t^-._*Hr 
 
 ,v 
 
 \
 
 For full list of titles in 
 the Modern Library 
 see the pages at the 
 end of this voltime.
 
 POEMS 
 
 By FRANCOIS VILLON 
 
 e 
 
 TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTION 
 BY JOHN PAYNE 
 
 BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. 
 
 PUBLISHERS . • . N E W Y R K
 
 l'S90 
 
 ■ / ■ - 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 The Lesser Testament 89 
 
 The Greater Testament 105 
 
 Divers Poems 195 
 
 Poems Attributed to Villon 217 
 
 Translations by Rossetti 225 
 
 Translations by Swinburne 231
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 i 
 1 
 
 2055831
 
 INTRODUCTION* 
 
 There are few names in the history of literature 
 over which the shadow has so long and so persistently 
 lain as over that of the father of French poetry. 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 posses- 
 sion of any other facts relative to his personal his- 
 tory 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 
 are scanty enough, but they present a very harvest 
 of fact and suggestion compared with the pitiable 
 fragments which have so long represented our sole 
 personal knowledge of Villon. That he had been 
 twice condemned 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 Domi- 
 nus or Maitre; above all, that his companions and 
 acquaintances were of the lowest and most disreput- 
 able class and, indeed, that he himself wasted his 
 
 * 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. 
 
 9
 
 10 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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, lie preferred to the decent dullness of a middle- 
 class life ; and that he owed his immunity from pun- 
 ishment partly to accidents, such as the succession 
 of Louis XI to his father's throne, and partly to the 
 intervention of influential protectors, probabl}' at- 
 tracted b}" his eminent literary merits, amongst 
 whom stood prominent his namesake and supposed 
 relative, Guillaurae de Villon ; — such were the main 
 scraps and parings of inform.ation upon which, until 
 the publication of M. Longnon's "Etude Biogra- 
 phique," * 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 definite frame- 
 work of biography can be constructed from them. 
 Such as they are, however, thev enable us for tlio 
 first time to catch a glimpse of c^ie 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 
 somewhat dim twilight of French fifteenth-century 
 literature. 
 
 * Etude Biographique sur FranQois Villon, d'apres les docu- 
 ments inedits conserves aux Archives Nationales. Par 
 Augusta Longnon. Paris, 1877.
 
 INTROnrCTION II 
 
 It is to be hoped that the example so ably sot by 
 M. Longnon will not be allowed to remain unfol- 
 lowod and that new seekers in the labyrinth of mediae- 
 val ai'chives and records will succeed in fillinf^ uj) for 
 us those yawning gaps in Villon's history which are 
 yet too painfully apparent.* M, Longnon, indeed, 
 seems to imply a promise that he himself has not yet 
 said his last word upon the subject; and we m".j 
 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, consid- 
 ering the special qualifications and opportunities of 
 the editor and the devotion with which he has a]>plicd 
 himself to the task, may be expected to prove the 
 definitive edition of Villon. f 
 
 [*The hopes expressed in the above paragraph have now 
 to a certain extent been realised bj" the labours of AIM. 
 Bijvanck, Schwob, Paris. ScIi<"'no and others, as well as by 
 those of M. Longnon himself ; but much j^et remains to be 
 done. See Prefatory Note.] 
 
 fl owe to the kindness of M. \'itu 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 advanced stage of preparation. It will form 
 four volumes, the first of which will consist wholly of notices 
 upon Villon and his contemporaries, completing and correct- 
 ing all that has been hitherto published on the subject. The 
 second volume will comprise the complete text of \'illon, 
 augmented by several authentic poems hitlierto unknown, an 
 appendix containing pieces written in imitation of the old 
 poet and a short treatise upon mediaeval prosody and versi- 
 fication, in correction of the errors and laches of modern 
 scliolars. Tlie text presented will be founded wholly upon 
 the manuscripts, the gothic editions being all, according to 
 M. \'itu, incorrect, garbled and incomplete. The third vi.lume 
 will comprise tlie "Jargon," with the addition of five unpub- 
 lished ballads, besides a philological interpretation and a 
 history of the work: and the fourth will contain an ex- 
 haustive glossary. (Since the above note was written (in 
 l88i), M. Villi has died, leaving his work uncompleted. See 
 Prefatory Note. J
 
 12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In putting together the following pages I should 
 be sorry to allow it to be supposed that I contem- 
 plated 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 introduction, a"? well as to his 
 personality and habit of thought as ^o the circum- 
 stance and local colouring of his verse. The rest I 
 leave to more competent hands than my own, con- 
 tent 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 ma- 
 tured fruit. 
 
 * 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, diS. if written with one /, and it is only of late years 
 that this error (no doubt due to the proverbial 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 // mouilles or 
 liquid //. It has now, however, been conclusively demon- 
 strated 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, aiguilloH, etc., in which the // are liquid ; and a still 
 more decisive argument is furnished by M. Longnon, who has
 
 INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 Tlic year 1431 may, without impropriety, be 
 styled the grand climacteric of Frencli national life. 
 After a hundred years' struggle for national exist- 
 ence against the great soldiers produced in uninter- 
 ru|)ted 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 kingdom, of which Charles VI was 
 the nominal king, bowed in ajiparentl}' permanent 
 subjection to the foreign foe, the French people had 
 at last succeeded in placing on the head of Charles 
 ^'II the crown of his fathers, thanks to the super- 
 human efforts of two of the noblest women that ever 
 lived, .Jeanne d'Arc and Agnes Sorel, and to the un- 
 selfish devotion of the great-hearted patriot Jacques 
 Coeur. On the 31st of May, 1431, the heroine of 
 Domremy 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 pur- 
 
 noted, in the course of his researches, that the Latin form 
 of the patronymic, as it appears in contemporarj^ documents, 
 is Villiotw, 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, g}\. Moreover (and 
 this information also we owe to M. Longnon) the name of 
 the village which gave birth to the Canon of St. Benoit is to 
 this day pronounced Viiwn. 
 
 5
 
 14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 pose. Before her death she had seen the achieve- 
 ment of the great object, the coronation of Charles 
 VII 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, Avere now- 
 obliged to concentrate their efforts on the retention 
 of the provinces of Normandy and Guienne. Nor 
 was it long ere even this limited purpose was per- 
 force abandoned. Paris, after sixteen years of for- 
 eign occupation, opened her gates to her legitimate 
 king and four or five more years sufficed 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, Armagnacs ; 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 con- 
 flicting 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, with his cold wisdom and his unshrinking deter- 
 mination, was yet to consolidate by the calculated 
 severity of his administration and the supple firm- 
 ness of his domestic and foreign policy (long so 
 grossly misunderstood and calumniated) the unity 
 and harmony of the young realm. Still the new
 
 INTRODUCTIOX 15 
 
 national life had been effectually conquered and it 
 onl}'^ remained for time and wisdom to confirm and 
 substantiate it. 
 
 One of the most salient symptoms of a national 
 iiii})ulse 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 ex- 
 pected from it, thougli it may not always be possible 
 to trace the correspondence of the one with the other. 
 However, 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 in- 
 stance 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 peri- 
 ods 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, 
 t specially of Guillaume de Lorris and Jehan de 
 Meung, of the Chansons de Geste and other heroic 
 ro:.mnces and probably also of the Troubadours or 
 poets of the Langue d'Oc. Abundance of sweet sing-
 
 16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ers had arisen and passed away, most of them 
 modelled upon the Roman de la Rose, whose influ- 
 ence 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'Orleans, were in- 
 deed poets of the second order, of whom any country 
 might be proud; but they were poets who (if one 
 should except 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 mad- 
 ness 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'Orleans wanting in patri- 
 otic notes, touched, unfortunately, with too slight a 
 hand. But these are few and far between ; the sub- 
 jects usually chosen are love and chivalry, questions
 
 INTRODUCTION 17 
 
 of honour, gallantry and religion, treated allcgoric- 
 allv and rhetorically after the extinct and artificial 
 fashion of the Roman de la Rose. 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 in- 
 terminable stretches of antique tapestry, embroidered 
 in splendid but somewhat faded hues, wherein armed 
 knights and ladies, clad in (juaintly-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 chA-telaine's robe through the bannered 
 galleries, the fall of the standard on the wind, the 
 career of the w^ar-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'Orlcans through the forest of Ennuy- 
 cuse Tristesse, conversing with Dangier, Amour, 
 Beaulte d' Amours, Faux Dangier, Dame jNIerencolie 
 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
 
 18 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 trouvere 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 corre- 
 spond 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. 
 
 II 
 
 Francois de Montcorbier, better known as Villon, 
 from the name of his lifelong patron and protector, 
 was born in the year 1431, 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 apy)ear 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 com- 
 monly adopts, and also, combined with residence and 
 graduation at the Paris University, to certain mu- 
 nicipal and other privileges of citizenship, such as the
 
 INTRODUCTION 19 
 
 right of voting at the election of Echevins or no- 
 tables. It seems ])robable that he belonged to a de- 
 cayed and impoverished branch of the noble family 
 of Montcorbier, wlio took their name from a fief and 
 village (since disappeared) in the Bourbonnais, and 
 that to this connection with the duchy he was in- 
 debted for the moderate countenance and assistance 
 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, 
 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 pos- 
 sess no biogra]ihical 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 un- 
 savoury nature of his connections and the incessant 
 scandal of his life. Decent people (as we mav pre- 
 sume these relatives of his to have been) might well be 
 allowed to consider their connection with Master 
 Francj-ois Villon of brawling, wenching, lock-picking 
 and cheating notoriety as anything but a desirable 
 one, and history will hardly reproach them with their 
 unwillingness to cultivate 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 him- 
 self confesses) suflPered on his account "bitter anguish 
 and many sorrows," could have exercised any consid- 
 erable influence over her brilliant, turbulent, ne'er-do-
 
 20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 weel son. Yet he seems always, in the midst of the 
 mire of his Hfe, to have kept one place in his heart 
 white with that filial love which outlasts all others 
 and which has so often been to poets the perfume of 
 their lives. In the words of Theophile Gautier, his 
 love for his mother shines out of the turmoil and 
 ferment of his life like a white and serene lily spring- 
 ing 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 information 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 (prob- 
 ably I'Eglise des Celestins *) in which she 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 compen- 
 sated to Villon by the protecting care of a patron 
 who seems to have taken him under his wing and per- 
 haps even adopted him at an early age. Guillaume de 
 
 * 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, \. e. monasterium, 
 the old form of the modern mouticr) 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.
 
 INTRODUCTION 21 
 
 Villon, the patron in question, was a respectable and 
 ap{)arcntly well-to-do ecclesiastic, bclon^ng 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 ])atronage of that 
 princely family, which in all probability he was able 
 in some measure to divert to the benefit of his 
 protege. 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, prob- 
 ably, of the Burgundian family he was appointed to a 
 stall in the cathedral church of St. Benoit le Betourne 
 or Bientourne at Paris, a lucrative benefice, involv- 
 ing, 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 in- 
 come, 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
 
 22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 occurred in 1468: and there is every reason to believe 
 that he survived his protege, towards whom, during 
 the whole of his life, he appears never to have re- 
 laxed from untiring and unobtrusive benevolence. 
 The disreputable 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 ap- 
 parently unworthy an object, and (according to Vil- 
 lon himself) he was the ordinary Deus ex macliina to 
 whom the poet looked for deliverance from the conse- 
 quences of his OAvn folly and misconduct. Of no other 
 person does Villon speak in the same unqualified terms 
 of grateful affection as of tlie 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 expected from such a 
 scapegrace) actually begging the good Canon to 
 leave hin) to his fate and not compromise his own 
 reputation by taking any steps in the interest of so 
 disreputable a connection. 
 
