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THE POEMS OF MASTER FRANCOIS 
 VILLON OF PARIS. 
 
N 
 
 a. M/ 
 
 (All rights reserved.) 
 
THE POEMS OF MASTER FRANQOIS 
 VILLON OF PARIS, now first done 
 
 INTO ENGLISH VERSE, IN THE ORIGINAL 
 FORMS, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
 INTRODUCTION, BY JOHN PAYNE, AUTHOR 
 OF 'THE MASQUE OF SHADOWS,' 'INTAGLIOS,' 
 'SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH,' ' LAUTREC,' 'NEW 
 POEMS,' &-C., AND TRANSLATOR OF 'THE BOOK 
 OF THE THOUSAND NIGHTS AND ONE NIGHT,' 
 'TALES FROM THE ARABIC,' 'THE DECAMERON 
 OF GIOVANNI BOCCACCI,' ' ALAEDDIN AND ZEIN 
 UL AS NAM' and 'THE NOVELS OF MATTEO 
 BANDELLO, BISHOP OF AGEN' 
 
 LONDON: MDCCCXCII : PRINTED FOR THE VILLON SOCIETY 
 BY PRIVATE SUBSCRIPTION AND FOR PRIVATE 
 CIRCULATION ONLY. 
 
 U 
 
 t 
 
\Ls)i^llp 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF MY FKIEND -"^ 
 
 THEODORE DE BANVILLEi 
 
 ONE OF THE SWEETEST SOULS THAT EVER SANCTIFIED HUMANITY, 
 
 1 DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION 
 
 OF A BOOK 
 
 WHICH WAS DEAR TO HIM. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 I PAGE 
 
 Prefatory Note ix 
 
 Introduction i 
 
 The Lesser Testament of Master Francois Villon . i 
 
 The Greater Testament of Master Francois Villon, 17 
 containing — 
 
 Octaves i-xli 19 
 
 Ballad .Q£X)ld=Time Ladies 33 
 
 Bidiad of Old-Time Lords, No. I 34 
 
 Ballad of Old-Time Lords, No. 2 36 
 
 Octaves xlii-xlvi. .....■•• 37 
 
 The Complaint of the Fair Helni-maker grown old . . 39*^ 
 
 The Doctrine of the Fair Helm-maker to the Light o' Loves. 43^ 
 
 Octaves xlvii-liv 43 
 
 Double Ballad of Light Loves 4^ 
 
 Octaves Iv-lxxix. ......•• 4° 
 
 Balladjthat Villon made for his Mother, etc. ... 57 
 
 Octaves Ixxx-lxxxiii. T 59 
 
 Ballad of Villon to his Mistress 6° 
 
 Octaves Ixxxiv. ........ &' 
 
 ^Lay, or rather Roundel (To Death) 62^ 
 
 Octaves Ixxxv-cxv. ....... 62 
 
 ^Ballad and Orison (For Master Cotard's Soul) • • • J3_ 
 
 Octaves cxvi-cxxix. ....... 74 
 
 Ballad for a newly married Gentleman .... 79 
 
 Octaves cxxx-cxxxiii. .....•• 80 
 
 Ballad of Slanderous Tongues 81 
 
 Ballad : Counterblast to Franc-Gontier .... 83 
 
 Octaves cxxxiv 84 
 
 Ballad of the Women of Paris 85 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 The Greater Testament (continued) — i'agb 
 
 Octaves cxxxv-cxiv. .,...••• °° 
 
 Ballad of Villon and Muckle Meg 88 
 
 Seemly Lesson to the Good-for-Noughts .... 92 
 
 _^5allad of Good Doctrine to those of III Life ... 93 
 
 Octaves cxlvi-cliii 94 
 
 Roundel (On my Release) 97 
 
 Octaves cliv-clxv. ........ 97 
 
 Roundel (Requiem) 102 
 
 Octaves clxvi-clxxiii. ........ 102 
 
 Ballad crying all Folk Mercy 105 
 
 **ggallad (Final) " 106 
 
 Divers Poems — 
 
 "ballad of Villon in Prison Ill 
 
 Epitaph (Quatrain) 113 
 
 Variant . • . . I13 
 
 Epitaph in Form of Ballad 114 
 
 Request to the Court of Parliament . . . . 115 
 
 Ballad of Villon's Appeal- I17 
 
 Ballad of Proverbs 118 
 
 Ballad of Things known and unknown . . . .120 
 
 Ballad of Poor Chimneysweeps 121 
 
 Ballad of Fortune ■ . ■ 123 
 
 Ballad of those that missay of France . . . . 124 
 ^^allad of the Debate of the Heart and Body of Villon . .126 
 
 Ballad-written by Villon upon a Subject proposed by Charles '"j 
 
 Due d'Orleans tl?8^ 
 
 Ballad of Villon's Request to the Due de Bourbon . . 130 
 
 Sundry Poems Attributed to Villon — 
 
 Roundel 135 
 
 A Merry Ballad of Vintners . . . . . . 1 36 
 
 Ballad of the Tree of Love 1 38 
 
 Ballad of Ladies' Love, No. I 139 
 
 Ballad of Ladies' Love, No. 2 141 
 
 Notes — 
 
 Notes to the Lesser Testament 145 
 
 Notes to the Greater Testament . - . . . . 149 
 
 Notes to Divers and Sundry Poems 156 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 The original version of my translation of Villon's 
 Poems was made in 1874, at a time when the 
 critical study of the old poet was far from having 
 reached its present stage of comparative advance- 
 ment ; indeed, four modern editions only (viz. those 
 of M. Prompsault, 1832, M. Paul Lacroix, better 
 known as Le Bibliophile Jacob, 1854 and 1866, 
 and M. Jannet, 1867) of his works had then been 
 published, all very incomplete and radically faulty 
 in being founded mainly upon the printed texts, 
 which are known to be terribly garbled and corrupt, 
 and not upon the only sound basis, namely, a 
 minute and critical collation of the various manu- 
 script texts in existence. M. Lacroix's third 
 edition (1877) and that of M. Moland (1879), 
 though an improvement upon their predecessors. 
 
X PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 added little to our knowledge of Villon and an 
 authoritative and definitive text of the poems was 
 thus still lacking at the time (1880) when I revised 
 my translation for republication in a popular form. 
 In 1882-3, however, M. Bijvanck published his 
 Essay on the Lesser Testament, perhaps, on the 
 whole, the most important contribution yet made 
 to the literature of the subject and a work of such 
 value and suggestiveness (despite occasional extra- 
 vagations of the perfervidum ingenium Batavorum) 
 as to give great cause for regret that the accom- 
 plished Dutch scholar has not yet 'fulfilled his 
 promise of giving the world the further results of 
 his great erudition and critical ingenuity, as applied 
 to the Greater Testament and the rest of the 
 poems ; and the researches of MM. Vitu, Longnon, 
 Schwob, Schone, Gaston Paris and others may be 
 said to have in a manner revolutionized the study 
 of Villon. The new material thus brought to light 
 has for the most part been digested and incor- 
 porated by M. Longnon in his definitive edition 
 (published in the early part of the current year) 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. xl 
 
 of the Poems, in which he has given us the result 
 of twenty-two years' labour and has at length 
 provided us with a fairly representative critical 
 text, marred, however, by no few defects, both of 
 omission and commission, especially in the Vocabu- 
 laire-Index, which sadly requires completion and 
 correction. On these latter, however, it would be 
 ungracious to lay overmuch stress, in view of the 
 m.aterial additions which the learned editor has 
 made to our knowledge of Villon and of the 
 many positive merits of his work. Indeed, so many 
 and so important are the emendations and restora- 
 tions effected, — whether of their own motion or at 
 the instance of the many able scholars who have 
 lately turned their attention to the subject — by these 
 two latest editors of the old Parisian poet and so 
 many passages have they rescued for us from what 
 had long been regarded as hopeless corruption and 
 confusion that Villon may be said to be now by 
 their means for the first time presented to the 
 world in something like his true shape. It is much 
 to be regretted that my late friend, M, Auguste 
 
xii PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 Vitu, should have died without putting the finishing 
 touch to his life-long labours upon the same 
 subject, as it is evident, from the taste of his 
 quality vi^hich he has given us in his study of 
 the Jargon,! (forming the third volume of his 
 intended edition of Villon) that the complete work 
 must have taken the highest rank in its own special 
 line and it is to be hoped that his literary 
 executors may yet find it possible to publish a 
 part, if not the whole, of the remaining three 
 volumes of his magnum opus. Under these cir- 
 cumstances I have found it necessary minutely to 
 revise (and indeed in great part to re-write) my 
 translation, so as to bring it into accordance with 
 the labours of the above-mentioned scholars, the 
 results of whose researches, in so far as they cast 
 new light upon the work and personality of Villon, 
 I have embodied in the additional notes appended 
 to the Introduction and the text. Notwithstand- 
 ing the achievements of modern scholarship and the 
 
 ' Le Jargon du XV= Siecle, par Aiiguste Vitu, Paris, 1884. 
 
rUEFATORY NOTE. xill 
 
 great revival of interest in French fifteenth-century 
 literature which has marked the last twenty years, 
 the text of Villon is still, in many places, terribly 
 corrupt and obscure and we have yet but a mini- 
 mum of information as to the detail and circum- 
 stance of his life, such as might avail to throw 
 light upon doubtful or enigmatical passages. This 
 being the case, I cannot, of course, hope to have 
 altogether succeeded in avoiding errors and mis- 
 readings and must ask the indulgence of my readers 
 for those points of rendering upon which I have 
 been obliged to trust to conjecture. 
 
 A word as to those of the poems passing under 
 Villon's name which I have left untranslated. M. 
 Longnon follows the example of MM. Moland and 
 Bijvanck in classing with the genuine work of our 
 author the two pieces of verse (I cannot bring 
 myself to dignify them with the name of poems) 
 known as " Le Dit de la Naissance Marie " and 
 " Double Ballade ; " but I cannot conceive how any- 
 one acquainted with Villon's style can for a moment 
 incline to pay him the ill compliment of attributing 
 
xiv PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 to him the authorship of these two pointless pieces, 
 which are, indeed, the merest schoolboy doggerel. 
 The first-named editor also adds to the "Poesies 
 Diverses" a couple of ballads ("Des Contre-Verit^s" 
 and "De Bon Conseil") first pubhshed by M. Bijvanck, 
 which are (as he allows) worse than mediocre. 
 These I have omitted, as they seem to me to be 
 wrongly ascribed to Villon, upon the very insufficient 
 evidence of the appearance of his name en acrostiche 
 in the refrain, and to be saltless imitations of some 
 of his genuine pieces, such as the Ballade des 
 Proverbes and that in which he imagines himself 
 hanged with his fellow-rogues. Under the rubric 
 " Poems Attributed to Villon," M. Moland prints 
 eighteen Roundels and twelve Ballads, besides the 
 Monologue of the Frank-Archer of Baignolet, the 
 Dialogue of Mallepaye and Baillevent and the 
 collection of picaresque anecdotes in verse, known 
 as " Les Repues Franches," all of which M. Longnon 
 very rightly rejects as spurious additions. Of the 
 roundels and ballads, some of considerable merit, 
 none seems to me to bear the least trace of 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. xv 
 
 Villon's hand, save the " Merry Ballad of Vintners," 
 which may, perhaps, be an early production of his 
 and which, together with a roundel and three other 
 ballads, I have translated. Nor can the two quasi- 
 dramatic pieces (of which the Monologue is a rather 
 amusing fanfaronnade) with any greater probability 
 be ascribed to the Parisian poet, whilst a glance at 
 the " Repues Franches " is enough to show that, 
 though Villon is the hero, it is in no way pretended 
 that he is the author of these " merrie gestes." 
 
 It was my wish to add to the present edition a 
 metrical version of the seven ballads in thieves' 
 slang, known as the Jargon or Jobelin ; but I have 
 found it impossible to carry out my intention, 
 owing to the immature state of this special branch 
 of Villon-literature. Notwithstanding the fact that 
 M. Marcel Schwob has at last identified, as the 
 patter or lingo of the Coquillarts, the language in 
 which the jargonesque pieces in question are written, 
 the various scholars who have occupied themselves 
 with this portion of Villon's work have hitherto 
 been unable to agree upon any sufficient explana- 
 
XVI PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 tion of the countless difficulties and obscurities with 
 which they abound, nor have they even succeeded 
 in establishing a fairly satisfactory critical text of 
 them, Under these circumstances, I have deemed 
 it prudent to leave the Jargon unattempted, a result 
 the less to be regretted that, so far as can be 
 gathered from the tentative translations given us 
 by M. Vitu and others, the (so-called) ballads of 
 which it consists show little or no trace of the 
 special qualities which distinguish the poet's better- 
 known compositions. 
 
INTRODUCTION} 
 
 There are few names in the history of literature 
 over which the shadow has so long and so per- 
 sistently lain as over that of the father of French 
 poetiy. Up to no more distant period than the early 
 part of the year 1877, it was not even known what 
 was his real name, nor were the admirers of his genius 
 in possession of any other facts relative to his personal 
 history than could be gleaned, by a laborious process 
 of inference and deduction, from such works of his as 
 have been handed down to posterity. The materials 
 that exist for the biography of Shakespeare or Dante 
 
 ' The following essay was written in 1878 and was first published 
 in 1881, by way of introduction to the expurgated edition of the 
 Poems. I have thought it best to leave it substantially unaltered, 
 incorporating such supplementary matter as is necessary to bring it 
 up to date in the form of additional notes, distinguished by brackets. 
 
are scanty enough, but they present a very harvest of 
 fact and suggestion compared with the pitiable frag- 
 ments which have so long represented our sole personal 
 knowledge of Villon. That he had been twice con- 
 demned to death for unknown offences; that his father 
 was dead and his mother still living at the time he 
 reached his thirtieth year; that he attended the courses 
 of the University of Paris in the capacity of scholar 
 and presumably attained the quality of Licentiate 
 in Arts, entitling him to the style of Dominus or 
 Maitre ; above all, that his companions and acquaint- 
 ances were of the lowest and most disreputable class 
 and, indeed, that he himself wasted his youth in riot 
 and debauchery and scrupled not to resort to the meanest 
 and most revolting expedients to furnish forth that life 
 of alternate lewd plenty and sheer starvation which, 
 Bohemian in grain as he was, he preferred to the decent 
 dullness of a middleclass life; and that he owed his 
 immunity from punishment partly to accidents, such as 
 the succession of Louis XI to his father's throne, and 
 partly to the intervention of influential protectors, prob- 
 ably attracted by his eminent literary merits, amongst 
 whom stood prominent his namesake and supposed rela- 
 tive, Guillaume de Villon ; — such were the main scraps 
 
Ill 
 
 and parings of information upon which, until the publi- 
 cation of M. Longnon's "Etude Biographique," ' we had 
 alone to rely for our conception of the man in his habit 
 as he lived. Even now the facts and dates, which M. 
 Longnon has so valiantly and so ingeniously rescued 
 for us from the vast charnelhouse of mediaeval history, 
 are in themselves scanty enough, and it is necessary 
 to apply to their connection and elucidation no mean 
 amount of study and labour before anything like a de- 
 finite framework of biography can be constructed from 
 them. Such as they are, however, they enable us for 
 the first time to catch a glimpse of the strange mad 
 life and dissolute yet attractive personality of the wild, 
 reckless, unfortunate Parisian poet, whose splendid if 
 erratic verse flames out like a meteor from the some- 
 what dim twilight of French fifteenth century literature. 
 It is to be hoped that the example so ably set by M. 
 Longnon will not be allowed to remain unfoUowed and 
 that new seekers in the labyrinth of mediseval archives 
 and records will succeed in filling up for us those 
 yawning gaps in Villon's history which are yet too pain- 
 
 ' Etude Biographique sur Francois Villon, d'apris les documents 
 in^dits conserves aux Archives Nationales. Par Auguste Longnon. 
 Paris, 1877. 
 
IV 
 
 fully apparent.' M. Longnon, indeed, seems to imply 
 a promise that he himself has not yet said his last word 
 upon the subject; and we may fairly look, within the 
 next few years, for new help and guidance at the hands 
 of M. Auguste Vitu, when he at last gives to the world 
 his long and anxiously awaited edition of the poems, a 
 work which, considering the special qualifications and 
 opportunities of the editor and the devotion with which 
 he has applied himself to the task, may be expected 
 to prove the definitive edition of Villon." 
 
 [• The hopes expressed in the above paragraph have now to a 
 certain extent been realised by the labours of MM. Bijvanck, Schwob, 
 Paris, Schone and others, as well as by those of M. Longnon himself; 
 but much yet remains to be done. See Prefatory Note.] 
 
 ^ I owe to the kindness of M. Vitu the following particulars of 
 the scheme of his forthcoming edition of Villon, which will serve to 
 show the great scope and importance of the work, now in an ad- 
 vanced stage of preparation. It will form four volumes, the first of 
 which will consist wholly of notices upon Villon and his contempo- 
 raries, completing and correcting all that has been hitherto published 
 on the subject. The second volume will comprise the complete text 
 of Villon, augmented by several authentic poems hitherto unknown, 
 an appendix containing pieces written in imitation of the old poet 
 aud a. short treatise upon mediaeval prosody and versification, in 
 correction of the errors and laches of modern scholars. The text 
 presented will be founded wholly upon the manuscripts, the gothic 
 editions being all, according to M. Vitu, incorrect, garbled and 
 incomplete. The third volume will comprise the "Jargon," with 
 the addition of five unpublished ballads, besides it philological inter- 
 
In putting together the following pages I should be 
 sorty to allow it to be supposed that I contemplated 
 any exhaustive study of the man or of his work. My 
 sole object has been to present the facts and hypotheses, 
 of which we are in possession on the subject, in such' 
 a plain and accessible form as may furnish to those 
 readers of the translation of his strange and splendid 
 verse who (and we know that they are as yet many) 
 are unacquainted with the poems, and perhaps even 
 with the name of Villon,^ some unpretentious intro- 
 
 pretation and a history of the work ; and the fourth will contain 
 an exhaustive glossary. [Since the above note was written (in 1881), 
 M. Vitu has died, leaving his work uncompleted. See Prefatory 
 Note.] 
 
 ' The uncertainty that has so long obscured every detail of Villon's 
 life has extended even to the pronunciation of the name by which 
 he is known to posterity. It has been, and still is, the custom to 
 pronounce the poet's adoptive name Vilon, as if written with one /, 
 and it is only of late years that this error (no doubt due to the pro- 
 verbial carelessness of the French, and more especially of the Parisian 
 public, with regard to the pronunciation of proper names) has been 
 authoritatively corrected. As M. Jannet remarks, it is only in the 
 Midi that folk know how to sound the // mouillh, or liquid //. It 
 has now, however, been conclusively demonstrated that the correct 
 pronunciation of the name is Vilion, the poet himself (as was first 
 pointed out by M. Jannet) always rhyming it with such words 
 as pavilion, tourbillon, bouillon, aiguillon, etc., in which the // 
 are liquid ; and a still more decisive argument is furnished by M. 
 
VI 
 
 duction, as well to his personality and habit of thought 
 as to the circumstance and local colouring of his 
 verse. The rest I leave to more competent hands 
 than my own, content if I have, in the following 
 sketch and in the translation to which it is intended 
 to serve as preface, set ajar one more door, long 
 sadly moss-grown and ivy-hidden, into that' enchanted 
 wonderland of French poetry, which glows with such 
 spring-tide glory of many-coloured bloom, such autumn 
 majesty of matured fruit. 
 
 Longnon, who has noted, in the course of his researches, that 
 the Latin form of the patronymic, as it appears in contemporary 
 documents, is Villione, and that the name is spelt in error Vignon 
 in a record of the Court of Parliament, dated 25th July, 1425, in 
 which Guillaume de Villon is shown by internal evidence to be the 
 person referred to, thus proving by inference that the // of the name, 
 apparently imperfectly caught from dictation, must necessarily have 
 been liquid ; otherwise they could hardly have been mistaken for 
 another liquid, gn. Moreover (and this information also we owe to 
 M. Longnon) the name of the village which gave birth to the 
 Canon of St. Benolt is to this day pronounced Vilion. 
 
Vll 
 
 I. 
 
 The year 143 1 may, without impropriety, be styled 
 the grand climacteric of French national life. After a 
 hundred years' struggle for national existence against 
 the great soldiers produced in uninterrupted succession 
 by England, apparently with no other object than the 
 conquest of the neighbouring continent, as well as 
 against far more dangerous and insidious intestine 
 enemies ; after having seen three-quarters of the king- 
 dom, of which Charles VI was the nominal king, bowed 
 in apparently permanent subjection to the foreign foe, 
 the French people had at last succeeded in placing 
 on the head of Charles VII the crown of his fathers, 
 thanks to the superhuman eiforts of two of the noblest 
 women that ever lived, Jeanne d'Arc and Agnes Sorel, 
 and to the unselfish devotion of the great-hearted 
 patriot Jacques Cceur. On the 31st of May 143 1 the 
 heroine of Domr^my consummated the most glorious 
 life of which the history of womankind affords example 
 by an equally noble death upon the pyre of Rouen ; 
 not, however, before she had fulfilled her sublime 
 purpose. Before her death she had seen the achieve- 
 ment of the great object, the coronation of Charles VII 
 
viu 
 
 at Rheims, which she had originally proposed to herself 
 as the term of her unparalleled political career ; and 
 the English, driven out of stronghold after stronghold, 
 province after province, were now obliged to concen- 
 trate their efforts on the retention of the provinces of 
 Normandy and Guienne. Nor was it long ere even 
 this limited purpose was perforce abandoned. Paris, 
 after sixteen years of foreign occupation, opened her 
 gates to her legitimate king and four or &ye more 
 years sufl&ced to complete the permanent expulsion of 
 the English from France. The heroic peasant girl of 
 Lorraine had not only recovered for the Dauphin his 
 lawful inheritance ; she had created the French people. 
 Until her time France had been inhabited by Bretons, 
 Angevins, Bourbonnais, Burgundians, Poitevins, Armag- 
 nacs ; at last the baptism of fire through which the land 
 had passed and the breath of heroism that emanated 
 from the Maid of Orleans had welded together the 
 conflicting sections and had informed them with that 
 breath of patriotism which is the beginning of all 
 national life. France had at length become a nation. 
 The change was not yet complete: there remained yet 
 much to be done and suffered before the precious gift 
 so hardly won could be definitively assured : Louis XI, 
 
IX 
 
 with his cold wisdom and his unshrinking determina- 
 tion, was yet to consolidate by the calculated severity 
 of his administration and the supple firmness of his 
 domestic and foreign policy (long so grossly misunder- 
 stood and calumniated) the unity and harmony of the 
 young realm. Still the new national life had been 
 effectually conquered and it only remained for time 
 and wisdom to confirm and substantiate it. 
 
 One of the most salient symptoms of a national 
 impulse of regeneration is commonly afforded by the 
 consolidation and individualisation of the national 
 speech. I should say rather, perhaps, that "such a 
 phenomenon is one of those most necessary to such 
 a popular movement and therefore most to be expected 
 from it, though it may not always be possible to trace 
 the correspondence of the one with the other. How- 
 ever, it is certain that the converse generally holds 
 true, and it was undoubtedly- so in the present instance. 
 Up to the middle of the fifteenth century France can 
 scarcely be said to have possessed a national language; 
 the Langue d'Oil, for want of writers of supreme 
 genius, had hardly as yet become fashioned into an 
 individual tongue. It is to poets rather than to prose 
 writers that we must look for the influences that 
 
stimulate and direct the growth of a national speech, 
 and there is, perhaps, no instance in which the power 
 of a true poet is more decisively visible than in his 
 control over the creation and definition of a language, 
 especially during periods of national formation and 
 transition. Up to the time of which I speak, this 
 influence had been wanting in France. During the 
 fourteenth century and the earlier part of the next, 
 her poetic literature had consisted mainly of imitations 
 of the elder poets, especially of Guillaume de Lorris 
 and Jehan de Meung, of the Chansons de Geste and 
 other heroic romances aud probably also of the Trou- 
 badours or poets of the Langue d'Oc. Abundance of 
 sweet singers had arisen and passed away, most of 
 them modelled upon the Roman de la Rose, whose 
 influence had been as that of the plane, beneath which, 
 it is said, no corn will ripen. Under its shadow there 
 had sprung up abundance of flowers, but they were 
 those rather of the hothouse and the garden than 
 the robuster and healthier denizens of the woods and 
 fields. There was hardly any breath of national life 
 in the singers of the time : Guillaume de Machau, 
 Eustache Deschamps, Jehan Froissart, Christine de 
 Pisan, Alain Chartier, Charles d'Orl^ans, were indeed 
 
XI 
 
 poets of the second order, of whom any country might 
 be proud ; but they were poets who (if one should 
 excerpt from their verse its accidental local colouring) 
 might, for all that they evince of national life and 
 national spirit, have been produced in any country 
 where a like and sufficient culture prevailed. The 
 thirteenth century had indeed produced one poet, 
 Rutubeuf, in whose " Complaintes " ran some breath 
 of popular feeling, sorely limited, however, by deficient 
 power and lacking inspiration in the singer ; and in 
 some of the productions of ,the poets I have named 
 above, notably in Deschamps' fine ballad on the death 
 of the great Constable du Guesclin, in Christine de 
 Pisan's pathetic lament over the madness of Charles 
 VI and the state of the kingdom and in the anonymous 
 poem known as " Le Combat des Trente," there 
 breathes some nobler and stronger spirit, some distant 
 echo of popular passion ; nor is the sweet verse of 
 Charles d'Orl^ans wanting in pafriotic notes, touched, 
 unfortunately, with too slight a hand. But these are 
 few and far between ; the subjects usually chosen are 
 love and chivalry, questions of honour, ^gallantry and 
 religion, treated allegorically and rhetorically after the 
 extinct and artificial fashion of the Roman de la Rose. 
 
xu 
 
 Beautiful as is often the colour and cadence of the 
 verse, we cannot but feel that it is a beauty and a 
 charm which belong to a past age and which have no 
 living relation to that in which they saw the light. In 
 perusing the poetry of the time, one seems to be 
 gazing upon interminable stretches of antique tapestry, 
 embroidered in splendid but somewhat faded hues, 
 wherein armed knights and ladies, clad in quaintly-cut 
 raiment and adorned with ornaments of archaic form, 
 sit at the banquet, stray a-toying in gardens, ride 
 a-hawking in fields or pass a-hunting through woods, 
 where every flower is moulded after a conventional 
 pattern and no leaf dares assert itself save for the 
 purpose of decoration. Here everything is prescribed : 
 the bow of the knight as he kneels before his lady, 
 the sweep of the chitelaine's robe through the bannered 
 galleries, the fall of the standard on the wind, the 
 career of the war-horse through the lists, the flight of 
 the birds through the air, the motions of the deer that 
 stand at gaze in the woods, — all are ordered in obedience 
 to a certain strictly prescribed formula, in which one 
 feels that nature and passion have ceased to have any 
 sufficient part. Whether one wanders with Charles 
 d'Orl^ans through the forest of Ennuyeuse Tristesse, 
 
xni 
 
 conversing with Dangier, Amour, Beault6 d'Amours, 
 Faux Dangier, Dame Merencolie and a host of other 
 allegorical personages, or listens to Guillaume de 
 Machau, as, with a thousand quaint conceits and 
 gallant devices, he compares his lady to David's harp 
 with its twenty-five strings, one feels that one is gazing 
 upon phantoms and moving in a dead world, from 
 which the colour and the glory are hopelessly faded. 
 It is not poets of the trouv6re or troubadour order 
 who can have any decisive effect upon the new growth 
 of a nation, as it emerges from the fiery furnace of 
 national regeneration ; it is for no mere sweet singer 
 that the task of giving to the national speech that 
 new impulse which shall correspond with its political 
 and social advance is reserved. The chosen one may 
 be rude, lacking in culture, gross in thought or form, 
 but he must and will come with lips touched with the 
 fire of heaven and voice ringing with the accents of 
 a new world. Such a poet was called for by the 
 necessities of the time and such an one was provided, 
 by the subtle influences which order the mechanism 
 of national formation, in the very year that saw the 
 consecration of French nationality by the death of the 
 Martyr of Rouen. 
 
XIV 
 
 II. 
 
 Fran9ois de Montcorbier, better known as Villon, 
 from the name of his lifelong patron and protector, was 
 born in the year 143 1, within a few weeks or days of 
 the capital political event of which I have just spoken. 
 It is uncertain what place may claim the honour of his 
 birth, but the probabilities appear to be in favour of 
 his having been born at some village near (or at least 
 in the diocese of) Paris, entitling him to the style of 
 Parisiensis or de Paris, which he commonly adopts, and 
 also, combined with residence and graduation at the 
 Paris University, to certain municipal and other privi- 
 leges of citizenship, such as the right of voting at the 
 election of Echevins or notables. It seems probable 
 that he belonged to a decayed and impoverished branch 
 of the noble family of Montcorbier, who took their 
 name from a fief and village (since disappeared) in the 
 Bourbonnais, and that to this connection with the duchy 
 he was indebted for the moderate countenance and as- 
 sistance which he seems to have received at the hands 
 of the Princes of the ducal family of Bourbon. The 
 only fact certainly known about his relatives is that he 
 had an uncle, a priest established at Angers in Anjou, 
 
XV 
 
 to whom he paid at least one visit with a sufficiently 
 questionable purpose, and that the rest of his family 
 (with the exception of his mother, as to whom we 
 possess no biographical details whatever) utterly and 
 consistently refused to recognise him, — according to his 
 own story, because of his lack of means, — but, it may 
 rather be assumed, on account of the very unsavoury 
 nature of his connections and the incessant scandal of 
 his life. Decent people (as we may presume these 
 relatives of his to have been) might well be allowed 
 to consider their connection with Master Francois Villon 
 of brawling, wenching, lock-picking and cheating noto- 
 riety as anything but a desirable onei, and history will 
 hardly reproach them with their unwillingness to culti- 
 vate it. However this may be, it is certain that the 
 only relative who appears to have had any share in 
 Villon's life was his mother; and it is little likely that 
 she, whom he describes as a poor old woman, unlettered 
 and feeble, and who (as he himself confesses) suffered 
 on his account " bitter anguish and many sorrows," 
 could have exercised any considerable influence over 
 her brilliant, turbulent, ne'er-do-weel son. Yet he seems 
 always, in the midst of the mire of his life, to have 
 kept one place in his heart white with that filial love 
 
XVI 
 
 which outlasts all others and which has so often been 
 to poets the perfume of their lives. In the words of 
 Thdophile Gautier, his love for his mother shines out 
 of the turmoil and ferment of his life like a white and 
 serene lily springing from the heart of a marsh. His 
 father he only mentions to tell us that he is dead, when 
 or how there is nothing to show, and to state that he 
 was poor and of mean extraction, nor have we any in- 
 formation as to his condition or the position in which 
 he left his family. We do not even know whether 
 Villon's mother inhabited Paris or not, but it would 
 appear probable that she did, from his mention in the 
 ballad that bears her name of the monstier or convent 
 church (probably I'Eglise des Celestins') in which she 
 
 ' I cannot agree with M. Longnon in considering the Abbe Valentin 
 Dufour wrong in his suggestion that the church to which Villon 
 makes his mother refer might have been I'Eglise des Celestins, which 
 was decorated with pictures of heaven and hell precisely answering 
 to the description in the ballad. The very word used by Villon 
 (monstier, i.e. monasterium, the old form of the modern moHtier) 
 points to the probability of the church having been a conventual one ; 
 and we need not read the words "dont je suis paroissienne " as 
 meaning more than that the convent where she made her orisons 
 was situated in her own parish or that she was a regular attendant 
 at the services held there and so looked upon it as practically her 
 parish church. 
 
XVll 
 
 was wont to say her orisons and which was decorated 
 with paintings little likely to have then existed in any 
 of the villages about Paris. However, the want of 
 living and available family connections was amply com- 
 pensated to Villon by the protecting care of a patron 
 who seems to have taken him under his wing and 
 perhaps even adopted him at an early age. Guillaume 
 de Villon, the patron in question, was a respectable 
 and apparently well-to-do ecclesiastic, belonging to a 
 family established at a village of the same name (which 
 I believe still exists), Villon, near Tonnerre, in the 
 dominions of the ducal house of Burgundy, and the 
 worthy priest appears to have turned his origin to good 
 account in securing the patronage of that princely 
 family, which in all probability he was able in some 
 measure to divert to the benefit of his prot6g6. We 
 first hear of Messire Guillaume as one of the chaplains 
 of the parish church of the little village of Gentilly, 
 near Paris, during his occupancy of which cure he 
 probably formed an acquaintance with the poet's family, 
 which afterwards led to his undertaking the charge of 
 their son. About the year of Francois' birth, Messire 
 Guillaume obtained a long-awaited promotion: through 
 the influence, probably, of the Burgundian family he 
 
XVIU 
 
 was appointed to a stall in the cathedral church of St. 
 Benoit le B6tourn6 or Bientourn6 at Paris, a lucrative 
 benefice, involving, besides a handsome residence called 
 L' Hotel de la Porte Rouge, in the Close or Cloister of 
 St. Benoit, a considerable piece of land and a stipend 
 enabling him to live at his ease. In addition to his 
 official income, he must have had some private fortune, 
 as he possessed, to our knowledge, at least two houses 
 in the neighbourhood, which he let out to tenants, and 
 a considerable rent-charge upon a third, which latter, 
 however, the good easy man appears hardly to have 
 troubled himself to collect, as, at the time it is men- 
 tioned in the archives of the Chapter, we find it stated 
 that no less than eight years' rent was then in arrear. 
 In this position he remained till his death, which oc- 
 curred in 1468 ; and there is every reason to believe 
 that he survived his prot6g6, towards whom, during the 
 whole of his life, he appears never to have relaxed 
 from untiring and unobtrusive benevolence. The dis- 
 reputable nature of the poet's life and the perpetually 
 recurring troubles in which he became involved seem 
 to have had no effect in inducing the good Canon to 
 withdraw his protection from so apparently unworthy 
 an object, and (according to Villon himself) he was 
 
XIX 
 
 the ordinary Deus ex machind to whom the poet looked 
 for deliverance from the consequences of his own folly 
 and misconduct. Of no other person does Villon speak 
 in the same unqualified terms of grateful affection as 
 of the Canon of St. Benoit, calling him "his more 
 than father, who had been to him more tender than 
 mothers to their sucking babes." Indeed, such honour 
 and affection did he bear him that we find him on one 
 occasion (with a consideration little to have been ex- 
 pected from such a scapegrace) actually begging the 
 good Canon to leave him to his fate and not com- 
 promise his own reputation by taking any steps in the 
 interest of so disreputable a connection. 
 
