beseeching all the charity
Of the nine orders of the sky,
That it of them transported be
Unto the throne of God most high.

LXXVI
Item, my body I ordain
Unto the earth, our grandmother :
Thereof the worms will have small gain ;
Hunger hath worn it many a year.
Let it be given straight to her ;
From earth it came, to earth apace
Returns; all things, except I err,
Do gladly turn to their own place.

LXXVII
Item, to Guillaume de Villon, —
( My more than father, who indeed
To me more tenderness hath shown
Than mothers to the babes they feed,
Who me from many a scrape hath freed
And now of me hath scant liesse, —
I do entreat him, bended-kneed,
He leave me to my present stress, — )

LXXVIII
I do bequeath my library, —
The "Devil's Crake" Romaunt, whilere
By Messire Guy de Tabarie, —
A right trustworthy man, — writ fair.
Beneath a bench it lies somewhere,
In quires. Though crudely it be writ,
The matter's so beyond compare
That it redeems the style of it.

LXXIX
I give the ballad following
To my good mother, — who of me
(God knows ! ) hath had much sorrowing, —
That she may worship our Ladie :
I have none other sanctuary
Whereto, when overcome with dole,
I may for help and comfort flee ;
Nor hath my mother, poor good soul!