 Of the early life of Villon we know nothing what- 
 ever, except that he must have entered at the Uni- 
 versity of Paris about the year 1446, when he was 
 fifteen years of age. In March 1 449 he Avas admitted 
 to the Baccalaureate and became Licentiate in 
 Theology or Ecclesiastical liaw and Master of Arts 
 in the summer of 1 452. 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 ad- 
 joined the College de Sorbonne, and that the weekly
 
 INTRODUCTION 23 
 
 payment of two sols Parisis, wliich as a scholar he 
 was bound to make to the collegiate authorities, and 
 the fees incurred on the occasion of his proceeding to 
 his degrees were provided by his patron. It fre- 
 quently happened in inedia-val 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 
 ]ioor scholars was su])plied 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 I'^niversity 
 was probably not the College de Sorbonne, notwith- 
 standing its immediate neighbourhood to L'Hotel de 
 la Porte Rouge, but (and this I am inclined to sup- 
 pose from the intimate knowledge he displayed of its 
 internal arrangements on a later occasion) the Col- 
 lege 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 in- 
 terest he could command: if so, his intentions were 
 completelv frustrated, for Villon never (as he himself 
 tells us) achieved the necessary theological degree: 
 and subsequent events, hardlv to be r-''"d beyond 
 his own control, completely diverted him from the 
 pursuit of the liberal professions and caused him to 
 become the wolf that watches for an opportunitv of 
 spoiling the fold, rather than the shepherd whose 
 duty it is to guard it. The interval between the ma- 
 triculation of Villon and the year 1455 is an almost 
 complete blank for us, the only materials we have to 
 enable us to follow him being the allusions and ref- 
 erences to be gleaned from a study of his poems : but
 
 24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 it was certainly durinjE^ this period of his life that he 
 contracted the acquaintances, disreputable and oth- 
 erwise, which exercised so decisive an influence over 
 his future history. Amongst those belonging to the 
 former category may be specially cited Rene de Mon- 
 tigny, Colin de Cayeulx, Jehan le Loup, Casin Chollet 
 and Philip Brunei, Seigneur de Grigny, all scoundrels 
 of the first Avatcr; 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 Macee of Orleans, his first mistress ("avoit 
 ma ceincture," says he), whom he characterises as 
 "tres 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 the pages. The two first mentioned, who 
 were fellow-students of our poet, were indeed rogues 
 of no mean eminence and appear both to have at- 
 tained that distinction of "dying upright in the sun" 
 which was at once so fascinating and so terrible a 
 contingency to Villon. Rene 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 YII to his capital, on its reduction in 1436. 
 and there died shortly after, leaving his family in 
 poor circumstances. 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 25 
 
 he betook himself to the ])rovinccs, and after there 
 oxercisini^ his peculiar talents to such effect as to be 
 imprisoned for various offences at Kouen, 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 an 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 liim, for in 1457, after having 
 escaped punishment for various offences by virtue 
 of his quality of clerk, of which he availed himself to 
 claim protection at the hands of the Bishop of Paris, 
 he was again condcnmed to death for divers sacri- 
 legious thefts from the Parisian churches, and under 
 this condemnation, notwithstanding a pardon ob- 
 tained 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 "lon- 
 gitudinal 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 scoun- 
 drel. 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 picklock that we shall again come across him in 
 connection with Villon. After a long career of crime.
 
 26 INTRODUCTION 
 
 he was in 1460 condemned to death as (in the words 
 of the Procurcur du Roi) "an incorrigible thief, pick- 
 lock, marauder and sacrilegious scoundrel," un- 
 worthy 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 ap])ears 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 euphemistically styles them), the least of which 
 appears to have been ray)e or highway robbery, per- 
 petrated at the villages of Rueil near Paris and 
 ]\Iont])ip])eau near Orleans. 
 
 Of tlie 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 slicltcr in various ruins around 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 specialty was the coining and 
 uttering of false money. 
 
 Jehan le T.oup and Casin Chollct were scoundrels 
 of a lower rank or "sneak-thieves," dealing chiefly in 
 pett\' thefts of jioultry and other eatables : the for- 
 mer appears 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 occuy)ation 
 which afforded him peculiar facilities for marauding
 
 INTRODUCTION 27 
 
 among the numerous herds of ducks and geese kept 
 by the corporation and the adjacent commoners of 
 the city u])on the waters whicli he traversed in liis 
 dredging boat ; the latter, by the operation of that 
 curious law of reciprocal attraction between the y)o- 
 lice 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 tlie 
 Chatelet ])rison and was in 1405 de))rived of his office, 
 flogged at the cart's tail and imprisoned, for ]la^"ing 
 spread false reports (prol)ably with a professional 
 eye to plunder) of the entry into Paris of th<> Bur- 
 gundians, 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 her- 
 self by leading a life of unbridled licentiousness, as- 
 sociating with all the lewd characters of her time, 
 frequenting houses of ill-fame and debauchci-y in male 
 attire, brawling and fighting in the streets, holding 
 orgies in the convent itself, which remind us of th'^ 
 legends of Gilles dc Retz, and selling the nuns under 
 her control for the purpose of prostitution. So no- 
 torious 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 finallv, after 
 many shifts of litigation, definitively de])rived of her 
 abbey, when she doubtless sank to the lowest depths 
 of degradation. By reason of her wanton wav of 
 life, the people appear to have corrupted her title and
 
 28 INTRODUCTION 
 
 to have dubbed her Abbesse de Poilras or Shaven-poll, 
 a slan^ 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 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 per- 
 sons 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 frequented 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 remem- 
 brance which these latter cherished of the jollv, bril- 
 liant companion of their youth that he owed some- 
 thing of his comparative immunity from punishment 
 for the numberless faults and follies which he com- 
 mitted at a subsequent and less favoured period. Of 
 these (M. Longnon has discovered for us) were Mar- 
 tin Bellefaye, I>ord of Ferrieres en Brie, afterwards 
 Advocate of the Chatclet and Lieutcnant-Criminel 
 of the Provost of Paris ; Pierre Basanicr, Notary and 
 afterwards Clerc-Criminel at the CliAtelot: Pierre 
 Blaru, Guillaume Charriau, Robert Valee, Thomas
 
 INTRODUCTION 29 
 
 Tricot, all men of sonu' jiii])ortanc'e in law or trade 
 at Paris; and (])o.ssibly tliioii^h his son) Robert 
 d'Kstoutevillc, Provost of Paris, to whom Villon, in 
 his student-days, dedicated the curious ballad on the 
 subject of his marria^fe with Ambroise dc Lore. It is 
 by no means impossible that from this time of |)leas- 
 ant companionship and com]iarative respectability 
 dates Villon's connection with the royal poet, Charles 
 d'Orleans ; and that he may also have became known 
 to the then Dauj)hin (afterwards Louis XI) is al- 
 most equally likely, in view of the habits of familiar 
 intercourse of the latter with the bursfhers 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 A'illon, founded probably 
 on admiration of his wit and genius; and it was as- 
 suredly owing to this, and not to any general amnesty 
 de joyeux avenement, that the })oct 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 grati- 
 tude as almost to preclude the idea of its having been 
 granted otherwise than as a matter of peculiar and 
 personal favour. 
 
 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 expresslv states 
 that he fled from school as bird from cage, wo have 
 seen that, if he did not achieve the presumable object
 
 80 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of his college career, namely the Maitrisc or Doctor- 
 ate of Theology, he yet paid sufficient attention to 
 his studies to enable him to acquire the title of Master 
 of Arts, and it would a}>pear 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 machin- 
 ery of the diocese of Paris, which were reserved as 
 prizes for the more industrious and deserving schol- 
 ars. 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 supposition 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 upon his bounty. In 1456 he describes thorn 
 as "three little children all bare, poor, unprovided 
 or])hans, shoeless and helpless, naked as a worm," 
 and makes provision for their entertainment for at 
 least one winter : and I am unable, therefore, to dis- 
 cover 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 im])ossible 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, howcA^er 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 poh'ce : and 
 we find, indeed, in a subsequent document under the 
 royal seal, his assertion, that "he had till then well
 
 INTRODUCTION 31 
 
 and honourably governed himself, without having 
 been attaint, reproved or coiivieted 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 curi- 
 ous collection of anecdotes \v verse known as "TiCS 
 Repues Franches" or ''Free Feeds" (of whicli ho 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 u})on the limits of strictly punishable of- 
 fences, was vet one of sufficiently disreputable char- 
 acter 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 to refer to 
 the remarkable list of wine-shops, rogues and women 
 of ill-fame with which he shows so familiar an ac- 
 quaintance, to satisfy ourselves that much of his time 
 must have been spent in debauchery and wantonness 
 of the most uncompromising character. It is not 
 likely that the su])j)lies of money he could have ob- 
 tained from legitimate sources, such as the kiiKlness 
 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 j)rodigal 
 expenditure naturally consequent upon his depraved 
 tastes. On his OAvn showing, he ])ossesscd a happy 
 combination of most of the vices which lead a man to 
 fling away his life in the quagmires of dissipation : —
 
 32 INTRODUCTION 
 
 amorous, gluttonous, a drunkard, a spendthrift and a 
 gambler, — 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 the genuineness, although the mer- 
 curial humour of the poet quickly allows them to 
 merge into mocking cadences of biting satire and 
 scornful merriment. 
 
 It was therefore to 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 prominent and favourite personality among 
 his contemporaries of Paris) are amply endorsed by 
 the confessions of the poet himself — we find him rep- 
 resented as the head of a band of scholars, poor clerks 
 and beggars, "learning at others' expense," all "gal- 
 lants with sleeveless pourpoints," "having perpetual 
 occasions for gratuitous feeds, both winter and 
 summer," who are classed under the generic title of 
 "Les Sujets Francois Villon," and into whoso mouth 
 the author puts this admirable dogma of despotic 
 equality — worthy of that hero of our own times, the
 
 INTRODUCTION 33 
 
 iritish working-man himself — "Whoso hath notiiing 
 t behooves that he fare better tlian anyone else." "Le 
 )on Maitre Francois Villon" comforts his "com- 
 )aignons," who are described as not being worth two 
 ound onions, with the assurance that they shall want 
 or nothing, but shall ])resently have bread, wine and 
 oast-meat a grant fojfson, and j)roceeds to practise 
 I series of tricks after the manner of Till Eu- 
 enspiegel, by which, chiefly through the persua- 
 iveness of his honeyed tongue, he succeeds in procur- 
 n^; them wherewithal to make merry and enjoy great 
 ^ood cheer. Provided with stolen bread, fish, meat 
 md other victual to their hearts' desire, the jolly 
 coundrels remember that they owe it as a duty to 
 hemselves to get drunk and that if they would fain 
 irrive at that desirable consummation, they must 
 leeds furnish themselves with liquor at some one else's 
 expense. Master Francois is equal to the occasion ; 
 aking two pitchers of precisely similar appearance, 
 )ne filled with fair water and the other empty, he re- 
 pairs to the celebrated tavern of the Fir Apple, 
 ■ntuate in the Rue dc la Juiverie, (of which and it<; 
 andlord, Robin Turgis, mention is so often made in 
 A'illon's verse), and requests to have the empty 
 )itchcr filled with the best of their white wine. This 
 icing done, in a twinkling the accomplished sharper 
 "hanges the pitchers and pretending to examine the 
 •ontents, asks the tapster what kind of wine ho has 
 j^iven him, to which he replies that it is white wine of 
 fBaifrneux. "Do you take me for a fool?" cries Villon. 
 "Take hack your rubbish. T asked for good white 
 .vine of Beaune and will have none other." So say- 
 ng, he empties the pitcher of water into the cask of
 
 31 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Baigncux wine — the tapster of course supposing it 
 to be the liquor with which he had just served him — 
 and makes off, in triumph, Avith the pitclierful 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 ros^uish 
 tricks of the poet, who confesses in his Greater Testa- 
 ment that he had stolen from him fourteen hogsheads 
 of white wine of Aulnis and adds insult to injury by 
 offering to pay him, if he w^ill 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 prob- 
 ably 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 sum- 
 mer." 
 
 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 lightlv 
 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 indul- 
 gence 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 
 behind 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 popu- 
 lar type and the word "villonnerie" was long used
 
 INTRODUCTION 35 
 
 among the lower classes of Paris to describe sucH 
 sharping jiractices as were traditionally attributed to 
 \'ilIon as the great master of the art : even as from 
 the later roguish type of Till Eulenspiegel, GalUce 
 T^'lospiegle (many of the traditional stories of whose 
 rogueries are founded upon Villon's exploits), is de- 
 rived the still extant word "espieglerie." 
 
 Villon, indeed, appears to have at once attained the 
 sinnmit of his roguish profession : ready of wit, elo- 
 quent of tongue, he seems to have turned all the re- 
 sources of his vivid poetical imagination to the serv- 
 ice 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 their more important oper- 
 ations. 
 
 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 
 mainly responsible for his ill-directed and untimely- 
 ended career. This was a young lady named Cather- 
 ine de Vaucelles or Vaucel and (according to M. 
 r.ongnon'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 I.'Hotel de la Porte Rouge. Her 
 family inhabited the Rue St. Jacques, in which stood 
 the Church of St. Benoit : and it is very probable
 
 36 INTRODT^CTION 
 
 that she may have altogether resided with her uncle 
 for the purpose of ordering his household, in accord- 
 ance with a custom of general prevalence among 
 ecclesiastics, 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 de- 
 veloped 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 
 Avhole 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 infidelity 
 of his mistress. According to his own account, how- 
 ever, the love seems to have been entirely on his side ; 
 for, although she amused him by feigned kindness 
 and unimportant concessions, he himself allows that 
 she never gave him any sufficient reason to hope, re- 
 proaching her bitterly for not having at first told 
 him her true intent, in which case he would have en- 
 forced himself to break tjie 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 himself 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 37 
 
 tnisfortuncs and of his untimely death. "I die a mar- 
 tyr to love," he says, "enrolled among the saints 
 thereof;" and the expression of his anguish is often 
 so y)oignant 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 T never got a spark of hope from 
 her," he says, "I know not nor care if she he as harsh 
 to others as to me ;" and indeed he seems to imply 
 that she was too fond of money to he 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 Noe or 
 Noel was present when he (Villon) was beaten as 
 washerwomen beat clothes by the river, all naked, and 
 that on account of the aforesaid Catherine de Vau- 
 celles : 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 
 administered to Villon the correction of which be 
 speaks so bitterly, probably on the occasion of a 
 sham rendezvous, 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 Testament, speaking of his unhappy love af- 
 fair, he says, "Other than I, who is younger and can 
 rattle more coin, is in favour with her :"* and that 
 , in the Greater Testament he bequeaths to Noel le 
 Jolys (who may fairly be taken to be the Noe men- 
 tioned above) the unpleasant legacy of two hundred 
 
 * T quote a variant of Oct. vii.
 