 Of the early life of Villon we know nothing whatever, 
 except that he must have entered at the University of 
 Paris about the year 1446, when he was fifteen years 
 of Age. In March 1449 he was admitted to the Bac- 
 calaureate and became Licentiate in Theology or 
 Ecclesiastical Law and Master of Arts in the summer 
 of 1452. During the six years of his studies, it is 
 probable that he resided with Guillaume de Villon at 
 L'Hotel de la Porte Rouge, which adjoined the College 
 de Sorbonne, and that the weekly payment of twd sols 
 Parisis, which as a scholar he was bound to make to 
 
XX 
 
 the collegiate authorities, and the fees incurred on 
 the occasion of his proceeding to his degrees were 
 provided by his patron. It frequently happened in 
 mediasval times, when colleges were far less richly 
 endowed than is now the case, that the want of 
 official means for providing such aids as exhibitions 
 and bursaries for the education of poor scholars was 
 supplied by private charity, and this was, indeed, a 
 favourite mode of benefaction with rich and liberal- 
 minded folk. The special college at which Villon 
 followed the courses of the University was probably 
 not the College de Sorbonne, notwithstanding its imme- 
 diate neighbourhood to L'Hotel de la Porte Rouge, 
 but (and this I am inclined to suppose from the 
 intimate knowledge he displayed of its internal arrange- 
 ments on a later occasion) the College de Navarre, also 
 in close vicinity to the Canon's residence. It is possible 
 that the latter intended Villon for the church, in 
 which direction lay the interest he could command : 
 if so, his intentions were completely frustrated, for 
 Villon never (as he himself tells us) achieved the 
 necessary theological degree ; and subsequent events, 
 hardly to be called beyond his own control, completely 
 diverted him from the pursuit of the liberal professions 
 
XXI 
 
 and caused him to become the wolf that watches for 
 an opportunity of spoiling the fold, rather than the 
 shepherd whose duty it is to guard it. The interval 
 
 between the matriculation of Villon and 
 is an almost complete blank for us, the 
 
 the year 1455 
 only materials 
 
 we have to enable us to follow him being the allusions 
 and references to be gleaned from a study of his 
 poems ; but it was certainly during this period of his 
 life that he contracted the acquaintances, disreputable 
 and otherwise, which exercised so decisive an influence 
 over his future history. Amongst those belonging to 
 the former category may be specially cited Ren6 de 
 Montigny, Colin de Cayeulx, Jehan le Loup, Casin 
 ChoUet and Philip Brunei, Seigneur de Grigny, all 
 scoundrels of the first water ; and for women, Huguette 
 du Hamel, Abbess of Port Royal or Pourras, as shining 
 a light in debauchery as any of his male friends, and 
 la petite Mac6e of Orleans, his first mistress ("avoit 
 ma ceincture," says he), whom he characterises as 
 "trfes mauvaise ordure," a thoroughly bad lot, to say 
 nothing of the obscure rogues, sharpers and women 
 of ill-fame who defile in so endless a procession 
 through his pages. The two first mentioned, who 
 were fellow-students of our poet, were indeed rogues 
 
xxu 
 
 of no mean eminence and appear both to have attained 
 that distinction of "dying upright in the sun" which 
 was at once so fascinating and so terrible a contingency 
 to Villon. Ren6 or Regnier de Montigny was the son 
 of a man of noble family at Bourges, who, possessing 
 certain fiefs in the neighbourhood of Paris and a 
 charge in the royal household, accompanied Charles 
 VII to his capital, on its reduction in 1436, and there 
 died shortly after, leaving his family in poor circum- 
 stances. Regnier, who was two years older than 
 Villon, early distinguished himself by criminal exploits, 
 pursuing an ever ascending scale of gravity. In August 
 1452 he was banished by the Provost of Paris for a 
 disreputable nocturnal brawl, in which he had beaten 
 the sergeants of the watch before the hostelry of La 
 Grosse Margot ; whereupon he betook himself to the 
 provinces, and after there exercising his peculiar talents 
 to such eflfect as to be imprisoned for various offences 
 at Rouen, Tours, Bordeaux and Poitiers, he once more 
 ventured to Paris, where he speedily again came under 
 the notice of the authorities. After a condemnation 
 for the comparatively trifling offence of card-sharping, 
 he was sentenced to death as accessory to a murder 
 committed in the Cemetery of the Innocents ; but for 
 
this he succeeded in obtaining the royal pardon. This 
 narrow escape, however, seems to have produced no 
 salutary effect on him, for in 1457, after having escaped 
 punishment for various offences by virtue of his quality 
 of clerk, of which he availed himself to claim pro- 
 tection at the hands of the Bishop of Paris, he was 
 again condemned to death for divers sacrilegious thefts 
 from the Parisian churches, and under this condemna- 
 tion, notwithstanding a pardon obtained by family 
 influence, which appears to have been quashed for 
 irregularity, it seems certain that the world was at 
 last made rid of him by that "longitudinal death" he 
 had so richly deserved ; and it is even possible that 
 he had the honour of being the first to make essay of 
 a new gibbet in that year erected by the city of Paris 
 and afterwards known as le Gibet de Montigny. 
 
 Colin de Cayeulx was no less eminent as a scoundrel. 
 The son of a Parisian locksmith, he made use of his 
 knowledge of his father's trade to become one of the 
 most artistic thieves presented by the criminal annals 
 of Paris; and it is in this his especial quality of pick- 
 lock that we shall again come across him in connection 
 with Villon. After a long career of crime, he was in 
 1460 condemned to death as (in the words of the 
 
Procureur du Roi) " an incorrigible thief, picklock, 
 marauder and sacrilegious scoundrel, " unworthy to 
 enjoy the much-abused benefit of clergy, by which he 
 and rascals of his kidney had so often profited to 
 escape the consequences of their crimes. Nevertheless, 
 the sentence was, for reasons unknown, not carried 
 into effect, and he appears even to have been set at 
 liberty. But his immunity was not of long duration; 
 we know from Villon himself that, certainly not later 
 than the next year, his infamous companion was broken 
 on the wheel for " esbats " or gambols (as he euphe- 
 mistically styles them), the least of which appears to 
 have been rape or highway robbery, perpetrated at the 
 villages of Rueil near Paris and Montpippeau near 
 Orleans. 
 
 Of the Seigneur de Grigny we know little but through 
 Villon himself, who places him in the same category 
 as Montigny by bequeathing to him the right of shelter 
 in various ruins round Paris, which were then the 
 favourite resorts and strongholds of the choicest thieves 
 and vagabonds of the time, and speaks of him in such 
 terms as leave little doubt that his "lay" or criminal 
 speciality was the coining and uttering of false money. 
 
 Jehan le Loup and Casin Chollet were scoundrels of 
 
XXV 
 
 a lower rank or " sneak-thieves," dealing chiefly in petty 
 thefts of poultry and other eatables: the former ap- 
 pears to have been a bargee and fisherman in the 
 service of the municipality of Paris, by whom he was 
 employed to keep the moats and wet ditches of the 
 city clean and free from weeds, an occupation which 
 afforded him peculiar facilities for marauding among 
 the numerous herds of ducks and geese kept by the 
 corporation and the adjacent commoners of the city 
 upon the waters which he traversed , in his dredging 
 boat; the latter, by the operation of that curious law 
 of reciprocal attraction between the police and the 
 criminal classes, of whose prevalence in countries of 
 the Latin race so many instances exist, after a turbulent 
 early life, became tipstaff at the Chitelet prison and 
 was in 1465 deprived of his ofSce, flogged at the cart's 
 tail and imprisoned, for having spread false reports 
 (probably with a professional eye to plunder) of the 
 entry into Paris of the Burgundians, who then lay 
 leaguer at the gates, under the command of Charles 
 the Rash. 
 
 The Abbess of Port Royal is another curious figure 
 in the history of criminality. Of a good family and 
 holding a rich abbacy, she early distinguished herself 
 
XXVI 
 
 by leading a life of unbridled licentiousness, associating 
 with all the lewd characters of her time, frequenting 
 houses of ill-fame and debauchery in male attire, brawl- 
 ing and fighting in the streets, holding orgies in the 
 convent itself, which remind us of the legends of Gilles 
 de Retz, and selling the nuns under her control for 
 the purposes of prostitution. So notorious were her 
 excesses and misconduct in Paris that she became the 
 subject of a satirical popular song, whose author she 
 caused to be beaten to death. For these and many 
 other shameless acts she was at last brought to account,- 
 imprisoned and finally, after many shifts of litigation, 
 definitively deprived of her abbey, when she doubtless 
 sank to the lowest depths of degradation. By reason 
 of her wanton way of life, the people appear to have 
 corrupted her title and to have dubbed her Abbesse 
 de Poilras or Shaven-poll, a slang .name then given to 
 women of ill-fame who had been pilloried and had 
 their heads shaved. We know from Villon himself that 
 she was a companion of his on at least one occasion, 
 and it was probably during one of her excursions in 
 man's attire that she and the poet in 1455 paid 
 their famous visit to Perrot Girard, the unfortunate 
 barber of Bourg la Reine, near Paris, and lived for a 
 
XXVll 
 
 week at his expense and that of his brood of sucking 
 pigs. 
 
 However, besides these disreputable acquaintances, 
 Villon seems to have become intimate with many 
 persons to whom his merry, devil-may-care disposition, 
 and perhaps also his wit and genius, made him accept- 
 able whilst he and they were young : of these some were 
 fellow-students of his own, others apparently people 
 of better rank and position, those " gracious gallants," 
 " so fair of fashion and of show, in song and speech 
 so excellent," whom, as he himself tells us, he fre- 
 quented in his youth. Some of these, says he, after 
 became "masters and lords and great of grace;" and 
 it was no doubt to the kindly remembrance which 
 these latter cherished of the jolly, brilliant companion 
 of their youth that he owed something of his com- 
 parative immunity from punishment for the numberless 
 faults and follies which he committed at a subsequent 
 and less favoured period. Of these (M. Longnon has 
 discovered for us) were Martin Bellefaye, Lord of 
 Ferri^res en Brie, afterwards Advocate at the Chatelet 
 and Lieutenant-Criminel of the Provost of Paris ; Pierre 
 Basanier, Notary and afterwards Clerc-Criminel at the 
 Chatelet ; Pierre Blaru, Guillaume Charriau, Robert 
 
XXVlll 
 
 Val6e, Thomas Tricot, all men of some importance in 
 law or trade at Paris; and (possibly through his son) 
 Robert d'Estouteville, Provost of Paris, to whom Villon, 
 in his student-days, dedicated the curious ballad on 
 the subject of his marriage with Ambroise de Lord. 
 It is by no means impossible that from this time of 
 pleasant companionship and comparative respectability 
 dates Villon's connection with the royal poet, Charles 
 d'0rl6ans ; and that he may also have • become known 
 to the then Dauphin • (afterwards Louis XI) is almost 
 equally likely, in view of the habits of familiar inter- 
 course of the latter with the burghers and clerks of 
 Paris and his well-known love of and taste for literature. 
 It appears certain that Louis had some knowledge of 
 and liking for Villon, founded probably on admiration 
 of his wit and genius ; and it was assuredly owing to 
 this, and not to any general amnesty de joyeux avenement, 
 that the poet owed his last remission of the capital penalty 
 at the hands of so severe a monarch as the titular 
 author of the " Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," for which 
 he shows (in the Greater Testament) so special and 
 personal a gratitude as almost to preclude the idea 
 of its having been granted otherwise than as a matter 
 of peculiar and personal favour. 
 
XXIX 
 
 This early period of Villon's life, extending at least 
 up to his twenty-fourth year, appears to have been 
 free from crime or misconduct of any very gross 
 character. Although he himself laments that he had 
 neglected to study in his youth, whereby he might 
 have slept warm in his old age, and expressly states 
 that he fled from school as bird from cage, we have 
 seen that, if he did not achieve the presumable object 
 of his college career, namely, the Maitrise or Doctorate 
 of Theology, he yet paid sufficient attention to his 
 studies to enable him to acquire the title of Master 
 of Arts, and it would appear that he had even been 
 presented to what he calls a simple-tonsure chapelry, 
 possibly one of the numerous quasi-sinecure offices 
 connected with the churches or ecclesiastical machinery 
 of the diocese of Paris, which were reserved as prizes 
 for the more industrious and deserving scholars. M. 
 Longnon is of opinion that he eked out the small 
 revenue of this office by taking pupils, and amongst 
 them the three poor orphans to whom he so frequently 
 alludes ; but I confess I see no ground for this supposi- 
 tion with regard to the latter, of whom he always 
 speaks in such terms as to lead us to suppose them 
 to have been actually foundlings dependent wholly 
 
XXX 
 
 upon his bounty. In 1456 he describes them as "three 
 little children all bare, poor, unprovided orphans, 
 shoeless and helpless, naked as a worm," and makes 
 provision for their entertainment for at least one winter ; 
 and I am unable, therefore, to discover how M. Longnon 
 justifies his hypothesis that they were young men of 
 good or well-to-do families confided to Villon's tuition. 
 On the other hand it is by no means impossible that 
 some of the numerous unidentified persons mentioned 
 in the Testaments may have been pupils of the poet 
 at the period of which I speak. At all events, how- 
 ever he may have earned his living, it seems certain 
 that up to the early part of the year 1455 he committed 
 no act which brought him under the unfavourable 
 notice of the police ; and we find, indeed, in a sub- 
 sequent document under the royal seal, his assertion, 
 that " he had till then well and honourably governed 
 himself, without having been attaint, reproved or 
 convicted of any ill case, blame or reproach," accepted 
 without question, as would certainly not have been the 
 case had he been previously unfavourably known to 
 the authorities. Yet it is evident, both on his own 
 showing and on the authority of popular report, 
 especially of the curious collection of anecdotes in 
 
XXXI 
 
 verse known as " Les Repues Franches " or " Free 
 Feeds " (of which he was the hero, not the author, 
 and in which one phase of his many-sided character 
 and career is recorded), that his life during this interval, 
 if not actually trenching upon the limits of strictly 
 punishable offences, was yet one of sufficiently dis- 
 reputable character and marked by such license and 
 misconduct as would assuredly, in more settled and 
 law-abiding times, have early brought his career to a 
 disgraceful close. He himself tells us that he lived 
 more merrily than most in his youth ; and we need 
 only refer to the remarkable list of wine-shops, rogues 
 and women of ill-fame with which he shows so familiar 
 an acquaintance, to satisfy ourselves that much of his 
 time must have been spent in debauchery and wanton- 
 ness of the most uncompromising character. It is not 
 likely that the supplies of money he could have 
 obtained from legitimate sources, such as the kindness 
 of Guillaume de Villon, the practice of tuition and the 
 offices he may have gained as prizes during his scholastic 
 career, would have sufficed for the prodigal expenditure 
 naturally consequent upon his depraved tastes. On his 
 own showing, he possessed a happy combination of 
 most of the vices which lead a man to fling away his 
 
XXXll 
 
 life in the quagmires of dissipation; — iamor^us, glutton- 
 ous, a drunkard, a spendthrift and a gamtler,^ no thought 
 of future consequences seems ever to have been allowed 
 to intervene between him and the satisfaction of his 
 debased desires ; and it was only in the intervals of 
 disaster and depression (naturally of frequent occurrence 
 in such a life) that the better nature of the man breaks 
 out in notes of bitter anguish and heartfelt sorrow, of 
 ■which it is difficult to doubt_ths genuineness, although 
 the mercurial humour of the poet quickly allows them 
 to merge into mocking cadences of biting satire and 
 scornful merriment. 
 
 It was therefore tp^ provide for the satisfaction of 
 his inclinations towards debauchery that he became 
 gradually entangled in complications of bad company 
 and questionable dealings which led him step by step 
 to that maze of crime and disaster in which his whole 
 after-life was wrecked. In " Les Repues Franches " — 
 a work not published till long after his death, whose 
 assertions, apparently founded upon popular tradition 
 (for Villon, quickly as his memory faded after the 
 middle of the next century, seems to have been a pro- 
 minent and favourite personality among his contempo- 
 raries of Paris) are amply endorsed by the confessions 
 
xxxm 
 
 of the poet himself — we find him represented as the 
 head of a band of scholars, poor clerks and beggars, 
 " learning at others' expense," all " gallants with sleeve- 
 less pourpoints," "having perpetual occasions for gra- 
 tuitous feeds, both winter and summer," who are classed 
 under the generic title of " Las Sujets Fran9ois Villon," 
 and into whose mouth the author puts this admirable 
 dogma of despotic equality — worthy of that hero of our 
 own times, the British working-man himself — "Whoso 
 hath nothing, it behoves that he fare better than any 
 one else." "Le bon Maitre Francois Villon" comforts 
 his " compaignons, " who are described as not being 
 worth two sound onions, with the assurance that they 
 shall want for nothing, but shall presently have bread, 
 wine and roast-meat a grant foyson, and proceeds to 
 practise a series of tricks after the manner of Till 
 Eulenspiegel, by which, chiefly through the persuasive- 
 ness of his honeyed tongue, he succeeds in procuring 
 them wherewithal to make merry and enjoy great good 
 cheer. Provided with stolen bread, fish, meat and other 
 victual to their hearts' desire, the jolly scoundrels re- 
 member that they owe it as a duty to themselves to 
 get drunk and that if they would fain arrive at that 
 desirable consummation, they must needs furnish 
 
 3 
 
XXXIV 
 
 themselves with liquor at some one else's expense. 
 Master Frangois is equal to the occasion; taking two 
 pitchers of precisely similar appearance, one filled with 
 fair water and the other empty, he repairs to the cele- 
 brated tavern of the Fir Apple, situate in the Rue de 
 la Juiverie, (of which and its landlord, Robin Turgis, 
 mention is so often made in Villon's verse), and 
 requests to have the empty pitcher filled with the best 
 of their white wine. This being done, in a twinkling 
 the accomplished sharper changes the pitchers and pre- 
 tending to examine the contents, asks the tapster what 
 kind of wine he has given him, to which he replies 
 that it is white wine of Baigneux. "Do you take me 
 for a fool.?" cries Villon. "Take back your rubbish. 
 I asked for good white wine of Beaune and will have 
 none other." So saying, he empties the pitcher of 
 water into the cask of Baigneux wine — the tapster of 
 course supposing it to be the liquor with which he had 
 just served him — and makes off, in triumph, with the 
 pitcherful of white wine, which he has thus obtained 
 at the unlucky vintner's expense. The landlord of the 
 Fir Apple seems to have been a favourite subject for 
 the roguish tricks of the poet, who confesses in his 
 Greater Testament thait he had stolen from him fourteen 
 
XXXV 
 
 hogsheads of white wine of Aulnis and adds insult to 
 injury by offering to pay him, if he will come to him, 
 but (says he slily) "if he find out my lodging, he'll be 
 wiser than any wizard." This colossal theft of wine 
 was probably perpetrated on a cartload on its way to 
 Turgis, and perhaps furnished forth the great Repue 
 Franche alluded to in Villon's Seemly Lesson to the 
 Wastrils or Good-for-Noughts, apropos of which he so 
 pathetically laments that even a load of wine is drunk 
 out at last, "by fire in winter or woods in summer." 
 
 From tricks of this kind, devoted to obtaining the 
 materials for those orgies in which his soul delighted, 
 there is no reason to suppose that he did not lightly 
 pass to others more serious or that he shrank from 
 the employment of more criminal means of obtaining 
 the money which was equally necessary for the in- 
 dulgence of the licentious humours of himself and his 
 companions. In the words of the anonymous author 
 of " Les Repues Franches," " He was' the nursing 
 mother of those who had no money; in swindling be- 
 hind and before he was a most diligent man." So 
 celebrated was he, indeed, as a man of expedients, that 
 he attained the rare honour of becoming a popular 
 type and the word " villonnerie " was long used among 
 
XXXVl 
 
 the lower classes of Paris to describe such sharping 
 practices as were traditionally attributed to Villon as 
 the great master of the art ; even as from the later 
 roguish type of Till Eulenspiegel, Gallid Ulespi^gle 
 (many of the traditional stories of whose rogueries are 
 founded upon Villon's exploits), is derived the still 
 extant word " espi^glerie." 
 
 Villon, indeed, appears to have at once attamed 
 the summit of his roguish profession : ready of wit, 
 eloquent of tongue, he seems to have turned all the 
 resources of his vivid poetical imagination to the 
 service of his debauched desires and so generally 
 was his superiority admitted that, when he afterwards 
 more seriously adopted the profession of " hook and 
 crook," he seems to have been at once recognised 
 by the knights of the road and the prison as, if not 
 their actual chief, at least the directing and devising 
 head, upon whose ingenious and methodical ordering 
 was dependent the success of all their more impor- 
 tant operations. 
 
 At this period, in all probability, came into action 
 another personage, whose influence seems never to 
 have ceased to affect Villon's life and who (if we 
 may trust to his own oft-repeated asseverations) was 
 
xxxvu 
 
 mainly responsible for his ill-directed and untimely- 
 ended career. This was a young lady named Catherine 
 de Vaucelles or Vaucel and (according to M. Longnon's 
 plausible conjecture) either the niece or cousin of one 
 of the Canons of St. Benoit, Pierre de Vaucel, who 
 occupied a house in the cloister, within a door or 
 two of L'Hotel de la Porte Rouge. Her family in- 
 habited the Rue St. Jacques, in which stood the 
 Church of St. Benoit ; and it is very probable that 
 she may have altogether resided with her uncle for 
 the purpose of ordering his household, in accordance 
 with a custom of general prevalence among ecclesi- 
 astics, on whom celibacy was enforced, — or that 
 through her connection with the cloister was afforded 
 to Villon the opportunity of forming an intimate 
 acquaintance with her, which speedily developed into 
 courtship. Catherine de Vaucelles would appear (if 
 we may accept Villon's designation of her as a 
 demoiselle) to have been a young lady of good or 
 at least respectable family and it would seem also 
 that she was a finished coquette. Throughout the 
 whole of Villon's verse the remembrance of the 
 one chaste and real love of his life is ever present 
 and he is fertile in invective against the cruelty and 
 
XXXVlll 
 
 infidelity of his mistress. According to his own 
 account, however, the love seems to have been en- 
 tirely on his side ; for, although she amused him by 
 feigned kindness and unimportant concessions, he him- 
 self allows that she never gave him any sufficient 
 reason to hope, reproaching her bitterly for not having 
 at first told him her true intent, in which case he 
 would have enforced himself to break the ties that 
 bound him to her. She appears, indeed, to have 
 taken delight in making mock of him and playing 
 with his affections; but, often as he bethought him- 
 self to renounce his unhappy attachment, to 
 
 " Resign and be at peace,'' 
 
 he seems, with the true temper of a lover, to have 
 always returned before long to his vainly-caressed hope. 
 No assertion does he more frequently repeat than that 
 this his early love was the cause of all his misfortunes 
 and of his untimely death. "I die a martyr to love," he 
 says, "enrolled among the saints thereof;" and the ex- 
 pression of his anguish is often so poignant that we 
 can hardly refuse to believe in the reality of his 
 passion. Nevertheless, he does not accuse the girl 
 of having favoured others at his expense. " Though 
 
XXXIX 
 
 I never got a spark of hope from her," he says, " I 
 know not nor care if she be as harsh to others as 
 to me ; " and indeed he seems to imply that she was 
 too fond of money to be accessible to any other 
 passion. One of the persons mentioned in the poems 
 was perhaps a rival of his, as he tells us, in his 
 Ballad of Light Loves, that a certain No6 or Noel 
 was present when he (Villon) was beaten as washer- 
 women beat clothes by the river, all naked, and that 
 on account of the aforesaid Catherine de Vaucelles ; 
 and as he says " Noel was the third who was there," 
 assuming the other person present to have been the 
 lady, we may fairly suppose that Noel was a more 
 favoured lover of Catherine's, by whom was adminis- 
 tered to Villon the correction of which he speaks so 
 bitterly, probably on the occasion of a sham rendez- 
 vous, in the nature of a trap, devised by Catherine 
 to get rid of an importunate lover. This presumption 
 is strengthened by the fact that in the Lesser Testa- 
 ment, speaking of his unhappy love affair, he says, 
 " Other than I, who is younger and can rattle more 
 coin, is in favour with her;'" and that in the Greater 
 
 ' I quote a variant of Oct. vii. 
 
xl 
 
 Testament he bequeaths to Noel le Jolys (who may 
 fairly be taken to be the No6 mentioned above) the 
 unpleasant legacy of two hundred and twenty strokes, 
 to be handsomely laid on with a handful of green 
 osier rods by Maitre Henriot, the executioner of Paris. 
 It is possible that Catherine may, for a while, have 
 encouraged Villon out of cupidity, and after getting 
 all she could out of him, have thrown him off for a 
 better-furnished, admirer ; but of this we find no asser- 
 tion in his poems, although, if we may believe in the 
 authenticity of certain pieces attributed to him in the 
 " Jardin de Plaisance," he accuses her of compelling 
 him to be always putting his hand in his pocket to 
 purchase her good graces, now asking for a velvet 
 gown and now for " high headgear " {haults aiours) 
 or the like costly articles of dress; and (in a ballad 
 coming under the same category) he speaks of her 
 "corps tant vicieux" and reproaches her with having 
 sold him her favours for twenty rose-crowns and 
 having, after draining him dry, transferred her 
 interested affections to a hideous but rich old man, 
 although (says he) "I was so devoted to her, that 
 had she asked me to give her the moon, I had 
 essayed to scale the heavens." However, these pieces 
 
xli 
 
 seem to be wrongly assigned to Villon ; and in 
 despite of the epithet, "foul wanton," applied to her, 
 probably in a passing fit of irritability and jealousy, 
 — such as at times overcomes the most respectful 
 and devoted of unrequited lovers, — all the authentic 
 evidence we possess points to the conclusion that 
 the young lady was guilty of no serious misconduct 
 towards Villon beyond that ordinary coquetry and love 
 of admiration, and perhaps of amusement, which may 
 have led her to give some passing encouragement to 
 the merry, witty poet of the early days ; and this 
 hypothesis he himself confirms by the pure and 
 beautiful ballad which he dedicates to her, prefacing 
 it, however, with the delicately deprecatory qualifi- 
 cation that he . had composed it to acquit himself 
 towards Love rather than her, — a ballad which breathes 
 the chastest and most romantic spirit of wistful love 
 and anticipates for us Ronsard, as he pictures his 
 lady in her old age, sitting with her maidens at the 
 veill6e and proudly recalling to herself and her com- 
 panions that she had been celebrated by her poet-lover 
 " du temps que j'etais belle." 
 
 True and permanent as was the love of Villon for 
 Catherine, it does not seem to have restrained him 
 
xlii 
 
 from the frequentation of those light o' loves, whose 
 names so jostle each other in his pages. La Belle 
 Heaulmifire, Blanche the Slippermaker, Guillemette the 
 Upholsteress, Mac^e of Orleans, Katherine the Spur- 
 maker, Denise, Jacqueline, Perretle, Isabeau, Marion 
 the Statue, tall Jehanne of Brittany, a cloud of lorettes 
 and grisettes, trip and chatter through his reminis- 
 cences ; and with two of them, Jehanneton la Chaperon- 
 ni^re and La Grosse Margot, he appears to have formed 
 permanent connections. No doubt the femmes folks de 
 leur corps, with whom Paris has ever abounded, were 
 not wanting at the fantastic revels carried on by our 
 Bohemian and his band of scapegraces in the ruins 
 of Nygeon, Billy and Bicetre, or the woods to be met 
 with at a bowshot in every direction round the Paris 
 of his time. "Ill cat to ill rat," as he himself says; the 
 feminine element was hardly likely to be wanting for 
 the completion of the perfect disreputable harmony of 
 his surroundings. 
 
xliii 
 
 III. 
 
 This early period of comparative innocence, or at 
 least obscurity, was now drawing to a close and its 
 conclusion was marked for Villon by a disaster which in 
 all probability arose from his connection with Catherine 
 de Vaucelles and which fell Jike a thunderbolt on the 
 careless merriment of his life. On the evening of the 
 Sth June 1455, the day of the F6te-Dieu, Villon was 
 seated on a stone bench under the clock-tower of the 
 Church of St. Benoit, in the Rue St. Jacques, in 
 company with a priest called Gilles and the girl Isabeau 
 above mentioned (who is noted in the Greater Testament 
 as making constant use of a particular phrase, "Enn6" 
 or "Is it not.?"),^ with whom he had supped and sallied 
 out at about nine o'clock to enjoy the coolness of the 
 night air. As they sat talking, there came up to them 
 a priest called Philippe Chermoye or Sermoise and a 
 friend of his named Jehan le Merdi, a graduate of the 
 University. Chermoye, who was probably a rival of 
 Villon for the good graces of Catherine de Vaucelles, 
 
 • Lat. Anne ? Isabeau would probably have used the French 
 equivalent of "Ain't it?" 
 
xliv 
 
 appeared in a furious state of exasperation against the 
 poet and swaggered up to him, exclaiming, "So I have 
 found you at last ! " Villon rose and courteously offered 
 him room to sit down ; but the other pushed him rudely 
 back into his place, saying, "I warrant I'll anger you!" 
 To which the poet replied, "Why do you accost me 
 thus angrily. Master Philip ? What harm have I done 
 you ? What is your will of me ? " and would have 
 retired into the cloister for safety; but Chermoye, pur- 
 suing him to the gate of the close, drew a great rapier 
 from under his gown and smote him grievously on the 
 lower part of the face, slitting his underlip and causing 
 great effusion of blood. At this Gilles and Isabeau 
 took the alarm and apparently fearing to be involved 
 in the affray, made off, leaving Villon alone and un- 
 supported. Maddened by the pain of his wound and 
 by the blood with which he felt himself covered, the 
 latter drew a short sword that he carried under his 
 walking cloak and in endeavouring to defend himself, 
 wounded his aggressor in the groin, without being at 
 the time aware of what he had done. At this juncture 
 Jehan le Merdi came up and seeing his friend wounded, 
 crept treacherously behind Villon and caught away his 
 sword. Finding himself defenceless against Chermoye, 
 
xlv 
 
 who persisted in loading him with abuse and sought 
 to give him the finishing stroke with his long sword, 
 the wretched Frangois looked about for some means of 
 defence and seeing a big stone at his feet, snatched it 
 up and flung it in the priest's face with such force and 
 precision that the latter fell to the ground insensible. 
 Villon immediately went off to get his wounds dressed 
 by a barber named Fouquet, who, in accordance with 
 the police regulations affecting such cases, demanded of 
 him his name and that of his assailant. To him Villon 
 accordingly related the whole affair, giving his own name 
 as Michel Mouton and stating his intention on the 
 morrow to procure Chermoye's arrest for the unpro- 
 voked assault. Meantime, some passers-by found 
 the priest lying unconscious on the pavement of the 
 cloister, with his drawn sword in his hand, and carried 
 him into one of the houses in the close, where his 
 wounds were dressed and whence he was next day 
 transferred to the Hospital of L' Hotel Dieu, where on 
 the Saturday following he died ; the words of the record 
 ("pour faute de bon gouvernement ou autrement") 
 leaving it doubtful whether his death was not rather 
 due to unskilful treatment than to his actual wounds. 
 Before his death, however, he had been visited and 
 
xlvi 
 
 examined by one of the apparitors of the Chatelet, to 
 whom he related the whole affair, expressing a wish 
 that no proceedings should be taken against Villon, to 
 whom, he said, he forgave his death, "by reason of 
 certain causes moving him thereunto ; " words which 
 seem to tell strongly in favour of the hypothesis that 
 the quarrel bore some relation to Catherine de Vaucelles. 
 However, Villon was summoned before the Chitelet 
 Court to answer for Chermoye's death, but (as the 
 record says) "fearing rigour of justice," he had availed 
 himself of the interval to take to flight and appears to 
 have left Paris. No record of the proceedings against 
 him appears to be extant, but the probabilities point to 
 his having been convicted in his absence and con- 
 demned, in default, to banishment from the kingdom. 
 However, his exile did not last long. In January 1456 
 he presented a petition to the Crown, setting forth 
 that up to the time of the brawl "he had been known 
 as a man of good life and renown and honest con- 
 versation and had in all things well and honourably 
 governed himself, without having been attaint, reproved 
 or convicted of any other ill case, blame or reproach 
 whatsoever," and praying the king, in view of this and 
 of the fact that the dead man had deprecated any pro- 
 
xlvii 
 
 ceedings against his adversary, to impart to him his 
 grace and mercy in the remission of the sentence. 
 Thanks, no doubt, to the assistance of Villon's power- 
 ful friends, as well as to the circumstances of the case, 
 which appears to have been an unusually clear one of 
 justifiable homicide in self-defence, reflecting no blame 
 ■whatever on the poet, letters of grace and remission 
 were in the same month accorded to him by Charles 
 VII and he presently returned to Paris, where he per- 
 haps endeavoured to resume his former life of com- 
 parative respectability; at all events, we may be sure 
 that he so far ijesumed his old habits as to renew his 
 acquaintance with Catherine de Vaucelles. 
 
 The six monrhs of his banishment, which had in all 
 probability been passed in the company of the thieves 
 and vagabonds who infested the neighbourhood of 
 Paris, had, however, sufficed hopelessly to compromise 
 his life. It is impossible to suppose that he can, in 
 the interval, have supported himself by any honest 
 means ; and it is clearly to this period that may be 
 traced his definitive affiliation to the band or bands of 
 robbers of which Guy Tabarie, Petit Jean, Colin de 
 Cayeulx and Regnier de Montigny were the most 
 distinguished ornaments . and of which he himself was 
 
xlviii 
 
 destined to become an important member.' It is to 
 this time of need that Villon himself assigns the raid 
 upon the barber of Bourg-la-Reine, in company with 
 Huguette du Hamel; and excursions of this kind were 
 doubtless amongst the least reprehensible of his 
 expedients to keep body and soul together. On his 
 return to Paris, he appears to have been badly received 
 by his lady-love and in despair quickly reverted to the 
 habits of criminality which had now obtained a firm 
 
 [' The researches of M. Marcel Schwob have brought to light the 
 fact that the language, hitherto unidentified, in which the "Jargon" 
 or "Jobelin" of Villon is written, was a thieves' slang or lingo 
 peculiar to a notable association of robbers and outlaws known as 
 the Coquillarts or Compagnons de la Coquille, a title probably 
 derived from the circumstance that the Company was largely recruited 
 from the swarms of false palmers or professional visitants to various 
 shrines and especially to that of St. James of Compostella (whose 
 emblem was the scallop or cockleshell habitually worn in the hat 
 as a token of accomplishment of the pilgrimage to his shrine— hence 
 the term coquillart or cockle-shell wearer vulgarly applied to the 
 palmer — ) who availed themselves of the quasi-sacred character of the 
 pilgrim to rob and murder with impunity on all the high roads of 
 mediaeval France. Of this lawless association Villon's comrades 
 Montigny and Cayeulx are known to have formed part and the 
 poet himself doubtless became affiliated to the Company during his 
 six months of exile. The generic name (Coquillarts) of the Com- 
 panions of the Cockleshell figures in the poems composing the 
 "Jargon,'' which were doubtless written expressly for the members 
 of the band.] 
 
xlix 
 
 hold on him. We have it, on undoubted authority, 
 that during the eleven months which followed his return 
 to Paris he was concerned in three robberies com- 
 mitted or attempted by his band, — namely, a burglary 
 perpetrated on the house of a priest called Guillaume 
 Coiffier, by which they netted five or six hundred 
 gold crowns; an ^tempt (frustrated by the vigilance 
 of a dog) to steal the sacred vessels from the Church 
 of St. Maturin ; and the breaking open of the treasury 
 of the College de Navarre, whence they stole another 
 five or six hundred gold crowns, thanks to the intimate 
 knowledge of its interior acquired by Villon during 
 his scholastic career and to the lockpicking talents of 
 Colin de Cayeulx. These were doubtless but a few 
 of the operations undertaken by the band of desperadoes 
 with whom Villon was now inseparably associated ; and 
 as they rejoiced in such accomplices as a goldsmith, 
 who made them false keys and melted down for them 
 their purchase or booty, when it assumed the incon- 
 venient form of holy or other vessels, and in the 
 protection of the Cloister of Notre Dame, of which 
 sanctuary they seem to have made their headquarters, 
 besides other refuges, to which they could flee when 
 hard pressed, in the houses of priests and clerks, of 
 
1 
 
 whom several seem to have been affiliated to the band, 
 the poet and his companions appear for a while to 
 have pursued their hazardous profession to highly 
 lucrative account. The successful attempt upon the 
 Colldge de Navarre took place shortly before Christmas 
 1456 and almost immediately afterwards the poet, who 
 seems to have thrown himself heart and soul into his 
 new vocation and to have gained such appreciation 
 among his comrades as led them to entrust him with 
 the more delicate and imaginative branches of the 
 craft, left Paris for Angers, where an uncle of his was 
 (as I have already said) a priest residing in a convent ; 
 according to Villon's own account (see the Lesser 
 Testament) in consequence of the despair to which he 
 was driven by Catherine's unkindness and which led 
 him to exile himself from Paris, for the purpose of 
 endeavouring, by change of scene and occupation, to 
 break away from the " very amorous bondage " in 
 which he felt his heart withering away; but in reality 
 (as we learn from irrecusable evidence) with the view 
 of examining into the possibility of a business operation 
 upon the goods of a rich ecclesiastic of the Angevin 
 town and of devising such a plan as should, from a 
 careful artistic study of the localities and circumstance, 
 
commend itself to his ingenious wit, for the purpose 
 of enabling the band to relieve the good priest of the 
 five or six hundred crowns' which they believed him 
 to possess. Whether this scheme was carried out or 
 not we have no information ; however this may be, 
 it does not appear that Villon returned to Paris for 
 more than two years afterwards and his long sojourn 
 in the provinces is probably to be accounted for on 
 the supposition that he received warning from some of 
 his comrades of the discovery of the burglary committed 
 at the College de Navarre and feeling himself incon- 
 veniently well known to the Parisian police, thought 
 it best to remain awhile in hiding where he was less 
 notorious. 
 
