Stanzas XXXIII–XL

XXXIII
To John o* Guard, that grocer hight,
The Golden Mortar I make o'er,
To grind his mustard in aright ;
Also a pestle from St. Maur;
And unto him that goes before,
To lay one by the legs in quod,
St. Anthony roast him full sore!
I'll leave him nothing else, by God.

XXXIV
Item, to Mairebeuf, as well
As Nicholas de Louvieux,
Each one I leave a whole eggshell
Full of old crowns and francs, and to
The seneschal of Gouvieux,
Peter de Ronseville, no less ;
Such crowns I mean, to tell you true,
As the prince giveth for largesse.

XXXV
Finally, being here alone
To-night and in good trim to write,
I heard the clock of the Sorbonne,
That aye at nine o'clock of night
Is wont the Angelus to smite :
Then I my task did intermit,
That to our Lady mild I might
Do suit and service, as is fit.

XXXVI
This done, I half forgot myself,
What while I felt Dame Memory
Take in and lay upon her shelf
(The wit, as 'twere, being bound in me,
Though not for wine-bibbing, perdie),
Her faculties collateral,
Th' opinative in each degree
And others intellectual.

XXXVII
And on likewise th' estimative,
— Whereby prosperity we gain, —
Similative and formative,
By whose disorder folk remain
Oft lunatic, to wit, insane,
From month to month ; which aforesaid
I mind me often and again
In Aristotle to have read.

XXXVIII
Then did the sensitive upleap
And gave the cue to fantasy,
That roused the organs all from sleep,
But held the sovereign faculty
Still in suspense for lethargy
And pressure of oblivion,
Which had dispread itself in me,
To show the senses' union.

XXXIX
Then, when my senses in due course
Grew calm and understanding clear,
I thought to finish my discourse,
But found my inkpot frozen sheer
And candle out, nor far nor near
Fire might I find, so must of need,
All muffled up for warmer cheer,
Get me to sleep and end my rede.

XL
Done at the season aforesaid
Of the right well-renowned Villon,
Who eats nor white nor oaten bread,
Black as a malkin, shrunk and wan.
Tents and pavilions every one
He's left to one or t'other friend ;
All but a little pewter's gone,
That will, ere long, come to an end.