 38 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 ; 
 hut of this we find no assertion in his poems, al- 
 though, if we may believe in the authenticity of 
 certain pieces attributed to him in the "Jardin do 
 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" (haulfs otours) 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 m.e to give her the moon, I had essayed to scale 
 the heavens." However, these pieces 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 admira- 
 tion, 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 39 
 
 himself confirms by the pure and beautiful ballad 
 which he dedicates to her, prefacing it, however, with 
 the delicately deprecatory qualification 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 veillee and proudly 
 recalling to herself and her companions that she had 
 been celebrated by her poet-lover "du temps que 
 jVtais belle." 
 
 True and permanent as was the love of Villon for 
 Catherine, it does not seem to have restrained him 
 from the frequentation of those light o' loves, whose 
 names so jostle each other in his pages. T.a Belle 
 Heaulmierc, Blanche the Slippermaker, Guillemette 
 the Upholsteress, Macee of Orleans. Katherinc the 
 Spurmaker, Denise, Jacqueline, Perrette, Isabeau, 
 Marion the Statue, tall Jehanne of Brittany, a cloud 
 of lorettes and grisettes, trip and chatter through his 
 reminiscences ; and with two of them, Jehanneton la 
 Chaperonniere and La Grosse Margot, he appears to 
 have formed permanent connections. No doubt the 
 femmcx folles 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 scape- 
 graces in the ruins of Nygeon, Billy and Bicetre. or 
 the woods to be met with at a bowshot in every direc- 
 tion round the Paris of his time. "Ill cat to ill rat," 
 as he himself says; the feminine element was hardlv 
 likely to be wanting for the completion of the perfect 
 disreputable harmony of his surroundings.
 
 40 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 like a thunder- 
 bolt on the careless merriment of his life. On the 
 evenino^ of the 5th June 1455, the day of the Fete- 
 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 Gille.s 
 and the girl Isabeaii above mentioned (who is noted 
 in the Greater Testament as making constant use of 
 a particular phrase, "Enne" 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 
 Phillippe 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, 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 hi? place, saying, "T warrant I'll anger 
 you !" To which the poet replied, "WTiy do you ac- 
 cost me thus angrily. Master Philip? What harm 
 
 * Lat. Anne? Isabeau would probably have used the 
 French equivalent of "Ain't it?"
 
 INTRODUCTION 41 
 
 have I done you? \\niat is your will of me?" and 
 would have retired into the cloister for safety ; but 
 Chermoye, pursuing him to the ^ate of the close, drew 
 a great rapier from under his gown and smote him 
 grievously on the lower part of the face, slitting his 
 undcrlip 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 unsupported. Maddened b}' 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 Avalking cloak and in en- 
 deavouring 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, who persisted 
 in loading him with abuse and sought to give him the 
 finishing stroke with his long sword, the wretched 
 Francois 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 pre- 
 cision 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 IMichel Mouton and stating his in- 
 tention on the morrow to procure Chermoye's arrest 
 for the unprovoked assault. Meantime, some pas-
 
 42 INTRODUCTION 
 
 sers-b}' found the priest l.vin£y unconscious on the 
 pavement of the cloister, with his drawn sword in hi^ 
 hand, and carried him into one of the houses in the 
 close, where his wounds were dressed and whence bo 
 was next day transferred to the Hospital of L'Hotel 
 Dieu, where on the Saturday followinc^ he died ; the 
 words of the record ("pour faute de bon ^ouverne- 
 ment 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 examined by one of the appari- 
 tors 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 ChAtolet Court to answer 
 for Chermoye's death, but (as the record says) "fear- 
 ing 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 ugainst 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 
 conversation and had in all things well and honour- 
 ably governed himself, without having been attaint, 
 reproved or convicted of any other ill case, blame or
 
 iX'J'RODUCTION 43 
 
 !"i|)i-(»;ich wlititsoever," and praying the kin<^, in view 
 of tliis and of tlie fact tliat tlie dead man had dejjre- 
 cated any proceeding's against his adversary, to im- 
 part to him his grace and mercy in tlie remission of 
 the sentence. Thanks, no doubt, to the assistance of 
 ^'illon's powerful friends, as well as to the circum- 
 stances of the case, which ajipears 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 perhaps endeavoured to 
 resume his former life of comj)arative respectability; 
 at all events, we may be sure that he so far resumed 
 liis old habits as to renew his acquaintance with 
 Catherine de Vaucelles. 
 
 The six months of his banishment, which had in 
 all ])robability been passed in the company of the 
 thieves and vagabonds who infested the neighbour- 
 hood of Paris, had, however, sufficed hopelessly to 
 compromise his life. It is imy>ossible 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 ^lontigny were the 
 most distinguished ornaments and of which he him- 
 self was destined to become an important member. '^ 
 
 [*Thc researches of M. Marcel Sclnvob have brought to 
 light the fact that the language, hitherto unidentificrl, in 
 which the "Jargon" or "Jobelin" of Villon is written, was a 
 ihiovv's' slang or lingo peculiar; to a notable association of 
 robbers and outlaws known as the Coquillarts or Compagnons 
 de la Coquillc. a title probably derived from the circumstance 
 that the Company was largely recruited from the swarms of
 
 44 INTRODUCTION 
 
 It is to this time of need that Villon himself assigns 
 the raid upon the barber of Bourg-la-Reine, in com- 
 pany with Huguette du Hamel ; and excursions of 
 this kind were doubtless amongst the least reprehen- 
 sible 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 re- 
 verted to the habits of criminality which had now 
 obtained a firm hold on him. We have it, on un- 
 doubted authority, that during the eleven months 
 which followed his return to Paris he was concerned 
 in three robberies committed 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 attempt 
 (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 hun- 
 dred gold crowns, thanks to the intimate knowledge 
 of its interior acquired by Villon during his scholastic 
 career and to the lock-picking talents of Colin de 
 Cayeulx. These were doubtless but a few of the oper- 
 
 false palmers or professional visitants to various shrines and 
 especially to that of St. James of Compostella (whose em- 
 blem was the scallop on cockleshell habitually worn in the 
 hat as a token of accomplishment of the pilgrimage to his 
 shrine — hence the term coquillart or cockleshell wearer vul- 
 garly 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 doubt- 
 less became affiliated to the Company during his six months 
 of exile. The generic name (Coquillarts) of the Companions 
 of the Cockleshell figures in the poems composing the 
 "Jargon." which were doubtless written expressly for the 
 members of the band.]
 
 INTRODUCTION 45 
 
 ations undertaken by tlit- band of desperadoes witb 
 wliom \'illon was now inseparably associated : and as 
 they rejoi'/ed 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 pro- 
 tection of the Cloister of Notre Dame, of which 
 sanctuary they seem to have made their headquar- 
 ters, besides other refuges, to which tliey could flee 
 when hard pressed, in the houses of priests and clerks, 
 of whom several seem to have been affiliated to the 
 band, the poet and his companions a}i])ear for a 
 while to have pursued their hazardous ])rofession to 
 highly lucrative account. The successful attempt 
 upon the College de Navarre took ])lace shortly be- 
 fore Christmas 1456 and almost immediately after- 
 wards the poet, who seems to have thrown himself 
 heai"t and soul into his new vocation and to have 
 gained sudi appreciation among his comrades as led 
 them to entrust him with the more delicate and 
 imaginative branches of tin- 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 occuy)ation, 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
 
 46 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of devising such a plan as should, from a careful 
 artistic study of the localities and circumstance, com- 
 mend 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 com- 
 mitted at the College de Navarre and feeling himself 
 inconveniently 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 tempor- 
 ary) 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 ot 
 himself and his comrades, who (he said) possessed 
 such powerful and efficient instruments of effraction 
 that no locks or bolts could resist them. By a curi- 
 ous hazard, a country priest, the Prior of Paray-lc- 
 Moniau, a connection of Guillaume Coiffier, to whose 
 despoilment by Villon and his companions T 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 
 
 * "Five or six hundred sold crowns" was decidedly the 
 sacramental sum with the Companions, who apparently dis- 
 dained to fly at more trifling game.
 
 INTRODUCTION 47 
 
 in his burglarious o])crations, succeeded in eliciting 
 from him sufficient details of tin* affaire Coiffier and 
 that of the College de Navarre to enable him to pro- 
 cure Tabarie's arrest and committal to the Chatelet 
 prison in the summer of 1458. Claimed by the 
 Bishop of Paris in his quality of clerk, he was trans- 
 ferred to the prison of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction 
 and after sufferinjT the question ordinary and ex- 
 traordinary, made a full confession, dcnouncinfr the 
 various members of the band and naming Villon and 
 Colin de Cayeulx as the acting chiefs. This hap- 
 pened 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 compara- 
 tively full manner in which his time may be accounted 
 for between that date and 1461, 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 in- 
 fluential friends, resulted in the commutation of the 
 capital penalty into that of perpetual exile from the 
 kingdoTn. It was apparently in the interval between 
 the pronunciation of his condemnation 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 gib- 
 bet of Montfaucon, with faces dented with bird-pecks, 
 alternately dried up and blackened by the sun and 
 blanched and soddened by the rain, and in whose lines
 
 48 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 thes' 
 unhappy wretches, less fortunate than himself in pos- 
 sessing influential friends, actually realised the 
 ghastly picture conjured up by the poet's fantastic 
 imagination. 
 
 On receiving notification of the judgment com- 
 muting 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, be- 
 fore setting out for the place of his exile, and pres- 
 ently 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 Rous- 
 sillon in Dauphine, a possession of the Duke of Bour- 
 bon, who had lately made gift of it to his bastard 
 brother, Louis de Bourbon, Mareschal and Seneschal 
 of the Bourbonnais, supposed to be the Seneschal 
 
 [* M. Longnon is manifestly in error in attributing the com- 
 position 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.]
 
 INTRODUCTION ^'^ 
 
 to whom ^'illon alludes as having once paid liis debts. 
 Under the winpr of this friend, he probably estab- 
 lished his headciuarters, during the term of his exile, 
 at Roussillon, making excursions now and then to 
 other places — notably to Salins in Burgundy, where 
 it seems he had managed to establish the tiiree poor 
 orphans of whom he speaks in tlie Lesser Testament. 
 In the Greater Testament lie 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 Iheir 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 — "fillos belles et gentes," as he 
 calls them — who taught him to speak the Poitou dia- 
 lect ; and his visit to Blois, where Charles d'Orleans 
 was then residing and where Villon took part in a 
 sort of poetical contest established by the poet- 
 prince, from which resulted the curious ballad, "Je 
 meurs de soif aupres de la fontaine," composed (as 
 were poems of a like character by a number of 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 
 rhvmcrs of the day. A well-known anecdote of 
 
 *Cf. Les Poesies de Charles d'Orleans. Ed. Guichard, 
 1842, pp. 128-138.
 
 50 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 Frencli 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 wittiest of modern Yankee stories. There is 
 nothing whatever either in the works of Villon or in 
 any contemporary documents, in which his name is 
 mentioned, to show that he at any time visited Eng- 
 land. 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 concoctor forgetting at that later period 
 that the France of Villon's time was a comparatively 
 small country, from which banishment was possible 
 into many independent 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 
 supervision. At that time there existed no court
 
 INTRODUCTION 51 
 
 exercising supreme authority over the whole king- 
 dom ; each province, 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 3et begun to be that nucleus of centralisation it 
 afterwards became. So that he appears to have b?' n 
 comparativel}'^ free to move about at will : and from 
 a passage in his Greater Testament, in which he 
 speaks of himself as "pauvre mercerot dc Rennes" 
 — poor hawker or pedlar of Rennes — it seems pos- 
 sible that he eked out the scanty doles to be obtained 
 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 
 
 [* 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 trades-guild of the Mercicrs and were mostly rogues 
 and vagabonds of the lowest order, whose misdeeds, com- 
 mitted 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 addi- 
 tion to its revenues derived from the rcdcvanccs or amr>:;il 
 dues paid by them. The name of mercelot or pedlar appears 
 to have been, indeed, practically synonymous with "sturdy 
 rogue and vagabond ;" many of the class were secretly affili- 
 ated 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 
 the continuation of the career of lawlessness to which he 
 must have been irretrievably committed. Rennes was doubt- 
 less the headquarters of the provincial branch of the Mercers* 
 Guild to which he was directly affiliated.]
 