 The discovery and consequent (at least temporary) 
 break-up of the band was due to the drunken folly of 
 Guy Tabarie, who could not refrain from boasting, in 
 his cups, of the nefarious exploits of himself and his 
 comrades, who (he said) possessed such powerful and 
 efficient instruments of effraction that no locks or 
 
 ' " Five or six hundred gold crowns " was decidedly the sacra- 
 mental sum with the Companions, who apparently disdained to fly 
 at more trifling game. 
 
Hi 
 
 bolts could resist them. By a curious hazard, a country 
 priest, the Prior of Paray-le-Moniau, a connection of 
 Guillaume CoifBer, to whose despoilment by Villon 
 and his companions I have already referred, became 
 the chance recipient of the drunken confidences of 
 Tabarie, whilst staying in Paris and breakfasting at 
 the Pulpit Tavern on the Petit Pont, and by feigning 
 a desire to take part in his burglarious operations, 
 succeeded in eliciting froin him sufficient details of 
 the affaire Coiffier and that of the Coll6ge de Navarre 
 to enable him to procure Tabarie's arrest and com- 
 mittal to the Chatelet prison in the summer of 1458. 
 Claimed by the Bishop of Paris in his quality of 
 clerk, he was transferred to the prison of the ecclesi- 
 astical jurisdiction and after suffering the question 
 ordinary and extraordinary, made a full confession, 
 denouncing the various members of the band and 
 naming Villon and Colin de Cayeulx as the acting 
 chiefs. This happened more than two and a half 
 years after the poet's departure from Paris, nor is it 
 known when he was arrested in consequence of the 
 revelations of Guy Tabarie ; but it is probable, 
 looking at the comparatively full manner in which his 
 time may be accounted for between that date and 
 
liii 
 
 14 6i, that his arrest took place shortly afterwards. 
 It is certain, on his own showing, that he was again 
 tried and condemned to death, after having undergone 
 the question by water, and that he made an appeal 
 (the text of which has not reached us) to the High 
 Court of Parliament, which, being probably supported 
 by some of his influential friends, resulted in the 
 commutation of the capital penalty into that of per- 
 petual exile from the kingdom. It was apparently in 
 the interval between the* pronunciation of his con- 
 demnation to death and the allowance of the appeal 
 that he composed the magnificent ballad, in which he 
 imagines himself and his companions in infamy hanging 
 dead upon the gibbet of Montfaucon, with faces 
 dinted with bird -pecks, alternately dried up and 
 blackened by the sun and blanched and soddened by 
 the rain, and in whose lines one seems to hear the 
 grisly rattle of the wind through the dry bones of 
 the wretched criminals "done to death by justice," as 
 they swing to and fro, making weird music in "the 
 ghosts' moonshine." This poem establishes the fact 
 that five of his band were condemned with him and 
 it is probable that these unhappy wretches, less for- 
 tunate than himself in possessing influential friends, 
 
liv 
 
 actually realised the ghastly picture conjured up by 
 the poet's fantastic imagination. 
 
 On receiving notification of the judgment commuting 
 his sentence, he addressed to the Parliament the curious 
 ballad (called in error his Appeal),' requesting a delay 
 of three days for the purpose of providing himself and 
 bidding his friends adieu, before setting out for the place 
 of his exile, and presently left Paris on his wanderings. 
 Of his itinerary we possess no indications save those 
 to be laboriously culled from his poems ; but, by a 
 process of inference, we may fairly assume that he 
 took his way to Orleans and followed the course of 
 the Loire nearly to its sources, whence he struck off 
 for the town of Roussillon in Dauphin6, a possession 
 of the Duke of Bourbon, who had lately made gift 
 of it to his bastard brother, Louis de Bourbon, 
 Mareschal and Seneschal of the Bourbonnais, supposed 
 
 [ ' M. Longnon is manifestly in error in .attributing the composition 
 of this Ballad and that last before mentioned to the interval between 
 Villon's condemnation for the homicide of Chermoye and his pardon, 
 as is sufficiently evident from the fact that he describes himself in the 
 latter as one of six done to death by justice. M. Longnon's statement 
 of the judicial consequences of the prosecution in question is also at 
 variance with the terms of the letters of remission, as set out in his 
 appendix. ] 
 
Iv 
 
 to be the Seneschal to whom Villon alludes as having 
 once paid his debts. Under the wing of this friend, 
 he probably established his headquarters, during the 
 term of his exile, at Roussillon, making excursions now 
 and then to other places — notably to Salins in Bur- 
 gundy, where it seems he had managed to establish 
 the three poor orphans of whom he speaks in the 
 Lesser Testament. In the Greater Testament he 
 represents himself as having visited them, referring to 
 them in such terms as to leave no doubt that they 
 were still children, and moreover makes a bequest for 
 the purpose of completing their education and buying 
 them cates. To this period of exile (or perhaps, 
 rather, to the time of his preceding visit to Angers) 
 must also be assigned his stay at St. Generoux in 
 the marches of Poitou, where he made the acquaintance 
 of the two pretty Poitevin ladies — ■ " filles belles et 
 gentes," as he calls them — who taught him to speak 
 the Poitou dialect ; and his visit to Blois, where 
 Charles d'0rl6ans was then residing and where Villon 
 took part in a sort of poetical contest established by 
 the ppet-prince, from which resulted the curious ballad, 
 "Je meurs de soif aupr^s de la fontaine," composed 
 (as were poems of a like character by a number of 
 
Ivi 
 
 other poets') upon the theme indicated by the refrain 
 and offering a notable example of the inferiority to 
 which a great and original poet could descend, when 
 forced painfully to elaborate the unsympathetic ideas 
 of others and to bend his free and natural style to 
 the artificial conceits and rhetorical niceties of the 
 other rhymers of the day. A well-known anecdote of 
 Rabelais attributes to the poet, at this period of his 
 life, a voyage to England, where he is said to have 
 ingratiated himself with the then regnant king and to 
 have made him a celebrated speech distinguished 
 equally by wit and patriotism ; but the story carries 
 in itself its own refutation and M. Longnon has shown 
 that it is a mere modernisation of a precisely similar 
 trait attributed to another French scholar of earlier 
 date, Hugues le Noir, who is said to have taken 
 refuge at the court of King John of England in the 
 thirteenth century. It may be remarked, by the by, 
 as a curious instance of the vitality of these old 
 popular jests, that the trait above alluded to has, in 
 our own times, become the foundation of one of the 
 
 ' Cf. Les Poesies de Charles d'Orleans. Ed. Guichard, 1842, pp. 
 128-138. 
 
Ivii 
 
 wittiest of modern Yankee stories. Tiiere is nothing 
 whatever either in the works of Villon or in any 
 contemporary documents, in which his name is men-, 
 tioned, to show that he at any time visited England. 
 Had he done so, the effect of so radical a change 
 in his habits and surroundings would certainly have 
 left no inconsiderable trace in the verse of so shrewd 
 and keen an observer of men and manners : and it is 
 probable that the whole story arose from the fact of 
 his banishment from the kingdom of France, the con- 
 coctor forgetting at that later period that the France 
 of Villon's time was a comparatively small country, 
 from which banishment was possible into many inde- 
 pendent or tributary states, which afterwards became 
 an integral portion of the French realm. 
 
 During the term of his banishment, Villon does not 
 appear to have been under any kind of police super- 
 vision. At that time there existed no court exercising 
 supreme authority over the whole kingdom ; each pro- 
 vince, nay, each ecclesiastical diocese possessed its own 
 independent civil and criminal jurisdiction, having little 
 or no connection with the better organised tribunals of 
 Paris, which city had not yet begun to be that nucleus 
 of centralisation it afterwards became. So that he 
 
Iviii 
 
 appears to have been comparatively free to move about 
 at will : and from a passage in his Greater Testament, 
 in which he speaks of himself as "pauvre mercerot de 
 Rennes" — poor hawker or pedlar of Rennes — it seems 
 possible that he eked out the scanty doles, to be ob- 
 tained from the kindness of friends (such as the Duke 
 de Bourbon, who lent him six crowns and to whom 
 we find him again applying for a loan, and Jean le 
 Cornu, a Parisian ecclesiastic, of whom says Villon, 
 " he has always furnished me in my great need and 
 distress") by travelling as a pedlar from town to town, 
 — and this would explain his wanderings hither and 
 thither.^ However, if he ever really essayed this honest 
 and laborious existence, he quickly tired of it and there 
 is no doubt that before long he came again in contact 
 with some of his old comrades in crime — members of 
 
 [' Since the above was written, M. Vitu has shown in his learned 
 introduction to his great work on the "Jargon " that the mercerots or 
 mercelots formed the lowest grade of the great trade-guild of the 
 Merciers and were mostly rogues and vagabonds of the lowest order, 
 whose misdeeds, committed under the convenient cover of the pedlar's 
 pack, were winked at and to whom protection was extended by the 
 powerful parent society in consideration of the large addition to its 
 revenues derived from th2 redevances or annual dues paid by them. 
 The name of mercelot or pedlar appears to have been, indeed, practi- 
 cally synonymous with " sturdy rogue and vagabond ; '' many of the 
 
lix 
 
 the dispersed band, either exiled like himself or hiding 
 from justice in the provinces — and was easily led to 
 resume in their company that career of dishonesty and 
 turbulence which had so fatal an attraction for him. 
 Among these was notably Colin de Cayeulx, in whose 
 company he no doubt assisted at some of those " esbats " 
 for which, in the year 146 1, his old master in roguery 
 was (as he tells us in the Second Ballad of the Jargon) 
 at last subjected to the extreme penalty of the law, 
 being broken on the wheel, probably at Montpippeau 
 near Orleans, where the crimes for which he suffered 
 and of which rape seems to have been the most venial 
 were committed. At this last-named place, Villon again 
 appears in the centre of France, trusting apparently to 
 lapse of time for the avoidance of his banishment ; and 
 here it was not long before he again came in collision 
 with the authorities. In the early part of the year 
 1461 we find him, in company with others of unknown 
 
 class were secretly affiliated to such criminal associations as the Gueux 
 and the Coquillarts and it seems probable, therefore, that Villon's 
 adoption of a nominally honest calling was only a mask for a con- 
 tinuation of the career of lawlessness to which he must long have been 
 irretrievably committed. Rennes was doubtless the headquarters of 
 the provincial branch of the Mercers' Guild to which he was directly 
 affiliated. ] 
 
Ix 
 
 condition, committing a crime (said to have been the 
 theft of a silver lamp from the parish church of Baccon 
 near Orleans) for which he was arrested by the police 
 of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction and brought before the 
 tribunal of the Bishop of Orleans, that Jacques Thibault 
 d'Aussigny against whom he so bitterly inveighs in the 
 Greater Testament. We have no record of his con- 
 viction, but it cannot be doubted that he was again 
 condemned to death, although (with his usual luck) a 
 more powerfiil protector than had ever before inter- 
 vened in his favour appeared in time to prevent the 
 execution of the sentence. It appears from his own 
 statements that he was, during the whole summer of 
 1 46 1, confined in what he calls a "fosse" in the castle 
 of Meung-sur-Loire — a name reserved for the horrible 
 dens without light or air, dripping with water and 
 swarming with rats, toads and snakes, adjoining the 
 castle moat. Here he was (if we may credit his own 
 statements) more than once subjected to the question 
 or torture by water and (what seems to have been a 
 more terrible hardship than all the rest to a man of 
 Villon's passionate devotion to rich and delicate eating 
 and drinking) he was "passing scurvily fed" on dry 
 bread and water. At Meung, it can hardly be doubted. 
 
Ixi 
 
 he composed the curious ballad in which he presents 
 his heart and body, or soul and sense, arguing one 
 against the other, and sets before us, in a pithy and 
 well-sustained dialogue, the sentiments of remorse and 
 despair — not unrelieved by the inevitable stroke of 
 covert satire — which seem to have formed the normal 
 state of his mind during any interval of enforced 
 retirement from the light of the sun and the pursuit 
 of his nefarious profession. To this period also 
 belongs the beautiful and pathetic ballad, in which 
 he calls upon all to whom Fortune has made gift of 
 freedom from other service than that of God in Paradise, 
 all for whom life is light with glad laughter and 
 pleasant song, to have compassion on him as he lies 
 on the cold earth, fasting feast and fast-days alike, 
 in the dreary dungeon, whither neither light of levin 
 nor noise of whirlwind can penetrate for the thickness 
 of the walls that enfold him like the cerecloths of a 
 corpse. From an expression in this ballad, it would 
 seem that there were no steps to Villon's cell, but that 
 he was let down into it by ropes, as was the prophet 
 Jeremiah in the dungeon of Malchiah the son of 
 Ilammelech, in the reign of Zedekiah king of Judah. 
 Here, too, he seems to have been chained up in 
 
Ixii 
 
 fetters ("enferrd") and (if we may believe him when 
 he accuses the bishop of having made him chew 
 many a " poire d'angoisse ") gagged to prevent his 
 crying out. To all this were added the tortures of 
 hunger, for even the wretched food supplied to him 
 seems to have been so small in quantity ("una petite 
 miche," says he) as barely to stave off starvation, — a 
 wretched state of things for a man who had always, 
 on his own confession, too well nourished his body ; 
 and it is very possible that, had his imprisonment 
 been of long duration, hardship and privation might 
 have ended his life. However, this was not destined 
 to be the case. In July 14.61 the old King Charles VII 
 died and was succeeded by the Dauphin, Louis XI ; 
 and on the 2nd October following, the latter remitted 
 Villon's penalty and ordered his release by letters of 
 grace dated at Meung-sur-Loire, where he had pro- 
 bably learnt the fate of the poet, whilst passing in the 
 course of the royal progress customary on a new 
 king's accession. It seems probable that he remem- 
 bered Villon's name as that of an old acquaintance, 
 if not as that of a brilliant and ingenious poet; and 
 the saying is indeed traditionally attributed to Louis XI, 
 whose taste in literature was of the acutest, that he 
 
Ixiii 
 
 could not afford to hang Villon, as the kingdom could 
 boast of 100,000 rascals of equal eminence, but not 
 of one other poet so accomplished in " gentilz dictz 
 et ing6nieux S9avoir." At all events, it is certain that 
 Charles d'0rl6ans, to whom most commentators have 
 ascribed the merit of procuring Villon's release by- 
 intercession -with the king, could not have successfully 
 intervened, as he was at that time in disgrace with 
 the new monarch, between whom and himself a bitter 
 personal hostility had long existed : and " Le Dit 
 de la naissance Marie d'0rl6ans" — by which poem, 
 addressed to the father of the new-born princess, 
 Villon is conjectured to have secured his good oflBces 
 — is most assuredly the production neither of Villon 
 nor of any one else in any way worthy of the name 
 of poet. 
 
Ixiv 
 
 IV. 
 
 Immediately upon his release, Villon seems to have 
 returned to Paris and there appears to be some little 
 warrant for the supposition that he endeavoured to 
 earn his living as an avoui or in some similar capacity 
 about the ecclesiastical courts. However this may be, 
 he was probably speedily obliged to renounce all efforts 
 of this kind on account of the failing state of his 
 health and the exhaustion consequent upon the priva- 
 tions he had undergone and the irregularity of his 
 debauched and licentious life. It would appear, too, 
 from an allusion in his later verse, that his goods, 
 little as they were (" even to the bed under me," 
 says he), had been seized by three creditors, named 
 Moreau, Provins and Turgis, in satisfaction apparently 
 of debts due by him to them, or to reimburse them- 
 selves for thefts practised at their expense, at the time 
 of "Les Repues Franches," two of which, carried out 
 at Turgis's cost, I have already noticed : and as the 
 scanty proceeds of the execution are not likely to have 
 satisfied any considerable portion of his liabilities, it 
 would seem that his creditors took further proceedings 
 against him, from the consequences of which he was 
 
Ixv 
 
 compelled to seek safety in some place of concealment, 
 whither he defies Turgis to follow him. That he did 
 not take refuge with Guillaume de Villon is obvious 
 (as is also the honourable motive that prompted him 
 to hold aloof from his old friend and patron) from 
 Octave 77 of the Greater Testament, in which he begs 
 his "more than father," who was (says he) saddened 
 enough by this last scrape of his prot6g6, to leave 
 him to disentangle himself as best he could. It is 
 possible that he may have retired to one of the hiding- 
 places before mentioned, whither he and his comrades 
 were wont to resort when hard pressed by the police; 
 but {pace M. Longnon) it seems to me that the pro- 
 babilities are in favour of his having sheltered himself 
 with the woman whom he calls "La Grosse Margot" 
 and who, he implies, had alone retained a real and 
 faithful attachment to him. That attachments of such 
 a nature have never been rare among women of her 
 class ("poor liberal girls!" as Villon calls them), in 
 whom the very nature of their terrible trade seems to 
 engender an ardent longing for real and unselfish 
 afifection which has often led them to the utmost 
 extremities of devotion and self-sacrifice, none can 
 doubt who knows anything of their history and habits 
 
Ixvi 
 
 as a class ; and one need go no further than Dufour's 
 curious History of Prostitution or Dumas' sympathetic 
 study, " Filles, Lorettes et Courtisanes," for touching 
 instances of the pathetic abnegation of which these 
 unhappy creatures are capable. M. Longnon has 
 endeavoured, with a motive in which all admirers of 
 the poet must sympathise with him, to contend that 
 Villon's connection with La Grosse Margot had no 
 real existence and that his most explicit references 
 to it should be taken as nothing but a playful and 
 figurative description of his presumed devotion to some 
 tavern, for which a portrait of the woman in question 
 served as sign. With - all respect for M. Longnon's 
 most honourable intention and all possible willingness 
 to accept any reasonable conjecture that might tend 
 to remove from the poet's name a stigma of which 
 his lovers must be painfully sensible, I am yet utterly 
 at a loss to discover any warrant for the above- 
 mentioned theory. It is of course possible that the 
 ballad in which Villon so circumstantially exposes the 
 connection in question may have been intended as a 
 mere piece of bravado or mystification ; but, failing 
 evidence of this, I defy any candid reader to place 
 such a construction upon the text as will justify any 
 
Ixvii 
 
 other conclusion than the very unsavoury one usually 
 adopted. 
 
 Rejected by the only woman of his own rank whom 
 he seems to have loved with a real and tender passion 
 and even cast off by his sometime mistress, Jehanneton 
 la Chaperonnidre, one can hardly blame Villon for 
 not refusing the shelter of the one attachment, low 
 and debased as it was, which remained to him. 
 
 In this retirement, whatever it was, deserted by all 
 his friends and accompanied only by his boy-clerk 
 Fr6min,' Villon appears to have at once addressed 
 himself to the composition of the capital work of his 
 life, the Greater Testament. He had now attained 
 the age of thirty, and young as he still was, he felt 
 that he had not much longer to live. The terrible 
 life of debauchery, privation and hardship he had led 
 had at last begun to produce its natural effect. To 
 the maladies contracted in his youth and to the natural 
 exhaustion caused by an incessant alternation of the 
 wildest debauch and the most cruel privation, appears 
 now to have been added some disease of the lungs, 
 probably consumption, which caused him to biirn 
 
 ' Possibly (and even probably) an imaginary character. 
 
Ixviii 
 
 with insatiable thirst and to vomit masses of snow- 
 white phlegm as big as tennis-balls (the student of 
 our own old poets will recall the expression "to spit 
 white," so commonly applied to those attacked with 
 a fatal affection of the lungs, consequent upon excess), 
 a disorder probably contracted in the reeking dungeon 
 of the castle of Meung and aggravated by the terrible 
 effects of the question by water, which he had so 
 often undergone and from which the patient rarely 
 entirely recovered. Indeed, he expressly attributes 
 
 these latter symptoms to his having been forced by 
 
 > 
 
 the Bishop of Orleans to drink so much cold water. 
 He tells us, at the commencement of his Greater 
 Testament, that his youth had left him, how he knew 
 not, and that, though yet in reality a cockerel, he had 
 the voice and appearance of an old rook. Sad, 
 dejected and despairing, with face blacker, as he says, 
 than a mulberry for stress of weather and privation, 
 without hair, beard or eye-brows, bare as a turnip from 
 disease, with body emaciated with hunger ("The 
 worms will have no great purchase thereof," says 
 he ; " hunger has waged too stern a war on it ; ") 
 and every limb one anguish for disease, with empty 
 purse and stomach, dependent on charity for subsist- 
 
Ixix 
 
 ence, so sick at heart and feeble that he could 
 hardly speak, his eyes seem at last to have been 
 definitively opened to the terrible folly of his past 
 life. He renounces at last those delusive pleasures 
 for which he retains neither hope nor capacity : " No 
 more desire in me is hot," he cries ; " I've put my 
 lute beneath the seat : " travail and misery have 
 sharpened his wit : he confesses and repents of his 
 sins, forgives his enemies and turns for comfort to 
 religion and maternal love, consoling himself with 
 the reflection that all must die, great and small, and 
 that after such a life as he has led, an honest death 
 had nothing that should displease him, seeing that 
 in life, as in love, " each pleasure's bought with fifty 
 pains." After a long and magnificent prelude, in which 
 he laments the excesses of his youth, justifying himself 
 by his favourite argument that necessity compels folk 
 to do evil, as want drives wolves out of the brake, 
 and sues for the favourable and compassionate con- 
 sideration of those whose lot in life has placed them 
 above necessity, — interrupted by numerous episodes, 
 some humorous, some pathetic, the individual beauty 
 of which is so great that (like the so-called diffuse 
 digressions which abound in the music of Schubert) 
 
Ixx 
 
 one cannot quarrel with their wa;nt of proportion to 
 the general theme, — he commends his soul to the 
 various persons of the Trinity in language of the 
 most exalted piety and proceeds, in view of his 
 approaching death, to dictate to his clerk what he 
 calls his Testament, being a long series of huitains or 
 eight-line octosyllabic stanzas, in each of which he 
 makes some mention, humorous, pathetic or satirical, 
 of some one or more of the numerous personages 
 who had trodden with him the short but vari-coloured 
 scene of his life. Many are the men, women, places 
 and things he sets before us in a few keen and 
 incisive words, from which often spring the swiftest 
 lightnings of humour and the most poignant flashes 
 of pathos, blending together in extricable harmony, 
 with a careless skill worthy of Heine or Laforgue, 
 the maddest laughter and the most bitter tears. 
 Lamartine or De Musset contains no tenderer or more 
 plaintive notes than those which break, like a primrose, 
 from the Spring-ferment of his verse, nor is there to 
 be found in Vaughan or Christina Rossetti a holier 
 or sweeter strain than the ballad which bears his 
 mother's name. Among the lighter pieces, by which 
 his more serious efforts are relieved, I may mention 
 
Ixxi 
 
 the delightfully humorous orison for the soul of his 
 notary, Master Jehan Cotard ; the brightly-coloured 
 ballad called "Les Contredictz de Franc-Gontier," in 
 which, with comic emphasis, he denounces the so- 
 called pleasures of a country life ; and the tripping 
 lilt that he devotes to the praise of the women of 
 Paris. In the Ballad of La Grosse Margot, he gives 
 us a terrible picture of the degrading expedients to 
 which he was forced by the frightful necessities of his 
 misguided existence and dedicates to Fran5ois Perdryer 
 above named " The Ballad of Slanderous Tongues," 
 perhaps the most uncompromising example of pure 
 invective that exists in any known literature. Towards 
 the end of his poem, in verses pregnant with serious 
 and well-illustrated meaning, he addresses himself to 
 ' the companions of his crimes and follies — " ill souls 
 and bodies well bestead," as he calls them — and bids 
 them beware of " that ill sun which tans a man when 
 he is dead," warning them that all their crimes and 
 extravagances have brought them nothing but misery 
 and privation, with the prospect of a shameful death 
 at last, that ill-gotten goods are nobody's gain, but 
 drift away to wanton uses, like chaff before the wind, 
 and exhorting them to mend their lives and turn to 
 
Ixxii 
 
 honest labour. When he has to his satisfaction ex- 
 hausted his budget of memories, tears and laughter, 
 he strikes once more the fatalist keynote of the whole 
 work in a noble "meditation" on the equality of all 
 earthly things before the inexorable might of Death 
 and • adds a Roundel, in which he deprecates the 
 further rigour of Fate and expresses a hope that his 
 repentance may find acceptance at the hands of God. 
 Finally, he names his executors, gives directions for 
 his burial, orders an epitaph to be scratched over him, 
 to preserve his memory as that of a good honest wag 
 ("un bon folitre"), and concludes by determining, 
 in view of his approaching death, to beg forgiveness 
 of all men, which he does in a magnificent ballad, 
 bearing the refrain, " I cry folk mercy, one and all " 
 (from which, however, he still excepts the Bishop of 
 Orleans), winding up with a second ballad, in which 
 he solemnly repeats his assertion that he dies a martyr 
 to Love and invites all lovers to his funeral. 
 
 No work of Villon's, posterior to the Greater Testa- 
 ment, is known to us, nor is there any trace of its 
 existence; indeed, from the date, 1461, with which 
 he himself heads his princilJal work, we entirely lose 
 sight of him : and it may be supposed, in view of the 
 
Ixxiii 
 
 condition of mental and bodily weakness in which we 
 find him at that time, that he did not long survive 
 its completion. Indeed (as M. Longnon justly observes), 
 in the case of so eminent a poet, there could be no 
 stronger proof of his death than his cessation to pro- 
 duce verses. The Codicil (so named by some compiler 
 or editor after the poet's death) is a collection of 
 poems which contain internal evidence of having been 
 composed at an earlier period ; and the other pieces — 
 Les Repues Tranches, the Dialogue of Mallepaye and 
 Baillevent and the Monologue of the Franc Archier 
 de Baignolet — which are generally joined to the Testa- 
 ments and Codicil, bear no trace whatever of Villon's 
 handiwork. They were not even added to his works 
 until 1532 and were in the following year summarily 
 rejected as spurious by C16ment Marot from his 
 definite edition, prepared by order of Francis I. 
 Nevertheless, I do not entirely agree with M. Long- 
 non in supposing that Villon died immediately after 
 1 46 1. This would be to assume that the whole of the 
 Greater Testament was written at one time : and for 
 this assumption there seems to me to be no warrant. 
 On the contrary, even as the interpolated ballads and 
 rondeaux bear for the most part signs of an earlier 
 
Ixxiv 
 
 origin, there seems to me to exist in the body of the 
 Greater Testament internal evidence that the principal 
 portion of the poem {i.e., that written in huitains) 
 was composed at four or five, perhaps more, different 
 returns ; and it is, therefore, probable that Villon 
 survived for two or three years after his release from 
 Meung gaol.' Rabelais, indeed, states in his " Panta- 
 gruel" that the poet, in his old age, retired to St. 
 Maixent in Poitou, where, under the patronage of an 
 honest abbot of that ilk, he amused himself and 
 entertained the people with a representation of the 
 Passion " en gestes et en langage Poitevins ; " but 
 this tradition (if tradition it be) which Rabelais puts 
 into the mouth of the Seigneur de Baschd, is as 
 completely improbable, destitute of confirmation and 
 unworthy of serious attention as that of Villon's journey 
 
 [' The opinion expressed in the above lines (which were written 
 in 1878) has recently been completely confirmed by the terms of a 
 judicial, document discovered in the Archives Nationales and first 
 published by M. Longnon (1892), to wit, the Letters of Remission 
 granted by Louis XI in November 1463 to Robin Dogis for the 
 wounding of one Fran9ois Ferrebouc, in an affray which took place 
 near the church of St. BenoJt and at which Villon is mentioned 
 as having been present, though not implicated therein, thus proving 
 that the poet was still alive in 1463, two years after the date of 
 the Greater Testament.] 
 
Ixxv 
 
 to England and seems to me to prove nothing, save, 
 perhaps, that Villon at that time (1550), when his 
 works had already begun to fall into disuse, had 
 become a mere traditional lay-figure, on which to hang 
 vague stories of " villonneries," adaptable to all kinds 
 of heroes and mostly suggested by the Repues Franches. 
 There occurs also, in a Gazetteer published in 1726, 
 an assertion that Villon was burnt for impiety ; but, 
 although to a reader of his works this would seem by 
 no means unlikely — not by reason of any real impiety 
 on the part of Villon (for it is evident that, as is so 
 often the case with men of loose and even criminal 
 life, his faith in religion was sincere and deep-seated), 
 but because of the continual jests and sarcasms he 
 permits himself at the expense of the monks and 
 secular clergy, always far more ready to pardon actual 
 heresy or infidelity than such personal attacks, having 
 no relation to religion, as tend to discredit themselves 
 among the people — ^yet, looking at the utter want of 
 confirmation and of any previous mention of the alleged 
 fact and considering the grotesque ignorance of the 
 eighteenth century with regard to the old writers and 
 especially the old poets of France, we are fully justified 
 in treating the assertion as an absurd invention. 
 
Ixxvi 
 
 No edition of Villon's works is extant which is known 
 to have been published in his lifetime and to which 
 we might therefore have turned for information. The 
 first edition, though undated, was evidently published 
 without his concurrence and almost certainly after his 
 death; and the second, published in 1489, affords no 
 clue to the date of that event, though printed after 
 the year mentioned as an extreme limit by those of 
 his commentators who have ascribed to him the longest 
 life. It is much to be regretted that the will of 
 Guillaume de Villon is not extant, as it would almost 
 certainly have contained some reference to the good 
 canon's unhappy prot6g6, whether dead or alive, — in 
 the latter case, for the purpose of making some pro- 
 vision for him, and in the former, with some mention 
 of his death and some pious wish for the repose of 
 his soul. It probably perished, with many other 
 valuable records and archives, — from which we might 
 have fairly expected to glean important supplementary 
 information relative to Villon, — in the Saturnalia of 
 criminal and purposeless destruction which disgraced the 
 French Revolution. 
 
Ixxvii 
 
 There can be no doubt that Villon was appreciated 
 at something like his real literary value by the people 
 of his time. Little as we know of his life, everything 
 points to the conclusion that his writings were highly 
 popular during his lifetime, not only among those 
 princes and gallants whom he had made his friends, 
 but among that Parisian public of the lower orders, 
 with which he was so intimately identified. Allusions 
 here and there lead us to suppose that his ballads 
 and shorter pieces were known among the people long 
 before their publication in a collective form and it 
 is probable, indeed, that they were hawked about in 
 manuscript and afterwards printed on broadsheets in 
 black-letter, as were such early English poems as the 
 Childe of Brislowe and the History of Tom Thumb. For 
 many years after his death the Ballads were always dis- 
 tinguished from the rest by the descriptive headings 
 of the various editions, in which the printers announce 
 "The Testaments of Villon and his Ballads," as if the 
 latter had previously been a separate and well-known 
 speciality of the poet's. We may even suppose them 
 to have been set to music and sung, as were the odes 
 
Ixxviii 
 
 of Ronsard a hundred years later, and indeed many of 
 them seem imperatively to call for such treatment. Who 
 cannot fancy the Ballad of the Women of Paris— " II 
 n'est bon bee que de Paris" — being carolled about the 
 streets by the students and street-boys of the day, or 
 the Orison for Master Cotard's Soul being trolled out 
 as a drinking-song by that jolly toper at some jovial 
 reunion of the notaries and " chicquanous " of his ac- 
 quaintance ? 
 
 The thirty-four editions, known to have been pub- 
 lished before the end of the year 1542,^ are sufficient 
 evidence of the demand (probably for the time unprece- 
 dented) which existed for his poems during the seventy 
 or eighty years that followed his death ; and it is a 
 significant fact that the greatest poet of the first half 
 of the sixteenth century should have applied himself, at 
 the special request of Francis I (who is said to have 
 known Villon by rote), to rescue the works of the 
 Parisian poet from the labyrinth of corruption and mis- 
 representation into which they had fallen through the 
 carelessness of printers and the indifference of the 
 public, who seem to have had his verses too well by 
 
 [' See M. Longnon's Bibliographie des Imprim&.] 
 
Ixxix 
 
 heart to trouble themselves to protest against misprints 
 and misreadings. . In the preface to this edition (of 
 which twelve reprints in nine years sufficiently attest 
 the estimation in which Villon was held by the culti- 
 vated intellects of the early Renaissance period) Marot 
 pays a high tribute to "le premier poete parisien," as 
 he styles Villon, declaring the better part of his work 
 to be of such artifice, so full of fair doctrine and so 
 emblazoned in a thousand bright colours, that Time, 
 which effaces all things, had not thitherto succeeded in 
 effacing it nor should still less efface it thenceforward, 
 so long as good French letters should be known and 
 preserved. Marot's own writings bear evident traces of 
 the care and love with which he had studied the first 
 poet of his time, who indeed appears to have given 
 the tone to all the rhymers — Gringoire, Henri Baude, 
 Martial D'Auvergne, Cretin, Coquillart, Jean Marot, 
 Roger de CoUerye, Guillaume Alexis — who continued, 
 though with no great brilliancy, to keep alive the sound 
 and cadence of French song during the latter part of 
 the fifteenth and the first years of the sixteenth centuries. 
 The advent of the poets of the Pleiad and the deluge 
 of Latin and Greek form and sentiment with which 
 they flooded the poetic literature of France seem at 
 
Ixxx 
 
 once to have arrested the popularity of the older poets : 
 imitations of Horace, Catullus, Anacreon, Pindar took 
 the place of the more spontaneous and original style of 
 poetry founded upon the innate capacities of the lan- 
 guage and that "esprit Gaulois" which represented the 
 national sentiment and tendencies. The memory of 
 Villon, enfant de Paris, child of the Parisian gutter, as 
 he was, went down before the new movement, cha- 
 racterised at once by its extreme pursuit of refinement 
 at all hazards and its neglect of those stronger and 
 deeper currents of sympathy and passion, for which one 
 must dive deep into the troubled waters of popular life 
 and activity. For nearly three centuries the name and 
 fame of the singer of the Ladies of Old Time remained 
 practically forgotten, buried under wave upon wave of 
 literary and political movement, all apparently equally 
 hostile to the tendency and spirit of his work. We 
 find, indeed, the three greatest spirits of the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries, Rabelais, Regnier and La 
 Fontaine, evincing by their works and style, if not by 
 any more explicit declaration, their profound knowledge 
 and sincere appreciation of Villon ; but their admi- 
 ration had no effect upon the universal consent with 
 which the tastes and tendencies of their respective 
 
Ixxxi 
 
 times appear to have decreed the complete oblivion of 
 the early poet. The first half of the eighteenth century, 
 indeed, produced three several editions of Villon ; but 
 the critics and readers of the age were little likely to 
 prefer the robust and high-flavoured food, that Villon 
 set before them, to the whipped creams, the rose and 
 musk-scented confections with which the literary pastry- 
 cooks of the day so liberally supplied them ; and it was 
 not until the full development, towards the end of the 
 first half of the present century, of the Romantic move- 
 ment (a movement whose causes and tendencies bore 
 so great an afiinity to that of which Villon in his own 
 time was himself the chief agent), that he began to be 
 in some measure restored to his proper place in the 
 hierarchy of French literature. Yet we can still re- 
 member the compassionate ridicule with which the 
 efforts of Thdophile Gautier to revindicate his memory 
 were received and how even that perfect and noble 
 spirit, in whose catholic and unerring appreciation no 
 spark of true genius or of worthy originality ever failed 
 to light a corresponding flame of enthusiasm, was fain 
 to dissimulate the fervour of his admiration under the 
 transparent mask of partial deprecation and to provide 
 
 for his too bold enterprise of rehabilitation a kind of 
 
 6 
 
Ixxxii 
 
 apologetic shelter by classing the first great poet of 
 France with far less worthy writers, under the title of 
 "Les Grotesques." In the country of his birth, Villon 
 is still little read, although the illustrious poet Theodore 
 de Banville did much to expedite the revival of his 
 fame by regenerating the form in which his greatest 
 triumphs were achieved ; and it is perhaps, indeed, in 
 England that his largest public (scanty enough as yet) 
 may be expected to be found. However, better days 
 have definitively dawned for Villon's memory : he is 
 at last recognised by all who occupy themselves with 
 poetry as one of the most original and genuine 
 of European singers ; and the spread of his newly- 
 regained reputation can now be only a matter of 
 time. 
 