 52 INTRODUCTION 
 
 honest and laborious existence, he quickl}"^ 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 the dispersed band, either exiled like 
 himself or hiding from justice in the provinces — 
 and was easily led to resume in their company that 
 cai-eer of dishonesty and turbulence which had so 
 fatal an attraction for him. Among these was nota- 
 bly Colin de Cayeulx, in whose company he no doubt 
 assisted at some of those "esbats" for which, in the 
 year 1461, his old master in roguery was (as he 
 tells us in the Second Balla'" of the Jargon) at last 
 subjected to the extreme y)t7>alty of the law being 
 broken on the wheel probably at Montpippeau near 
 Orleans, where the crimes for Avhich 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 ap- 
 parently 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 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 ])olice of the ecclesiastical 
 jurisdiction and brought before the tribunal of the 
 Bishop of Orleans, that Jacques Thibault d'Aus- 
 signy 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 powerful protector than had ever before
 
 INTRODUCTION 52 
 
 intervened 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 sum- 
 mer of 1461, confined in what he calls a "fosse" in 
 the castle of Meung-sur-Lolre — 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 of torture bv water and (what seems 
 +o 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, 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 unre- 
 lieved 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 
 drearv 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
 
 54 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 Hamniclcch, in the reign of Zedekiah king of 
 Judah. Here, too, he seems to have been chained up 
 in fetters ("enforre") 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 liim 
 seems to have been so small in quantity ("une petite 
 michc," 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 1461 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 ^leung-sur-Loire, where he 
 had probably learnt the fate of the poet, whilst pass- 
 ing in the course of the royal progress customary 
 on a new king's accession. It seems probable that he 
 remembered Villon's name as that of an old acquaint- 
 ance, 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 acut- 
 est, that he 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 55 
 
 in "gentilz dictz et ingcnieux .s9avoir," At all events, 
 it is certain that Charles d'Orleans, 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'Orleans" — by which poem, addressed to the father 
 of the new-born princess, Villon is conjectured to 
 have secured his good offices — is most assuredly the 
 production neither of Villon nor of any one else in 
 any way worthy of the name of poet. 
 
 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 avoue or in some similar capac- 
 •' itv 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 
 privations 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 reim- 
 burse themselves for thefts practised at their ex- 
 pense, at the time of '"Les Repues Franches," two
 
 56 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of which, carried out at Turgis's cost, I have already 
 noticed : and as the scant}^ proceeds of the execution 
 are not hkely to have satisfied any considerable por- 
 tion of his liabilities, it would seem that his creditors 
 took further proceedings against him, from the con- 
 sequences of which he was 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 protege, 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 proba- 
 bilities 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 affection which has often led them to 
 the utmost extremities of devotion and self-sacrifice, 
 none can doubt who knows anything of their historv 
 and habits as a class ; and one need go no further 
 than Dufour's curious History of Prostitution or 
 Dumas' sympathetic study, "Filles, Lorettes et
 
 INTRODUCTION 57 
 
 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 sym- 
 pathise 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 j)layful and figurative description 
 of his ])resumed 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 
 theorv. It is of course possible that the ballad in 
 which Villon so circumstantially exposes the connec- 
 tion in question may have been intended as a mere 
 piece of bravado or mystification ; but, failing evi- 
 dence of this, I defy any candid reader to place such 
 a construction upon the text as will justify any 
 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 Jehanne- 
 ton la Chaperonniere, 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
 
 58 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Fremin,* 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 natu- 
 ral 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 
 burn 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 reek- 
 ing 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 pa- 
 tient 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 
 weatlicr and privation, without hair, beard or eye- 
 brows, bare as a turnip from disease, with body 
 
 ♦Possibly (and even probably) an imaginary character.
 
 INTRODUCTION o9 
 
 oiiiaciatcd with hunger ("The worms will have no 
 great ])urchase thereof," says he: "hunger has 
 waged too stern a war on it;") and every limb one 
 anguiNh for disease, with empty purse and stomach, 
 dependent on charity for subsistence, so sick at heart 
 and feeble that he could hardly speak, his eyes seem 
 at last to have been definitively opened to the ter- 
 rible 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 con- 
 fesses 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 
 lie had led, an honest death had nothing that should 
 displease him, seeing that in life, as in love, "each 
 y)leasure's bought with fifty pains." After a long 
 and magnificent prelude, in which he laments the 
 excesses of his youth, justifying himself by his fa- 
 vourite argument that necessity compels folk to do 
 evil, as want drives wolves out of the brake, and 
 sues for the favourable and compassionate consid- 
 eration of those whose lot in life has placed them 
 above necessity, — interrupted by numerous episodes, 
 some humourous, some ])athetic, the individual beauty 
 of which is so great that (like the so-called diffuse 
 digressions which abound in the music of Schubert ) 
 one cannot quarrel with their want 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 ap-
 
 60 INTRODUCTION 
 
 preaching death, to dictate to his clerk what he calls 
 his Testament, being a long series of huitains or 
 eight-line octos3'llabic 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 of the men, women, places 
 and things he sets before us in a few keen and incisive 
 words, from which often spring the swiftest light- 
 nings 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 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 de- 
 nounces 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 I.a Grossc 
 Mai-got, he gives us a terrible picture of the degrad- 
 ing expedients to which he was forced by the fright- 
 ful necessities of his misguided existence and dedi- 
 cates to Fran9ois Perdryer above named "The Bal- 
 lad of Slanderous Tongues," perhaps the most un- 
 compromising example of pure invective that cxi'^ts
 
 INTRODUCTION 6^ 
 
 in any known literature. Towards the end of his 
 poem, in verses pregnant with serious and well-illus- 
 trated meaning, he addresses himself to the com- 
 panions 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 ex- 
 travagances 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 honest labour. When he has to his 
 satisfaction exhausted his budget of memories, tears 
 and laughter, he strikes once more the fatalist key- 
 note of the whole work in a noble "meditation" on 
 the equality of all earthly things before the inexor- 
 able 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 folatre"), 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
 
 Q'2 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Testament, is known, to us, nor is there any trace 
 of its existence; indeed, from the date, 1461, with 
 which he liimself heads his principal work, we entirely 
 lose sight of him: and it may be sup})osed, in view 
 of the 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 produce 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 Testaments and 
 Codicil, bear no trace whatever of Villon's handi- 
 work. They were not even added to his works until 
 1532 and were in the following year summarily re- 
 jected as spurious by Clement Marot from his defi- 
 nite edition, prepared by order of Francis I. Never- 
 theless, I do not entirely agree with M. Longnon in 
 supposing that Villon died immediately after 1461. 
 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 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 63 
 
 more, different returns ; and it is, therefore, prob- 
 able that Villon survived for two or three 3'ears after 
 his release from Meung gaol.* Rabelais, indeed, 
 states in his "Pantagruel" 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 Ian- 
 gage Poitevins;" but this tradition (if tradition it 
 be) which Rabelais puts into the mouth of the 
 Seigneur dc Basche, is as completely improbable, 
 destitute of confirmation and unworthy of serious 
 attention as that of Villon's journey to England and 
 seems to me to prove nothing, save, perhaps, that 
 Villon at that time (1550), when his works had al- 
 ready 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 Mllon Avas burnt for impiety ; but, 
 althoug-h 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 
 
 [♦The opinion expressed in the above lines (which were 
 written in 1878) has recentlj' been completely confirmed by 
 the terms of a judicial document discovered in the Archives 
 Rationales and first published by M. Longnon (i8o2\ to wit, 
 the letters of Remission granted by Louis XI in November 
 1463 to Robin Dogis for the wounding of one Frangois 
 Ferrebouc, in an afTray which took place near the church of 
 St. Benoit and at which \'illon 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.]
 
 64 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 previ- 
 ous 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. 
 
 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 informa- 
 tion. The first edition, though undated, was evi- 
 dently 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 ex- 
 treme 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 pro- 
 tege, whether dead or alive, — in the latter case, for 
 the purpose of making some provision for him, and 
 in the former, with some mention of his death and 
 some pious wish for the repose of his soul. It prob- 
 ably perished, with many other valuable records and 
 archives, — from which we might have fairly expected 
 to glean important supplementary information rela-
 
 INTRODUCTION 65 
 
 tive to Villon, — in the Saturnalia of ci'iminal and 
 purposeless destruction which disgraced the French 
 Revolution. 
 
 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, every- 
 thing 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 tlie Childe of Bristowe and the 
 History of Tom, Thumb. For many years after his 
 death the Ballads were always distinguished from 
 the rest by the descriptive headings of the various 
 editions, in which the printers announce "The Testa- 
 ments of Villon and his Ballads," as if the latter had 
 previously been a separate and well-known specialty 
 of the poet's. We may even suppose them to have 
 been set to music and sung, as were the odes of 
 Ronsard a hundred years later, and indeed many of 
 them seem imperatively to call for' such treatment. 
 Wlio cannot fancy the ballad of the Women of Paris 
 — "II n'est bon bee que de Paris" — being carolled
 
 66 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 acquaintance? 
 
 The thirty-four editions, known to have been pub- 
 lished before the end of the year 1542,* are suffi- 
 cient evidence of the demand (probably for the time 
 unprecedented) which existed for his poems during 
 the seventj^ 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 misrepresentation 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 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 cultivated 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 thencefor- 
 ward, so long as good French letters should be known 
 and preserved. Marot's own writings bear evident 
 
 [* See M. Longnon's Bibliographic des Imprimes.]
 
 INTRODUCTION 67 
 
 iraces of the c-are and love with which he had studied 
 tlie first poet of his time, who indeed appears to have 
 ifiven the tone to all the rhymers — Grin^oirc, Henri 
 Baude, Martial D'Auvergnc, Cretin, Coquillart, Jean 
 Marot, Roger de Collcrye, 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 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 
 language and that "esprit Gaulois" which repre- 
 sented the national sentiment and tendencies. The 
 memory of A illon, eufant de Paris, cliild of the 
 Parisian gutter, as he was, went down before the 
 new movement, characterised at once by its extreme 
 oursuit of refinement at all hazards and its neglect 
 of those stronger and deeper currents of sympathy 
 ,:.irI passion, for which one must dive deep into the 
 tioubled waters of popular life and activity. For 
 nearly three centuries the name and fame of the 
 singer of the Ladies of Old Time remained practic- 
 ally forgotten, buried under wave upon wave of lit- 
 erary and ])olitical movement, all apparently equally 
 hostile to the tendency and spirit of his work. We 
 f'i'id, indeed, the three greatest spirits of the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth centuries, Rabelais, Regnier 
 and La Fontaine, evincing by their works and style.
 
 68 INTRODUCtlON 
 
 if not by any more explicit declaration, tiieir pro- 
 found knowledge and sincere appreciation of Villon ; 
 but their admiration had no effect upon the universal 
 consent with which the tastes and tendencies of their 
 respective 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- 
 fiavoured food, that Villon set before them, to the 
 whipped creams, the rose and musk-scented confec- 
 tions 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 movement 
 (a movement whose causes and tendencies bore so 
 great an affinity to that of which Villon in his own 
 time was himself the chief agent), that he began to 
 be ill some measure restored to his proper place in 
 the hierarchy of French literature. Yet we can still 
 remember the compassionate ridicule with which the 
 efforts of Thcophile Gautier to revindicate his mem- 
 ory were received and how even that perfect and 
 noble spirit, in whose catholic and unerring appre- 
 ciation no spark of true genius or of worthy origi- 
 nality ever failed to light a corresponding flame of 
 enthusiasm, was fain to dissimulate the fervour of 
 his admiration under the transparent mask of par- 
 tial depreciation and to provide for his too bold 
 enterprise of rehabilitation a kind of 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 09 
 
 still little read, although the illustrious poet Theo- 
 dore 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 jjublic (scanty 
 enough as yet) may be expected to be found. How- 
 ever, better days have definitively dawned for A'illon'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 
 popularity. A hardly less effectual one has always 
 existed in the evanescent nature of the allusion upon 
 which so large a part of his work is founded. In the 
 preface to the edition above referred to, Clement 
 Marot allows it to be inferred that, even at so com- 
 paratively early a period as 1533, the greater part 
 of his references to persons and places of his own 
 day had become obscure, if not altogether unde- 
 cipherable, to all but those few persons of advanced 
 age, who may be said to have been almost his con- 
 temporaries. In Harot's own words, "Sufficiently to 
 understand and explain the industry or intention of 
 the bequests he makes in his Testament, it is neces- 
 sary 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 compre- 
 hended the poet's intention in the references afore-
 
 70 INTRODUCTION 
 
 said." It is indeed difficult and in many cases im- 
 possible to understand the intent, based upon cur- 
 rent 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 elibbing 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 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 ene- 
 mies, the sergeants of the watch, the cotton night- 
 caps,"* that they might sleep in comfortable igno- 
 rance of his nocturnal misdeeds ; and to others of 
 his dearest foes, the Conciergerie and Chatelet 
 prisons, with a right of rent-charge on the pillory, 
 "three strokes of withy well laid on and prison lodg- 
 ing 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 satir- 
 ical 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 permis- 
 
 [* Cornetes. This word should perhaps be read in its older 
 sense of "tippet" or "bandelet."]
 
 INTRODUCTION 71 
 
 sion ; to notaries of the Chatolct the good grace of 
 their superior the Provost ; to his friend the Senes- 
 chal and Marechal de Bourhon, the punning quali- 
 fication of marechal or blacksmith and the right of 
 .shoeing ducks and geese (probably a hit at the 
 prince's amorous complexion *) ; to a butcher a fat 
 sheej) belonging to some one else and a whisk to keep 
 the flies oft' his meat : to the women of pleasure, the 
 right to hold a ])ublic school by night, where mas- 
 ters should be taught of scholars ; to one of his com- 
 rades, 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 
 nmtes 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 glinnner, more or less sufficient, of sense 
 and meaning. But why he should bequeath to three 
 dift'ei-ent persons his double-handed or battle-sword 
 - — an article it is not likely he ever possessed, the 
 tuckt 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 ])rocecds of the sale of his hauberk (another 
 article, 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 
 
 [* Or perhaps at his simplicity, fcrrcr Ics oies being an old 
 phxase meaning "to waste time in trifling, to spend both time 
 and labour verj' \a.\n\y."—Coi(jravc.] 
 
 [t Tuck (Old Iri-^h luca). a clerk's short sword or hanger, 
 not the long narrow thrusting weapon (rapier) after known 
 by the same name.l
 
 72 INTRODUCTIOx\ 
 
 poultry and wine ; to Rene dc Montigny three dogs, 
 and to Jehan Raguyer, a sergeant of the provostrj 
 of Paris, one liundred francs ; to his proctor Four- 
 nier, leather ready cut out for shoes and caps ; to a 
 couple of thieves, "bacon, peas, charcoal and wood ;" 
 to two echevins 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 joinder 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 ex- 
 tant or fresh in the memory of their contemporaries 
 — are now for us enigmas of the most hopeless kind, 
 hidden in a darkness 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 interpreta- 
 tion.* 
 
 Nevertheless, when we have made the fullest pos- 
 sible 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.f 
 
 [* The antithetical interpretation proposed by M. Bijvanck, 
 according to which Villon may be supposed to have intended 
 to annul each legacy by the succeeding words, taken in their 
 secondary meaning, seems hardly satisfactory; but see my 
 notes to the Poems, passim.] 
 
 1 1 take this opportunity to protest against the fashion 
 which prevails among editors and critics of Villon, of sin- 
 gling out certain parts of his work, notably his Ballads, for
 
 INTRODUCTION 73 
 
 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 
 efflorescence from the mangrove swamps of the 
 truanderie 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 mead- 
 ows and of kindling into a glory of gold and colour 
 the foul canoi)y of smoke which overbroods the tur- 
 moil of a great city. He is equally at lioim- when 
 celebrating tiie 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 tendencj' are emi- 
 nently romantic, in the sense that he employed mod- 
 ern 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 char- 
 acteristics by the shifting impulses and tendencies 
 
 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 her^ (and more especially in the magnificent passage, 
 octaves xii to Ixii inclusive) that his genius shines out wth 
 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 seemsto me beyond question that this was, if not 
 his last, at least his most mature effort.
 
 74 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 seem- 
 ing in which it was enchanted, and flower forth, 
 young, glorious and majestic, as the bewitched prm- 
 cess 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 kaleido- 
 scojjic patterns, wearisome in the sameness of their 
 mannered beauty, from Avhose 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 affecta- 
 tion 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 centuries. By dint of
 
 INTRODUCTION 7o 
 
 continual employment in the same grooves and in 
 the same formal sense, the most forceful and pic- 
 turesque words of tlie language had almost ceased 
 to possess individuality or colour: for tlie phos- 
 j)horescence that springs from the continual contact 
 of words with thought, and their reconstruction at 
 the stroke of passion, was wanting, not to be sup])lied 
 or replaced by the aptest ingenuity or the most un- 
 tiring wit. Villon did for French poetic speech that 
 whicli 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 lan- 
 guage of his time to youth and health by infusing 
 into it to the healing poisons, the revivifying acids 
 and bitters of the popular speech, disdaining no ma- 
 terials that served his purpose, replacing the defunct 
 forms Avith new phrases, new shapes were wrung from 
 the heart of the spoken tongue, plunging with auda- 
 cious 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 street gutter 
 the neglected pebbles and nodules in which he alone 
 divined the liidden diamonds and rubies of pic- 
 turesque expression, to be polished and facetted into 
 glorv 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 polarities, till
 
 76 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 familiarity 
 of the streets and highways, his intimate knowledge 
 and love of the home and outdoor life of the mer- 
 chant, 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 Regnier, was to pass unheeded 
 till it swelled into the judgment-thunder of the Revo- 
 lution. The sufferings, the oppression, the bonhomie, 
 the gourmandise, the satirical good-humour of 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 col- 
 ours, drawn to the life and harmonised into a na- 
 tional 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 typefied 
 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 t I 
 
 stemming the stream of traffic, rise before us, gay 
 with endless movement of fur and satin clad demoi- 
 selles, "ruffed and rebatoed," with their heart or 
 diamond shaped head-dresses of velvet and brocade, 
 .^ringed and broidcred with gold and silver ; sad- 
 coloured burghers and their wives distinguished by 
 the bongrace or chaperon a bourrelet, with its rolled 
 and stuffed hem; gold-laced archers and jaunty 
 clerks, 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 
 barefooted friars, purple-gilled with secret and un- 
 hallowed 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 demi- 
 cinct or chatelaine of silver, followed b}' 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 cor- 
 dovan falling jauntily over the instep; as they press 
 through a motley crowd of beggars and mounte- 
 banks, jugglers with their apes and carpet, culs-de- 
 jatte, lepers with clapdish and wallet, mumpers and 
 chanters, truands and gipsies, jesters, fish-fags, cut- 
 purses and swash-bucklers, that rings anon with the 
 shout of "Noel! Noel!" as Charles VH rides by, 
 surrounded by his heralds and pursuivants, or Louis 
 passes with no attendants save his two dark bench-
 
 78 IxNTRODUCTION 
 
 men, Tristan the Hermit and Oliver the Fiend, and 
 nothing to distinguish 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 Vir- 
 gin's chapel, praying for that scapegrace son who 
 has caused her such bitter tears and such poignant 
 terrors. Outside, on the church steps, sit the gos- 
 sips, 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 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 79 
 
 tavern of the Pomnie de Pin, where sits Master 
 Jacques Raguycr, swathed in his warm rnantle, witli 
 his feet to the hhi/e and his back resting against 
 the piles of faggots that tower in the chimney-cor- 
 ner ; or tlie street in front of the Chatelet, where wo 
 find ^'^]lon gazing upon the great flaring cressets that 
 give liglit over the gateway of tlie ])rison with whose 
 interior he was so well acquainted. Anon we come 
 upon him, watching Avith 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 Heaul- 
 miere and lier 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 
 short-lived flicker of their fire of dried hempstalks. 
 Presently, Master Jehan Cotard staggers past, stum- 
 bling 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 char- 
 uels, ladies and lords, masters and clerks, bishops 
 and water-carriers, all laid low in undistinguished 
 abasement before the equality of death. Once more, 
 the scene changes and we stand by the thieves' ren- 
 dezvous in the ruined castle of Bicetre or by the 
 lonely gibbet of jNIontfaucon, where the poet wanders 
 in the "silences of the moon," watching with a terri- 
 fied fascination the shrivelled corpses or whitened 
 skeletons of his whilom comrades, as they creak sul-
 
 80 INTRODUCTION 
 
 lenly to and fro in the gliastly aureole of the mid- 
 night 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 and that there is no land- 
 scape can compare for him with those "paj'^sages de 
 metal et de pierre" which he (in common with an- 
 other ingrain Parisian, Baudelaire) so deeply loved. 
 Much as he must have wandered over France, we find 
 in his Averse no hint of natural beauty, no syllables 
 of description of landscape 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 fash- 
 ion, he worshipped beauty and did homage to art. 
 Indeed, he was essentiallv "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 im- 
 pulses of humanity ; how, untainted by the selfish 
 provincialism of his day, his heart warms towards 
 the great patriot, Jacques Coeur, and sorrows over 
 his disgrace ; how he appreciates the heroism of 
 Jeanne d'Arc and denounces y)enalty upon penalty, 
 that remind us of the 70,000 pains of fire of the
 
 INTRODUCTION 81 
 
 Arabian legend, u})on the traitors and rebels '*who 
 would wish ill unto the realm of France ;" with what 
 largeness of sympathy he anticipates 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 down- 
 ward road ; with what observant compassion he notes 
 the silent regrets of the old and the poignant remem- 
 brances 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 Hcaulmicre. 
 
 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 coeur," and warns her 
 of the inevitable approach of the days when youth 
 and beauty shall no more remain to her, we seem 
 to hear a robuster Ronsard sighing out his "Cueillez, 
 cueillez votre jeunesse;" when he laments for the 
 death of Master Ythier's beloved, "Two were we, hav- 
 ing but one heart," we must turn to ]\Iariana's wail 
 of wistful yet undespitcous passion for a sweeter 
 lyric of regretful tenderness, a more pathetic dal- 
 liance with the simpleness of love; and when he 
 appeals from the dungeon of ^Icung 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
 
 82 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 tlio 
 whilom gallants of his early memories that now be.fj 
 all naked, seeing no crumb of bread but in some 
 window-})lace? Where a nobler height of contem- 
 plation 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 tu)- 
 bending majesty of death, or a holier purity of 
 religious exaltation than breathes from the ballad 
 wherein, with the truest instinct of genius, using that 
 mother's voice which cannot but be the surest pass- 
 port 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 jjathos that often lurks in natures dis- 
 tinguished 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 poison^ 
 that suggest the 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 sweet- 
 ness," 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- 
 
 * Baudelaire.
 
 INTRODUCTION 83 
 
 acteristic than pathos. Unstrained and genuine, it 
 arises inainlv 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 
 Ihe |)er})etual per])lexities into which his folly and 
 recklessness have betrayed him ; and this fcclin^^ con- 
 stantly overpowers his underlying remorse and the 
 angiiish which he suffers under the pressure of the 
 deplorable circumstances wherein he continually finds 
 himself involved. The spi^l-trieh 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 wMll presently appear, upright 
 in the air, swinging at the wind's will, with face like 
 a thimble for bird-pecks and skirl blackened of "that 
 ill sun which tans a man when he is dead." It is a 
 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. cut-
 
 84 INTRODUCTION 
 
 purse strung up on Montfaucon hill. He laughs at 
 his own rascality and poverty, lustfulness and glut- 
 tony, with an unexampled naivete of candour, singu- 
 larly free from cynicism, yet always manages to con- 
 ciliate 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 your- 
 selves 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 our- 
 selves 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 mar- 
 tyrs to 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, fur- 
 menty, t reams, pasties and other "savoureux et 
 friands morceaux" defile in long and picturesque pro- 
 cession through his verse, like a dissolving view of 
 Paradise, before whose gates he knelt and longed in 
 vain. His ideal of perfect happiness 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 85 
 
 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 lyinnr 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 man- 
 chets, says he piteously). If he cannot come at his 
 desii'e in the possession of the dainties for which his 
 soul longs, there is still some sad pleasure for him in 
 caressing in imagination the sacrosanct denomina- 
 tions of that "bien-heureux harmoys de gueule," 
 which hovers for him, afar off, in the rosy mists of 
 an apotheosis. In this respect, as in no few others, 
 he forcibly reminds one of another strange and note- 
 worthy figure converted by genius into an eternal 
 type, that Neveu de Rameau, in whom the reducfio 
 od ahsurdum of the whole sensualist ])hilosoph3' 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 mettrc sous la dent," that noble and 
 abstract art of providing for the repai iHon 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 individuality of the bohemian poet of 
 the fifteenth century. 
 
 With all his faults, a most sympathetic and attrac- 
 tive personality detaches itself from the unsparing
 
 86 INTRODUCTION 
 
 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 compas- 
 sion for all pitiable and his unaffected sympathy with 
 all noble things. Specially attractive is the sweet- 
 ness of his good-humour : so devoid of gall is he that 
 he seems to cherish no enduring bitterness against 
 his most cruel enemies, content if he can make them 
 the subject 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 Avord against the cruel creditors 
 who seized the moment of his deliverance from IVIeung 
 gaol, exhausted, emaciated and dying, to strip him of 
 the little that he possessed. Thibault d'Aussign}^ 
 the author of his duresse in Meung gaol, and Fran- 
 9ois 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 sus- 
 pect a humorous exaggeration in their unyielding 
 bitterness. 
 