 The vigorous beauty and reckless independence of 
 Villon's style and thought, although a great, have been 
 by no means the only obstacle to his enduring popu- 
 larity. A hardly less effectual one has always existed 
 in the evanescent nature of the allusions upon which 
 so large a part of his work is founded. In the preface 
 to the edition above referred to, C16ment Marot allows 
 it to be inferred that, even at so comparatively early 
 a period as 1533, the greater part of his references to 
 
Ixxxiii 
 
 per.sons and places of his own day had become obscure, 
 if not altogether undecipherable, to all but those few 
 persons of advanced age, who may be said to have 
 been almost his contemporaries. In Marot's own words, 
 "To sufficiently understand and explain the industry or 
 intention of the bequests he makes in his Testament, 
 it is necessary to have been a Parisian of his time and 
 to have known the places, things and people of which 
 he speaks, the memory whereof, as it shall more and 
 more pass away, so much the less shall be comprehended 
 the poet's intention in the references aforesaid." It is 
 indeed difficult and in many cases impossible to under- 
 stand the intent, based upon current and purely local 
 circumstance, with which the poet made so many and 
 such grotesque bequests to his friends and enemies. 
 One can, by a stretch of imagination, to some extent 
 catch his meaning, when he bequeaths to this and that 
 hard drinker some of the numerous taverns or wine- 
 shops—the White Horse, the Mule, the Diamond, the 
 Jibbing Ass, the Tankard, the Fir-cone, the Golden 
 Mortar— with whose names his verse bristles, or the 
 empty casks that once held the wine stolen from this 
 or the other vintner; to his roguish companions, the 
 right of shelter in the ruins around Paris, a cast of 
 
Ixxxiv 
 
 cogged dice or a pack of cheating cards ; to poultry- 
 sneaks and gutter-thieves, the long gray cloaks that 
 should serve to conceal their purchase ; to his natural 
 enemies, the sergeants of the watch, cotton nightcaps,* 
 that they might sleep in comfortable ignorance of his 
 nocturnal misdeeds ; and to others of his dearest foes, 
 the Conciergerie and Chitelet prisons, with a right of 
 rent-charge on the pillory, "three strokes of withy well 
 laid on and prison lodging all their life;" to his barber^ 
 the clippings of his hair and to his cobbler and tailor, 
 his old shoes and clothes "for less than what they cost 
 when new." And we can more or less dimly appreciate 
 his satirical intention, when he bequeaths to monks, 
 nuns and varlets the means of dissipation and debauch, 
 of which he had good reason to know they so freely 
 availed themselves without the need of his permission ; 
 to notaries of the Chitelet the good grace of their 
 superior the Provost ; to his friend the Seneschal and 
 Mardchal de Bourbon, the punning qualification of 
 markhal or blacksmith and the right of shoeing ducks 
 and geese (probably a hit at the prince's amorous com- 
 
 [' Corneles. This word should perhaps be read in its older sense 
 of "tippet" or "bandelet."] 
 
Ixxxv 
 
 plexion ^) ; to a butcher a fat sheep belonging to some 
 one else and a whisk to keep the flies off his meat ; 
 to the women of pleasure, the right to hold a public 
 school by night, where masters should be taught of 
 scholars ; to one of his comrades, nicknamed (as is 
 sure to be the case in almost every band of thieves) 
 " the Chaplain," his " simple-tonsure chaplaincy ; " or 
 to the three hundred blind mutes of the Hospital des 
 Quinze-Vingts and the Cemetery of the Innocents, his 
 spectacles, that, in the churchyards where they served, 
 they might see to separate the bad from the good : 
 these all have yet for us some glimmer, more or less 
 suflScient, of sense and meaning. But why he should 
 bequeath to three different persons his double-handed 
 or battle-sword — an article it is not likely he ever pos- 
 sessed, the tuck' or dirk being the scholar's weapon of 
 the time; why he should gratify a clerk to the Parlia- 
 ment with a shop . and trade, to be purchased out of 
 the proceeds of the sale of his hauberk (another article, 
 
 [• Or perhaps at his simplicity, ferrer Us oies being an old phrase 
 meaning "to waste time in trifling, to spend both time and labour 
 very vainly." — Cotgrave.'\ 
 
 [^ Tuck (Old Irish Uica), a clerk's short sword or hanger, not the 
 long narrow thrusting weapon (rapier) after known by the same name. ] 
 
Ixxxvi 
 
 by the by, which he certainly never owned) ; why he 
 should give to a respectable Parisian citizen the acorns 
 of a willow plantation and a daily dole of poultry and 
 wine; to Ren6 de Montigny three dogs, and to Jehan 
 Raguyer, a Serjeant of the provostry of Paris, one 
 hundred francs; to his proctor Fournier, leather ready 
 cut out for shoes and caps ; to a couple of thieves, 
 " bacon, peas, charcoal and wood ; " to two 6chevins 
 of Paris each an eggshell full of francs and crowns ; 
 to three notaries of the Chatelet a basketful each of 
 stolen cloves ; why he should will to his barber, Colin 
 Galerne, an iceberg from the Marne, to be used as 
 an abdominal plaster, or direct the jo'inder of Mount 
 Valerien to Montmartre ; — all these and others of 
 the same kind — though no doubt full of pertinence 
 and meaning at the time when the persons, things 
 and places referred to were still extant or fresh in 
 the memory of their contemporaries — are now for us 
 enigmas of the most hopeless kind, hidden in a dark- 
 ness which may be felt and which it can hardly be 
 hoped that time and patience, those two great revealers 
 of hidden things, will ever avail to penetrate with any 
 sufficient light of interpretation.' 
 
 [' The antithetical interpretation proposed by M. Bijvanck, accord- 
 ing to which Villon may be supposed to have intended to annul each 
 
Ixxxvii 
 
 Nevertheless, when we have made the fullest possible 
 allowance for obscurity and faded interest, there still 
 remain in Villon's surviving verse treasures of beauty, 
 wit and wisdom enough to ensure the preservation of 
 his memory as a poet what while the French language 
 and literature endure.' 
 
 That which perhaps most forcibly strikes a reader 
 for the first time studying Villon's work is the perfect 
 absence of all conventional restrictions. He rejects 
 nothing as common or unclean and knows — none 
 better — how to draw the splendid wonder of poetic 
 
 legacy by the succeeding words, taken in their secondary meaning, 
 seems hardly satisfactory; but see my notes to the Poems, passim.] 
 ' I take this opportunity to protest against the fashion which pre- 
 vails among editors and critics of Villon, of singling out certain 
 parts of his work, notably his Ballads, for laudation, to the detriment 
 of the rest of his poems. No one is less inclined than myself to 
 begrudge his splendid Ballads the full tribute of admiration they 
 deserve ; but, magnificent as they are, it is not (it seems to me) in 
 them, but in the body of the Greater Testament, that Villon's last 
 word as a poet is to be sought. Here he put forth his full force 
 and it is here (and more especially in the magnificent passage, octaves 
 xii to Ixii inclusive) that his genius shines out with a vigour and 
 plenitude thitherto unexampled in French verse. The long passage 
 last referred to is one uninterrupted flow of humour, satire and pathos, 
 glowing with the most exquisite metaphor and expressed in a singularly 
 terse and original style ; and it seems to me beyond question that 
 this was, if not his last, at least his most mature effort. 
 
Ixxxviii 
 
 efflorescence from the mangrove swamps of the truan- 
 derie and the stagnant marish of the prison or the 
 brothel. His wit and pathos are like the sun, which 
 shines with equal and impartial light upon the evil and 
 the good, alike capable of illustrating the innocent 
 sweetness of the spring and summer meadows and of 
 kindling into a glory of gold and colour the foul 
 canopy of smoke which overbroods the turmoil of a 
 great city. He is equally at home when celebrating 
 the valour of the heroes of old time or when telling 
 the sorry tragedy of some ne'er-do weel of his own 
 day. His spirit and tendency are eminently romantic, 
 in the sense that he employed modern language and 
 modern resources to express and individualise the 
 eternal elements of human interest and human passion, 
 as they appeared, moulded' into new shapes and invested 
 with new colours and characteristics by the shifting 
 impulses and tendencies of his time. He had indeed, 
 in no ordinary degree, the capital qualification of the 
 romantic poet : he understood the splendour of modern 
 things and knew the conjurations which should compel 
 the coy spirit of contemporary beauty to cast off the 
 rags and tatters of circumstance, the low and debased 
 seeming in which it was enchanted, and flower forth. 
 
Ixxxix 
 
 young, glorious and majestic, as the bewitched princess 
 in the fairy tale puts off the aspect and vesture of 
 hideous and repulsive eld, at the magic touch of 
 perfect love. The true son of his time, he rejected 
 at once and for ever, with the unerring judgment of 
 the literary reformer, the quaint formalities of speech, 
 the rhetorical exaggerations and limitations of expression 
 and the Chinese swathing of allegory and conceit that 
 dwarfed the thought and deformed the limbs of the 
 verse of his day and reduced the art of poetry to a 
 kind of Tibetan prayer-wheel, in which the advent of 
 the Spring, the conflict of Love and Honour, the cry of 
 the lover against the cruelty of his mistress and the 
 glorification of the latter by endless comparison to all 
 things fit and unfit, were ground up again and again 
 into a series of kaleidoscopic patterns, wearisome in 
 the sameness of their mannered beauty, from whose 
 contemplation one rises with dazzled eyes and exhausted 
 sense, longing for some cry of passion, some flower- 
 birth of genuine sentiment, to burst the strangling 
 sheath of affectation and prescription. Before Villon 
 the language of the poets of the time had become 
 almost as pedantic, although not so restricted and 
 colourless, as that of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
 
xc 
 
 centuries. By dint of continual employment in the 
 same grooves and in the same formal sense, the most 
 forceful and picturesque words of the language had 
 almost ceased to possess individuality or colour ; for 
 the phosphorescence that springs from the continual 
 contact of words with thought, and their reconstruction 
 at the stroke of passion, was wanting, not to be sup- 
 plied or replaced by the aptest ingenuity or the most 
 untiring wit. Villon did for French poetic speech 
 that which Rabelais afterwards performed for its prose 
 (and it is a singular coincidence, which I believe has 
 not before been remarked, that the father of French 
 poetry and the father of French prose were, as it were, 
 predestined to the task they accomplished by the name 
 common to both — Francois or French par excellence). 
 He restored the exhausted literary language of his time 
 to youth and health by infusing into it the healing 
 poisons, the revivifying acids and bitters of the popular 
 speech, disdaining no materials that served his purpose, 
 replacing the defunct forms with new phrases, new 
 shapes wrung from the heart of the spoken tongue, 
 plunging with audacious hand into the slang of the 
 tavern and the brothel, the cant of the highway and 
 the prison, choosing from the wayside heap and the 
 
XCl 
 
 street gutter the neglected pebbles and nodules in 
 which he alone divined the hidden diamonds and 
 rubies of picturesque expression, to be polished and 
 facetted into glory and beauty by the regenerating 
 friction of poetic employment. None better than he 
 has known how to call forth the electric flash which 
 has long lurked dormant, hidden in its separate polari- 
 ties, till the hand of genius should bring into strange 
 and splendid contact the words which had till then 
 lain apart, dull and lifeless. 
 
 Villon was the first great poet of the people : his 
 love of the life of common things, the easy famili- 
 arity of the streets and highways, his intimate know- 
 ledge and love of the home and outdoor life of the 
 merchant, the hawker, the artisan, the mountebank, 
 nay, even the thief, the prostitute and the gipsy of 
 his time, stand out in unequivocal characters from the 
 lineaments of his work. The cry of the people rings 
 out from his verse, — that cry of mingled misery and 
 humour, sadness and cheerfulness, which, running 
 through Rabelais and R6gnier, was to pass unheeded 
 till it swelled into the judgment -thunder of the 
 Revolution. The sufferings, the oppression, the bon- 
 homie, the gourmandise, the satirical good-humour of 
 
XCll 
 
 that French people which has so often been content 
 to starve upon a jesting ballad or a mocking epigram, 
 its gallantry, its perspicacity and its innate lack of 
 reverence for all that symbolises an accepted order 
 of things, — all these stand out in their natural colours, 
 drawn to the life and harmonised into a national 
 entity, to which the poet gives the shape and seeming 
 of his own individuality, unconscious that in relating 
 his own hardships, his own sufferings, regrets and 
 aspirations, he was limning for us the typified and 
 foreshortened image and presentment of a nation 
 at a cardinal epoch of national regeneration. "He 
 builded better than he knew." His poems are a 
 very album of types and figures of the day. As we 
 read, the narrow, gabled streets, with their graven 
 niches for saint and Virgin and their monumental 
 fountains stemming the stream of traffic, rise before 
 us, gay with endless movement of fur and satin clad 
 demoiselles, " ruffed and rebatoed," with their heart 
 or diamond shaped head-dresses of velvet and brocade, 
 fringed and broidered with gold and silver ; sad- 
 coloured burghers and their wives distinguished by 
 the bongrace or chaperon a hourrelet, with its rolled 
 and stuffed hem; gold-laced archers and jaunty clerks, 
 
XCUl 
 
 whistling for lustihead, with the long-peaked hood or 
 liripipe falling over their shoulders and the short 
 bright-coloured walking-cloak letting pass the glittering 
 point of the dirk ; shaven, down-looking monks, 
 "breeched and booted like oyster-fishers," and bare- 
 footed friars, purple-gilled with secret and unhallowed 
 debauchery ; light o' loves, distinguished by the tall 
 helm or hennin and the gaudily coloured tight fitting 
 surcoat, square-cut to show the breasts, over the. 
 sheath-like petticoat, crossed by the demicinct or chite- 
 laine of silver, followed by their esquires or bullies 
 armed with sword and buckler ; artisans in their 
 jerkins of green cloth or russet leather; barons and 
 lords in the midst of their pages and halberdiers ; 
 ruffling gallants, brave in velvet and embroidery, with 
 their boots of soft tan-coloured cordovan falling 
 jauntily over the instep ; as they press through a 
 motley crowd of beggars and mountebanks, jugglers 
 with their apes and carpet, culs-de-jalte, lepers with 
 clapdish and wallet, mumpers and chanters, truands 
 and gipsies, jesters, fish-fags, cutpurses and swash- 
 bucklers, that rings anon with the shout of " Noel ! 
 Noel 1 " as Charles VII rides by, surrounded by his 
 heralds and pursuivants, or Louis passes with no 
 
XCIV 
 
 attendants save his two dark henchmen, Tristan the 
 Hermit and Oliver the Fiend, and nothing to distin- 
 guish him from the burghers with whom he rubs 
 elbows save the row of images in his hat and the 
 eternal menace of his unquiet eye. Anon we see the 
 interior of the convent church at vespers, with its 
 kneeling crowd of worshippers and its gold-grounded 
 frescoes of heaven and hell, martyrdom and apotheosis, 
 glittering vaguely from the swart shadow of the aisles. 
 The choir peals out and the air gathers into a mist 
 with incense, what while an awe-stricken old woman 
 kneels apart before the altar in the Virgin's chapel, 
 praying for that scapegrace son who has caused het 
 such bitter tears and such poignant terrors. Outside, 
 on the church steps, sit the gossips, crouched by twos 
 and threes on the hem of their robes, chattering in 
 that fluent Parisian speech to which the Parisian poet 
 gives precedence over all others. The night closes 
 in ; the dim cressets swing creaking in the wind from 
 the ropes that stretch across the half-deserted streets, 
 whilst the belated students hurry past to their colleges, 
 with hoods drawn closely over their faces "and thumbs 
 in girdle-gear," and ■ the sergeants of the watch pace 
 solemnly by, lantern-pole in. one hand and in the 
 
xcv 
 
 other the halberd wherewith they stir up the shivering 
 wretches crouched for shelter under the abandoned 
 stalls of the street hawkers or draw across the ways 
 the chains that shall break the escape of the nocturnal 
 brawler or the stealthy thief. Thence to the Puppet 
 wine-shop, where truand and light o' love, student 
 and soldier, hold high revel, amidst the clink of 
 beakers and the ever-recurring sound of clashing 
 daggers and angry voices; or the more reputable 
 tavern of the Pomme de Pin, where sits Master 
 Jacques Raguyer, swathed in his warm mantle, with 
 his feet to the blaze and his back resting against 
 the piles of faggots that tower in the chimney-corner; 
 or the street in front of the Chitelet, where we find 
 Villon gazing upon the great flaring cressets that give 
 light over the gateway of the prison with whose 
 interior he was so well acquainted. Anon we come 
 upon him, watching with yearning eyes and watering 
 mouth, through some half-open window or door-chink, 
 the roaring carouses of the debauched monks and 
 nuns, or listening to the talk of La Belle H6aulmiSre 
 and her companions in old age, as they crouch on 
 the floor, under their curtains spun by the spiders, 
 telling tales of the good times gone by, in the scanty 
 
XCVl 
 
 short-lived flicker of their fire of dried hempstalks. 
 Presently, Master Jehan Cotard staggers past, stumbling 
 against the projecting stalls and roaring out some 
 ranting catch or jolly drinking-song, and the bully of 
 La Grosse Margot hies him, pitcher in hand, to the 
 Tankard Tavern, to fetch wine and victual for his 
 clients. Anon the moon rises, high and calm, over 
 the still churchyard of the Innocents, where the quiet 
 dead lie sleeping soundly in the deserted charnels, 
 ladies and lords, masters and clerks, bishops and 
 water-carriers, all laid low in undistinguished abase- 
 ment before the equality of death. Once more, the 
 scene changes and we stand by the thieves' rendezvous 
 in the ruined castle of Bic^tre or by the lonely gibbet 
 of Montfaucon, where the poet wanders in the " silences 
 of the moon," watching with a terrified fascination 
 the shrivelled corpses or whitened skeletons of his 
 whilom comrades, as they creak sullenly to and fro 
 in the ghastly aureole of the midnight star. All Paris 
 of the fifteenth century relives in the vivid hurry 
 of his verse : one hears in his stanzas the very popular 
 cries and watchwords of the street and the favourite 
 oaths of the gallants and women of the day. We 
 feel that all the world is centred for him in Paris 
 
XCVll 
 
 and that there is no landscape can compare for him 
 with those "paysages de m^tal et de pierre" which 
 he (in common with another ingrain Parisian, Baude- 
 laire) so deeply loved. Much as he must have 
 wandered over France, we find in his verse no hint 
 of natural beauty, no syllable of description of land- 
 scape or natural objects. In these things he had 
 indeed no interest: flowers and stars, sun and moon, 
 spring and summer, unrolled in vain for him their 
 phantasmagoria of splendour and enchantment over 
 earth and sky : men and women were his flowers and 
 the crowded streets of the great city the woods and 
 meadows wherein, after his fashion, he worshipped 
 beauty and did homage to art. ' Indeed, he was 
 essentially " the man of the crowd : " his heart 
 throbbed ever in unison with the mass, in joy or 
 sadness, crime or passion, lust or patriotism, aspiration 
 or degradation. 
 
 It is astonishing, in the midst of the fantastic and 
 artificial rhymers of the time, how quickly the chord of 
 sensibility in our poet vibrates to the broad impulses of 
 humanity ; how, untainted by the selfish provincialism 
 of his day, his heart warms towards the great patriot, 
 Jacques Cceur, and sorrows over his disgrace ; how he 
 
 7 
 
XCVlll 
 
 appreciates the heroism of Jeanne d'Arc and denounces 
 penalty upon penalty, that remind us of the 70,000 
 pains of fire of the Arabian legend, upon the traitors 
 and rebels "who would wish ill unto the realm of 
 France;" with what largeness of sympathy he antici- 
 pates the modern tenderness over the fallen and 
 demonstrates how they "were once honest, verily," till 
 Love, that befools us all, beguiled them to the first 
 step upon the downward road ; with what observant 
 compassion he notes the silent regrets of the old and 
 the poignant remembrances of those for whom all 
 things fair have faded out, glosing with an iron pathos 
 upon the "nessun maggior dolore" of Dante, in the 
 terrible stanzas that enshrine, in pearls and rubies of 
 tears and blood, the passion and the anguish, the 
 "agony and bloody sweat" of La Belle H6aulmi6re. 
 
 The keenness of his pathos and the delicacy of his 
 grace are as supreme as what one of his commenta- 
 tors magnificently calls "the sovereign rudeness" of 
 his satire. When he complains to his unyielding 
 mistress of her " hypocrite douceur " and her " felon 
 charms," "la mort d'un pauvre cceur," and warns her 
 of the inevitable approach of the days when youth and 
 beauty shall no more remain to her, we seem to hear 
 
XCIX 
 
 a robuster Ronsard sighing out his "Cueillez, cueillez 
 votre jeunesse ; " when he laments for the death of 
 Master Ythier's beloved, " Two were we, having but 
 one heart," we must turn to Mariana's wail of wistful 
 yet undespiteous passion for a sweeter lyric of regretful 
 tenderness, a more pathetic dalliance with the simple- 
 ness of love ; and when he appeals from the dungeon 
 of Meung or pictures himself and his companions 
 swinging from the gibbet of Montfaucon, the tears 
 that murmur through the fantastic fretwork of the verse 
 are instinct with the salt of blood and the bitterness 
 of death. Where shall we look for a more poignant 
 pathos than that of his lament for his lost youth or his 
 picture of the whilom gallants of his early memories 
 that now beg all naked, seeing no crumb of bread but 
 in some window-place ? Where a nobler height of con- 
 templation than that to which he rises, as he formulates 
 the unalterable laws that make king and servant, noble 
 and villein, equal in abasement before the unbending 
 majesty of death, or a holier purity of religious exalta- 
 tion than breathes from the ballad wherein, with the 
 truest instinct of genius, using that mother's voice 
 which cannot but be the surest passport to the divine 
 compassion, he soars to the very gates of heaven on 
 
the star-sown wings of faith and song ? He is one 
 more instance of the potentiality of grace and pathos 
 that often lurks in natures distinguished chiefly for 
 strength and passion. Like the great realistic poet' 
 of nineteenth-century France, he knew how to force 
 death and horror to give up for him their hidden 
 beauties ; and if his own Fleurs du Mai are often 
 instinct with the poisons that suggest Ihe marshy and 
 miasmatic nature of the soil to which they owe their 
 resplendent colourings, yet the torrent of satire, mockery 
 and invective, that laves their tangled roots, is often 
 over-arched with the subtlest and brightest irises of 
 pure pathos and delicate sentiment. " Out of the 
 strong cometh sweetness," and in few poets has the 
 pregnant fable of the honeycomb in the lion's mouth 
 been more forcibly exemplified than in Villon. 
 
 Humour is with Villon no less pronounced a char- 
 acteristic than pathos. Unstrained and genuine, it 
 arises mainly from the continual contrast between the 
 abasement of his life and the worthlessness of its 
 possibilities and the passionate and ardent nature of 
 the man. He seems to be always in a state of 
 humorous astonishment at his own mad career and 
 
 ' Baudelaire. 
 
CI 
 
 the perpetual perplexities into which his folly and 
 recklessness have betrayed him ; and this feeling 
 constantly overpowers his underlying remorse and the 
 anguish which he suffers under the pressure of the 
 deplorable circumstances wherein he continually finds 
 himself involved. The spiel-trieb or sport-impulse, 
 which has been pronounced the highest attribute of 
 genius, stands out with a rare prominence from his 
 character, never to be altogether suppressed by the 
 most overwhelming calamities. The most terrible and 
 ghastly surroundings of circumstance cannot avail 
 wholly to arrest the ever-springing fountain of wit 
 and bonhomie that wells up from the inmost nature 
 of the man. In the midst of all his miseries, with 
 his tears yet undried, he mocks at himself and others 
 with an astounding good-humour. In the- dreary 
 dungeon of the Meung moat, we find him bandying 
 jests with his own personified remorse ; and even 
 whilst awaiting a shameful death, he seeks consolation 
 in the contemplation of the comic aspects of his 
 situation, as he will presently appear, upright in the 
 air, swinging at the wind's will, with face like a 
 thimble for bird-pecks and skin blackened of "that 
 ill sun which tans a man when he is dead." It is a 
 
Cll 
 
 foul death to die, he says, yet we must all die some 
 day, and it matters little whether we then find our- 
 selves a lord rotting in a splendid sepulchre or a 
 cutpurse strung up on Montfaucon hill. He laughs 
 at his own rascality and poverty, lustfulness and 
 gluttony, with an unexampled naivet6 of candour, 
 singularly free from cynicism, yet always manages to 
 conciliate our sympathies and induce our pity rather 
 than our reprobation. " It is not to poor wretches 
 like us," says he, "that are naked as a snake, sad at 
 heart and empty of paunch, that you should preach 
 virtue and temperance. As for us, God give us 
 patience. You would do better to address yourselves 
 to incite great lords and masters to good deeds, who 
 eat and drink of the best every day and are more 
 open to exhortation than beggars like ourselves that 
 cease never from want." 
 
 His faith in the saving virtues of meat and drink 
 is both droll and touching. One feels, in all his 
 verse, the distant and yearning respect with which the 
 starveling poet regards all manner of victual, as he 
 enumerates its various incarnations in a kind of litany 
 or psalm of adorations, in which they resemble the 
 denominations and attributes of saints and martyrs to 
 
cm 
 
 whom he knelt in unceasing and ineffectual prayer. 
 Wines, hypocras, roast meats, sauces, soups, custards, 
 tarts, eggs, pheasants, partridges, plovers, pigeons, 
 capons, fat geese, pies, cakes, furmenty, creams, pasties 
 and other " savoureux et friands morceaux " defile in 
 long and picturesque procession through his verse, like 
 a dissolving view of Paradise, before whose gates he 
 knelt and longed in vain. His ideal of perfect happi- 
 ness is to " break bread with both hands," a potentiality 
 of ecstatic bliss which he attributes to the friars of the 
 four mendicant orders : no delights of love or pastoral 
 sweetness, "not all the birds that singen all the way 
 from here to Babylon" (as he says) could induce him 
 to spend one day amid the hard lying and sober fare 
 of a country life ; and the only enemy whom he refuses 
 to forgive at his last hour is the Bishop of Orleans, 
 who fed him so scurvily a whole summer long upon 
 cold water and dry bread (not even manchets, says he 
 piteously). If he cannot come at his desire in the pos- 
 session of the dainties for which his soul longs, there 
 is still some sad pleasure for him in caressing in imagi- 
 nation the sacrosanct denominations of that " bienheureux 
 harnoys de gueule," which hovers for him, afar off, in 
 the rosy mists of an apotheosis. In this respect, as 
 
CIV 
 
 in no few others, he forcibly reminds one of another 
 strange and noteworthy figure converted by genius into 
 an eternal type, that Neveu de Rameau, in whom the 
 redudio ad absurdum of the whole sensualist philosophy 
 of the eighteenth century was crystallised by Diderot 
 into so poignant and curious a personality. Like Jean 
 Rameau, the whole mystery of life seems for Villon to 
 have resolved itself into the cabalistic science " de 
 mettre sous la dent," that noble and abstract art of 
 providing for the reparation of the region below the 
 nose, of whose alcahest and hermetic essence he so 
 deplorably fell short ; and as we make this unavoidable 
 comparison, it is impossible not to be surprised into 
 regret for the absence of some Diderot who might, in 
 like manner, have rescued for us the singular individu- 
 ality of the Bohemian poet of the fifteenth century. 
 
 With all his faults, a most sympathetic and attractive 
 personality detaches itself from the unsparing candour 
 of his confessions. One cannot help loving the frank, 
 witty, devil-may-care poet, with his ready tears and 
 his as ready laughter, his large compassion for all 
 pitiable and his unaffected sympathy with all noble 
 things. Specially attractive is the sweetness of his 
 good-humour: so devoid of gall is he that he seems 
 
cv 
 
 to cherish no enduring bitterness against his most 
 cruel enemies, content if he can make them the sub- 
 ject of some passing jest or some merry piece of satire. 
 He has no serious reproach for the cold-hearted 
 woman to whom he attributes his misspent life and 
 early death, nor does he allow himself the solace of 
 one bitter word against the cruel creditors who seized 
 the moment of his deliverance from Meung gaol, ex- 
 hausted, emaciated and dying, to strip him of the little 
 that he possessed. Thibault d'Aussigny, the author 
 of his duresse in Meung gaol, and Fran9ois Perdryer, 
 at the nature of whose offence against him we can 
 only guess, are the only ones he cannot forgive, and 
 his invectives against the former are of a half-burlesque 
 character, that permits us to suspect a humorous ex- 
 aggeration in their unyielding bitterness. 
 
 Looking at the whole course of Villon's life and at 
 the portrait which he himself paints for us in such 
 crude and unsparing colours, we can hardly doubt 
 that, under different circumstances, had his life been 
 consecrated by successful love and the hope of those 
 higher things to whose nobility he was so keenly 
 though unpractically sensitive, he might have filled a 
 worthier place in the history of his time and have 
 
CVl 
 
 furnished a more honourable career than that of the 
 careless bohemian, driven into crime, disgrace and 
 ruin by the double influence of his own unchecked 
 desires and the maddening wistfulness of an unrequited 
 love. Still, whatever effect change of circumstance 
 might have had in the possible ennobling of the 
 sorry melodrama of his life, we at least cannot com- 
 plain of the influences that presided over the accom- 
 plishment of his destiny; for they resulted in ripening 
 and developing the genius of a great and unique poet. 
 The world of posterity is always and rightly ready to 
 accept the fact of a great artistic personality, even at 
 the expense of morality and decency ; and instances 
 are not wanting in which moral and material ameliora- 
 tion has destroyed the mustard-seed of genius, that 
 poverty and distress, those rude and sober nurses, 
 might have fostered into a mighty tree, giving shelter 
 and comfort to all who took refuge under its branches. 
 To quote once more the words of the greatest critic^ 
 of the nineteenth century, "We might perhaps have 
 lost the poet, whilst gaining the honest man ; and 
 good poets are still rarer than honest folk, though the 
 latter can scarce be said to be too common." 
 
 ' Theophile Gautier. 
 
THE LESSER TESTAMENT. 
 
fete fieumnetti tj&e ILeaaer SCestament of M^stn 
 iFrancot's Ftll0n. 
 
 I. 
 
 THIS fourteen six and fiftieth year, 
 I Frangois Villon, clerk that be, 
 Considering, with senses clear, 
 Bit betwixt teeth and collar-free, 
 That one must needs look orderly 
 Unto his works (as counselleth 
 
 Vegetius, wise Roman he). 
 Or else amiss one reckoneth, — 
 
 II. 
 
 In this year, as before I said, 
 
 Hard by the dead of Christmas-time, 
 
 When upon wind the wolves are fed 
 And for the rigour of the rime 
 One hugs the hearth from none to prime. 
 
 Wish came to me to break the stress 
 Of that most dolorous prison-clime 
 
 Wherein Love held me in duresse. 
 
III. 
 
 Unto this fashion am I bent, 
 Seeing my lady, 'neath my eyes. 
 
 To my undoing give consent. 
 Sans gain to her in any wise : 
 Whereof I plain me to the skies, 
 
 Requiring vengeance (her desert) 
 Of all the gods with whom it lies, 
 
 And of Love, healing for my hurt. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If to my gree, alack, I read 
 
 Those dulcet looks and semblants fair 
 Of such deceitful goodlihead, 
 
 That pierced me to the heart whilere. 
 
 Now in the lurch they've left me bare 
 And failed me at my utmost need : 
 
 Fain must I plant it otherwhere 
 And in fresh furrows strike my seed. 
 
 She that hath bound me with her eyes 
 (Alack, how fierce and fell to me !), 
 
 Without my fault in any wise. 
 Wills and ordains that I should dree 
 Death and leave life and liberty. 
 
 Help see I none, save flight alone : 
 
 She breaks the bonds betwixt her and me 
 
 Nor hearkens to my piteous moan. 
 
5 
 
 VI. 
 
 To 'scape the ills that hem me round, 
 It were the wiser to depart. 
 
 Adieu I To Angers I am bound, 
 Since she I love will nor impart 
 Her grace nor any of her heart. 
 
 I die — with body whole enough — 
 For her-; a martyr to Love's smart. 
 
 Enrolled among the saints thereof. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sore though it be to part from her. 
 
 Needs must I go without delay. 
 (How hard my poor sense is to stir!) 
 
 Other than I with her's in play ; 
 
 Whence never Bullen herring aye 
 Was drouthier of case than I. 
 
 A sorry business, wellaway. 
 It is for me, God hear my cry 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And since (need being on me laid) 
 I go and haply never may 
 
 Again return, (not being made 
 Of steel or bronze or other way 
 Than other men : life but a day 
 
 Lasteth and death knows no relent) ; 
 For me, I journey far away ; 
 
 Wherefore I make this Testament. 
 
IX. 
 
 First, in the name of God the Lord, 
 The Son and eke the Holy Spright, 
 
 And in her name by whose accord 
 No creature perisheth outright, 
 To Master Villon, Guillaume hight. 
 
 My fame I leave, that still doth swell 
 In his name's honour day and night, 
 
 And eke my tents and pennoncel. 
 
 Item, to her, who, as I've said. 
 So dourly banished me her sight 
 
 That all my gladness she forbade 
 And ousted me of all delight, 
 I leave my heart in deposite, 
 
 Piteous and pale and numb and dead. 
 She brought me to this sorry plight : 
 
 May God not wreak it on her head ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Item, my trenchant sword of steel 
 
 I leave to Master Ythier 
 Marchant — to whom myself I feel 
 
 No little bounden — that he may. 
 
 According to my will, defray 
 The scot for__ which in pawn it lies 
 
 (Six sols), and then the sword convey 
 To Jehan le^Cornu, free of price. 
 
XII. 
 
 Item, I leave to Saint Amand 
 
 The Mule and eke the Charger White ; 
 And to Blaru, my Diamond 
 
 And Jibbing Ass with stripes bedight ; 
 
 And the Decretal, too, that hight 
 Omnis utritts — that, to wit, 
 
 Known as the counter-Carmelite — 
 Unto the priests I do commit. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 To Jehan Tronne, butcher, I devise 
 The Wether lusty and unpolled 
 
 And Gad to whisk away the flies, 
 
 With the Crowned Ox, that's to be sold, 
 And Cow, whereon the churl hath hold. 
 
 To hoist it on his back. If he 
 
 To keep the beast himself make bold, 
 
 Trussed up and strangled let him be. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To Master Robert Vallde (who, 
 
 Poor clerkling to the Parliament, 
 Owns valley neither hill,) I do 
 
 Will first, by this my Testament, 
 
 My hose be giv'n incontinent. 
 Which on the clothes-pegs hang, that he 
 
 May tire withal, 'tis my intent, 
 His mistress Jehanne more decently. 
 
 8 
 
8 
 
 XV. 
 
 But since he is of good extract, 
 
 Needs must he better guerdoned be 
 (For God His Law doth so enact) 
 
 Though featherbrained withal is he ; 
 
 They shall, I have bethoughten me. 
 Since in his pate he hath no sense, 
 
 Give him the Art of Memory, 
 To be ta'en up from Misprepense. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thirdly, for the livelihood 
 
 Of Master Robert aforesaid 
 (My kin, for God's sake, hold it good !) 
 