 Lookino" 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 furnished a more honourable career than that 
 of the careless bohemian, driven into crime, disgrace
 
 IXTRODUCTION 87 
 
 and luin by the double liifluenco of his own un- 
 cliecked desires and the maddening wistfulness of an 
 unrequited love. Still, whatever effect change of 
 circumstance might have liad in the jjossible enno- 
 bling of the sorry melodrama of his life, we at least 
 cannot complain of the influences that presided over 
 the accomplishment of his destiny ; for they resulted 
 in ripening and developing the genius of a great and 
 uni(i|ue poet. The world of posterity is always and 
 rightly ready to acce])t the fact of a great artistic 
 personality, even at the expense of morality and 
 decency ; and instances are not wanting in whicl; 
 moral and material amelioration 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 
 tlie 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
 
 Here Beginneth the Lesser Testamont 
 
 OF 
 
 Master FRAN901S Villon 
 
 This fourteen six and fiftieth year, 
 I, Francois 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 
 Vcgetius, wise Roman he). 
 
 Or else amiss one reckoneth, — 
 
 II 
 
 In this year, as before I said, 
 
 Hard by the dead of Christmas-time, 
 Wlien 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. 
 
 91
 
 92 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 III 
 
 Unto this fashion am I bent, 
 Seeing my lady, 'ncath 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 93 
 
 VI 
 
 To 'scape the ills that hem me round. 
 It were the wiser to dej)art. 
 
 Adieu ! 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. 
 
 vn 
 
 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! 
 
 vni 
 
 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.
 
 94 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 DC 
 
 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, Guillaumc 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 pligkt: 
 
 May God not wreak it on her head! 
 
 XI 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 95 
 
 xn 
 
 Item, I leave to Saint Aniand 
 
 The Mule and eke the Charger White; 
 And to Blaru, my Diamond 
 
 And Jibbing Ass with stripes bedight; 
 
 And the decretal, too, that hight 
 Onmis utrius— that, to wit, 
 
 Known as the counter-Carmelite — 
 Unto the priests I do commit. 
 
 xin 
 
 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 Vallee (who, 
 Poor clerkling to the Parliament, 
 
 Owns valley neither hill,) I do 
 W^ill first, by this my Testament, 
 My hose be giy'n incontinent. 
 
 Which on the clothes-pegs hang, that he 
 May tire withal, 'tis my intent, 
 
 His mistress Jehanne more decently.
 
 96 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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; 
 
 The}^ shall, I have bethoughten me, 
 Since in liis pate he hatli no sense, 
 
 Give him the Art of Memorv, 
 To be ta'en up from Misprepense. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And thirdly, for the liveliliood 
 
 Of Master Robert aforesaid 
 (My kin, for God's sake, hold it good!) 
 
 Be money of my hauberk made 
 
 And (or most part thereof) outlaid, 
 Ere Easter pass, in purchasing 
 
 (Hard by St. Jacques) a shop and trade 
 For the poor witless lawyerling. 
 
 XVII 
 
 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 
 Or lawsuits, lest he wax too fat.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS $7. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Item, a leash of dogs I giva 
 
 To young Rene 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 Bicetre, castle and donjon; 
 
 And to that scurvy knave Changoa, 
 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.
 
 98 VILLON'S POExAlS 
 
 XXI 
 
 Item, to John the foul of face 
 
 And Peter Tanner I devise, 
 Bj 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.
 
 VILLON'S rOKMS 99 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Item, to Chollet I bequeath 
 
 And Louj), a duck, once in a way 
 
 Caught as of old the walls beneath 
 
 L'pon 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 orplians 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 sillv souls, when thev are old.
 
 100 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Item, my right of nomination 
 
 Holden of the L^nivcrsity, 
 I leave, by way 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 Guillaume 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. Antoinc 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 101 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxn 
 
 Unto the begging Orders four, 
 
 The nuns and sisters (tidbits they 
 Dainty and prime) I leave and store 
 
 Of flawns, poults, capons, so the}' may 
 Break bread with both hands night and day 
 
 And eke the fifteen Signs declare: 
 Monks court our neighbours' wives, folk say, 
 
 But that is none of mv affair.
 
 102 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 Mairebcuf, as well 
 
 As Nicholas de Louvieux, 
 Each one I leave a whole eggshell 
 
 Full of old crowns and francs, and io 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 103 
 
 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 nae, 
 Though not for wind-bibbing, perdie,) 
 
 Her faculties collateral, 
 
 Th' opinative in each degree 
 
 And others intellectual. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 And on likewise th' estimative, 
 
 — Wherebj' 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 disjiread itself in me. 
 To show the senses' union.
 
 104 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 
 
 ^ire 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. 
 
 Here Endeth the Lesser Testamej op 
 Master FRAN901S Villon
 
 THE GREATER TESTAMENT
 
 Here BBcrNNEXH the Greater Testambnt 
 
 OF 
 
 Master FRAN901S Villon 
 
 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 : 
 
 n 
 
 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. 
 
 107
 
 108 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 go.)
 
 VILLON'S rOEMS 109 
 
 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.'* 
 
 vn 
 
 I do implore God's blessed Son, 
 To whom I turn in every need. 
 
 So ha})ly my poor orison 
 
 Find grace with Him — from whom indeed 
 Body and soul 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! 
 
 vin 
 
 Whom God with Jacob's luck endow. 
 
 And glory of great Solomon ! 
 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!
 
 110 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Feeling myself upon the wane. 
 
 Even more in goods than body spent. 
 Whilst ray 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 
 
 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.
 
 VILLOX'S POEMS 111 
 
 Here Beginnetii Villon to Enter upon 
 
 Matter Full of Erudition and of 
 
 Fair Knowledge 
 
 XII 
 
 Now is it true tliat, after years 
 Of anguish and of sorrowing, 
 
 Travail and toil and groans and tears 
 And many a weary wondering. 
 Trouble hath wrought in me to bring 
 
 To point each shifting sentiment, 
 Teaching me many another thing 
 
 Than Averrhiies his Comment. 
 
 XIII 
 
 However, at my trials' worst, 
 
 When wandering in the desert ways, 
 
 God, who the Emmiius pilgrims erst 
 Did comfort, as the Gospel says. 
 Showed me a certain resting-[)lace 
 
 And gave me gift of hope no less ; 
 
 Though vile the sinner be and base, 
 
 Nothing He hates save stubbornness. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Sinned have T 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.
 
 112 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 anywhere 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
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 113 
 
 A thief. A skimmer of the seas 
 Of those that course it far and nigh 
 
 He was, and so, as one of these, 
 Thej brought him to be doomed to die. 
 
 xvui 
 
 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 sa\r: 
 
 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 ;
 
 114 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 XXII 
 
 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;
 
 VILLON'S rOEMS 116 
 
 Wliilst those by kindred to me knit, 
 The due of Nature all for^jot, 
 
 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 coofess. 
 
 XXV 
 
 True is it I have loved whilcre 
 
 And willingly would love again : 
 But aching heart and })aunch 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 Aouth, alack! 
 
 I had but studicfl and been sage 
 Nor wandered from the hcfiten track, 
 
 I had slept warm in my old age.
 
 116 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 xxvn 
 
 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 buffs 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?
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 117 
 
 Stark dead arc some, their lives aie 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! 
 
 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! 
 
 For that they need it; and not tfe«e, 
 That have the wherewithal to live, — 
 
 XXXII 
 
 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.
 
 118 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Herein from masons differ they. 
 That with such toil their bread do ea.ru: 
 
 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! 
 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;
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 119 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXV'I 
 
 When I of poverty complain, 
 
 Ofttimcs my heart to mc hath said, 
 
 'Man, wherefore murmur thus in vain? 
 If thou hast no such plentihead 
 As had Jacques Coeur, be comforted: 
 
 Better to live and rags to wear 
 
 Than to have been a lord, and dead. 
 
 Rot in a splendid sepulchre.' 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 (Than to have been a lord! I say. 
 
 Ales, no lonfTcr 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 li^t 
 Among the starry heavens doth go : 
 
 My sire is dead — God have his spright !
 
 120 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 XLI 
 
 Death makes him shiver and turn pale. 
 Sharpens his nose and swells his veins, 
 
 Puffs up his throat, makes his flesh fail, 
 His ioints and nerves greatens and strains.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 121 
 
 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 me where, in what land of shade, 
 Bides fair Flora of Rome, and where 
 
 Are Thais and Archipiade, 
 
 Cousins-german of beaut?/ 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 learn'd 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 tlie queen who willed whilere 
 That Buridan, tied in a sack, shotdd go 
 
 Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? 
 But what is become of last year's snow? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made 
 Sweet music as if she a siren were; 
 
 Broad-foot Bertha: and Joan the maid. 
 The good Lorrainer, the English bare
 
 122 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Captive to Rouen and burned her there; 
 Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys, — lo! 
 
 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 
 
 No. 1 
 
 There is Calixtus, third of the name. 
 
 That died vn 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 Charlemaigne? 
 
 n 
 
 Likewise the King of Scots, whose shame 
 Was the half of his face (or folk say 5o), 
 
 Vermeil as amethyst held to the flame. 
 From chin to forehead all of a glow?
 
 VILLON'S POEMS ViH 
 
 The King of Cyprus, of friend and foe 
 Renowned; and the gen*le King of Spain, 
 
 Whose name, God 'ield me, I do not know? 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaigne? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Of many more might I ask the same. 
 
 Who are but dust that the breezes blow; 
 But I desist, for none may claim 
 
 To stand against Death, that lays ail 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 Charlemaigne? 
 
 Envoi 
 
 WJiere is Du Guesclin, the Breton prow? 
 
 Where Auvergn^'s Dauphin and where again 
 The late good duke of Alen^on? Lo! 
 But where is the doughty Charlemaigne? 
 
 Ballad of Old-Time Loeds 
 
 No. 2 
 
 Where are the holy apostles gone. 
 Alb-clad and amice-tired and staled 
 
 With the sacred tippet and that alone, 
 Whcrexcith, n-hcv he waxeth overbold.
 
 124 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 The foul fiend's throttle they take and hold? 
 All mtist come to the self -same hay; 
 Sons and servants, their days are told: 
 The wind carries their like away. 
 
 n 
 
 Where is he now that held the throne 
 Of Constantine, with the bands of gold? 
 
 And the King of Frajice, o'er all kings known 
 For grace and worship that was extolled, 
 WJto 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. 
 
 m 
 
 Where are the champions every one. 
 
 The Dauphins, the counsellors young and old? 
 The barons of Salins, Dol, Dijon, 
 
 Vienne, Grenoble? They all are cold. 
 
 Or take 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 
 
 Prmces to death are all foretold. 
 
 Even as the humblest of their array:
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 125 
 
 Whether they sorrow or whether tfiey 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. 
 
 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
 
 126 VILLON'S POEiMS 
 
 That, did not fear of God restrain, 
 Some dreadful deed they might essay; 
 
 Nay, whiles they take His law in vain 
 Afid 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, 
 
 Felk 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 127 
 
 The Complaint of the Faie 
 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? 
 
 n 
 
 «( 
 
 Thou hast u/ndone 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^ — r 
 
 Without a thought of his abuse, — 
 So I should yield him at his gree 
 
 What churls for nothing now refuse. 
 
 in 
 
 **/ 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.
 
 128 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Whomever else I might bewile, 
 I loved him well, sorry or glad: 
 
 But he to me was harsh and vile 
 And loved me but for 7t>hat I had, 
 
 IV 
 
 "/ZZ as he used me, and however 
 
 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! 'twas ever thus the same 
 
 With him. It brought me scant liessei 
 
 And what is left me? Sin and shame. 
 
 "Now is he dead this thirty year. 
 
 And Vm grown old and worn and gray:. 
 When I recall the days that were 
 
 And think of what I am to-day 
 
 And wJien me naked I survey 
 And see my body shrunk to nought^ 
 
 Withered and shrivelled, — wellawayl 
 For grief I am well-nigh distraught. 
 
 VI 
 
 ** Where is that clear and crystal brow? 
 
 Those eyebrows arched and golden hair? 
 And those bright eyes, where are they now. 
 
 Wherewith the wisest ravished were?
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 129 
 
 The little* nose so straight and fair; 
 The tiny tender perfect ear; 
 
 Where is tJie dimpled chin and where 
 The pouting lips so red and clear? 
 
 vu 
 
 "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 * « * 
 
 ***** 
 ♦ * * « • 
 
 VIII 
 
 "Brows 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. 
 
 Now bent and swerved from beauty's line; 
 Chin peaked, ears furred and hanging down; 
 
 Faded the face and quenched its shine 
 And lips mere bags of loose skin grown. 
 
 DC 
 
 *'Such is the end of human grace: 
 
 The arms grown short and hands all fhrawn; 
 
 The shoidders bowed out of their place;
 
 130 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 The breasts all shrivelled up and gone; 
 The haunches like the paps withdrawn; 
 The thighs no longer like to thighs. 
 Withered and mottled all like brawn, 
 
 ^^ a^ yp^ flp fl|r 
 
 **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 hemps talks dry. 
 
 Kindled in haste and soon gone out; 
 
 ( We that once held our heads so high!) 
 
 So all take turn and turn aboutJ'"' 
 
 The Doctrine of the Fair Helm-Maker 
 TO the Light o' Loves 
 
 Now think on't, Nell the glover fair. 
 That wont my scholar once to be. 
 And you, Blanche Slippermaker there. 
 Your case in mine Fd 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 131 
 
 n 
 
 You, Sausage-huckstress debonair. 
 
 That dance and trip it brisk and free. 
 
 And Guillemette Upholstress, there. 
 
 Look you transgress not Love\s decree: 
 Soon must you shut up shop, per die; 
 
 Soon old you II grow, faded and thin. 
 Worth, like some old priest's visnomy, 
 
 No more than money that's called in. 
 
 m 
 
 Jenny the hatter, have a care 
 
 Lest some false lover hamper thee; 
 And Kitty Spurmaker, beware; 
 
 Deny no man that proffers fee; 
 
 For girls that are not bright o' blee 
 Men's scorn and not their service win: 
 
 Foul eld gets neither love nor gree. 
 No more than mone\' that's called in. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Wenches, give ear and list {quo* 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.
 
 132 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 III said or well, worth what they be, 
 These things unregistered have I 
 By my clerk Freniin (giddy fry!). 
 
 Being as composed as well I may. 
 I curse him if he make me lie: 
 
 Like clerk, like master, people say. 
 
 t 
 
 XL VIII 
 
 Nay, the great danger well I see 
 
 \^Tierein 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." 
 
 I put it that one thus devise: 
 
 He doth in nothing me gainsay;
 
 VILLON'S POEMS i:i3 
 
 In sooth, I think no otherwise, 
 
 And well I ween that one should aye 
 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 ])rime 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 appearcth 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. 
 
 ■\Aniat moves them thus? I do opine, 
 Without their honour gainsaying.
 
 134 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 That 'tis their nature feminine, 
 
 Which tends to cherish everything: 
 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 
 
 Serve love and ladies day and nighty 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 135 
 
 n 
 
 Orpheus, the minstrel fair and wight. 
 
 That fluted in such dulcet guise. 
 Did hardly 'scape the deadly bite 
 
 Of Cerberus, in love's emprize; 
 
 Xarcissus did so idolize 
 His omn fair favour that {poor sot) 
 
 He drowned himself, as none denies, 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 m 
 
 Sard ana also, the good knight. 
 
 That conquered Crete, did disguise 
 
 Him as a wench and so bedight. 
 
 Span among maids; and on like wise 
 David the king, for palliardize. 
 
 The fear of God awhile forgot 
 
 At sight of white well-shapen thighs. 
 
 Happy is he who knows them not. 
 
 IV 
 
 And David's son, that Ammon hight. 
 
 Deflowered his sister, for with lies. 
 Feigning desire for manchets white. 
 
 Incest most foul he did devise; 
 
 And Herod {history testifies) 
 Paid with John Baptist's head the scot 
 
 For a girl's dancing deviltries. 
 Happy is he who knows them not.
 
 136 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 And even I, poor silly tenght. 
 Was beaten as linen is that lies 
 
 In washers' 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 burn him bolt upright. 
 
 Witch-like that on a besom flies. 
 
 Above all, wenches doth he prize: 
 But there's no trusting them a jot; 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 137 
 
 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 nic 
 
 And a fat priest a pursuivant.
 
 138 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 lilX 
 
 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. 
 
 I.X 
 
 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."
 
 VIT>LOX'S POEMS 139 
 
 l.Xll 
 
 I feel the droughts of dcatli draw nigh: 
 Gobbets of ])lilegni, as white as snow 
 
 And big as tennis-balls, spit I; 
 By token Jehanneton no mo' 
 Doth me for squire and servant owe, 
 
 But for a worn-out rook. Ah, well ! 
 I have the voice and air, I know ; 
 
 Yet arn I but a cockerel. 
 
 T.XIII 
 
 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 . . . ct cajtera. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Yet do I mean no ill to him 
 
 Or his lieutenant ; nought but well 
 Of his official eke I deem, 
 
 ^^^lo's merry and conformable. 
 
 Nor with the rest have I to mell, 
 Save Master Robert . . . Great and small, 
 
 As God loves Lombards, sooth to tell, 
 I love the whole lot, one and all.
 
 140 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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?) 
 
 I.XVI 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 141 
 
 LXVIll 
 
 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 })rotest 
 
 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. 
 
 Here Beginneth Villon to Test 
 
 LXX 
 
 In the eternal Father's name 
 
 And His that's present in the Host, 
 
 One Mith the Father and the same, 
 Together with the Holy Ghost, — 
 [By whom was saved what Adam lost. 
 
 And in the light of heaven arrayed, 
 (Wlio best believes this merits most,) 
 
 Dead sinners little gods were made :
 
 142 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 Lxxin 
 
 If he had seen the lazar burn. 
 
 He had not asked him, well I wot. 
 To give him water or in turn 
 
 To cool his dry and parched throat. 
 
 There folk will have a scurvy lot 
 That to buy drink their hosen sell; 
 
 Since drink is there so hardly got, 
 God save us all from thirst in hell!]
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 143 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Now, in God's name and with His aid 
 
 And in our Lady's name no less, 
 Let without sin this say be said 
 
 By me grown haggard for duresse. 
 
 If I nor light nor fire possess, 
 God hath ordained it for my sin ; 
 
 But as to this and other stress 
 I will leave talking and begin. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 First, my poor soul (which God befriend) 
 
 Unto the blessed Trinity 
 And to our Lady I commend, 
 
 The fountain of Divinity, 
 
 Beseeching all the charity 
 Of the nine orders of the sky. 
 
 That it of them transported be 
 Unto the throne) of God most high. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 Item, my body I ordain 
 
 Unto the earth, our grandmother: 
 Thereof the worms will have small gain; 
 
 Hunger hath worn it many a year. 
 
 Let it be given straight to her; 
 From earth it came, to earth apace 
 
 Returns ; all things, except I err. 
 Do gladly turn to their own place.
 
 144 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Item, to Guillaume de Villon, — 
 
 (Mv more than father, who indeed 
 
 To me more tenderness hath shown 
 Than mothers to the babes they feed, 
 Who me from many a scrape hath freed 
 
 And now of me hath scant liesse, — 
 I do entreat him, bended-kneed. 
 
 He leave me to my present stress, — ) 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 I do bequeath my library, — 
 
 The "Devil's Crake" Romaunt, whilere 
 By INIessire Guy de Tabarie, — 
 
 A right trustworthy man, — writ fair. 
 
 Beneath a bench it lies somewhere, 
 In quires. Though crudely it be writ, 
 
 The matter's so beyond compare 
 That it redeems the style of it. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 I give the ballad following 
 
 To my good mother, — who of me 
 (God knows !) hath had much sorrowing, 
 
 That she may worship our Ladie: 
 
 I have none other sanctuary 
 Whereto, when overcome with dole, 
 
 I may for help and comfort flee ; 
 Nor hath my mother, poor good soul!
 
 VILLON'S POEA'S 145 
 
 Ballad That Villon Madl 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 J say, for e'en 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
 II 
 
 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 
 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 withoiit breach of virginity 
 
 Didst bear our Lord that in the Host is seen. 
 In this belief I Avill to live and die.
 
 146 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 m 
 
 A poor old wife I am, and little worth: 
 
 Nothing I know, nor letter aye could spell: 
 Where is the church to worship I fare forth, 
 I see Heaven limned, with harps and lutes, 
 
 and Hell, 
 Where damned folk seethe in fire unquench- 
 able. 
 One doth me fear, the other joy serene: 
 Grant I may have tlie 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, 
 Jesus the Lord, that hath nor end nor mean. 
 Almighty, that, departing Heaven's 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! 
 
 In this belief I will to live and die. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Item, upon my dearest Rose 
 
 Nor heart nor liver I bestow: 
 Thereat shq would turn up her nose, 
 
 Albeit she hath coin eno', —
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 147 
 
 A fjrcat 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 Avithout 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. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 This notwithstanding, to acquit 
 
 Me toward Love rather than her, 
 (For never had I any whit 
 
 Of hope from her: I canno! 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-stujf I see.) 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 This ballad shall she have of me. 
 That all with rliymes in R doth end : 
 
 Who shall be bearer? Let me see: 
 Fernet the Bastard I will send,
 
 148 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 hath cost me many n sigh; 
 
 Fair-seeming sweetness in effect how sour; 
 Love-liking, harder far tharti steel, that I 
 
 May sister r.ame of my defeasance dour; 
 
 Traitorous charms, that did my heart devour; 
 Pride, that puts folk to death with secret scorn; 
 Pitiless eyes, will rigour ne^er allow her. 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn? 
 
 n 
 
 Well were it for me elsewhere to apply 
 
 For succour: well I know that in her bower 
 The load of love I never shall lay by; 
 Sure 'twere no shame to fly from such a stoure. 
 Haro! I cry — both great and small implore. 
 But what avails me? I shall die outworn. 
 Without blow struck, excepting pity bow her. 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A time will come to wither and make dry. 
 
 Yellow and pale, thy beauty's full-blown 
 flower :
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 149 
 
 Then should I laugh, if yet mij heart were high. 
 But no, alas! I then shall have no power 
 To laugh, being old in that disastrous hour. 
 
 Wherefore drink deep, before the river^s frorne; 
 Neither refuse, whilst grace is still thy dower. 
 
 Ere worse betide, to succour one forlorn. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Great God of Love, all lovers' governour, 
 III falleth thy disfavour to be borne: 
 
 True hearts are bound, 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 Dc 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. 
 
 Lay or Rather Roundel 
 
 Death, of thy rigour I complain. 
 
 That hast my lady torn from me 
 
 And will not yet contented be. 
 
 Save from me too all strength be ta*en. 
 
 For languishment of heart and brain. 
 
 What harm did she in life to thee. 
 
 Death?
 
 151 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 One heart xve had betwixt us twain; 
 Which bevtig 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I.XXXVII 
 
 Item, considering that the wife 
 Of Master Peter St. Amant 
 
 (Yet if therein be blame or strife, 
 God grant her grace and bcnison)
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 151 
 
 Me as a beggar looks u{)on. 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Item, upon my advocate, 
 
 Whose name is Guillaumc 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, 
 
 liCvied on those that come and go 
 Within the Temple cloister-place. 
 
 xc 
 
 Item, my proctor Fournier 
 
 Shall handfuls four — for all his pam 
 And travail for me night and day, — 
 
 Have from my purse ; for suits amain
 
 152 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 ]\Iuckle Mug in Greve give I, 
 Provided ahvays 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. 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 153 
 
 I leave to him that vote of mine, 
 As citizens of Paris sec : 
 
 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. 
 
 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 j oiliest jester in the Schools, 
 
 That sings so well ''Ma douce amour."
 
 154 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 foo^-sergeants, for as yet 
 Nought with the horse have I to do. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Item, to Pernet 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 f yst 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
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 155 
 
 (Or Lyons sword), so he retain 
 The cooper's mall ; for, sooth to tell, 
 
 Though noise and strife to hate he feiga, 
 At heart he loves them but too well. 
 
 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. 
 
 CI 
 
 Item, to Duboys, goldworker. 
 
 An hundred cloves, both head and tail, 
 
 Of Saracenic zinziber ; 
 
 Not cases therewithal to nail. 
 « * * » * 
 
 ***** 
 
 ***** 
 
 * « * * • 
 
 en 
 
 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)
 
 156 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 
 
 Than 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. 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POExMS 157 
 
 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 Freres, 
 The Devotees and the Beguines, 
 
 At Paris, Orleans and elsewhere, 
 Both Turpelins and Turpelines, — 
 Of stout meat soups with flawns beseen 
 
 I make oblation. 
 
 « » 
 
 m * • * * 
 
 • » • ♦ ♦ 
 
 cvii 
 
 Nay, 'tis not I that give them 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,— r 
 E'en monks of Paris, if they go 
 
 Our cummers still a-pleasuring, 
 God wot, they love their husbands so. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Whatever Master Jehan Poullieu 
 
 Missaid of them, et reliqua. 
 Constrained in public place thereto, 
 
 His words perforce he did unsay:
 
 158 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ;
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 15» 
 
 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. 
 
 cxn 
 
 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 
 Macee of Orleans, who, God wot. 
 
 Had my virginity whilere, 
 For she's a thoroughly bad lot. 
 
 cxm 
 
 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),
 
 160 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 miscalled her, — 
 
 I have this Orison ywrought 
 So God to heaven his soul prefer. 
 
 Ballad and Orison 
 
 Noah, that first the vine planted; 
 
 Lot, too, that in the grot drank high, 
 
 * * * * ♦ 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Architriclinus, learn' d in the howl, — 
 
 I pray you all three to set in the shy 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 II 
 
 He was of your lineage born and bred; 
 He drank of the best and dearest; ay.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 161 
 
 Though Jie'd never a stiver to utand him in 
 stead. 
 The best of all topers he was: for ich//. 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 Pve 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. 
 
 Brief, one might question far and nigh 
 For a better fellow the cup to trowl. 
 
 Let him in, if you hear him the wicket fry: 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 He scarce coidd spit, he was always so dry. 
 And ever ''''My throat's like a red-hot coal!" 
 