 Be money of my hauberk made 
 
 And (or most pdrt thereof) outlaid. 
 Ere Easter pass, in purchasing 
 
 (Hard by St. Jacques) a shop and trade 
 For the poor witless lawyerling. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 Item, my gloves and silken hood 
 
 My friend Jacques Cardon, I declare, 
 Shall have in fair free gift for good ; 
 
 Also the acorns willows bear 
 
 And every day a capon fair 
 Or goose ; likewise a tenfold vat 
 
 Of chalk-white wine, besides a pair 
 Of lawsuits, lest he wax too fat. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 Item, a leash of dogs I give 
 To young Ren6 de Montigny ; 
 
 And let Jehan Raguyer receive 
 One hundred francs, shall levied be 
 On all my goods. But soft ; to me 
 
 Scant gain therefrom I apprehend : 
 One should not strip one's own, perdie. 
 
 Nor over-ask it of one's friend. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Item, to Baron de Grigny • 
 
 The ward and keeping of Nygeon, 
 With six dogs more than Montigny, 
 
 And BicStre, castle and donjon ; 
 
 And to that scurvy knave Changon, 
 A spy that holds him still in strife. 
 
 Three strokes of withy well laid on 
 And prison-lodging all his life. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Item, I leave Jacques Raguyer 
 
 The ' Puppet ' Cistern, peach and pear, 
 Perch, chickens, custards, night and day, 
 
 At the Great Figtree choice of fare 
 
 And eke the Fircone Tavern, where 
 He may sit, cloaked in cloth of frieze. 
 
 Feet to the fire and back to chair. 
 And let the world wag at his ease. 
 
lO 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Item, to John the foul of face 
 
 And Peter Tanner I devise. 
 By way of gift, that baron's grace 
 
 That punishes all felonies ; 
 
 To Fournier, my proctor wise, 
 Leather cut out for caps and shoes, 
 
 That now at the cordwainer's lies. 
 For him these frosty days to use. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Captain of the Watch, also, 
 Shall have the Helmet, in full right ; 
 
 And to the crimps, that cat-foot go, 
 A-fumbling in the stalls by night, 
 I leave two rubies, clear and bright, 
 
 The Lantern of La Pierre au Lait. 
 'Deed, the Three Lilies have I might. 
 
 Haled they me to the Chatelet. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 To Pernet Marchand, eke, in fee, 
 (Bastard of Bar by sobriquet) 
 
 For that a good-cheap man is he, 
 I give three sheaves of straw or hay, 
 Upon the naked floor to lay 
 
 And so the amorous trade to ply. 
 For that he knows no other way 
 
 Or art to get his living by. 
 
II 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Item, to ChoUet I bequeath 
 
 And Loup, a duck, once in a way 
 Caught as of old the walls beneath 
 
 Upon the moat, towards end of day ; 
 
 And each a friar's gown of gray — 
 Such as fall down beneath the knees — 
 
 My boots with uppers worn away, 
 And charcoal, wood, bacon and peas. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Item, this trust I do declare 
 
 For three poor children named below : 
 Three little orphans lone and bare. 
 
 That hungry and unshodden go 
 
 And naked to all winds that blow ; 
 That they may be provided for 
 
 And sheltered from the rain and snow. 
 At least until this winter's o'er. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 To Colin Laurens, Jehan Moreau 
 And Girard Gossain, having ne'er 
 
 A farthing's worth of substance, no. 
 Nor kith nor kindred anywhere, 
 I leave, at option, each a share 
 
 Of goods or else four blanks once told. 
 Full merrily they thus shall fare. 
 
 Poor silly souls, when they are old. 
 
12 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Item, my right of nomination 
 
 Holden of the University, 
 I leave, by vifay of resignation, 
 
 To rescue from adversity 
 
 Poor clerks that of this city be, — 
 Hereunder named, for very ruth 
 
 That thereunto incited me. 
 Seeing them naked all as Truth. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Their names are Thibault de Vitry 
 And Gaillaume Cotin — ^peaceable 
 
 Poor wights, that humble scholars be. 
 Latin they featly speak and spell 
 And at the lectern sing right well. 
 
 I do devise to them in fee 
 
 (Till better fortune with them dwell) 
 
 A rent-charge on the pillory. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Item, the Crozier of the street 
 Of St. Antoine I do ordain, 
 
 Also a cue wherewith folk beat 
 And every day full pot of Seine 
 To those that in the trap are ta'en. 
 
 Bound hand and foot in close duresse ; 
 My mirror eke and grace to gain 
 
 The favours of the gaoleress. 
 
13 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Item, I leave the hospitals 
 
 My curtains spun the spiders by ; 
 
 And to the lodgers 'neath the stalls 
 Each one a buffet on the eye 
 And leave to tremble, as they lie. 
 
 Bruised, frozen, drenched, unshorn and lean, 
 With hose shrunk half way up the thigh, 
 
 Gowns all to-clipt and woeful mien. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Unto my barber I devise 
 
 The ends and clippings of my hair ; 
 Item, on charitable wise, 
 
 I leave my old boots, every pair. 
 
 Unto the cobbler and declare 
 My clothes the broker's, so these two 
 
 May when I'm dead my leavings share, 
 For less than what they cost when new. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Unto the begging Orders four, 
 The nuns and sisters (tidbits they 
 
 Dainty and prime) I leave and store 
 Of flawns, poults, capons, so they may 
 Break bread with both hands night and day 
 
 And eke the Fifteen Signs declare : 
 
 Monks ride our neighbours' wives, folk say. 
 
 But that is none of my affair. 
 
14 
 
 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. 
 
15 
 
 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. 
 
i6 
 
 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. 
 
 ?^e« ttiMl) ttjt ILesaer SCegtament of JKaatet 
 iftanjoig FtUon. 
 
THE GREATER TESTAMENT. 
 
fj^ete fiegi'nnttlj tfje ffireatcr Eestumtnt at iWiagter 
 Jtancoiis lEfillcin. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN the year thirty of my age, 
 Wherein I've drunk so deep of shame. 
 Neither all fool nor yet all sage, . 
 For all my misery and blame — 
 Which latter all upon me came 
 Through Bishop Thibault d'Aussigny : 
 
 (If bishop such an one folk name ; 
 At all events, he's none for me : 
 
 II. 
 
 He's nor my bishop nor my lord ; 
 
 I hold of him nor land nor fee. 
 Owe him nor homage nor accord. 
 
 Am nor his churl nor beast, perdie). 
 
 A summer long he nourished me 
 Upon cold water and dry bread ; 
 
 God do by him as he by me, 
 Whom passing scurvily he fed. 
 
20 
 
 III. 
 
 If any go about to say 
 
 I do miscall him — I say no : 
 I wrong him not in any way. 
 
 If one aread me rightly. Lo 1 
 
 Here's all I say, nor less nor mo ; 
 If he had mercy on my dole, 
 
 May Christ in heaven like mercy show 
 Unto his body and his soul ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And if he wrought me pain and ill 
 
 More than herein I do relate, 
 God of His grace to him fulfil 
 
 Like measure and proportionate ! 
 
 But the Church bids us not to hate. 
 But to pray rather for our foes : 
 
 I'll own I'm wrong and leave his fate 
 To God that all things can and knows. 
 
 And pray for him I will, to boot, 
 By Master Cotard's soul I swear ! 
 
 But soft : 'twill then be but by rote ; 
 I'm ill at reading ; such a prayer 
 I'll say for him as Picards' were. 
 
 (If what I mean he do not know — 
 Ere 'tis too late to learn it there — 
 
 To Lille or Douai let him ^o). 
 
21 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet, if he needs must have't that I 
 Should, willy nilly, for him pray, 
 
 (Though I proclaim it not on high) 
 As I'm a chrisom man, his way 
 He e'en shall get ; but, sooth to say, 
 
 When I the Psalter ope for him, 
 I take the seventh verse alway 
 
 Of the psalm called " Deus laudem." 
 
 I 
 
 VII. 
 DO implore God's blessed Son, 
 
 To whom I turn in every need, 
 
 So haply my poor orison 
 
 Find grace with Him — from whom indeed 
 Body and spul I hold — who's freed 
 
 Me oft from blame and evil chance. 
 Praised be our Lady and her Seed 
 
 And Louis the good King of France ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Whom God with Jacob's luck endow, 
 
 And glory of great Solomon 1 
 Of doughtiness he has enow. 
 
 In sooth, and of dominion. 
 
 In all the lands the sun shines on. 
 In this our world of night and day, 
 
 God grant his fame and memory wonne 
 As long as lived Methusaleh ! 
 
22 
 IX. 
 
 May twelve fair sons perpetuate 
 
 His royal lineage, one and all 
 As valorous as Charles the Great, 
 
 Conceived in matrix conjugal. 
 
 As doughty as Saint Martial ! 
 The late Lord Dauphin fare likewise ; 
 
 No worser fortune him befall 
 Than this and after, Paradise ! 
 
 F^EELING my self upon the wane, 
 Even more in goods than body spent, 
 Whilst my full senses I retain. 
 What little God to me hath sent 
 (For on no other have I leant), 
 I have set down of my last will 
 This very stable Testament, 
 Alone and irrevocable. 
 
 XI. V-. 
 
 Written in the same year, sixty-one, 
 Wherein the good king set me free 
 
 From the dour prison of Mehun 
 And so to life recovered me : 
 Whence I to him shall bounden be 
 
 As long as life in me fail not : 
 I'm his till death ; assuredly, 
 
 Good deeds should never be forgot. 
 
23 
 
 f^eK fieginnet^ rillon to enter upon matter full of 
 erufit'tt'on anb of fair hnotoletfle. 
 
 XII. 
 
 NOW is it true that, after years 
 Of anguish and of sorrowing, 
 Travail and toil and groans and tears 
 And many a weary wandering. 
 Trouble hath wrought in me to bring 
 To point each shifting sentiment, 
 
 Teaching me many another thing 
 Than Averrhoes his Comment. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 However, at my trials' worst. 
 When wandering in the desert ways, 
 
 God, who the Emmaus pilgrims erst 
 Did comfort, as the Gospel says, 
 Showed me a certain resting-place 
 
 And gave me gift of hope no less ; 
 Though vile the sinner be and base. 
 
 Nothing He hates save stubbornness. 
 
 XIV/-' 
 
 Sinned have I oft, as well I know ; 
 
 But God my death doth not require. 
 But that I turn from sin and so 
 
 Live righteously and shun hellfire. 
 
 9 
 
24 
 
 Whether one by sincere desire 
 Or counsel turn unto the Lord, 
 
 He sees and casting off His ire, 
 Grace to repentance doth accord. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And as of its own motion shows, 
 
 Ev'n in the very first of it, 
 The noble Romaunt of the Rose, 
 
 Youth to the young one should remit, 
 
 So manhood do mature the wit. 
 And there, alack ! the song says sooth : 
 
 They that such snares for me have knit 
 Would have me die in time of youth. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 If for my death the common weal 
 
 Might anywise embettered be, 
 Death, my own hand to me should deal 
 
 As felon, so God 'stablish me ! 
 
 But unto none, that I can see, 
 Hindrance I do, alive or dead ; 
 
 The hills, for one poor wight, perdie. 
 Will not be stirred out of their stead. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 WHILOM, when Alexander reigned, 
 A man that hight Diomedes 
 Before the Emperor was arraigned. 
 Bound hand and foot, like as one sees 
 
25 
 
 A thief. A skimmer of the seas 
 Of those that course it far and nigh 
 
 He was, and so, as one of these. 
 They brought him to be doomed to die. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The emperor bespoke him thus : 
 
 ' Why art thou a sea-plunderer }' 
 The other, no wise timorous : 
 
 ' Why dost thou call me plunderer, sir ? 
 
 Is it, perchance, because I ear 
 Upon so mean a bark the sea } 
 
 Could I but arm me with thy gear, 
 I would be emperor like to thee. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ' What wouldst thou have ? From sorry Fate, 
 
 That uses me with such despite 
 As I on no wise can abate, 
 
 Arises this my evil plight. 
 
 Let me find favour in thy sight 
 And have in mind the common saw : 
 
 In penury is little right ; 
 Necessity knows no man's law.' 
 
 XX. 
 
 Whenas the emperor to his suit 
 
 Had hearkened, much he wondered ; 
 
 And ' I thy fortune will commute 
 From bad to good,' to him he said ; 
 
26 
 
 And did. Thenceforward Diomed 
 Wronged none, but was a true man aye. 
 
 Thus have I in Valerius read. 
 Of Rome styled Greatest in his day. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 If God had granted me to find 
 
 A king of like greatheartedness. 
 That had fair fate to me assigned, 
 
 Stooped I thenceforward to excess 
 
 Or ill, I would myself confess 
 Worthy to die by fire at stake. 
 
 Necessity makes folk transgress 
 And want drives wolven from the brake. 
 
 XXIL— 
 
 MY time of youth I do bewail, 
 That more than most lived merrily. 
 Until old age 'gan me assail. 
 
 For youth had passed unconsciously. 
 It wended not afoot from me. 
 Nor yet on horseback. Ah, how then ? 
 
 It fled away all suddenly 
 And never will return again. 
 
 XXIII.— 
 
 It's gone, and I am left behind, 
 Poor both in knowledge and in wit, 
 
 Black as a berry, drear and dwined, 
 
 Coin, land and goods, gone every whit ; 
 
27 
 
 Whilst those by kindred to me knit, 
 The due of Nature all forgot, 
 
 To disavow me have seen fit. 
 For lack of pelf to pay the scot. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet have I not my substance spent 
 
 In wantoning or gluttony 
 Nor thorow love incontinent ; 
 
 None is there can reproach it me. 
 
 Except he rue it bitterly ; 
 I say it in all soothfastness — 
 
 Nor can you bate me of this plea — 
 Who's done no wrong should none confess. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 True is it I have loved whilere 
 And willingly would love again : 
 
 But aching heart and paunch that ne'er 
 Doth half its complement contain. 
 The ways of Love allure in vain ; 
 
 'Deed, none but those may play its game 
 Whose well-lined belly wags amain ; 
 
 For the dance comes of the full wame. 
 
 XXVI. ^ 
 
 If in my time of youth, alack ! 
 
 I had but studied and been sage 
 Nor wandered from the beaten track, 
 
 I had slept warm in my old age. 
 
28 
 
 But what did I ? As bird from cage, 
 I fled the schools ; and now with pain, 
 
 In setting down this on the page, 
 My heart is like to cleave in twain. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I have construed what Solomon 
 Intended, with too much largesse. 
 
 When that he said, ' Rejoice, my son. 
 In thy fair youth and lustiness : ' 
 But elsewhere speaks he otherguess ; 
 
 ■' For youth and adolescence be ' 
 (These are his words, nor more nor less) 
 
 ' But ignorance and vanity.' 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Like as the loose threads on the loom, 
 Whenas the weaver to them lays 
 
 The flaming tow, burn and consume. 
 So that from ragged ends (Job says) 
 The web is freed, — even so my days 
 
 Are gone a-wand'ring past recall. 
 No more Fate's buifs nor her affrays 
 
 I fear, for. death assuageth all. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 WHERE are the gracious gallants now 
 That of old time I did frequent, 
 So fair of fashion and of show, 
 In song and speech so excellent } 
 
29 
 
 Stark dead are some, their lives are spent ; 
 There rests of them nor mark nor trace : 
 
 May they in Heaven have content ; 
 God keep the others of His grace 1 
 
 XXX^ 
 
 Some, Christ-a-mercy, are become 
 
 Masters and lords of high degree ; 
 Some beg all naked and no crumb 
 
 Of bread save in some window see ; 
 
 Some, having put on monkery, 
 Carthews, Celestines and what not. 
 
 Shod, breeched like oysterfishers be ; 
 Look you, how divers is their lot I 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 God grant great lords to do aright, 
 
 That live in luxury and ease ! 
 We cannot aught to them requite. 
 
 So will do well to hold our peace. 
 
 But to the poor (like me), that cease 
 Never from want, God patience give 1 
 
 For that they need it ; and not these. 
 That have the wherewithal to live, — 
 
 XXXH. 
 
 That drink of noble wines and eat 
 Fish, soups and sauces every day. 
 
 Pasties and flawns and roasted meat 
 And eggs served up in many a way.- 
 
3° 
 
 Herein from masons differ they, 
 That with such toil their bread do earn : 
 
 These need no cupbearer, folk say, 
 For each one pours out in his turn. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 TO this digression I've been led. 
 That serves in nothing my intent. 
 I am no Court, empanelled 
 
 For quittance or for punishment : 
 I am of all least diligent. 
 Praised be Christ ! May each man's need 
 
 By me of Him have full content 1 
 That which is writ is writ indeed. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 So let that kite hang on the wall 
 And of more pleasing subjects treat ; 
 
 For this finds favour not with all, 
 Being wearisome and all unsweet : 
 For poverty doth groan and greet. 
 
 Full of despite and strife alway ; 
 Is apt to say sharp things in heat 
 
 Or think them, if it spare to say. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 POOR was I from my earliest youth, 
 Born of a poor and humble race : 
 My sire was never rich, in sooth. 
 Nor yet his grandfather Erace ; 
 
31 
 
 Want follows hard upon our trace 
 Nor on my forbears' tombs, I ween, 
 
 (Whose souls the love of God embrace !) 
 Are crowns or sceptres to be seen. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 When I of poverty complain, 
 
 Ofttimes my heart to me hath said, 
 
 ' Man, wherefore murmur thus in vain ? 
 If thou hast no such plentihead 
 As had Jacques Cceur, be comforted : 
 
 Better to live and rags to wear 
 
 Than to have been a lord, and dead, 
 
 Rot in a splendid sepulchre.' 
 
 xxxvir. 
 
 (Than to have been a lord ! I say. 
 
 Alas, no longer is he one ; 
 As the Psalm tells of it, — to-day 
 
 His place of men is all unknown.) 
 
 As for the rest, affair 'tis none 
 Of mine, that but a sinner be : 
 
 To theologians alone 
 The case belongs, and not to me. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 For I am not, as well I know. 
 
 An angel's son, that crowned with light 
 Among the starry heavens doth go : 
 
 My sire is dead — God have his spright ! 
 
32 
 
 His body's buried out of sight. 
 I know my mother too must die — 
 
 She knows it too, poor soul, aright — 
 And soon her son by her must lie. 
 
 XXXIX.^ 
 
 I know full well that rich and poor. 
 Villein and noble, high and low, 
 
 Laymen and clerks, gracious and dour, 
 Wise men and foolish, sweet of show 
 Or foul of favour, dames that go 
 
 Ruffed and rebatoed, great or small. 
 High-tired or hooded. Death (I know) 
 
 Without exception seizes all. 
 
 XL.- 
 
 Paris or Helen though one be, 
 
 Who dies, in pain and drearihead, 
 For lack of breath and blood dies he. 
 
 His gall upon his heart is shed ; 
 
 Then doth he sweat, God knows how dread 
 A sweat, and none there is to allay 
 
 His ills, child, kinsman, in his stead. 
 None will go bail for him that day. 
 
 XLL- 
 
 Death makes him shiver and turn pale. 
 Sharpens his nose and swells his veins. 
 
 Puffs up his throat, makes his flesh fail, 
 His joints and nerves greatens and strains. 
 
33 
 
 Fair women's bodies, soft as skeins 
 Of silk, so tender, smooth and rare, 
 
 Must you too suffer all these pains ? 
 Ay, or alive to heaven fare. 
 
 BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LADIES. 
 
 TELL vie where, in what land of shade. 
 Bides fair Flora of Rome, and where 
 Are Thais and Archipiade, 
 
 Cousins-german of beauty rare. 
 And Echo, more than mortal fair. 
 That, when one calls by river-flow 
 
 Or marish, answers out of the air ? 
 But what is become of last year's snow ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Where did the learned Heloisa vade. 
 
 For whose sake Abelard might not spare 
 {Such dole for love on him was laid) 
 
 Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear ? 
 
 And where is the queen who willed whilere 
 That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go 
 
 Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? 
 But what is become of last year's snow } 
 
34 
 
 III. 
 Blanche, loo, the lily-white queen, that made 
 
 Sweet music as if she a siren were ; 
 Broad-foot Bertha; and foan the maid. 
 
 The good Lorrainer, the English hare 
 
 Captive to Rouen and burned her there ; 
 Beatrix, Eremhurge, Alys, — lo I 
 
 Where are they. Virgin debonair ? 
 But what is become of last year's snow ? 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, you may question how they fare 
 This week, or liefer this year, I trow : 
 
 Still shall the answer this burden bear. 
 
 But what is become of last year's snow .-' 
 
 BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LORDS 
 
 (following on the same subject). 
 
 No. I. 
 I. 
 
 'VTT'JIERE is Calixtus, third of the name, 
 
 y y That died in the purple whiles ago. 
 Four years since he to the tiar came ? 
 
 And the King of Aragon, Alfonso ? 
 
 The Duke of Bourbon, sweet of show, 
 And the Duke Arthur of Brittaine ? 
 
 And Charles the Seventh, the Good? Heigho! 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaine 1 
 
35 
 
 II. 
 
 Likewise the King of Scots, whose shame 
 
 Was the half of his face {or folk say so). 
 Vermeil as amethyst held to the flame. 
 
 From chin to forehead all of a glow ? 
 
 The King of Cyprus, of friend and foe 
 Renowned; and the gentle King of Spain, 
 
 Whose name, God 'ield me, I do not knoiv ? 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaine ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Of many more might T ask the same. 
 
 Who are hut dust that the breezes blow ; 
 But I desist, for none may claim 
 
 To stand against Death, that lays all low. 
 
 Yet one more question before I go: 
 Where is Lancelot, King of Behaine ? 
 
 And where are his valiant ancestors, trow ? 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaine .■' 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Where is Du Guesclin, the Breton prow ? 
 
 Where Auvergne's Dauphin and where again 
 The late good duke of Alengon ? Lo I 
 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaine ? 
 
36 
 
 BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LORDS. 
 No. z. 
 
 I. 
 
 "TTTJU^RE are the holy apostles gone, 
 y y Alb-dad and amice-tired and sloled 
 
 With the sacred tippet and that alone. 
 Wherewith, when he waxeth overbold, 
 The foul fiend' s throttle they take and hold ? 
 
 All must come to the self-same bay ; 
 Sons and servants, their days are told : 
 
 The wind carries their like away. 
 
 II. 
 
 Where is he now that held the throne 
 Of Constantine with the hands of gold? 
 
 And the King of France, der all kings known 
 For grace and worship that was extolled. 
 Who convents and churches manifold 
 
 Built for God's service ? In their day 
 What of the honour they had ? Behold, 
 
 The wind carries their like away. 
 
 III. 
 
 Where are the champions every one. 
 
 The Dauphins, the counsellors young and old ? 
 The barons of Salins, Dol, Dijon, 
 
 Vitnne, Grenoble ? They all are cold. 
 
37 
 
 Or iahe the folk under their banners enrolled, — 
 Pursuivants, trumpeters, heralds, {hey ! 
 
 How they fed of the fat and the flagon trolled !) 
 The wind carries their like away. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Princes to death are all foretold. 
 
 Even as the humblest of their array : 
 
 Whether they sorrow or whether they scold. 
 The wind carries their like away. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 SINCE, then, popes, princes great and small, 
 That in queens' wombs conceived were, 
 Are dead and buried, one and all. 
 
 And other heads their crownals wear,. 
 Shall Death to smite poor me forbear .-' 
 Shall I not die .? Ay, if God will. 
 So that of life I have my share, 
 An honest death I take not ill. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 This world is not perpetual, 
 
 Deem the rich robber what he may : 
 
 Under death's whittle are we all. 
 Old men to heart this comfort lay. 
 That had repute in their young day 
 
 Of being quick at jest and flout, — 
 Whom folk, if, now that they are gray. 
 
 They should crack jokes, as fools would scout. 
 
38 
 
 XLIV. 
 Now haply must they beg their bread, 
 
 (For need thereto doth them constrain ;) 
 Each day they wish that they were dead ; 
 
 Sorrow so straitens heart and brain 
 
 That, did not fear of God restrain. 
 Some dreadful deed they might essay ; 
 
 Nay, whiles they take His law in vain 
 And with themselves they make away. 
 
 XLV. 
 For if in youth men spoke them fair. 
 
 Now do they nothing that is right ; 
 (Old apes, alas ! ne'er pleasing were ; 
 
 No trick of theirs but brings despite.) 
 
 If they are dumb, for fear of slight. 
 Folk them for worn-out dotards hold ; 
 
 Speak they, their silence folk invite, 
 Saying they pay with others' gold. 
 
 XLVI. 
 So with poor women that are old 
 
 And have no vivers in the chest, 
 When that young wenches they behold 
 
 Fare at their ease and well addrest. 
 
 They ask God why before the rest 
 Themselves were born. They cry and shout : 
 
 God answers not ; for second-best 
 He'd come off at a scolding-bout. 
 
39 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF THE FAIR HELM-MAKER 
 GROWN OLD. 
 
 Methought I heard the fair complain 
 — The fair that erst was helm-maker — 
 
 And wish herself a girl again. 
 After this fashion did I hear : 
 ' Alack ! old age, felon and drear. 
 
 Why hast so early laid me low ? 
 What hinders but I slay me here 
 
 And so at one stroke end my woe ? 
 
 II. 
 
 ' Thou hast undone the mighty thrall 
 In which my beauty held for me 
 
 Clerks, merchants, churchmen, one and all : 
 For never man my face might see. 
 But would have given his all for fee, — 
 
 Without a thought of his abuse, — 
 So I should yield him at his gree 
 
 What churls for nothing now refuse. 
 
 III. 
 
 ' / did to many me deny 
 
 {Therein I showed but little guile) 
 For love of one right false and sly, 
 
 Whom without stint I loved erewhile. 
 
40 
 
 Whomever else I might bewile, 
 I loved him well, sorry or glad : 
 
 But he to me was harsh and vile 
 And loved me hut for what I had. 
 
 IV. 
 
 • /// as he used me, and howler 
 
 Unkind, I loved him none the less : 
 Even had he made me faggots bear. 
 
 One kiss from him or one caress, 
 
 And I forgot my every stress. 
 The rogue ! Uwas ever thus the same 
 
 With him. It brought m£ scant Hesse : 
 And what is left me ? Sin and shame. 
 
 V. 
 
 ' Now is he dead this thirty year. 
 And I'm grown old and worn and gray : 
 
 When I recall the days that were 
 And think of what I am to-day 
 And when me naked I survey 
 
 And see my body shrunk to nought. 
 Withered and shrivelled, — wellaway I 
 
 For grief I am well-nigh distraught. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' Where is that clear and crystal brcrw ? 
 
 Those eyebrows arched and golden hair ? 
 And those bright eyes, where are they now. 
 
 Wherewith the wisest ravished were ? 
 
41 
 
 The little nose so straight and fair ; 
 The tiny tender perfect ear; 
 
 Where is the dimpled chin and where 
 The pouting lips so red and clear i 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' The shoulders gent and strait and small ; 
 
 Round arms and white hands delicate ; 
 The little pointed breasts withal ; 
 
 The haunches plump and high and straight, 
 
 Right fit for amorous debate ; 
 Wide hips and dainty quelquechose. 
 
 Betwixt broad firm thighs situate, 
 Within its little garden-close. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ' Brews wrinkled sore and tresses gray ; 
 
 The brows all falVn and dim the eyne 
 That wont to charm men's hearts away ; 
 
 The nose, that was so straight and fine, 
 
 NcfW bent and swerved from beauty's line ; 
 Chin peaked, ears furred and hanging dawn ; 
 
 Faded the face and quenched its shine 
 And lips mere bags of loose skin grown. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' Such is the end of human grace : 
 
 The arms grown short and hands all thrown ; 
 The shoulders bowed out of their place ; 
 
 The breasts all shrivelled up and gone ; 
 
42 
 
 The haunches like the paps withdrawn ; 
 The thighs no longer like to thighs, 
 
 Withered and mottled all like brawn, 
 And fie on that between them lies ! 
 
 ' And so the litany goes round, 
 Lamenting the good time gone by. 
 
 Among us crouched upon the ground. 
 Poor silly hags, to-huddled by 
 A scanty fire of hempsialks dry. 
 
 Kindled in haste and soon gone out ; 
 ( We that once held our heads so high /) 
 
 So all take turn and turn about! 
 
 THE DOCTRINE OF THE FAIR HELM-MAKER 
 TO THE LIGHT O' LOVES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now think on't, Nell the glover fair, 
 
 That wont my scholar once to be. 
 And you, Blanche Slippermaker there. 
 
 Your case in mine I'd have you see : 
 
 Look all to right and left take ye ; 
 Forbear no man ; for trulls that bin 
 
 Old have nor course nor currency. 
 No more than money that's called in. 
 
43 
 
 II. 
 
 You, Sausage-huckslress debonair. 
 That dance and trip it brisk and free, 
 
 And Guilletnette Upholstress, there. 
 Look you transgress not Lovis decree : 
 Soon must you shut up shop, perdie ; 
 
 Soon oldyoiill grow, faded and thin. 
 Worth, like some old priest's visnomy. 
 
 No more than money that's called in. 
 
 fenny the hatter, have a care 
 
 Lest some false lover hamper thee ; 
 And Kit ly Spurmaker, beware; 
 
 Deny no man that proffers fee ; 
 
 For girls that are not bright o' blee 
 Metis scorn and not their service win : 
 
 Foul eld gets neither love nor gree. 
 No more than money that's called in. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Wenches, give ear and list {qud she) 
 Wherefore I weep and make this din ; 
 
 'Tis that there is no help for me. 
 No more than money that's called in. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 THIS lesson unto them gives she. 
 The bellibone of days gone by. 
 Ill said or well, worth what they be, 
 These things enregistered have I 
 
44 
 
 By my clerk Fremin (giddy fry !), 
 Being as composed as well I may. 
 
 I curse him if he make me lie : 
 Like clerk, like master, people say. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Nay, the great danger well I see 
 Wherein a man in love doth fall . . . 
 
 Suppose that some lay blame on me 
 For this speech, saying, ' Listen, all : 
 If this do make you love miscall, 
 
 The tricks of wantons named above, 
 Your doubts are too chimerical, 
 
 For these are women light o' love. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 ' For if they love not but for gain, 
 Folk do but love them for a day ; 
 
 In sooth, they roundly love all men, 
 
 And when purse weeps, then are they gay : 
 Not one but questeth after prey. 
 
 But honest men, so God me spare. 
 With honest women will alway 
 
 Have dealing, and not otherwhere.' 
 
 L. 
 
 I put it that one thus devise : 
 He doth in nothing me gainsay ; 
 
 In sooth, I think no otherwise, 
 And well I ween that one should aye 
 
4S 
 
 In worthy place love's homage pay. 
 But were not these, of whom I rhyme 
 
 (God wot) and reason all the day, 
 Once honest women aforetime ? 
 
 LI. 
 
 Aye, they were honest, in good sooth, 
 Without reproach or any blame ; 
 
 But, in her first and prime of youth, 
 Ere she had loren her good name, 
 Each of these women thought no shame 
 
 To take some man for her desire. 
 Laic or clerk, to quench love's flame. 
 
 That burns worse than St. Anthony's fire. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Of these, as Love ordains, they made 
 
 Their lovers, as appeareth well : 
 Each loved her gallant in the shade 
 
 And none else had with her to mell. 
 
 But this first love's not durable ; 
 For she, that loved but one erewhen. 
 
 Soon tires of him to her that fell 
 And sets herself to love all men. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 What moves them thus .'' I do opine. 
 Without their honour gainsaying. 
 
 That 'tis their nature feminine. 
 
 Which tends to cherish everything : 
 
46 
 
 No other reason with the thing 
 Will rhyme, but if this saw it be. 
 
 That everywhere folk say and sing : 
 Six workmen do more work than three. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The shuttlecock light lovers be ; 
 
 Their ladie-loves the battledore. 
 This is love's way in verity : 
 
 Spite clips and kisses, evermore 
 
 By constancy it sets small store. 
 For everyone this wise complains 
 
 Of dogs and horses, love and war : 
 Each pleasure's bought with fifty pains. 
 
 DOUBLE BALLAD TO THE LIKE 
 PURPORT. 
 
 I. 
 
 Serve love and ladies day and night. 
 Frequenting feasts and revelries ; 
 
 You'll get nor profit nor delight, 
 But only broken heads and sighs : 
 Light loves make asses of the wise, 
 
 As witness Solomon, God wot ; 
 And Samson thereby lost his eyes. 
 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
47 
 
 II. 
 
 Orpheus, the minstrel fair and wight. 
 
 That fluted in such dulcet guise. 
 Did hardly ^ scape the deadly bite 
 
 Of Cerberus, in love's emprize ; 
 
 Narcissus did so idolize 
 His own fair favour, that (^poorsot) 
 
 He drowned himself, as none denies. 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sardana also, the good knight. 
 
 That conquered Crete, did disguise 
 
 Him as a wench and so bedigkt. 
 
 Span among maids ; and on like wise 
 David the king, for palliardize. 
 
 The fear of God awhile forgot 
 At sight of white wsll-shapen thighs. 
 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 And David's son, that Ammon hight. 
 
 Deflowered his sister, for with lies. 
 Feigning desire for mancheis white. 
 
 Incest most foul he did devise ; 
 
 And Herod {history testifies) 
 Paid with fohn Baptist's head the scot 
 
 For a girPs dancing deviltries. 
 Happy is he ^vho knows them not. 
 
48 
 
 And even I, poor silly wight. 
 Was beaten as linen is that lies 
 
 In washer^ tubs for bats to smite ; 
 And who gat me this sour surprise 
 But VauceVs Kate, the cockatrice ? 
 
 And Noel, too, his good share got 
 Of cuffs at those festivities. 
 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And yet before a young man might 
 Be brought to leave this merchandise. 
 
 Well might you bum him bolt upright, 
 Witch-like that on a besom flies. 
 Above all, wenches doth he prize : 
 
 But theris no trusting them ajot; 
 Blonde or brunette, this rhyme applies, 
 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 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. 
 
49 
 
 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 ; 
 
 111 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. 
 
so 
 
 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.' 
 
51 
 
 LXII. 
 
 I FEEL 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 1 
 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 caetera. 
 
 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 lotj one and all. 
 
52 
 
 LXV. 
 
 I DO 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. 
 
S3 
 
 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. 
 
 ^ere fieflinnet^ Fillon ta test. 
 
 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, — 
 
54 
 
 [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. 
 
55 
 
 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 I] 
 
 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. 
 
56 
 
 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 Hesse, — 
 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 : 
 
57 
 
 I have none other sanctuary 
 Whereto, when overcome with dole, 
 
 I may for help and comfort flee ; 
 Nor hath my mother, poor good soul 1 
 
 BALLAD THAT VILLON MADE AT THE REQUEST 
 OF HIS MOTHER, WHEREWITHAL TO DO 
 HER HOMAGE TO OUR LADY. 
 
 Lady of Heaven, Regent of the earth. 
 Empress of all the infernal marshes fell. 
 
 Receive me. Thy poor Christian, 'spite my dearth. 
 In the fair midst of Thine elect to dwell : 
 Albeit my lack of grace I know full well ; 
 
 For that Thy grace, my Lady and my Queen, 
 
 Aboundeth more than all my misdemean, 
 Withouten which no soul of all that sigh 
 
 May merit Heaven. 'Tis sooth I say, for e^tn 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
 11. -^ 
 
 Say to Thy Son I am His, — that by His birth 
 And death my sins be all redeemable, — 
 
 As Mary of Egypt's dole He changed to mirth 
 And eke Theophilus', to whom befell 
 
58 
 
 Quittance of Thee, albeit {so men tell) 
 To the foul fiend he had contracted been. 
 Assoilzie me, that I may have no teen. 
 
 Maid, that without breach of virginity 
 Didst bear our Lord that in the Host is seen. 
 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
 III. — 
 
 A poor old wife I am, and little worth : 
 Nothing I know, nor letter aye could spell : 
 
 Where in the church to worship I fare forth, 
 I see Heaven limned, with harps and lutes, and Hell, 
 Where damned folk seethe in fire unquenchable. 
 
 One doth me fear, the other joy serene: 
 
 Grant I may have the joy, O Virgin clean. 
 To whom all sinners lift their hands on high. 
 
 Made whole in faith through Thee their go-between. 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
 Envoi. ^ 
 
 Thou didst conceive. Princess most bright of sheen, 
 fesus the Lord, that hath nor end nor mean. 
 Almighty, that, departing Heaveris demesne 
 
 To succour us, put on our frailty. 
 Offering to death His sweet of youth and green : 
 Such as He is, our Lord He is, I ween I 
 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
59 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Item, upon my dearest Rose 
 Nor heart nor liver I bestow : 
 
 Thereat she would turn up her nose, 
 Albeit she hath coin eno', — 
 A great silk purse, as well I know. 
 
 Stuffed full of crowns, both new and old. 
 May he be hanged, or high or low, 
 
 That leaves her silver aught or gold ! 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 For she without me has enow : 
 
 To me it matters not a jot : 
 My salad days are past, I trow ; 
 
 No more desire in me is hot : 
 
 All that I leave unto Michot, 
 That was surnamed the good gallant — 
 
 Or rather to his heirs ; God wot. 
 At St. Satur his tomb's extant. 
 
 LXXXIL 
 
 This notwithstanding, to acquit 
 
 Me toward Love rather than her, 
 (For never had I any whit 
 
 Of hope from her : I cannot hear, 
 
 Nor do I care, if a deaf ear 
 To all she turns as well as me ; 
 
 But by Saint Maudlin I aver. 
 Therein but laughing-stuff I see.) 
 
6o 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 This ballad shall she have of me, 
 That all with rhymes in R doth end : 
 
 Who shall be bearer ? Let me see : 
 Pernet the Bastard I will send, 
 Provided, if, as he doth wend, 
 
 He come across my pugnosed frow. 
 This question he to her commend ; 
 
 ' Foul wanton, wherefrom comest thou ? ' 
 
 BALLAD OF VILLON TO HIS MISTRESS, 
 
 False beauty, that hast cost me many a sigh ; 
 
 Fair-seeming sweetness in effect how sour; 
 Love-liking, harder far than steel, that T 
 
 May sister name of my defeasance dour; 
 
 Traitorous charms, that did my heart^evour; 
 Pride, that puts folk to death with secret scorn; 
 
 Pitiless eyes,' will rigour ne'er allow her. 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn ? 
 
 II. 'v 
 
 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. 
 
6i 
 
 Haro ! I cry — hoth 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. 
 
 III. 
 A time will come to wither and make dry, 
 
 Vellffw 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 frome ; 
 
 Neither refuse, whilst grace is still thy dower. 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Great God of Love, all lovers' govemour, 
 
 HI falleth thy disfavour to be borne : 
 True hearts are hound, by Christ our Saviour, 
 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 Item, to Master Ythier, 
 
 To whom I left my sword of yore, 
 I give (to set to song) this lay. 
 
 Containing verses half a score ; 
 
 Being a De profundis for 
 His love of once upon a day : 
 
 Her name I must not tell you, or 
 He'd hate me like the deuce alway. 
 
62 
 
 LAY OR RATHER ROUNDEL. 
 
 Death, of thy rigour I complain. 
 That had my lady torn from me 
 And wilt not yet contented he. 
 Save from me too all strength he ta'en. 
 For languishment of heart and brain. 
 What harm did she in life to thee. 
 Death ? 
 
 One heart we had betwixt us twain ; 
 Which being dead, I too must dree 
 Death, or, like carven saints we see 
 
 In choir, sans life to live be fain. 
 Death ! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Item, a new bequest I will 
 
 To make to Master Jehan Cornu ; 
 Who in my need hath helped me still 
 
 And done me favours not a few ; 
 
 Wherefore the garden him unto 
 I give that Peter Bobignon 
 
 Leased me, so but he hang anew 
 The door and fix the gable on. 
 
63 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 I there did lose, for lack of door, 
 
 A hone and handle of a hoe : 
 Thenceforward, falcons half a score 
 
 Had not there caught a lark, I trow. 
 
 The hostel's safe, but keep it so. 
 I put a hook there in sign-stead : 
 
 God grant the robber nought but woe, 
 A bloody night and earthen bed ! 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Item, considering that the wife 
 
 Of Master Peter St. Amant 
 (Yet if therein be blame or strife, 
 
 God grant her grace and benison) 
 
 Me as a beggar looks upon, 
 For the White Horse that will not stir, 
 
 A Mare, and for the Mule, anon, 
 A Brick-red Ass I give to her. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Item, I give unto Denis 
 
 (Elect of Paris) Hesselin, 
 Of wine of Aulnis, from Turgis 
 
 Taken at my peril, casks fourteen. 
 
 If he to drink too much begin, 
 That so his wit and sense decline, 
 
 Let them put water therewithin : 
 Many a good house is lost by wine. 
 
64 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Item, upon my advocate. 
 
 Whose name is Guillaume Charriau, — 
 Though he's a chapman by estate. 
 
 My sword, (without the scabbard, though,) 
 
 And a gold royal I bestow. 
 In sous, to swell his purse's space. 
 
 Levied on those that come and go 
 Within the Temple cloister-place. 
 
 ^XC. 
 
 Item, my proctor Fournier 
 
 Shall handfuls four — for all his pain 
 And travail for me night and day, — 
 
 Have from my purse ; for suits amain 
 
 He hath ywrought to gar me gain, — 
 Just ones, by Jesus be it said ! 
 
 Even as the judgment did ordain : 
 The best of rights has need of aid. 
 
 XCI. 
 Item, to Jamy Raguyer 
 
 The Muckle Mug in Gr^ve give I, 
 Provided always that he pay 
 
 Four placks for livery of it ; ay. 
 
 Even though what covers calf and thigh 
 To make the money up sell he 
 
 And fare each morn bare-legged thereby 
 Unto the Fir-cone Hostelry. 
 
6s 
 
 XCII. 
 Item, for Mairebeuf (I vow) 
 
 And Nicholas de Louviers, 
 I give them neither ox nor cow, 
 
 For drovers neither herds are they, 
 
 But folk that ride a-hawking may, 
 (Think not I'm making mock of you) 
 
 Partridge and plover night and day 
 To fake from Mother Maschicoue. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Item, if Turgis come to me, 
 
 I'll pay him fairly for his wine : 
 But soft ; if where I lodge find he. 
 
 He'll have more wit than any nine. 
 
 I leave to him that vote of mine. 
 As citizen of Paris see : 
 
 If sometimes I speak Poitevine, 
 Two Poitou ladies taught it me. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Damsels they were, both fair and free. 
 
 Abiding at St Generou, 
 Hard by St. Julian of Brittany 
 
 Or in the Marches of Poitou. 
 
 Natheless, I tell you not for true 
 Where all their days and nights they dwell ; 
 
 I am not fool enough, look you, 
 My loves to all the world to tell. 
 
66 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Item, Jehan Raguyer I give 
 
 (That's Sergeant,— of the Twelve, indeed) 
 Each day, so long as he shall live, 
 
 A ramakin, that he may feed 
 
 Thereon and stay his stomach's need ; 
 (From Bailly's table be it brought). 
 
 Let him not ask for wine or mead. 
 But at the fountain quench his drought. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Item, I give the Prince of Fools 
 A master-fool, Michault du Four, 
 
 The jolliest jester in the Schools, 
 
 That sings so well ' Ma douce amour.' 
 With that of him I'll speak no more. 
 
 Brief, if he's but in vein some jot. 
 He's a right royal fool, be sure. 
 
 And still is witty, where he's not. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Item, I give unto a pair 
 
 Of sergeants here whose names I've set — 
 For that they're honest folk and fair — 
 
 Denis Richer and Jehan Vallette, 
 
 A tippet each or bandelet, 
 To hang their hats of felt unto ; 
 
 I mean/ooZ-sergeants, for as yet 
 Nought with the horse have I to do. 
 
67 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Item, to Fernet I remit 
 
 For that he is a cogging jack, 
 (The Bastard of La Barre, to wit,) 
 
 Three loaded dice or else a pack 
 
 Of cheating cards, marked on the back, 
 To arms, in lieu of bend. But what ? 
 
 If he be heard to fyst or crack. 
 The quartan ague catch the sot ! 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Item, I order that Chollet 
 
 No longer hoop or saw or plane 
 Or head up barrels all the day. 
 
 Let him his tools change for a cane 
 
 (Or Lyons sword), so he retain 
 The cooper's mall ; for, sooth to tell, 
 
 Though noise and strife to hate he feign, 
 At heart he loves them but too well. 
 
 C. 
 
 Item, I give to Jehan le Loup — 
 
 For that he's lean and lank and spent, 
 (Though good-cheap man and comrade true) 
 
 And Chollet too, is slow of scent, 
 
 A setter, young, but excellent, 
 (No chick he'll miss afield, I trow) 
 
 And a long cloak, 'gainst 'spial meant 
 To cover them from top to toe. 
 
68 
 
 CI. 
 
 Item, to Duboys, goldworker, 
 
 An hundred cloves, both head and tail, 
 Of Saracenic zinziber ; 
 
 Not cases therewithal to nail 
 
 Or boxes join, but breech and tail 
 To knit and couple yard and thigh, 
 
 So to the cods the blood devail 
 And in the teats the milk mount high. 
 
 CII. 
 
 To Captain Riou, as a treat 
 
 For him and for his archers too, 
 
 I give six wolvis-heads (a meat 
 
 No swineherds' fare that is, look you) 
 Coursed with great dogs and set to stew 
 
 In tavern wine. In sooth, to feed 
 Upon these dainties rare and new. 
 
 One might do many an ill deed. 
 
 cm. 
 
 'Tis meat a trifle heavier 
 
 Then either feathers, cork or down : 
 For folk afield 'tis famous fare. 
 
 In camp or leaguer of a town. 
 
 But (failing dogs to hunting boun) 
 An if the beasts in trap be ta'en. 
 
 The skins, to fur his winter gown. 
 As a right tanner, I ordain. 
 
69 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Item, to Robinet Troussecaille 
 
 (Who's thriven rarely in his trade ; 
 He scorns to go afoot like quail, 
 
 But sits a fat roan stoutly made) 
 
 My platter, that he is afraid 
 To borrow, I on him bestow ; 
 
 So will he now be all arrayed : 
 He needed nothing else, I know. 
 
 CV. 
 
 To Perrot Girard I will well 
 
 (That's barber sworn at Bourg la Reine) 
 Two basins and a fish-kettle, 
 
 Since he's so eager after gain. 
 
 Six years ago, the man was fain 
 For seven whole days (God have his soul !) 
 
 Me with fat porkers to sustain ; 
 Witness the Abbess of Shaven-poll. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Item, unto the Begging Fr^res, 
 The Devotees and the Beguines, 
 
 At Paris, Orleans and elsewhere. 
 Both Turpelins and Turpelines, — 
 Of stout meat soups with flawns beseen 
 
 I make oblation. Let them eat 
 
 Their fill and then, the sheets between, 
 
 The rogues ! of contemplation treat. 
 
N 
 
 70 
 
 CVII. 
 AY, 'tis not I that give Ihem this ; 
 
 But from their loins all children spring 
 Through God that guerdons them ywis 
 
 For their much swink and travailing. 
 
 Each one of them must live, poor thing, — 
 E'en monks of Paris, if they go 
 
 Our cummers still a-pleasuring, 
 God wot, they love their husbands so. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Whatever Master Jehan PouUieu 
 Missaid of them, et reliqua, , 
 
 Constrained in public place thereto. 
 His words perforce he did unsay : 
 Meung of their fashion in his day 
 
 Made mock, and Matheolus too : 
 But honour unto that alway 
 
 Which God's Church honoureth is due. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 So I submit me, for my part, 
 
 In all that I can do or say. 
 To honour them with all my heart 
 
 And yield them service, as I may. 
 
 Fools only will of them missay : 
 For or in pulpit or elsewhere 
 
 None needeth to be told if they 
 Are wont their enemies to spare. 
 
7t 
 
 ex. 
 
 Item, I give to Brother Baude, 
 
 In the Mount Carmel Convent who 
 Good cheer doth make and his abode, 
 
 A morion and gisarms two, 
 
 Lest anything Decosta do 
 To steal from him his wench away. 
 
 He's old ; unless he quit the stew. 
 There'll be the deuce and all to pay. 
 
 CXI. 
 Item, for that the Chancellor 
 
 -Hath chewed fly-droppings off and on 
 Full many a time, his seal yet more 
 (I give and grant) be spat upon ; 
 And let him sprain his thumb anon, 
 (Him of the diocese,' I mean,) 
 To put my wishes all in one : 
 God keep the others all from teen. 
 
 CXII. 
 I give my Lords the Auditors 
 
 Wainscot to make their chamber fair ; 
 And each whose buttocks in the wars 
 
 Have been, a hollow-bottomed chair, 
 
 Provided that they do not spare 
 Mac6e of Orleans, who, God wot. 
 
 Had my virginity whilere. 
 For she's a thoroughly bad lot, 
 
 ' Of Orleans. 
 
73 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 To Master Francis (if he live), 
 
 Promoter de la Vacquerie, 
 A Scotchman's collaret I give, 
 
 Of hemp without embroidery ; 
 
 For, when he put on chivalry, 
 God and St. George he did blaspheme 
 
 And ne'er hears speak of them but he 
 Doth with mad laughter shout and scream. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 I give Jehan Laurens, whose poor eyes 
 Are still so red and weak, (I ween, 
 
 The fault o't with his parents lies, 
 ,Who drank withouten stint or mean). 
 My hose-linings, to wipe them clean 
 
 O' mornings, lest they waxen blear ; 
 Had he of Bourges archbishop been, 
 
 He had had sendal ; but that's dear. 
 
 CXV. 
 
 Item, to Master Jehan Cotard, 
 
 My Church-court proctor, since some groat 
 Or two for fees yet owing are, 
 
 (That had till now escaped my thought) 
 
 When action 'gainst me Denise brought, 
 Saying I had miscall^ her, — 
 
 I have this Orison ywrought. 
 So God to heaven his soul prefer. 
 
73 
 
 BALLAD AND ORISON. 
 
 '\TOAH, that first the vine planted ; 
 
 ■i- ' Lot, too, that in the grot drank high, 
 
 By token that Love {the trickster 1) led 
 Four daughters lewdly to draw you nigh, 
 {Isayt not to flout you withal, not /) 
 
 Architriclinus, learn' d in the bowl, — 
 I pray you all three to set in the sky 
 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 II. 
 
 He was of your lineage born and bred ; 
 
 He drank of the best and dearest ; ay. 
 Though hid never a stiver to stand him in stead. 
 
 The best of all topers he was : for why. 
 
 Never good liquor found him shy. 
 None could the pot from his grasp cajole. 
 
 Fair Lords, do not suffer in hell to sigh 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Fve seen him oft, when he went to bed, 
 
 Totter for tipple as like to die ; 
 And once he gat him a bump on the head 
 
 'Gainst a butcher's stall, as he staggered by. 
 
74 
 
 Brief, one might question far and nigh 
 For a letter fellow the cup to trowl. 
 
 Let him in, if you hear him the wicket try : 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 He scarce could spit, he was always so dry. 
 And ever 'My threat's like a red-hot coal ! ' 
 
 Parched up with thirst, he was wont to cry ; 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 CXVI. 
 Item, henceforth young Merle shall still 
 
 Manage my change (for evermo' 
 God wot, it is against my will 
 
 With change 1 intermeddle) so 
 
 Full change he give to high and low. 
 Three crowns six half-crowns, and two small 
 
 Angels one great one ; for, you know, 
 A lover should be liberal. 
 
 cxvir. 
 
 Item, I've seen with my own eyes 
 
 That my poor orphans, all the three, 
 Are grown in age, and wit likewise. 
 
 No sheepsheads are they, I can see ; 
 
 From here to Salins none there be 
 That better bear them at the schools : 
 
 Now, by the Confraternity, 
 Lads of this fashion are no fools. 
 
75 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 I will that they to college go : 
 
 Whither ? To Master Pierre Richer. 
 Donatus is too hard, I trow : 
 
 Thereat I will not have them stay. 
 
 I'd rather they should learn to say 
 An Ave Mary and there stand, 
 
 Without more letters ; for alway 
 Scholars have not the upper hand. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Let them learn this and there leave off; 
 
 I do forbid them to proceed : 
 Meseems it is too hard and tough 
 
 For boys to understand the Creed. 
 
 I halve my long gray tabard wede 
 And will one half thereof to sell 
 
 And buy them pancakes : for indeed 
 Children did ever love cates well. 
 
 CXX. 
 
 I will that they well grounded be 
 
 In manners, though it cost them dear : 
 
 Close hoods shall they wear, all the three, 
 And go with thumbs in girdle-gear. 
 Humble to all that come them near, 
 
 Saying, ' Eh, what .''... Don't mention it ! ' 
 So folk shall say, when they appear, 
 
 ' These lads are gently bred,' to wit. 
 
;6 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 Item, unto my clerklings lean, — 
 
 To whom my titles and degree 
 (Seeing them fair and well beseen 
 
 And straight as reeds) I gave in fee, 
 
 And also, without price and free, 
 I did my rent and charge assign. 
 
 To levy on the pillory, 
 As safe and sure as if 'twere mine : 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 (Though they be young and of good cheer. 
 
 In that they nothing me displease : 
 Come twenty, thirty, forty year. 
 
 They will be other, so God please. 
 
 Ill doth he that maltreateth these. 
 Since fair they are and in their prime : 
 
 Fools only will them beat and pheeze ; 
 For younglings grow to men in time,) — 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 The purses of the Clerks Eighteen 
 
 They'll have, although my back I break : 
 They're not like dormice, that grow lean 
 
 With three months' sleep before they wake. 
 
 Ill fares he that his sleep doth take 
 In youth, when rise and work should he, 
 
 So that he needs must watch and wake 
 In age, when he should sleeping be. 
 
17 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 Thereof unto the Almoner 
 
 Letters to like effect I write. 
 If they to pray for me demur. 
 
 Let pull their ears for such despite. 
 
 Folk often marvel all their might 
 Why by these twain such store set I ; 
 
 But, fast or feast days, honour bright, 
 I never came their mothers nigh. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 To Michault Culdou I bespeak, 
 
 As also to Chariot Taranne, 
 One hundred sols. Let neither seek 
 
 Whence ; 'twill be manna to each man : 
 
 Also my boots of leather tan, 
 Both soles and uppers, sundry pair ; 
 
 So they forgather not with Jehanne 
 N.or any other like to her. 
 
 CXXVL 
 
 Unto the Seigneur de Grigny, 
 To whom I left Bicetre of yore, 
 
 I give the castle of Billy ; 
 Provided window, gate and door 
 He 'stablish as they were before. 
 
 That so in good repair it be. 
 Let him make money evermore ; 
 
 For coin I lack and none has he. 
 
78 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 To Thibault de la Garde, no less, . . . 
 
 (Thibault ? 1 lie : his name is John) 
 What can I spare, without distress ? 
 
 I've lost enough this year bygone : 
 
 May God provide him ! . . . and so on. 
 What if I left him the Canteen ? 
 
 No : Genevoys's the elder one 
 And has more nose to dip therein. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 Item, I give to Basanier, 
 
 The judge's clerk and notary, 
 A frail of cloves, which levied may 
 
 On Master Jehan de Rueil be : 
 
 Mautainct and Rosnel the like fee 
 Shall have, which them I trust wjll stir 
 
 To serve with courage brisk and free 
 The Lord who serves Saint Christopher ; 
 
 CXXIX. 
 On whom the Ballad following 
 
 For his fair lady I bestow : . . . 
 If love to us no such prize fling, 
 
 I marvel not ; for, whiles ago. 
 
 He bore her off from high and low. 
 At that tourney King Ren6 made: 
 
 Hector or Troilus ne'er, I trow. 
 So much performed, so little said. 
 
79 
 
 BALLAD THAT VILLON GAVE TO A NEWLY 
 MARRIED GENTLEMAN TO SEND TO HIS 
 LADY. BY HIM CONQUERED AT THE 
 SWORD'S POINT. 
 
 THE falcon claps his wings at break of day. 
 For noble usance, ay, and lustihead ; 
 Frolics for glee and strikes and rends his prey ; 
 Stoops to his mate and does of her his need. 
 So now to-you-ward doth desire me lead 
 Of that all lovers long for joyously ; 
 
 Know, Love hath so ordained it in his rede ; 
 And to this end we twain together be. 
 
 II. 
 Queen of my heart, unquestioned and alway, 
 
 Till death consume me, thou shall be indeed. 
 Clary, that purgest my chagrins, sweet bay. 
 
 That still as champion for my right dost plead, 
 
 Reason ordains that I should ne'er be freed 
 {^And therewithal my pleasure doth agree) 
 
 From thy sweet service, while the years succeed ; 
 And to this end we twain together be. 
 
 III. 
 And what is more, when dule doth me essay, 
 
 Through Fate, that of time lowers, with all speed 
 Thy dulcet looks her malice do away. 
 
 As wind disperses sm/)ke from hill and mead. 
 
8o 
 
 ( 
 
 In no wise, sweetest, do I lose the seed 
 Soivn in thy field, when the fruit likeneth me ; 
 
 God wills me delve and fatten it and weed ; 
 And to this end we twain together be. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Princess, I pray, to my discourse give heed: 
 
 My heart shall not dissever aye from thee 
 Nor thine from me, if it aright I read: 
 
 And to this end we twain together be. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Item, I give Jehan Perdryer nought, 
 
 And to his brother Frank the same ; 
 Though still to help me they have wrought 
 
 And make me sharer in their game ; 
 
 (Tongues have they, sharp and fierce as flame :) 
 And too, my gossip Frank, of yore, 
 
 Without command or prayer, my name 
 At Bourges commended passing sore. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 Let them in Taillevent go see 
 
 The chapters that of frying treat, 
 If they can find my recipe 
 
 For dressing up this kind of meat : 
 
 'Twas Saint Macaire, I once did meet. 
 Cooking a devil, skin and all. 
 
 That so the roast should smell more sweet, 
 Gave me this Recipe, that I call 
 
8i 
 
 BALLAD OF SLANDEROUS TONGUES. 
 
 I. 
 With orpiment, with arsenic red and white 
 
 And boiling lead, for fitter fricassee 
 Quicklime, saltpetre, soot and pitch unite 
 
 And in this mixture, tempered well with ley 
 
 Of Javes^ excrement, to thin the hree ; 
 In water that has lazars' legs made clean. 
 Wherein old boots and hosen steeped have been ; 
 
 In aspics' blood, in deadly drugs and tried. 
 In badgers', wolves' and foxes' gall and spleen. 
 
 Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried. 
 
 ir. 
 In brain of cat that water doth affright, 
 
 Black and so old that not a tooth has she ; 
 In foam and slaver from a mad dog's bite. 
 
 Worthless for age, worn out and rickety ; 
 
 In froth of broken-winded mule, that ye 
 Have cut up small with shears ; in water green 
 With festering slime, wherein there may be seen 
 
 Serpents and rats that there have lived and died. 
 Lizards, toads., frogs and such like beasts obscetie, 
 
 Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried. 
 
 III. 
 In sublimates, unsafe for mortal wight 
 
 To touch, that in a live snake's navel be ; 
 In blood that, drying, when the moon's at height. 
 
 In barbers' bawls, now green as leeks, we see. 
 
82 
 
 NffW Hack, and in those tubs unsavourly. 
 Where soak the foul clouts of the midwife quean ; 
 In bloody flux and cancerous pus venene ; 
 
 In laths where whores themselves have purified, 
 {No apple- squire but knows the thing I mean, ^ 
 
 Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, all these dainties look you strain and screen. 
 If sieve nor bag you have nor yet tameen, 
 
 Through shitten hosen, with the breech uptied ; 
 But in swings droppings, first, for greater teen. 
 
 Let all these sharp and poisonous tongues be fried. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 To Andry Courault, next, give I 
 
 The Counterblast to Franc-Gontier ; 
 As for the Tyrant, set on high, 
 
 I've nought, indeed, to him to say : 
 
 Wisdom forbids that in affray 
 With mighty men poor folk should strive, 
 
 Lest they spread nets across the way. 
 To catch the vauntards in alive. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 I fear not Gontier, that no men 
 
 Has nor is better off than I : 
 But now strife is betwixt us twain ; 
 
 For he exalteth poverty : 
 
83 
 
 Good luck he deemeth it, perdie, 
 Winter and summer to be poor. 
 
 Myself, I hold it misery. 
 Who's wrong } Be you judge, I conjure. 
 
 BALLAD ENTITLED THE COUNTERBLAST 
 TO FRANC-GONTIER. 
 
 A THWART a hole in the arras, father day, 
 -^T- I saw a fat priest lie on a down bed. 
 Hard by a fire ; and by his side there lay 
 
 Dame Sydonie, full comely, white and red : 
 
 By night and day a goodly life they led. 
 I watched them laugh and kiss and play, drink high 
 Of spiced hypocras ; then, putting by 
 
 Their clothes, I saw them one another seize. 
 To take their bodies' pleasure. Thence knew I 
 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 II. 
 
 If, with his mistress Helen, Franc- Gontier 
 Had all their life this goodly fashion sped. 
 
 With cloves of garlic, rank of smell alway. 
 They had no need to rub their oaten bread : 
 For all their curds (sans malice be it said) 
 
84 
 
 No jot I care, nor all their cakes of rye. 
 If they delight beneath the rose to lie. 
 
 What say you ? Must we couch afield like these i 
 Like you not better bed and chair therenigh ? 
 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 III. 
 They eat coarse bread of barley, sooth to say. 
 
 And drink but water from the heavens shed : 
 Not all the birds that singen all the way 
 
 From here to Babylon could me persuade 
 
 To spend one day so harboured and so fed. 
 For God's sake let Franc-Gontier none deny 
 To play with Helen 'neath the open sky I 
 
 Why should it irk me, if they love the leas ? 
 But, vaunt who will the joys of husbandry, 
 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Prince, be you judge betwixt us all : for my 
 
 Poor part I mind m^ (so it none displease) 
 Whilst yet a child, I heard folk testify. 
 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 Item, since Madame de Bruy^res 
 
 Her bible knows, to publish it 
 (Barring the Gospels) unto her 
 
 And to her damsels I commit, 
 
85 
 
 To bring each glib-tongued wanton chit 
 To book ; but be the preachment not 
 
 Within the cimrchyatds ; far more fit 
 'Twere in the net-market, God wot. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 
 
 T^HO UGH folk deem women young and old 
 Of Venice and Genoa well eno^ 
 Favoured with speech, both glib. and bold, 
 To carry messages to and fro ; 
 Savoyards, Florentines less or mo, 
 Romans and Lombards though folk renown, 
 
 J, at my peril, I say no ; 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Naples women (so we are told) 
 
 Can school all comers in speech and show ; 
 Prussians and Germans were still extolled 
 
 For pleasant prattle of friend and foe ; 
 
 But hail they from Athens or Grand Cairo, 
 Castilk or Hungary, black or brawn, 
 
 Greeks or Egyptians, high or law. 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
86 
 
 III. 
 Switzers nor Bretons know how to scold. 
 
 Nor Provence nor Gascony women : lo ! 
 Two fishfags in Paris the bridge that hold 
 
 Would slang them dumb in a minute or so. 
 
 Picardy, England, Lorraine, {heigho ! 
 Enough of places have I set down ?) 
 
 Valenciennes, Calais, wherever you go. 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Prince, to the Paris ladies, I trow. 
 
 For pleasant parlance I yield the crown. 
 They may talk of Italians ; hut this I know. 
 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
 CXXXV. 
 
 Look at them there, by twos and threes, 
 Upon their gowns' hem seated low. 
 
 In churches and in nunneries : 
 Speak not, but softly near them go 
 And speedily you'll come to know 
 
 Such judgments as Macrobius ne'er 
 Did give. Whate'er you catch, I trow, 
 
 'Twill all some flower of wisdom bear. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 Item, unto Mount Martyr hill 
 (Old past the memory of man) 
 
 Let them adjoin (it is my will) 
 The knoll called Mount Valerian : 
 
87 
 
 I give it for a quarter's span 
 The ihdulgences from Rome I brought ; 
 
 Whence shall the convent, where no man 
 Might come, of many now be sought. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 Item, to serving men and maids 
 
 Of good hostels (in no despite). 
 Pheasants, tarts, custards and croustades 
 
 And high carousal at midnight : 
 
 Seven pints or eight, the matter's slight. 
 Whilst sound asleep are lord and dame : 
 
 Thereafter, putting out the light. 
 Commend them to the asses' game. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 Item, to honest wenches who 
 
 Have fathers, mothers, aunts . . . 'Fore God ! 
 I've nothing left to give to you : 
 
 All on the servants I've bestowed. 
 
 Poor silly wantons, they had showed 
 Themselves with little satisfied ! 
 
 Some scraps might well have gone their road 
 Of all the convents cast aside. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 Cistercians and Celestines, 
 
 Though they be railed off from the rest. 
 They eat rich meats and drink sweet wines, 
 
 Whereof poor whores know not the zest : 
 
 13 
 
88 
 
 As Jehanne and Perrette can attest 
 And Isabeau that says " Is't not ? " 
 
 Since they therefor are so distrest. 
 One scarce were damn'd for it, God wot. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 Item, to sturdy stout Margot, 
 Of face and favour fair and feat, 
 
 A pious creature, too, eno', — 
 I'faith, by God Almighty be't, 
 I love her well, the proper peat. 
 
 As she (sweet chuck) loves me indeed : 
 If any chance with her to meet. 
 
 Let him this Ballad to her read. 
 
 BALLAD OF VILLON AND MUCKLE MEG. 
 
 Because I love and serve a whore sans glose. 
 Think not therefore or knave or fool am I: 
 
 She hath in her such goods as no man knows. 
 For love of her, target and dirk I ply : 
 When clients come, I hend a pot therenigh 
 
 A nd get me gone for wine, without word said : 
 
 Before them water, fruit, bread, cheese, I spread. 
 If they pay well, I bid them " Well, God aid ! 
 
 Come here again, when you of lust are led. 
 In this the brothel where we ply our trade." 
 
89 
 
 II. 
 
 But surely before long an ill wind blows 
 When, coinless, Margot comes by me to lie. 
 
 I hate the sight of her, catch up her hose, 
 Her gown, her surcoat and her girdle-tie. 
 Swearing to pawn them, meat and drink to buy. 
 
 She grips me by the throat and cuffs my head. 
 
 Cries " Antichrist! " and swears by fesus dead. 
 It shall not be ; till 1, to quell the jade, 
 
 A potsherd seize and score her nose with red. 
 In this the brothel where we ply our trade. 
 
 in. 
 
 Then she, peace made, to show we're no more foes, 
 
 A hugeous crack of wind at me lets fly 
 And laughing, sets her fist against my nose. 
 
 Bids me " Go to " and claps me on the thigh ; 
 
 Then, drunk, like logs we sleep till, by and by. 
 Awaking, when her womb is hungered. 
 To spare the child beneath her girdlestead, 
 
 She mounts on me, flat as a pancake laid. 
 With wantoning she wears me to the thread. 
 
 In this the brothel where we ply our trade. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Hail, rain, freeze, ready baked I hold my bread : 
 Well worth a lecher with a wanton wed I 
 Whether' s the worse ? They differ not a shred. 
 
90 
 
 /// cat to ill rat ; each for each was made. 
 We flee from honour;, it from us hath fled: 
 Lewd?iess we love, that stands us well in stead. 
 
 In this the brothel where we ply our trade. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 Item, to Marion (Statue hight) 
 And to tall Jehanne of Brittany, 
 
 I give to keep a school by night, 
 
 Where masters taught of scholars be : 
 A thing you everywhere may see. 
 
 Except in Mehun gaol alone. 
 Wherefore I say, Out on the fee ! 
 
 Since that the trick is so well known. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 Item, to Noel Wellbeseen 
 
 No other gift I do ordain 
 Than both hands full of osiers green, 
 
 Out of my garden freshly ta'en : 
 
 (One should to chastisement be fain ; 
 In sooth it is fair almsgiving :) 
 
 Eleven score strokes laid on amain, 
 Of Master Hal's administ'ring. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 Item, the Hospitals unto 
 
 What to bequeath I hardly know : 
 Here jests are neither right nor due. 
 
 For sick poor folk have ills eno' : 
 
91 
 
 Let each man's leavings to them go. 
 The Mendicants have had my goose : 
 
 Nought but the bones they'll get, I trow : 
 The poor can seldom pick and choose. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 I give my barber, (an he list) — 
 By name that Colin Galerne hight, 
 
 Near Angelot's the Herbalist, — 
 . A lump of ice : let him apply't 
 Upon his paunch and hold it tight, 
 
 So he may freeze as seems him meet : 
 If thus o' winter deal the wight. 
 
 He'll not complain of summer heat. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 Item, I leave the Foundlings nought: 
 
 But to the Lostlings comfort's due. 
 Who' should, if anywhere, be sought 
 
 Where lodges Marion the Statue. 
 
 A lesson of my sort to you 
 I'll read : 'twill soon be overpast. 
 
 Turn not, I pray, deaf ears thereto. 
 But listen sadly : 'tis the last. 
 
92 
 
 SEEMLY LESSON OF VILLON TO THE 
 GOOD-FOR-NOUGHTS. 
 
 / j^AIR sons, you' re wasting, ereyoiire old, 
 
 J- The fairest rose to you that fell. 
 
 You, that like birdlime take and hold. 
 When to Montpippeau or Ruel 
 {My clerks)you wander, keep you well: 
 
 For of the tricks that there he played. 
 Thinking to 'scape a second spell, 
 
 Colin of Cayeulx lost his head. 
 
 II. 
 
 No trifling game is this to play, 
 Wliere one stakes soul and body loo : 
 
 If losers, no remorse can stay 
 
 A shameful death from ending you ^ 
 And even the winner, for his due. 
 
 Hath not a Dido to his wife. 
 
 Fuolish and lewd I hold him who 
 
 Doth for so little risk his life. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now all of you to me attend : 
 
 Even a load of wine, folk say. 
 With drinking at last comes to an end. 
 
 By fire in winter, in woods in May. 
 
93 
 
 If you have money, it doth not stay, 
 But this way and that it wastes amain : 
 
 What does it profit you, any way ? 
 Ill-gotten good is nobody s gain. 
 
 BALLAD OF GOOD DOCTRINE TO THOSE 
 OF ILL LIFE. 
 
 PEDDL E indulgences, as you may : 
 Cog the dice for your cheating throws . 
 Try if counterfeit coin will pay. 
 At risk of roasting at last, like those 
 That deal in treason. Lie and glose^ 
 Rob and ravish : what profits it ? 
 
 Who gets the purchase, do you suppose ? 
 Taverns and wenches, every whit. 
 
 II. 
 
 Rhyme, rail, wrestle and cymbals play : 
 
 Flute and fool it in mummers^ shows : 
 Along with the strolling players stray 
 
 From town to city, without repose ; 
 
 Act mysteries, farces, imbroglios : 
 Win money at gleek or a lucky hit 
 
 At the pins : like water, away it flows ; 
 Taverns and wenches, every whit. 
 
94 
 
 III. 
 Turn from your evil courses I pray, 
 
 That smell so foul in a decent nose : 
 Earn your bread in some honest way. 
 
 If you have no letters, nor verse nor prose. 
 
 Plough or groom horses, beat hemp or toze. 
 Enough shall you have if you think but fit : 
 
 But cast not your wage to each wind that blows ; 
 Taverns and wenches, every whit. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Doublets, pourpoints and silken hose. 
 
 Gowns and linen, woven or knit, 
 Ere your wedis worn, away it goes ; 
 
 Taverns and wenches, every- whit. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 Companions in debauchery, 
 
 111 souls and bodies well bestead, 
 Beware .of that ill sun (look ye) 
 
 That tans a man when he is dead : 
 
 'Tis a foul death to die, I dread. 
 Keep yourselves from it,- so you may ; 
 
 And be this still remembered, 
 That all of you must die some day. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 Item, I give the Fifteen-score — 
 
 (Three hundred just as well 'tmight be) — 
 For that by them I set great store, 
 
 (Paris, not.Provins ones^ for me) — 
 
95 
 
 My, goggles (sans the case, perdie) 
 So in the churchyards where they serve, 
 
 They may the bad to sever see 
 From honest folk that well deserve. 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 HERE' silence doth for ever reign; 
 Nothing it profiteth the dead 
 On beds of satin to have lain 
 
 And drunk from gold the vine-juice red 
 And lived in glee aud lustihead. 
 Soon all such, joys must be resigned : 
 
 All pass away, and in their stead 
 Only the sin remains behind. - — 
 
 CXLIX. 
 When I consider all the heads 
 
 That in these charnels gathered be, ' 
 Those that are sleeping in these beds 
 
 May have (for aught that I can see) - 
 
 Been mighty lords of high degree,- 
 Bishops and dames, — or else poor churls : 
 
 There is no difference to me 
 'Twixt watercarriers' bones and earls. 
 
 CL. 
 These ladies all, that in their day 
 
 Each against each did bend and bowf 
 Whereof did some the sceptre sway. 
 
 Of others feared and courted, — now 
 
 ' i.e., in the churchyards. 
 
96 . 
 
 Here are they sleeping all a-row, 
 Heaped/up together anydele, 
 
 Their crowns and honours all laid low. 
 Masters or clerks, there's no appeal. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 Now are they dead, God have their sprights ! 
 
 As for their bodies, they are clay : 
 Once they were ladies, lords and knights. 
 
 That on soft beds of satin lay 
 
 And fed on dainties every day. 
 Their bones are mouldered into dust. 
 
 They reck not now of laugh or play : 
 Christ will assoilzie them, I trust. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 I' mate this ditty for the dead : 
 
 The which I do communicate 
 To Courts and Pleas, ill doers' dread, 
 , That unjust avarice do hate ; 
 
 That for the welfare of the state 
 Do work their bones and bodies dry : 
 
 God and St. Dominick abate 
 Their sins unto them when they die. ' 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 Item, Jaccpies Cardon nought of me 
 (For nought I have for him) shall get,' 
 
 — Not that he'd throw't away, perdie— 
 Except this roundel ; if 'twere set 
 
91 
 
 To some such tune as " Marionette;" 
 Composed for Marion Slow-to-come, 
 
 Or " Hold your door open, Guillemette," . 
 It might belike the vogue become. 
 
 ROUNDEL. 
 
 On my release from prison strait, 
 Where I have left my life well-nigh, 
 If Fate still look at me awry. 
 
 Judge if she he inveterate I 
 
 Reason meseemeth, past debate. 
 Her malice she should mollify 
 On my release. 
 
 Full of unreason is this Fate, 
 
 Which willeth hut that I should die : 
 God grant that in His house on high 
 
 My soul be ravished from her hate, 
 On my release. 
 
 CLiy. 
 
 THIS gift shall Lomer have of me, 
 — ^As sure as I'm a fairy's son, — 
 That he shall ' well-beloved ' be. 
 But wench or woman love he none 
 
98 
 
 Nor lose his head for any one, 
 And that an hundred times a night 
 
 The trick for nought of him be done, 
 In spite of Holger the good knight. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 To lovers sick and sorrowful, 
 (As well as Alain Chartier's Lay,) 
 
 At bedhead, a benature-full 
 
 Of tears I give, and eke a spray 
 Of eglatere or flowering May, 
 
 (To sprinkle with) in time of green ; 
 Provided they a Psalter say. 
 
 To save poor Villon's soul from teen. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 To Master James, that day and night 
 
 Himself at hoarding wealth doth kill, 
 I give as many girls to plight 
 
 (But none to marry) as he will. 
 
 For whom doth he his coffers fill } 
 For those that are his kin, alack ! 
 
 That which the sows' was, I hold ill 
 Should to the porkers not go back. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 Unto the Seneschal I bequeath, — 
 (Who once from debt did me release) 
 
 Besides the quality of Smith, — 
 
 The right of shoeing ducks and geese. 
 
99 
 
 I send him all these fooleries, 
 To help him pass away the time, 
 
 Or make him spillets if he please : 
 One wearies of the best of rhyme. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 The Captain of the Watch, also — 
 Two proper youths to serve as page ; 
 
 Marquet the Stout and Philippot, 
 Who for the most part of their age 
 Have served (whence are they the more sage) 
 
 The Blacksmiths' Provost. Wellaway ! 
 If they should chance to lose their wage. 
 
 They must go shoeless many a day. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Item, to Chappelain let there pass 
 
 My simple-tonsure chapelry. 
 Charged but with saying a low mass : 
 
 There little letters needed be. 
 
 My cure of souls he should of me 
 Have had ; but no one to confess 
 
 (To go by what he says) cares he. 
 Save chambermaids and mistresses. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Since my intent he well doth know. 
 To Jehan de Calais — ( worthy wight ! 
 
 Who saw me thirty years ago 
 
 And hath not since on me set sight, 
 
lOO 
 
 Indeed, nor knoweth how I hight, — 
 If in this Testament befall 
 
 Or hitch or doubt, I give full right 
 To solve and mend them, one and all : 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 To glose upon it and comment, 
 
 Define, eliminate, prescribe, 
 Diminish aught or aught augment, 
 
 To cancel it or it transcribe 
 
 With his own hand, although no scribe 
 He be ; such sense as he thinks fit, 
 
 At pleasure, good or bad, ascribe 
 Thereto : I sanction all of it. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 And if, perchance, some legatee, 
 
 Without my knowledge, should be dead. 
 It shall at the discretion be 
 
 Of Jehan de Calais aforesaid 
 
 To see my will interpreted 
 And otherwise the gift apply 
 
 Nor take it for himself instead : 
 I charge him on his soul thereby. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 Item, my body, I ordain. 
 
 Shall at St. Avoye buried be : 
 And that my friends may there again 
 
 My image and presentment see, 
 
lOI 
 
 Let one the semblant limn of me 
 In ink, if that be not too dear. 
 
 No other monument, perdie : 
 'Twould overload the floor, I fear. 
 
 CLXIV.ww 
 
 Item, I will that over it 
 
 That which ensues, without word more, 
 In letters large enough be writ : 
 
 If ink fail (as I said before). 
 
 Let them the words with charcoal score. 
 So they do not the plaster drag : 
 
 'Twill serve to keep my name in store; 
 As that of a good crack-brained wag. 
 
 ffipftapl). 
 
 CLXV. —- 
 
 Here lies and slumbers in this place 
 One whom Love wreaked his ire upon ; 
 
 A scholar, poor of goods and grace. 
 That hight of old FRAN901S Villon : 
 Acre or furrow had he none. 
 
 'TiS known HIS ALL HE GAVE AWAY ; 
 
 Bread, tables, tressels, all are gone. 
 Gallants, of him this Roundel say. 
 
I02 
 
 ROUNDEL. "-> 
 
 ^ternam Requiem dona, 
 
 Lord God, and everlasting light. 
 To him who never had, poor wight. 
 
 Platter, or aught thereon to lay ! 
 
 Hair, eyebrows, beard all fallen away. 
 Like a peeled turnip was his plight. 
 
 ^ternam Requiem dona. 
 
 Exile compelled him many a day 
 
 And death at last his breech did smite. 
 Though, ' I appeal,' with all his might 
 
 The man in good plain speech did say. 
 
 .(Eternam Requiem dona. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 Item, I will they toll for me 
 
 The ' Belfry 'Bell, that is so great 
 Of voice, that all astonied be 
 
 When he is tolled, early or late. 
 
 Many a good city, of old date, 
 He saved, as every one doth know ; 
 
 Thunder or war, all ills abate 
 When through the land his voices go. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Four loaves the ringers' wage shall be : 
 If that's too little, six : (that is 
 
 What rich folk wont to give for fee :) 
 But they St. Stephen's loaves, ywis, 
 
103 
 
 Shall be. Let Vollant share in this ; 
 A man that earns his living hard : 
 
 'Twill furnish forth a week of his. 
 The other one 7 Jehan de la Garde. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Item, to carry out this all, 
 
 As my executors I name 
 Men who are good to deal withal 
 
 And never shirk an honest claim : 
 
 They're no great vauntards, all the same, 
 Though they've good cause for it, perdie ; 
 
 They shall fulfil my thought and aim : 
 Write, I will name six names to thee. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 First, Master Martin de Bellefaye, 
 
 The King's Lieutenant-criminel. 
 Who shall be next .? Whom shall I say .'' 
 
 It shall be Messire Colombel : 
 
 If, as I think, it like him well. 
 He'll undertake this charge for me. 
 
 The third one } Michel Jouvenel : 
 I give the office to these three. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Natheless, in case they should excuse 
 Themselves therefrom, for fear of fees, 
 
 Or altogether should refuse, 
 
 I name as their successors these, 
 
 14 
 
I04 
 
 Good men and true in their degrees : 
 Philip Brunei, the noble squire, 
 
 For next, his neighbour (an he please). 
 Master Jacques Raguyer, I desire. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Master Jacques James shall be the third : 
 
 Three men of worth and good renown. 
 That for believers in God's Word 
 
 And right God-fearing souls are known ; 
 
 Far rather would they spend their own 
 Than not my full intent fulfil. 
 
 No auditor on them shall frown : 
 They shall do all at their own will. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 The Register of Wills from me 
 
 Shall have nor quid nor quod, I trow : 
 But every penny of his fee 
 
 To Tricot, the young priest, shall go ; 
 
 At whose expense gladly eno' 
 I'd drink, though it my nightcap cost : 
 
 If but he knew the dice to throw. 
 Of Perrette's Den I'd make him host. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Guillaume du Ru, for funeral, 
 
 Shall see the chapel duly lit ; 
 And as to who shall bear the pall. 
 
 Let my executors order it. 
 
105 
 
 And now, my body every whit 
 (Groin, eyebrows, hair and beard and all) 
 
 Being racked with pain, the time seems fit 
 To cry folk mercy, great and small. 
 
 BALLAD CRYING ALL FOLK MERCY. 
 
 FRERES, be they white or he they grey f 
 Nuns, mumpers, chanters awry that tread 
 And clink their pattens on each highway; 
 Lackeys and handmaids, apparelled 
 In tight-fitting surcoats, white and red ; 
 Gallants, whose boots o'er their ankles fall. 
 
 That vaunt and ruffle it unadread; 
 I cry folk mercy, one and all. 
 
 II. 
 
 Wantons who all their charms display. 
 
 That so more custom to them be led. 
 Brawlers and jugglers and tumblers gay ; 
 
 Clowns with their apes and carpet spread ; 
 
 Players that whistle for lustihead. 
 As they trudge it 'twixt village and town and hall; 
 
 Gentle and simple, living and dead, — 
 I cry folk mercy, one and all. 
 
io6 
 
 III. 
 
 Save only the treacherous beasts of prey. 
 
 That garred me batten on prison bread 
 And water, many a night and day. 
 
 I fear them not now, no, not a shred ; 
 
 And gladly {but that I lie a-bed 
 And have small stomach for strife or brawl) 
 
 I'd have my wreak of them. Now, instead, 
 I cry folk mercy, one and all. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 So but the knaves be ribroasted 
 
 And basted well with an oaken maul 
 
 Or some stout horsewhip weighted with lead, 
 I cry folk mercy, one and all. 
 
 BALLAD, BY WAY OF ENDING. 
 
 TJTERE is ended {both great and small) 
 -*- J- Poor Villon's Testament / When he is dead, 
 Come, I pray, to his funeral. 
 
 Whilst the bell tinkles overhead. 
 
 Come in cramozin garmented; 
 For to Love martyr did he die. 
 
 Thereof he swore on his manlihead, 
 Whenas he felt his end draw nigh. 
 
I07 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 Jn 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. 
 
 f^ete enbetl) tj^e fflcteater Testament of JHaster 
 jhan^ota Uillon. 
 
DIVERS POEMS. 
 
^txz follo&j Mibtxs 3^aems of iWaster JFtanroia Fillon, not 
 beitiK patt of Us 3Lt%mt anti @ceater STtstameute. 
 
 BALLAD OF VILLON IN PRISON. 
 
 I. 
 
 HAVE pity, friends, have pity now, I pray, 
 If it so please you, at the least, on me ! 
 I lie in fosse, not under holm or may. 
 
 In this duresse, wherein, alas ! I dree 
 
 111 fate, as God did thereanent decree. 
 Lasses and lovers, younglings manifold. 
 Dancers and mountebanks, alert and bold, 
 
 Nimble as quarrel from a crossbow shot ; 
 Singers, that troll as clear as bells of gold, — 
 
 Will you all leave poor Villon here to rot ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Clerks, that go carolling the livelong day. 
 Scant-pursed, but glad and frank and full of glee ; 
 
 Wandering at will along the broad highway, 
 
 Harebrained, perchance, but wit-whole too, perdie : 
 Lo ! now, I die, whilst that you absent be. 
 
112 
 
 Song-singers, when poor Villon's days are told, 
 You will sing psalms for him and candles hold ; 
 
 Here light nor air nor levin enters not. 
 Where ramparts thick are round about him rolled. 
 
 Will you all leave poor Villon here io rot ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Consider but his piteous array, 
 
 High and fair lords, of suit and service free. 
 That nor to king nor kaiser homage pay. 
 
 But straight from God in heaven hold your fee ! 
 
 Come fast or feast, all days alike fasts he. 
 Whence are his teeth like rakes' teeth to behold : 
 No table hath he but the sheer black mould : 
 
 After dry bread (not manchets), pot on pot 
 They empty down his throat of water cold : 
 
 Will you all leave poor Villon here io rot ? 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Princes and lords aforesaid, young and old. 
 Get me the King his letters sealed and scrolled 
 
 And draw me from this dungeon : for, God wot. 
 Even swine, when one squeaks in the butcher's fold, 
 Flock around their fellow and do squeak and scold. 
 
 Willy ou all leave poor Villon here to rot ? 
 
"3 
 
 THE QUATRAIN THAT VILLON MADE WHEN 
 HE WAS DOOMED TO DIE. 
 
 FRANCOIS am I,— woe worth it me! 
 At Paris born, near Pontoise citie. 
 Whose neck, in the bight of a rope of three, 
 Must prove how heavy my buttocks be. 
 
 VARIANT OF THE FOREGOING EPITAPH. 
 
 FRANCOIS am I,— woe worth it me ! 
 — Corbier my surname is aright : 
 Native of Auvers, near Pontoise citie ; 
 Of folk for sobriquet Villon hight. 
 But for the gallant appeal I made, 
 My neck, in the bight of a rope of three. 
 Had known ere this what my buttocks 
 
 weighed. 
 The game scarce seemed to me worth to be 
 played. 
 
114 
 
 THE EPITAPH IN BALLAD FORM THAT VILLON 
 MADE FOR HIMSELF AND HIS COM- 
 PANIONS, EXPECTING NO BETTER THAN 
 TO BE HANGED IN THEIR COMPANY. 
 
 BROTHERS, that after us on life remain, 
 Harden your hearts against us not as stone ; 
 For, if to pity us poor wights you're fain, 
 
 God shall the rather grant you benison. 
 
 You see us six, the gibbet hereupon : 
 As for the flesh that we too well have fedf 
 'Tis all devoured and rotted, shred by shred. 
 
 Let none make merry of our piteous case. 
 Whose crumbling bones the life long since hath fled : 
 
 The rather pray, God grant us of His grace I 
 
 II. 
 
 Yea, we conjure you, look not with disdain, 
 
 Brothers, on us, though we to death were done,^.^ 
 
 By justice. Well you know, the saving grain 
 Of sense springs not in every mother's son : 
 Commend us, therefore, now we're dead and gone, 
 
 To Christ, the Son of Mary's maidenhead, 
 
 That he leave not His grace on us to shed 
 And save us from the nether torture-place. 
 
 Let no one harry us : forsooth, we're sped : 
 The rather pray, God grant us of His grace ! 
 
"S 
 
 III. 
 
 We are whiles scoured and soddened of the rain 
 
 And whiles burnt up and blackened of the sun : 
 Corbies and pyets have our eyes out-ta'en 
 
 And plucked our beard and hair out, one by one. 
 
 Whether by night or day, rest have we none : 
 Now here, now there, as the wind shifts its stead, 
 We swing and creak and rattle overhead, 
 
 No thimble dinted like our bird-pecked face. 
 Brothers, have heed and shun the life we led-^-" 
 
 The rather pray, God grant us of His grace. 
 
 Envoi, 
 Prince Jesus, over all empowered. 
 Let us not fall into the Place of Dread, 
 
 But all our reckoning with the Fiend efface. 
 Folk, mock us not that are forspent and dead ; 
 
 The rather pray, God grant us of His grace ! 
 
 THE REQUEST OF VILLON, PRESENTED TO 
 THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT IN 
 BALLAD FORM. 
 
 ALL my five senses, in your several place. 
 Hearing and seeing, taste and touch and smell, 
 Every my member branded with disgrace, — 
 Each on this fashion do ye speak and tell : 
 ' Most Sovereign Court, by whom we here befell, 
 
ii6 
 
 Thou that deliveredst us from sore dismays, 
 The tongue sufBceth not thy name to blaze 
 
 Forth in such strain of honour as it should : 
 Wherefore to thee our voices all we raise, 
 
 Sister of angels, mother of the good ! ' 
 
 II. 
 
 Heart, cleave in sunder, or in any case 
 
 Be not more hardened and impermeable 
 Than was the black rock in the desert-space, 
 
 Which with sweet water for the Jews did swell ; 
 
 Melt into tears and mercy cry, as well 
 Befits a lowly heart that humbly prays : 
 Give to the Court, the kingdom's glory, praise, — 
 
 The Frenchman's stay, the help of strangerhood, 
 Born of high heaven amidst the empyreal rays : 
 
 Sister of angels, mother of the good ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And you, my teeth, your sockets leave apace ; 
 
 Come forward, all, and loudlier than bell, 
 Organ or clarion, render thanks for grace 
 
 And every thought of chewing now repel. 
 
 Bethink you, I was doomed to death and hell. 
 Heart, spleen and liver palsied with affrays : 
 And you, my body, (else you were more base 
 
 Than bear or swine that in the dunghill brood,) 
 Extol the Court, ere worser hap amaze ; 
 
 Sister of angels, mother of the good I 
 
"7 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, of thy grace deny me not three days 
 To bid my friends adieu and go my ways : 
 
 Without them, I've nor money, clothes nor food. 
 Triumphant Court, be't as thy suppliant says ; 
 
 Sister of angels, mother of the good ! 
 
 BALLAD OF VILLON'S APPEAL. 
 
 I. 
 
 GARNIER, how like you my appeal ? 
 Did I wisely, or did I ill ? 
 Each beast looks to his own skin's weal : 
 If any bind him, to keep or kill. 
 He does himself free to the best of his skill. 
 When then, sans reason, to me was sung 
 This pleasant psalm of a sentence, still 
 Was it a time to hold my tongue ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Were I of Capet's race somedele 
 
 (Whose kin were butchers on Montmartre hill) 
 They had not bound me with iron and steel 
 
 Nor forced me to swizzle more than my fill : 
 
 (You know the trick of it, will or nill ?) 
 But, when of malice prepense and wrong, 
 
 They doomed me to swallow this bitter pill, 
 Was it a time to hold my tongue ? 
 
Ii8 
 
 III. 
 
 Think you that under my cap I feel 
 Not reason nor ableness thereuntil, 
 
 Sufficient to say, ' I do appeal ' ? 
 
 Enough was left me (as warrant I will) 
 To keep me from holding my clapper still. 
 
 When jargon, that meant ' You shall be hung, 
 They read to me from the notary's bill : 
 
 Was it a time to hold my tongue ? 
 
 Envoi., 
 
 Prince, had I had the pip in my bill. 
 Long before this I should have swung, 
 
 A scarecrow hard by Montfaucon mill ! 
 Was it a time to hold mjy tongue ? 
 
 BALLAD OF PROVERBS. 
 
 GOATS scratch until they spoil their bed : 
 Pitcher to well too oft we send : 
 The iron's heated till it's red 
 And hammered till in twain it rend : 
 The tree grows as the twig we bend : 
 Men journey till they disappear 
 
 Even from the memory of a friend : 
 We shout out 'Noel ' till it's here. 
 
119 
 
 II. 
 Some mock until their hearts do bleed : 
 
 Some are so frank that they offend : 
 Some waste until they come to need : 
 
 A promised gift is ill to spend : 
 
 Some love God till from church they trend ; 
 Wind shifts until to North it veer : 
 
 Till forced to borrow do we lend : 
 We shout out ' Noel' till it's here. 
 
 III. 
 
 Dogs fawn on us till them we feed : 
 Song's sung until by heart it's kenned : 
 
 Fruit's kept until it rot to seed : 
 The leaguered place falls in the end : 
 Folk linger till the occasion wend : 
 
 Haste oft throws all things out of gear : 
 One clips until the grasp's o'erstrained : 
 
 We shout out ' Noel' till it's here. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, fools live so long that they mend : 
 They go so far that they draw near : 
 
 They're cozened till they apprehend : 
 We shout out ' Noel ' till it's here. 
 
 15 
 
I20 
 
 BALLAD OF THINGS KNOWN AND UNKNOWN. 
 
 I. 
 
 FLIES in the milk I know full well : 
 I know men by the clothes they wear : 
 I know the walnut by the shell : 
 I know the foul sky from the fair : 
 I know the pear-tree by the pear : 
 I know the worker from the drone 
 
 And eke the good wheat from the tare : 
 / know all save myself alone. 
 
 II. 
 
 I know the pourpoint by the fell 
 And by his gown I know the frdre : 
 
 Master by varlet I can spell : 
 
 Nuns by the veils that hide their hair : 
 I know the sharper and his snare 
 
 And fools that fat on cates have grown : 
 Wines by the cask I can compare : 
 
 / hnaw all save myself alone. 
 
 III. 
 
 I know how horse from mule to tell : 
 I know the load that each can bear : 
 
 I know both Beatrice and Bell : 
 I know the hazards, odd and pair : 
 
121 
 
 I know of visions in the air : 
 I know the power of Peter's throne 
 
 And how misled Bohemians were : 
 / know all save myself alone. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, I know all things : fat and spare, 
 Ruddy and pale, to me are known 
 
 And Death that endeth all our care : 
 / litum -all save myself alone. 
 
 BALLAD OF POOR CHIMNEYSWEEPS. 
 
 I. 
 
 MEN talk of those the fields that till ; 
 Of those that sift out chaff from corn ; 
 Of him that has, will he or nill, 
 
 A wife that scoldeth night and morn, — 
 
 As folk hard driven and forlorn : 
 Of men that often use the sea ; 
 Of monks that of poor convents be ; 
 
 Of those behind the ass that go : 
 But, when all things consider we, 
 
 Poor chimneysweeps have toil eno\ 
 
122 
 
 II. 
 
 To govern boys and girls with skill, 
 
 God wot, 's no labour lightly borne : 
 Nor to serve ladies at Love's will ; 
 
 Or do knight suit at sound of horn. 
 
 Helmet and harness always worn, 
 And follow arms courageously : 
 To joust and tilt with spears, perdie. 
 
 And quintain play, is hard, I know : 
 But, when all things consider we, 
 
 Poor chimneysweeps have toil eno\ 
 
 III. 
 
 God wot, they suffer little ill 
 
 By whom wheat's reaped and meadows shorn ; 
 Or those that thresh grain for the mill 
 
 Or plead the Parliament beforne ; 
 
 To borrow money's little scorn ; 
 Tinkers and carters have to dree 
 But little hardship, seemeth me ; 
 
 Nor does Lent irk us much, I trow : 
 But, when all things consider we. 
 
 Poor chimneysweeps have toil eno\ 
 
 [Envoi deest?^ 
 
I 
 
 123 
 
 BALLAD OF FORTUNE. 
 
 I. 
 OF old times by makers Fortune hight,- 
 
 Whom, Fran9ois, 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 ; 
 / rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree. 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
124 
 
 III. 
 
 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 Fran9ois, 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: 
 
 / rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree. 
 
 BALLAD AGAINST THOSE WHO MISSAY 
 OF FRANCE. 
 
 I. 
 
 LET him meet beasts that breathe out fiery rain. 
 Even as did Jason hard by Colchis town ; 
 Or seven years changed into a beast remain, 
 Nebuchadnezzar-like, to earth bowed down ; 
 
125 
 
 Or suffer else such teen and mickle bale 
 As Helen's rape on Trojans did entail ; 
 
 Or in Hell's marshes fallen let him fare 
 
 Like Tantalus and Proserpine or bear 
 A grievouser than Job his sufferance. 
 
 Prisoned and pent in Daedalus his snare, — 
 Who would wish ill unto the realm of France. 
 
 H. 
 
 Four months within a marish let him plain, 
 
 Bittern-like, with the mud against his crown ; 
 Or sell him to the Ottoman, to chain 
 
 And harness like an ox, the scurvy clown ! 
 Or thirty years, like Maudlin, without veil 
 Or vesture, let him his misdeeds bewail ; 
 
 Or with Narcissus death by drowiiing share ; 
 
 Or die like Absalom, hanged by the hair ; 
 Or Simon Magus, by his charms' mischance ; 
 
 Or Judas, mad with horror and despair, — 
 Who would wish ill unto the realm of France. 
 
 III. 
 
 If but Octavian's time might come again, 
 His molten gold should down his throat be thrown. 
 
 Or 'twixt two millstones he should grind for grain, 
 As did St. Victor ; or I'd have him drown 
 
 Far out to sea, where help and breath should fail, 
 
 Like Jonah in the belly of the whale ; 
 
126 
 
 Let him be doomed the sunlight to forswear, 
 Juno her goods and Venus debonair, 
 
 And be of Mars oppressed to utterance, — 
 As was Antiochus the king, whilere, — 
 
 WAo would wish ill unto the realm of France. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, may winds bear him to the wastes of air 
 Or to the mid-sea woods and sink him there : 
 
 Be all his hopes changed to desesperance ; 
 For he deserves not any fortune fair 
 
 Who would wish ill unto the realm of France. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE DEBATE OF THE HEART 
 AND BODY OF VILLON. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHAT is't I hear ?— 'Tis I, thy heart ; 'tis I 
 That hold but by a thread for frailty, 
 I have nor force nor substance, all drained dry, 
 
 Since thee thus lonely and forlorn I see. 
 
 Like a poor cur, curled up all shiveringly. — 
 How comes it thus ? — Of thine unwise liesse. — 
 What irks it thee ? — /suffer the distress. 
 
 Leave me in peace. — Why ? — I will cast about. — 
 When will that be 1 — When I'm past childishness. — 
 
 I say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
127 
 
 II. 
 
 What deemest thou ? — To mend before I die. — 
 At thirty years ? — 'Tis a mule's age, perdie. — 
 
 Is't childhood ? — Nay. — 'Tis madness, then, doth ply 
 And grip thee ? — Where ?— By the nape.— Seemeth me 
 Nothing I know } — Yes, flies in milk, maybe : 
 
 Thou canst tell black from white yet at a press. — 
 
 Is't all } — What words can all thy faults express ? — 
 If 't's not enough, we'll have another bout. — 
 
 Thou'rt lost. — I'll make a fight for't none the less. — 
 I say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 III. 
 
 Dule have I, pain and misery thou thereby : 
 
 If thou wert some poor idiot, happily 
 Thou mightst have some excuse thy heart anigh. 
 
 Lo, foul and fair are all alike to thee;' 
 
 Or harder is thy head than stone by sea 
 Or more than honour likes thee this duresse. 
 Canst thou say aught in answer } Come, confess. — 
 
 I shall be quit on't when I die, no doubt. — 
 God ! what a comfort 'gainst a present stress ! 
 
 I say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Whence comes this evil ? — Surely, from on high : 
 When Saturn made me up my fardel, he 
 
 Put all these ills in. — 'Tis a foolish lie : ^ 
 
 Thou art Fate's master, yet its slave wilt bei 
 Thereof see Solomon his homily ; 
 
128 
 
 The wise, he says, no planets can oppress : 
 They and their influence own his mightiness. — 
 
 Nay, as they've made me, so shall it fall out. — 
 What sayst thou .?— 'Tis the faith that I profess. — 
 
 I say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Wilt thou live long ? — So God vouchsafe me, yes. — 
 Then must thou — What } — Repent ; forswear idlesse 
 And study — What ? — The lore of righteousness. — 
 
 I'll not forget. — Forsake the motley rouf" ■ 
 And to amendment straightway thee address ; 
 Delay not till thou come to hopelessness. 
 
 I say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 BALLAD 
 
 WRITTEN BY VILLON UPON A SUBJECT PROPOSED BY CHARLES 
 DUC D'OELEANS, 
 
 I DIE of thirst, although the spring's at hand ; 
 Hot as a fire, my teeth with cold do shake ; 
 In my own town, I'm in a foreign land ; 
 Hard by a burning brazier do I quake ; 
 Clad like a king, yet naked as .a snake. 
 
. 129 
 
 I laugh through tears, expect sans hope soe'er 
 And comfort take amiddleward despair ; 
 
 Glad, though I joy in nought beneath the sun, 
 Potent am I, and yet as weak as air ; 
 
 Well entertained, rebuffed of every one. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nought's dim to me save what I understand ; 
 
 Uncertain things alone for sure I take ; 
 I doubt but facts that all unquestioned stand ; 
 
 I'm only wise by chance for a whim's sake ; 
 
 ' Give you good-night 1 ' I say, whenas I wake ; 
 Lying at my length, of falling I beware ; 
 I've goods enough, yet not a crown to spare ; 
 
 Leave off a loser, though I still have won ; 
 Await bequests, although to none I'm heir ; 
 
 Well entertained, rebuffed of every one. 
 
 III. 
 
 I care for nought, yet all my life I've planned 
 Goods to acquire, although I've none at stake ; 
 
 They speak me fairest, by whom most I'm banned, 
 And truest, who most mock of me do make : 
 He is my friend, who causes me mistake 
 
 Black ravens for white swans and foul for fair ; 
 
 Who doth me hurt, I hold him debonair; 
 'Twixt truth and lying difference see I none ; 
 
 Nought I conceive, yet all in mind I bear ; 
 Well entertained, rebuffed of every one. 
 
I30 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Most clement Prince, I'd have you be aware 
 That I'm like all and yet apart and rare ; 
 
 Much understand, yet wit and knowledge shun : 
 To have my wage again is all my care ; 
 
 Well entertained, rebuffed of every one. 
 
 BALLAD OF VILLON'S REQUEST TO THE 
 DUG DE BOURBON. 
 
 GRACIOUS my lord and prince of mickle dread. 
 Flower of the Lily, Royal progeny, 
 Frangois Villon, whom dule and teen have led 
 
 To the blind strokes of Fate to bend the knee. 
 
 Sues by this humble writing unto thee. 
 That thou wilt of thy grace to him make loan. 
 Before all courts his debit he will own : 
 
 Doubt not but he thy right will satisfy. 
 With interest thereunder due and grown : 
 
 Nothing hut waiting shall thou lose thereby. 
 
 II. 
 
 Of no prince has thy creature borrowed. 
 
 Save of thyself, a single penny fee : 
 The six poor crowns were wholly spent in bread. 
 
 That whiles thy favour did advance to me. 
 
 All shall be paid together, I agree, 
 
131 
 
 And that right soon, ere many days be flown ; 
 For if in Patay wood are acorns known 
 
 Or chestnuts thereabouts folk sell and buy, 
 In season thou shalt have again thine own : 
 
 Nothing hut waiting shalt thou lose thereby. 
 
 III. 
 
 If I could sell my youth and lustihead 
 
 Unto the Lombards, usurers that be. 
 Lack-gold has brought me to such piteous stead, 
 
 I do believe I should the venture dree. 
 
 In purse or belt no money can I see : 
 I wonder what it is, by God His throne ! 
 For unto me, save it be wood or stone, 
 
 No cross at all appears, — I do not lie : 
 But, if the true cross once to me be shown. 
 
 Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince of the Lys, that lov'st good deeds alone. 
 Think' st thou it has not cost me many a groan 
 
 That I can not to my intent draw nigh 1 
 Give ear, if it so please thee, to my moan : 
 
 Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. 
 
SUNDRY POEMS ATTRIBUTED 
 TO VILLON. 
 
fere follafa gutttirg Poema comm0nlg attrifiutelj to 
 iWaster iltansois Ftllon. 
 
 ROUNDEL. 
 
 TT'AREWELL, I say, with tearful eye. 
 J- Farewell, the dearest sweet to see ! 
 
 Farewell, o'er all the kindest she ! 
 Farewell, with heavy heart say I. 
 Farewell, my love, my soul, good-bye ! 
 
 My poor heart needs must part from thee : 
 Farewell, I say, with tearful eye. 
 
 Farewell, by whose default I die 
 Deaths more than told of tongue can be : 
 Farewell, of all the world to me 
 
 Whom most I blame and hold most high I 
 Farewell, I say, with tearful eye. 
 
 I6 
 
136 
 
 A MERRY BALLAD OF VINTNERS. 
 
 I. 
 
 BY dint of dart, by push of sharpened spear, 
 By sweep of scythe or thump of spike-set 
 mace, 
 By poleaxe, steel-tipped arrow-head or shear 
 Of double-handed sword or well-ground ace, 
 By dig of dirk or tuck with double face. 
 Let them be done to death ; or let them light 
 On some ill stead, where brigands lurk by night. 
 
 That they the hearts from out their breasts may tear. 
 Cut oif their heads, then drag them by the hair 
 And cast them on the dunghill to the swine, 
 
 That sows and porkers on their flesh may fare, 
 Tlie vintners that put water in our wine. 
 
 IL 
 
 Let Turkish quarrels run them through the rear 
 And rapiers keen their guts and vitals lace ; 
 
 Singe their perukes with Greek fire, ay, and sear 
 
 Their brains with levins ; string them brace by brace 
 Up to the gibbet ; or for greater grace, 
 
 Let gout and dropsy slay the knaves outright : 
 
 Or else let drive into each felon wight 
 
137 
 
 Irons red-heated in the furnace-flare : 
 
 Let half a score of hangmen flay them bare ; 
 
 And on the morrow, seethed in oil or brine, 
 Let four great horses rend them then and there, 
 
 The vintners that put water in our wine. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Let some great gunshot blow their heads off sheer ; 
 
 Let thunders catch them in the market-place ; 
 Let rend their limbs and cast them far and near, 
 
 For dogs to batten on their bodies base ; 
 
 Or let the lightning-stroke their sight efface. 
 Frost, hail and snow let still upon them bite ; 
 Strip off their clothes and leave them naked quite, 
 
 For rain to drench them in the open air ; 
 
 Lard them with knives and poniards and then bear 
 Their carrion forth and soak it in the Rhine ; 
 
 Break all their bones with mauls and do not spare 
 The vintners that put water in our wine. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, may God curse their vitals ! is my prayer ; 
 
 And may they burst with venom all, in fine. 
 These traitorous thieves, accursed and unfair. 
 
 The vintners that put water in our wine. 
 
138 
 
 BALLAD OF THE TREE OF LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 I HAVE within my heart of hearts a tree, 
 A plant of Love, fast rooted therewithin. 
 That bears no fruit, save only misery ; 
 
 Hardship its leaves and trouble its flowers bin. 
 
 But, since to set it there Love did begin, 
 It hath so mightily struck root and spread 
 That, for its shadow, all my cheer is fled 
 
 And all my joys do wither and decay : 
 Yet win I not, of all my lustihead, 
 
 Other to plant or tear the old away. 
 
 IL 
 
 Year after year, its branches watered be 
 With tears as bitter and as salt as sin ; 
 
 And yet its fruits no fairer are to see 
 Nor any comfort therefrom can I win : 
 Yet pluck I them among the leavis thin ; 
 
 My heart thereon full bitterly is fed. 
 
 That better had lain fallow, ay, or dead. 
 Than to bear fruits of poison and dismay: 
 
 But Love his law allows me not instead 
 Other to plant or tear the old away. 
 
139 
 
 III. 
 If, in this time of May, when wood and lea 
 
 Are broidered all with leaves and blossoms sheen. 
 Love would vouchsafe this succour unto me, — 
 
 To prune away the boughs that lie between. 
 
 That so the sun among the buds be seen. 
 And imp thereon some graft of goodlihead, — 
 Full many a pleasant burgeon would it shed. 
 
 Whence joy should issue, lovelier than the day ; 
 And no more were despair solicited 
 
 Other to plant or tear the old away. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Dear my Princess, my chiefest hope and dread, 
 Whom my heart serves in penitential stead. 
 
 The woes that harrow it do thou allay 
 And suifer not thy constant thought be led 
 
 Other to plant or tear the old away. 
 
 BALLAD OF LADIES' LOVE. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 I. 
 
 WELL enough favoured and with substance still 
 Some little stored, chance brought me 
 'neath love's spell 
 And day and night, until I had my will, 
 I pined in languor unendurable : 
 I loved a damsel more than I can tell ; 
 
140 
 
 But, with good luck and rose-nobles a score, 
 I had what men of maids have had before. 
 
 Then, in myself considering, I did say : 
 ' Love sets by pleasant speech but little store ; 
 
 The wealthy gallant always gains the day^ 
 
 II. 
 
 So chanced it that, whilst coin my purse did fill, 
 The world went merry as a marriage bell 
 
 And I was all in all with her, until. 
 
 Without word said, my wanton's loose eyes fell 
 Upon a graybeard, rich but foul as hell : 
 
 A man more hideous never woman bore. 
 
 But what of that ? He had his will and more : 
 And I, confounded, stricken with dismay. 
 
 Upon this text went glosing passing sore ; 
 ' The wealthy gallant always gains the day' 
 
 III. 
 
 Now she did wrong ; for never had she ill 
 
 Or spite of me : I cherished her so well 
 That, had she asked me for the moon, my skill 
 
 I had essayed to storm heaven's citadel. 
 
 Yet, of sheer vice, her body did she sell 
 Unto the service of that satyr hoar : 
 The which I seeing, of my clerkly lore 
 
 I made and sent to her a piteous lay : 
 And she : ' Lack-gold undid thee : ' words but four. 
 
 The wealthy gallant always gains the day. 
 
141 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Fair Prince, more skilled than any one of yore 
 In pleasant speech, look thou have coin galore 
 
 Within thy pouch : as Meung that clerk so gay 
 And wise, hath told us, in the amorous war 
 
 The wealthy gallant always gains the day. 
 
 BALLAD OF LADIES' LOVE. 
 No. 2. 
 
 WHOSO in love would bear the bell. 
 Needs must he prank him gallantly. 
 Swagger and ruffle it, bold and snell, 
 And when to his lady's sight comes he, 
 Don cloth of gold and embroidery ; 
 For ladies liken a goodly show. 
 
 This should serve well ; but, by Marie, 
 Not all can nick it that will, heigho ! 
 
 IL 
 
 Once on a season in love I fell 
 With a lady gracious and sweet to see, 
 
 Who spoke me fair, that she liked me well 
 And gladly would hearken to my plea, 
 
142 
 
 But first I must give to her for fee 
 Fifty gold crowns, nor less nor mo'. 
 
 Fifty gold crowns ? — O' right good gree ! 
 Not all can nick it thai will, heigho ! 
 
 III. 
 
 To bed I went with the damszel 
 
 And there four times right merrily 
 I did to her what I may not tell 
 
 In less than an hour and a half, perdie. 
 
 Then with a failing voice said she, 
 " Once more, I prithee ! my heart is woe." 
 
 Once more, quotha, sweetheart ? Ah me, 
 Not all can nick it that will, heigho ! 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Great God of love, I crave of thee. 
 
 If ever again I lay her low. 
 Ne'er let my lance untempered be. 
 
 Not all can nick it that will, heigho ! 
 
 ?^ere entietf) t|&e ISooft of tfie ^ocms of i^aattt 
 iFtan^oia Uillan. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES 
 
 In preparing the following, I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to 
 avoid encumbering the book with a quantity of unnecessary notes, 
 bearing upon information within the reach of every educated person, 
 and have confined myself to throwing light, to the best of my ability, 
 upon such points as must of necessity be obscure to all but a special 
 student of the old poet. Even this limited scheme must unavoidably 
 be but imperfectly carried out : many of Villon's allusions to persons, 
 places and things are at the present day hopelessly obscure and in- 
 explicable, owing to our defective acquaintance with his life and times, 
 and I have chosen to leave untouched the passages wherein they 
 occur, rather than hamper the text with a mass of vague and purely 
 conjectural explanations, which my readers are perfectly well qualified 
 to suggest for themselves. Those admirers of the poet, who are 
 desirous of making themselves more minutely acquainted with the 
 labours of modern criticism, should consult the monographs of 
 MM. Bijvanck, Longnon and Vitu and the editions cited in my 
 prefatory note, where they will find all that is at present known 
 or conjectured on the subject ably and impartially stated and discussed. 
 
 NOTES TO THE LESSER TESTAMENT. 
 
 Octave i. line 7. — Vegetnts. Flavii Vegetii Epitome Rei Militaris, 
 ■the translation (or rather paraphrase) of which by Jehan de Meung, 
 under the title of "L'Art de Chevalerie selon Vegesse," is frequently 
 cited by mediaeval writers. 
 
146 NOTES. 
 
 Oct. ix.— Villon seems here to burlesque the customs of chivalry, 
 feigning himself a knight and bequeathing the paraphernalia of knight- 
 hood to some relative charged to maintain the honour of the name. 
 
 Oct. yX\.—The White Horse, Mule, Diamond and Striped Assv/eie 
 probably signs of well-known taverns. The Decretal Omnii utrius 
 sexus was (according to M. Prompsault) one ordering all Christians to 
 confess at least once a year to their parish priest and had lately been 
 revived against the Mendicant Orders, by the repeal of an intermediate 
 Bull authorising the latter to receive confessions in detriment to the 
 rights of the regular clergy. 
 
 Oct. xiii. — The Wether, Gad, Crowned Ox and Cow and Churl. 
 Probably also tavern signs. 
 
 Oct. XV. — The Art of Memory. Probably either the Ars Memorativa 
 or the Ars Memoriae of Jacobus Publicius, popular mnemonic treatises 
 of the middle ages. Misprepense. Malpens^ probably as M. Bijvanck 
 suggests, a farce-type or personification of a harebrained witless man, of 
 the family of Maugouveme, Malavise, Malduit, Malemort, etc., in the 
 popular stage-pieces, farces, sotties, moralities and mysteries of the 
 time. Villon here, according to his usual practice, first makes a 
 bequest and then virtually annuls it, giving the legatee the book called 
 the Art of Memory, but directing it to be procured from Malpense, the 
 one person of all others who would not possess it. It may be noted, 
 once for all, that this underlying contradiction in terms is the motive of 
 most of the fantastic legacies contained in the poet's two Testaments. 
 
 Oct. xvi. 1. 7' — Clement Marot suggests that the shop in question 
 was to be that of a scribe or public writer. Also the acorns willows bear. 
 Another instance of an illusory bequest, as willows of course bear no 
 glands or acorns. 
 
 Oct. xix. — According to M. Lacroix, the Castles of Nygeon and 
 BicStre near Paris were both in ruins in Villon's time and the haunt of 
 numerous bands of thieves and vagabonds. They were probably well 
 known to the poet, who facetiously bequeaths the right of shelter in 
 them to Montigny and Grigny, fellow-rogues of his. 
 
 Oct. XX. — The 'Puppet' Cistern. L'Abreuvoyr Poupin, a well- 
 known resort of rogues and vagabonds on the Pont Neuf, apparently a 
 sort of succursal to the more celebrated Cour des Miracles. The text- 
 may, perhaps, be read as referring to a low tavern situate in the 
 neighbourhood. The Fir-cone (or Fir Apple) Tavern. Le Cabaret de 
 
NOTES. 147 
 
 la Pomme de Pin, the most famous of its time in Paris, situate in the 
 Rue de la Juiverie and mentioned by many writers of the day. Back to 
 chair. Le doz aux rains, i.e., le dos aux reins, lit. "back to loins," 
 i.e., lying back in an unceremonious attitude of comfortable abandon in 
 his chair. Rains may also be read as for raims, an old French form of 
 rameaux, branches, often used in the sense (v. Diez, Ducange, etc.) of 
 " faggots," in which case le doz aux rains would mean " with his back 
 to the faggots piled up beside the fire." M. Bijvanck's proposal to 
 read "le doz aux rais," i.e., back to the rays of the sun, is too far- 
 fetched for adoption. This octave is one of the most garbled in the 
 whole work and has been a favourite battle-ground of the com- 
 mentators. 
 
 Oct. xxi. 1. 3. — That baron's grace. The baron alluded to appears 
 to have been the Lieutenant- Criminel of Paris. Jehan Mautainct and 
 Pierre Basanier were officials of his (the Chitelet) Court. 
 
 Oct. xxii. — The Helmet. Apparently a tavern sign. La Pierre au 
 tail, according to M. Longnon, was an old name for the Rue des 
 Ecrivains (formerly) near St. Jacques de la Boucherie. The Three 
 Lilies. Les Trois-Lis, supposed by some commentators to have been 
 the name of a dungeon (perhaps Les Trois-Lits, the Three Beds) in the 
 Chitelet Prison ; but a reference is probably meant to some tavern sign. 
 
 Oct. xxiii. — Some sort of play appears to be here intended upon the 
 word Barre, in its heraldic sense of bend sinister or sign of illegitimacy 
 and its mediaeval meaning of merchant's bar or counter. Goodcheap 
 man or Chapman. Un bon marchant, a cant name for a thief; who, 
 getting goods cheap, i.e., for nothing, can afford to sell them again at a 
 low price. The legatee seems to have been a souteneur or prostitutes' 
 bully ; hence the gift of straw, which was used by women of ill fame in 
 lieu of carpet. Some versions of this passage read marquand for 
 marchant, in which case Villon may be supposed to have intended a 
 play upon the word marque, a mediaeval slang equivalent for our doxy 
 or blowen ; thus niarquand might mean dealer in marques or wenches, 
 which would accord with the legatee's character. 
 
 Oct. xxiv. — ChoUet and Jehan le Loup. Thieves of Villon's 
 acquaintance. A duck. It seems uncertain whether the poet refers to 
 the ducks and geese kept by the city of Paris and adjacent commoners 
 upon the water-moats, or to the prostitutes (known by the cant names 
 of oies and canettes) who used to haunt the dry moats after sundown. 
 
148 NOTES. 
 
 Oct. xxvii. 1. I.— My right of nomination. " Les nominations etaient 
 une certaine quantite de prebendes attribuees aux gradues des Univer- 
 sity par I'Article 15 de la Pragmatique. " Coquillart, Ed. Hericault 
 I., p. 131, n. 2. 
 
 Oct. xxix. 1. I. — The Crozier of the street Of St. Antoine. A tavern 
 sign, evidently introduced for the sake of a play upon the words crosse 
 (crozier) and on crosse (folk beat or butt, strike the ball with the cue). 
 
 Oct. XXX. — Thz lodgers 'neath the stalls, i.e., the beggars and 
 vagabonds who used to lie under the street-booths or stalls by night. 
 Each one a buffet on the eye. Chascun sur I'oeil une grongnee. 
 " Groignet, gourmade, coup de poing sur I'oeil ou visage." — Ducange. 
 
 Oct. xxxii. 1. 6. — The Fifteen Signs. Les Quinze Signes du Jnge- 
 ment dernier, a favourite theme of mediaeval homily and morality. 
 
 Oct. xxxiii. — Le Morlier d'Or. Probably the sign of some well- 
 known shop or tavern at Paris, facetiously bequeathed to Jehan de la 
 Garde, in allusion to his nickname of ' Epicier. ' To grind his mustard. 
 Broyer sa moutarde, according to M. Bijvanck, anciently meant " to 
 chew upon one's ill humour or chagrin. " The pestle Jrom St. Maur 
 would seem to have been a gibbet. (The legatee, as a sergeant of the 
 watch, was of course one of Villon's natural enemies. ) I believe the 
 double-handed pestle was at one time called potence, on account of its 
 resemblance to an ordinary cross-barred gallows. M. Moland thinks it 
 may have meant one of the crutches hung up ex-voto in the Church of 
 St. Maur. In the seventh line of the same stanza Villon says, St, 
 Anthony roast him full sore! alluding to the erysipelatous disease 
 known as St. Anthony's fire. 
 
 Oct. xxiv. — Gouvieux (says M. Lacroix) was a castle on the Oise, of 
 which Peter de Ronseville was probably governor. It is possible that 
 Villon had been imprisoned there and made this bequest to the gaolers, 
 in derisive memory of his sufferings at their hands. Such crowns . . . 
 as the prince giveth for largesse, i. e. , none at all, princes in general (or 
 perhaps some contemporary prince in particular renowned for his 
 closefistedness) being in the habit of promising much, but giving little. 
 
 Octaves xxxvi — viii. — These three octaves appear to be a clumsy 
 paraphrase (or perhaps parody) of some popular mediaeval abstract or 
 digest of Aristotle de AniniA in use in the schools. 
 
 Oct. xl. 1. 7. — Fcwter. Billon, i.e., base or small coin, other than 
 silver. 
 
149 
 
 NOTES TO THE GREATER TESTAMENT. 
 
 Oct. V. — Fm ill at reading, i.e. prayers. Some texts have lire, 
 others dire, but the two expressions are practically synonymous and 
 signify the act of supphcation, prayers in the Middle Ages being 
 always read. 'Twould be but such as Picards' were; i.e. none at all, 
 the Picards or heretics of the Walloon country being popularly credited 
 with dispensing altogether with prayer, probably from the fact that 
 they eschewed prayers for the dead. 
 
 Oct. vi. 11. 7 and 8. — The seventh verse . . . Of the Psalm Deus laudem. 
 This is the eighth verse of Psalm cix. of the English version {Hold not 
 Thy tongue, O God of my praise !) and stands thus, Let his days be few 
 and another take his office. Villon's intention in applying it to the 
 Bishop of Orleans is still more obvious when we compare the Vulgate 
 version, ' Fiant dies ejus pauci et episcopatum ejus accipiat alter.' 
 
 Oct. X. 1. 6. — The late Lord Dauphin, i.e. Louis XI himself, who 
 bore the title of Dauphin of Viennois during his father's lifetime. 
 
 Oct. xii. 1. 8. — Averrhoes his Comment, i.e. upon Aristotle. 
 
 Oct. XX. 11. 7-8. — Valerius . . , Of Rome styled Greatest. Valerius 
 Maximus. The anecdote of Diomedes and Alexander appears to have 
 been taken not lirom Valerius, as stated in the text, but from a 
 fragment of Cicero de Republic^, quoted by Nonius Marcellus, in 
 which the corsair's name is not given. 
 
 Oct. XXX. 1. 7. — i>hod, breeched like oyster-fishers, i.e. bare-legged and 
 footed ? 
 
 Oct. xxxvi. 1. 5. — Jacques Cceur. The great French merchant and 
 patriot, whose liberality enabled Charles VII to accomplish the 
 reconquest of France and who afterwards fell into disgrace through 
 Court intrigues. 
 
 Oct. xxxvii. 1. 2. — Alas, no longer is he one! Alluding of course 
 to Jacques Cceur, who died at Chio, Nov. 25, 1456. 
 
 Oct. xxxix. 11. 5> 7- — High-tired or hooded, i.e. ladies of quality 
 or women of the middle class. 
 
 Ballad of Old-Time Ladies, ii. 5. The queen who willed, etc. 
 Marguerite de Bourgogne, wife of Louis le Hutin, King of France. 
 Cf. Dumas' famous drama, La Tour de Nesle. 
 
 FiKST Ballad of Old-Time Lords, iii. 6. Lancelot, King of 
 
1 50 NOTES. 
 
 Behaine. This appears, at first sight, to refer to the fabulous hero 
 of La Mort d'Arthur, Lancelot du Lac, King of Bayonne or Behaine ; 
 but the commentators are probably correct in supposing the person 
 whom the poet had in view to be Wladislaw, King of Bohemia, 
 who died in 1457. 
 
 The Complaint of the Fair Helm-Maker. — La Belle Heaul- 
 miire. Opinions difier as to whether this personage was a woman 
 of loose life, so called from the tall cap, helm or hennin, said to have 
 been worn by her class, or a grisette whose occupation was the 
 manufacture or sale of such articles or of actual helmets, iv. I. 3. — 
 Even had he made me faggots bear. Et m'eust il fait les rains trayner. 
 A possible alternative reading is "Even had he made me drag my 
 loins," i.e. ground me to the earth with hard work and ill usage. 
 
 Oct. Ivii. 1. 4. — Thai a felt hat a mortar was. The mortier or 
 square cap worn by the Judges of the Parliament is probably meant. 
 
 Oct. Ixiii. 11. 2 and ■^.—Made me drink of water cold So much. 
 An allusion to the question by water, which Villon appears to have 
 more than once undergone during his confinement in Meung gaol. 
 
 Oct. Ixiv. 1. 7. — As God loves Lombards, etc.. It may, perhaps, be 
 necessary to remind the reader that the Lombards, as the usurers of the 
 middle ages and the inventors of banking and pawnbroking, bore much 
 the same evil repute as the Jews of our own day. 
 
 Oct. Ixviii. 11. 7 and 8. — Nor will I make it manifest Except unto the 
 realm of France. It appears to have been in Villon's time obligatory, 
 or at all events customary, to deposit (or manifest) wills with an 
 ecclesiastical official during the lifetime of the testator. Villon after- 
 wards (see Oct. clxxii. ) expresses his intention of cheating the Registrar 
 of Wills of his fees. 
 
 Oct. Ixxviii. 1. 2. — " The Devil's Crake" Romaunt. Le Rommant 
 du Pet-au-Diable. The researches of M. Marcel Schwob in the 
 Archives Nationales of France have brought to light the judicial 
 record of the protracted litigation between the University and the 
 Provostry of Paris, consequent upon the measures taken by the latter 
 for the putting down of certain riotous proceedings of the under- 
 graduates, which kept the city in an uproar for the greater part of 
 three years (1451-3) and which had their origin in the carrying-off 
 by the students of a great borne, (a curb- or mere-stone, intended, 
 in the absence of a footpath, to protect the front of the house before 
 
NOTES. I S I 
 
 which it was planted against passing vehicles,) called " Le Pet-au- 
 Diable " and belonging to the hdtel or town residence of a widow 
 lady of quality, by name Catherine de B^thisy, Damoiselle de Bruy^res. 
 Villon doubtless bore his full share in this riotous frolic of his con- 
 temporaries at the University and we may reasonably suppose the 
 "Romaunt" in question (which appears to be irretrievably lost) to 
 have been a burlesque epic (probably a parody of the Chansons de 
 Geste) of his fashion, celebrating his own and his fellow-students' 
 exploits in the matter of the famous borne. Cf. Oct. cxxxiv, post. 
 
 Ballad that Villon made at the request of his Mother, 
 ETC. — Mary of Egypt. V. Jac. de Voragine, Leg. Sanctorum 
 (Leg. Aurea), Vit. Sanctse Mariae yEgyptiacse. And eke Theophilus. 
 Theophilus, Vicar-general (vkedomimis) of the diocese of Adana in 
 Cilicia in the sixth century, being deposed by his bishop, sold himself 
 to the devil to have his office again, but, being presently seized with 
 remorse, besought the Virgin, for whom he had always (like the 
 late Cardinal Newman) professed an especial devotion, with such 
 instance that she, remembering her of his past good service, intervened 
 on his behalf and compelled the Evil One to restore the contract. 
 This legend was the subject of numerous mediaeval poems and 
 mysteries, of which the most celebrated, Le Miracle de Thlophile, 
 was the composition of the thirteenth-century trouv^rg Rutubeuf, 
 who also left a poem on " La Vie de Sainte Marie L'Egipcienne. " 
 
 Oct. Ixxxvii. — The White Horse, Mare, Mule, Brick-red Ass. 
 Tavern signs. 
 
 Oct. Ixxxviii. 1. 3 and 4. — Of wine of Aulnis, from Turgis Taken at 
 my peril, casks fourteen. Prins h mes perilz may also mean " taken up 
 at my charges. " Robin Turgis was the host of the Pomme du Pin, on 
 whom Villon is reputed to have played the Baigneux wine trick 
 mentioned in the Repues Franches ; (cf. Introduction, p. xxxiv). 
 
 Oct. Ixxxix. — Though he's a chapman by estate. Chapman {marchand^ 
 may here mean "thief." See my previous note on this word. Lesser 
 Testament, Oct. xxiii. My sword, without the scabbard. Branc, the 
 word here used for sword, probably because of its similarity in sound to 
 bran or bren, merda. The intention is obvious. Levied on those that 
 come and go Within the Temple cloister-place. A good instance of an 
 illusory bequest. The " Cousture du Temple " being private property 
 and enclosed, there would be no comers and goers there to be assessed. 
 
 17 
 
152 NOTES. 
 
 Oct. xci. 1. 2.— The Muckle Mug in Grive. The Grand Godet de 
 Grive, apparently a wine-shop in the Place de Gr^ve. 
 
 Oct. xcii. 1. 8. — Mother Maschicoue. A well-known rdlisseuse or 
 vendor of ready-roasted poultry, etc., whose shop was in La Porte 
 Paris, near the Grand Chitelet. 
 
 Oct. xcix. 1. 6.— The cooper's mall.—'Le hutinet. This word, in 
 another sense, is the diminutive of hutin, n. and a. , brawling, quarrel- 
 someness, contention, also quarrelsome, contentious ; hence the 
 equivoque of the following lines. 
 
 Oct. c. 1. 3. — Good-cheap man, i.e. thief. See previous notes. 
 
 Oct. ci. 1. 2. — An hundred cloves. Cent clouz. An untranslatable 
 play of words upon the word clou, in its double meaning of nail 
 and clcrve. 
 
 Oct. cv. 1. 8. — The Abbess of Shaven-poll. Huguette du Hamel, 
 Abbess of Port Royal or Pourras, near Paris, a dissolute woman, 
 whose shameless debaucheries earned her the popular perversion of her 
 title to Abbesse de Poil-Ras or Shaven-poll, the cant name for a 
 prostitute who had been pilloried. 
 
 Oct. cvi. 1. 8. — Contemplation. Contemplation .... the equivoque 
 intended in the use of the French word is sufficiently obvious. 
 
 Oct. cvii. — Nay, tis not I that give them this, But from their loins all 
 children spring. Through God. Mais de touz enfians sont les meres 
 En Dieu. This is a hopelessly obscure passage and one can only 
 guess at the meaning. They love their husbands so. Ilz ayment ainsi 
 leurs maris, i.e., this is their (the monks') way of showing their love for 
 the husbands. M. Longnon makes the vmaccountable remark on this 
 passage that ilz is here used for elles. 
 
 Oct. cviii. 1. 5- — Meung. Jehan de Meung, one of the authors of 
 the Roman de la Rose. Jehan Poullieu. Johannes de Poliaco, a 
 theologian of the fourteenth century, who wrote against the Mendicant 
 Friars and whose writings were condemned by Pope John XXII. 
 Matheolus. A Latin poet of Boulogne-sur-Mer in the thirteenth 
 century. 
 
 Ballad and Orison, i. 6. — Architriclinus. ApxiTpUxlvos, the 
 Greek designation of the governor of the feast at the marriage in Cana, 
 mistaken by Villon for a proper name. 
 
 Oct. cxviii. 1. 3. — Donatus. The Latin grammar of the day, iEuus 
 DoNATUS de octo partibus oralionis. 
 
NOTES. IS 3 
 
 Oct. cxxiii. I. I.— The Clerks Eighteen. Le College des Dix-Huit at 
 Paris was founded in the time of St. Louis for the education of poor 
 students. 
 
 Oct. cxxvi. — The Castle of Billy was doubtless in the same ruinous 
 and thief-haunted state as Nygeon and Bic6tre. Grigny seems to have 
 been a coiner. 
 
 Oct. cxxvii. 1. 3. — The Canteen. Le Barillet, probably a tavern 
 sign. 
 
 Oct. cxxviii. 1. 8. — The Lord who serves St. Christopher. The 
 nobleman here alluded to is Robert d'Estouteville, Provost of Paris, in 
 honour of whose marriage with Ambroise de Lore Villon composed 
 the Ballad which follows, presumably in his student-days. The 
 Provost appears to have made some special vow of service to 
 St. Christopher (who was supposed to protect his devotees against 
 malemort, i.e., death unshriven), according to frequent mediaeval 
 custom. 
 
 Oct. cxxix. 1. 6. — That tourney King Reni made. A celebrated 
 tournament ox pas d'armes held by Ren6 of Anjou at Saumur in 1446. 
 
 Ballad for a newly married Gentleman, ii. 3 and 4. Clary 
 
 sweet Say. Olivier franc, .... Lorier souef. An evident 
 
 punning allusion to the name of the bride, which, by the way, is 
 reproduced, en acrosiiche, in the initial letters of the first fourteen lines 
 of the original ballad. Ambroise is the old French name of the clary 
 or wild sage (O. E. Ambrose) which was apparently also known as 
 Olivier franc, wild olive. Lord is an old form of laurier, laurel or 
 sweet bay. 
 
 Oct. cxxx. — The Perdryers were apparently fellow-thieves or 
 comrades of Villon's, who had betrayed or cheated him in some 
 unexplained way ; perhaps turned King's evidence against him in 
 respect of one or other of the nefarious transactions in which they were 
 jointly concerned. The latter part of the octave seems to point to an 
 information laid by Fran9ois Perdryer against the poet, in consequence 
 of which the latter was punished for some one of his numerous 
 escapades by the Parliament of Bourges. 
 
 Oct. cxxxi. 1. I. — Taillevent. Le Viandier de Mattre Taillevent, 
 cook to Charles VII, was the popular cookery-book of the time. 
 
 Ballad Entitled the Counterblast to Franc-Gontier. — 
 Les Dictz de Franc-Gontier, by Philippe de Vitre, Bishop of Meaux, 
 
1 54 NOTES. 
 
 was a popular pastoral romance of the fourteenth century,' celebrating 
 the delights of a country life : it was imitated in another book, entitled 
 Les Contredictz de Franc-Gontier, in which are set forth the discomforts 
 of a pastoral life and the hardships that arose from the oppression 
 of the squires and seigneurs of the time, personified in a character 
 called le Tyran and modelled upon some great nobleman of the day. 
 
 Oct. cxxxiv. — Madame de Bruyires. Catherine de B^thisy, Damoi- 
 selle de Bruytres. See ante, note to Oct. Ixxviii. 
 
 Oct. cxxxv. 1. 6. — Macrobius. The Latin rhetorician and gram- 
 marian, author of the well-known Commentary upon the Somnium 
 Scipionis of Cicero and of other books in great repute during the 
 Middle Ages. 
 
 Oct. cxxvii. 1. 8. — The asses' game. Le jeu d'asne, i. e. ludus 
 amoris. 
 
 Oct. cxxxviii. U. I and 2. — Wenches who Have fathers, mothers, 
 aunts . . . i.e., prostitutes. Brothel-keepers and procuresses have 
 always borne some such name as tante, expressing their relation to 
 the unfortunates under their control. 
 
 Oct. cxxxix. 1. 8. — Methinhs, one scarce were damn' d for it; i.e. for 
 diverting a part of the superfluity of the monks and nuns to the benefit 
 of the ntedy files dejoie. 
 
 Oct. cxlii. — Master Hal. Maitre Henriot, the executioner of Paris. 
 Noel Wellbeseen, Noel Joliz, the object of the unpleasant bequest made 
 by this octave, is conjectured by some commentators to have been the 
 poet's favoured rival with Catherine de Vaucelles and the person to 
 whom he owed the beating mentioned in Stanza V of the Double 
 Ballad of Light Loves (q.v.). 
 
 Oct. cxlvii. 1. 1. — The Fifteen-Score. The name (Quinze-Vingts) 
 of a hospital at Paris founded by St. Louis for the reception of three 
 hundred poor blind men, who were bound by the terms of their 
 foundation to furnish mourners for all funerals taking place in the 
 adjoining Cemetery of the Innocents. 
 
 Oct. cliii. — The transposition (now first made by M. Longnon 
 from the MSS.) of this octave, which stands in all previous editions 
 as Oct. cliv., from after to before the Roundel, "On my release," 
 restores a very corrupt passage to its original sense, making it evident 
 that the lais or ditty dedicated to the dead is, not (as seemed 
 to be the case under the former arrangement) the Roundel aforesaid 
 
NOTES. 1 55 
 
 (which now appears in its true character, as the !ais, mod. legs, 
 given to Jacques Cardon) but the three elegiac octaves cxlix-cli. 
 This restoration shows us how the old editors blundered into entitling 
 the Roundel " Lais ou plut&t Rondeau " (two very different things), 
 being misled by the introversion into mistaking lais, lay, for lais, 
 legacy, the word having both meanings in old French. 
 
 Oct. civ. 1. 2. — Alain Chartier's Lay. L'H6pital d'Amour. 
 
 Oct. clvi. 11. 7 and 8. — There appears to be some equivoque 
 intended here upon the popular meaning of the word truie, i.e., 
 prostitute. 
 
 Oct. clvii. — The Seneschal here mentioned appears to have been 
 Louis de Bourbon, Seneschal et Mareschal du Bourbonnais, who 
 is thought to have sheltered Villon, during his second exile, at his 
 town of Roussillon in Dauphin^. The third line contains a play 
 of words upon his title of Mareschal (technicfe, blacksmith'), and the 
 fourth a possible allusion to the Prince's amorous disposition, oies 
 et canettes being (as before mentioned) cant terms for women of 
 loose life. 
 
 Oct. clviii. 1. 6. — The Blacksmiths' Provost. Tristan I'Hermite. 
 
 Oct. chx. 1. 1. — Chappekdn. Probably a member of Villon's gang, 
 upon whose name or nickname he plays. 
 
 Oct. clxiii. 1. 2. — According to M. Lacroix, the Convent of St. 
 Avoye was the only one at Paris which was situate on the second floor 
 and consequently contained no burial-place. 
 
 Oct. clxvi. 1. 2.— The 'Belfry' Bell. The largest of the bells of 
 Notre Dame, called Le Beffroi and rung only on great occasions. 
 
 Oct. clxvii. 1. ^—St. Stephen's loaves, i.e., stones. 
 
 Oct. clxx. 1. 6. Philip Brunei. Supposed to have been the 
 Seigneur de Grigny twice previously named by Villon, i.e., L.T., 
 Oct. xviii. and G.T. Oct. cxxvi. 
 
 Oct. clxxii. 1. 8. — Perrette's Den. Le Trou Perrette, a low cabaret 
 and gambling-hell at Paris. 
 
156 
 
 NOTES TO DIVERS AND SUNDRY POEMS. 
 
 Ballad of Villon in Prison. Apparently written in Meung 
 gaol. 
 
 Variant, &e. This is undoubtedly a spurious amplification of the 
 foregoing Quatrain, but it is so well known that I have thought it well 
 to leave it in its usual place among the occasional poems. 
 
 Epitaph in Ballad-Form. Apparently written whilst awaiting 
 execution for the burglary committed at the College de Navarre in 
 1456. (The two following Ballads appear to have been composed on 
 the same occasion. The actual appeal to the Parliament against the 
 sentence of death has not been handed down to us. ) 
 
 Ballad of Villon's Appeal, i. i. — Gamier. Etienne Gamier, 
 not (as hitherto supposed) the procureur or proctor who defended 
 Villon on this occasion but (according to a note in the Stockholm MS.) 
 the clerc du guichet or head gaoler of the Conciergerie Prison. 
 
 Do., ii. I and 2. — The Chanson de Geste of Hugues Capet, the 
 founder of the Bourbon dynasty, represents him as the son of Richer, 
 Sire de Beaugency, and of Beatrix, the daughter of a butcher of 
 Montmartre. Dante also adopts the popular tradition to the same 
 eflfect, putting into the mouth of the shade of the hero the words, 
 Figliuol fui cTun beccalo dl Parigi. (Purg. xx. 52). Figliuol may be 
 read in its wider sense of " lineal descendant," but another version of 
 the legend represents Capet's father himself as a butcher of great wealth, 
 who married the widowed Duchess of Orleans. The whole story, 
 however, appears to have had no foundation in fact. 
 
 Ballad of Proverbs.— It is hardly necessary to note that the 
 point of the refrain lies in the contemporary use of the word Noel 
 (Christmas) as an exclamation in the sense of Hurrah 1 or Vivat! etc. 
 ii. 1. 5- — Some love God till from church they trend. On reconsidera- 
 tion, I am convinced that this line should read fuyt (not suyt) FEglise. 
 The substitution of the long s for the / is the commonest of copyists' 
 blunders and the rectification is indicated by the intention of the line, 
 which is manifestly antithetical. 
 
 Ballad of Things known and unknown, iii. 7. — ffovi misled 
 
NOTES. 157 
 
 Bohemians were. The allusion here is supposed to be to the Hussite 
 movement. 
 
 Ballad against those who Missay of France, iii. 1. i.— The 
 "Octovien" named in this line is not, as supposed by M. Longnon, the 
 Roman Emperor Augustus, whose adoptive name was Octavianus and 
 who was a comparatively mild and beneficent ruler, but the imaginary 
 tyrant of mediaeval romance, the Kaiser Octavianus of Tieclc and the 
 old legends. 
 
 The Debate of Villon's Body and Soul. Probably written in 
 Meung gaol, 
 
 Ballad of Villon's Request, ii. 7. According to M. Promp- 
 sault, there never was a wood at or near Patay. iii. 7j 8, 9. — An 
 audacious play of words, founded upon the double meaning of the word 
 croix, i.e. cross and money, e.g. the well-known phrase, // n'a ni croix 
 nipile — 'He has not a rap.' The obverse of the coin of the time, now 
 distinguished by the portrait of the prince issuing it, was then generally 
 stamped with a cross, the reverse being called pile, a name which still 
 survives. An apt instance of the old English use of the word ' cross ' 
 in the sense of the more modern ' rap ' occurs in Beaumont and 
 Fletcher's 7 he Faithful Friends, act i. sc. 2 ; 
 
 Const. Pray, gentlemen, will you pay your reckoning there ? 
 Snip. Not a cross, by this hand ! 
 
 The mention of the true cross in the ninth line is a daring allusion to 
 the famous Vraie croix de St. L6, to which Louis XI professed a 
 special devotion. 
 
 Sundry Poems Attributed to Villon. — These (with the 
 possible exception of the Ballad of Vintners) are certainly not by 
 Villon ; but as they have considerable merit of their own and are 
 generally included in his works, I have thought it well to let them 
 stand. The Ballad of the Tree of Love has recently been identified 
 as the composition of Alain Chartier, whilst the two Ballads of Ladies' 
 Love are probably of considerably later date, possibly altogether com- 
 paratively modern imitations of the ancient style. The Merry Ballad 
 of Vintners is the only one that bears any trace of Villon's hand and 
 may possibly be an early or inferior specimen of his work. As for the 
 
IS8 NOTES. 
 
 Roundel, the authorship of this tender little piece may perhaps be 
 assigned to Eustache Deschamps, whose style it much resembles ; cf. 
 the Champenois poet's very similar Rondeau des adieux h sa dame, 
 " Adieu, mon cuer ; adieu, ma joye," etc. 
 
 Second Ballad of Ladies' Love.— Refrain. Not all can nick it 
 that will, heigho ! II ne fait pas ce tour qui veult ! 
 
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