 Parched up with thirst, he was wont to cry; 
 Good Master Cotard, honest soul. 
 
 cxvi 
 
 Item, henceforth youn<^ Merle shall still 
 
 Manage my change (for evermo' 
 God wot, it is against my will 
 
 With change I intermeddle) so
 
 162 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 CXVII 
 
 Item, I've seen with my own eyes 
 
 That m}' 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. 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 163 
 
 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, thougli 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 folks shall say, when they appear, 
 These lads are gently bred," to wit. 
 
 ii 
 
 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.
 
 164 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 111 doth he that nialtreateth 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 
 111 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. 
 
 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 feastdays, 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:
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 165 
 
 Also my boots of leather tan, 
 Both soles and uppers, sundry pair; 
 
 So they forgather not with Jehanne 
 Nor any other like to her. 
 
 cxxvi 
 
 Unto the Seigneur de Grigny, 
 
 To whom I left Bicctre 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. 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 To Thibault de la Garde, no less, . . . 
 
 (Thibault? I lie: his name is John) 
 What can I spare, without distress? 
 
 I've lost enough this year bygone: 
 
 ^lay 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. 
 
 C XX VIII 
 
 Item, I give to Basanier, 
 
 The judge's clerk and notary, 
 A frail of cloves, which levied may 
 
 On Master Jehan de Rucil be:
 
 Ig6 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Mautainct and Rosnel the like fee 
 Shall have, which them I trust will 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 Rene made: 
 Hector or Troilus ne'er, I trow, 
 
 So much performed, so little said. 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 167 
 
 n 
 
 Queen of my heart, unquesiioned and alway. 
 
 Till death consume me, thou shalt he indeed. 
 Clary, that purgest my chagrins, sweet hay, 
 ■ That still as champion for my right dost 
 
 plead. 
 Reason ordains that I should ne^er he freed 
 {And therewithal my pleasure doth agree) 
 From thy sweet service, while the years 
 succeed; 
 And to this end we twain together be. 
 
 lU 
 
 And what is more, when dule doth me essay, 
 
 Through Fate that oftime lowers, with aH 
 speed 
 Thy dulcet looks her malice do away. 
 
 As wind disperses smoke from hill and mead. 
 
 In no wise, sweetest, do I lose the seed 
 Sown 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 lieed: 
 My heart shall not dissever aye from thee 
 
 Nor thine from me, if it aright I read : 
 And to this end we twain togetlier be.
 
 168 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 Ballad of Slanderous Tongues * 
 
 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: 
 
 ♦This Ballad is omitted.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 169 
 
 Wisdom forbids that in affray 
 With mighty men poor folk should strive, 
 
 Lest they spi'cad nets across the way, 
 To catch the vauntards in alive. 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 I fear not Gontier, that no man 
 
 Has nor is better off than I : 
 But now strife is betwixt us twain ; 
 
 For he exalteth poverty : 
 
 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. 
 
 * This Ballad is omitted. 
 
 Ballad Entitled the Counter 
 Blast to Fkanc-Gontier 
 
 Athwart a hole in the arras, t'other day, 
 I saw a fat priest lie on a down bed. 
 
 Hard by a fire; and by his side there lay 
 Dame Sydonie, fidl 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; * * * 
 
 ^r ^f "^ "^ ^^
 
 170 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 * * * Thence knew I 
 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 n 
 
 //, zenth 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) 
 
 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? 
 
 Like you not better bed and chair therenigh? 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 coidd 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! 
 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 heart I mind me (so it none displease)
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 171 
 
 Whilst yet a child, I heard folk- testify. 
 There is no treasure but to have one's ease. 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 Item, since Madame de Bruyeres 
 
 Her bible knows, to ])ubHsh it 
 (Barring the Gospels) unto her 
 
 And to her damsels I connnit, 
 
 To bring each glib-tongued wanton chit 
 To book ; but be the preachment not 
 
 Within the churchyards; far more fit 
 'Twere in the net-market, God wot. 
 
 Ballad of the Women of Paris 
 
 Though folk deem women young and old 
 
 Of Venice and Genoa well eno' 
 Favoured with speech, both glib and hold. 
 
 To carry messages to and fro; 
 
 Savoyards, Florentines less or more, 
 Romans and Lombards though folk renown^ 
 
 I, at my peril, I say no; 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
 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;
 
 172 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 But hail they from Athens or Grand Cairo, 
 Castile or Hungary, black or brown, 
 
 Greeks or Egyptians, high or low. 
 There's no right speech out of Paris town. 
 
 ni 
 
 Switz?rs 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; but 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 173 
 
 CXXXVI 
 
 Item, unto Mount Martyr hill 
 
 (Old past the memory of man) 
 Let them adjoin (it is my will) 
 
 The knoll called Mount Valerian: 
 
 I give it for a quarter's span 
 The indulgences 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: 
 
 ***** 
 
 « « « « « 
 
 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.
 
 174 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 : 
 
 As Jehanne and Perrctte 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 * 
 
 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: 
 
 * This Ballad is omitted.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 175 
 
 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 Well-beseen 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLIIl 
 
 Item, Ihe Hospitals unto 
 
 What to bequeath I hardly know: 
 Here jests are neither right nor due, 
 
 For sick poor folk have ills eno' : 
 
 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.
 
 176 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Near Angelot's the Herbalist, — 
 A lump of ice: let him applv'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 cars thereto, 
 But listen sadly : 'tis the last. 
 
 Seemly Lesson of Villon to the 
 good-for-noughts 
 
 Fair sons, you're wasting, ere you're old. 
 The fairest rose to you that jell. 
 
 You, that like the 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 Cayevlx lost his head.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 177 
 
 No trifling game is this to play. 
 
 Where one stakes soul and body too: 
 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. 
 
 Foolish and lewd I hold him who 
 Doth for so little risk his life. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 vn May. 
 
 If you have money, it doth not stay. 
 But this way and that it wastes amain: 
 
 What does it profit you, anyway? 
 Ill-gotten good is nobody'' s gain? 
 
 Ballad of Good Doctrine to Those 
 OF III Life 
 
 Peddle indulgences, as you may: 
 
 Cog the dice for your cheating throws: 
 
 Try if counterfeit coin zcill pay. 
 
 At risk of roasting at last, like those 
 That deal in treason. Lie and glose.
 
 178 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Rob and ravish: what profit it? 
 
 Who gets the purchase, do you suppose? 
 Taverns and wenches, every whit. 
 
 n 
 
 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. 
 
 ni 
 
 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 wede's worn, away it goes; 
 Taverns and wenches, every whit.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 179 
 
 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, nor Provins ones, for me) — 
 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 forever 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 and lustihead. 
 
 Soon all such joys must be resigned: 
 * i.e., in the churchyards.
 
 180 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 bow, 
 
 Whereof did some the sceptre sway, 
 Of others feared and courted, — now 
 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 bods of satin lay
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 181 
 
 And feed 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 make 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, Jacques 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 
 To some such tunc 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. 
 
 »
 
 182 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Judge if she be inveterate! 
 Reason meseemeth, past debate. 
 Her malice she should mollify 
 On my release. 
 
 Full of unreason is this Fate, 
 
 Which willeth but that I should die: 
 God grant that in His house on high 
 
 My SGul be ravished from her hate. 
 On my release. 
 
 CLIV 
 
 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 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 183 
 
 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. 
 
 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. Wollaway ! 
 If they should chance to lose their wage. 
 
 They must go shoeless many a day.
 
 184 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 sa^^s) 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, 
 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 ail. 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 185 
 
 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, 
 
 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 
 
 Item, I will that over it 
 
 That which ensues, without word more, 
 In letters large enough to 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.
 
 186 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 CLXV 
 
 Here lies and slumbers in this :^lace 
 One whom Love wreaked his ire upon: 
 
 A scholar, poor of goods and grace, 
 That hight of old Francois 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. 
 
 Roundel 
 
 ^ternam Requiem dona, 
 
 Lord God, and everlasting light. 
 To him who never had, poor Txnght, 
 
 Platter, or aught thereon to lay! 
 
 Hair, eyebrows, heard all fallen away. 
 Like a peeled turnip was his plight. 
 
 jEternam Requiem dona. 
 
 ExHe compelled him many a day 
 
 And death at last his breech did smite. 
 Though, "7 appeal," with all his might 
 
 The man in good plain speech did say. 
 
 iEternam Requiem dona. 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 Item, I will they toll for me 
 
 The "Belfry" Bell, that is so great
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 187 
 
 Of voice, that all astonicd 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 too little, six: (that is 
 What rich folk wont to give for fee:) 
 
 But they St. Stephen's loaves, ywis, 
 
 Shall he. Let Vollant share in this; 
 A man that earns his living hard: 
 
 'Twill furnish forth a week of his. 
 The other one.? 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 fulfill my thought and aim: 
 Write, I will name six names to thee. 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 First, Master Martin de Bellefaye, 
 The King's Lieutenant-criminel.
 
 188 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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, 
 Good men and true in their degrees: 
 
 Philip Brunei, the noble squire, 
 
 For next, his neighbour (an he please). 
 
 Master Jacques Raguyer, I desire. 
 
 CLXXl 
 
 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:
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 189 
 
 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. 
 
 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, he they white or be they grey; 
 
 Nuns, mumpers, chanters awry that tread 
 And clink their pattens on each highway; 
 
 Lackeys and handmaids, apparelled 
 
 In tight- fitting sur coats, white and red; 
 Gallants, whose boots o'er their ankles fall. 
 
 That vaunt and ruffle it unadread ; 
 I cry folk mercy, one and all.
 
 190 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 II 
 
 Wantons who all their charms display. 
 
 That so more custom to them be led. 
 Brawlers and jugglers and tumblers gay; 
 
 Clowns witli 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. 
 
 rn 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 191 
 
 Ballad, by Way of Ending 
 
 Here is ended {both great and small) 
 
 Poor Villon's Testament! Wh^n he is dead. 
 Come, I pray, to his funeral. 
 
 Whilst the bell tinkles overhead. 
 
 Come in cramozin garmented; 
 For to Love martyr did lie die. 
 
 TJiereof he swore on his manWi^ad, 
 Whenas he felt his end draw nigh. 
 
 n 
 
 For me, I warrant it true in all; 
 
 For of hi^ love, in shameful stead. 
 He was beaten off, like a bandy-ball. 
 
 From here to Roussillon as lie 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. 
 
 m 
 
 In such ill places his life did fall. 
 He had but a rag when he was sped : 
 
 And (yet more luckless) when death did call. 
 Love's prickle galled him; its wounds still bled 
 In him. His heart was heavy as lead 
 
 And salt tears stood in his dying eye: 
 At his despair we were wondered. 
 
 Whenas he felt his end draw nigh.
 
 192 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 Here Endeth the Greater Testament 
 OF Master Francois Villon
 
 DIVERS POEMS
 
 Here Follow Divers Poems of Master Fran- 
 cois Villon, Not Being Part of His 
 
 Lesser and Greater Testaments 
 
 Ballad of Villon in Prison 
 
 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 
 III fate, as God did thereanent decree. 
 
 Lasses and lovers, younglings manifold. 
 
 Dancers and mountebanks, alert and bold. 
 Nimble as squirrel from a crossbow shot 
 
 Singers, that troll as clear as bells of gold, — 
 Will you all leave poor Villon h-ere to rot? 
 
 n 
 
 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 toe, perdie: 
 Lo ! now, I die, whilst that you absent be 
 
 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 rolle^l. 
 Will you all leave poor Villon here to rot? 
 
 195
 
 196 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 in 
 
 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: 
 
 WiU you all leave poor Villon here to 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. 
 
 WUl you all leave poor Villon here to rot? 
 
 The Quatrain that Villon Made when 
 He W^as Doomed to Die 
 
 FRAN901S 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 to the Foregoing Epitaph 
 
 FRAN901S am I, — woe worth it me ! 
 
 — Corbier my surname is aright: >
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 197 
 
 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. 
 
 The Epitaph in Ballad Form that Villon Made 
 
 FOR Himself and His Companions, 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 fed, 
 '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! 
 
 n 
 
 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.
 
 198 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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! 
 
 Ill 
 
 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 199 
 
 Every my member branded with disgrace, — 
 Each on this fashion do ye speak and tell : 
 "Most Sovereign Court, by whom we here befell. 
 
 Thou that deliveredst us from sore dismays, 
 
 The tongue sufficeth 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!" 
 
 n 
 
 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 call, as well 
 Befits a lowly heart that Immbly 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! 
 
 in 
 
 And you, mj' 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 affra>'s : 
 And you, my body, (else you were more base 
 
 Than bear or swine that in the dunghill brood,) 
 Extol the Court, ere worser hap a,maze; 
 
 Sister of angels, mother of the good!
 
 200 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Prince, oi 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 
 
 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? ^
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 201 
 
 III 
 
 Think you that under my cap I feel 
 Not reason nor ableness there until, 
 
 Sufficient to say, "I do appeal"? 
 
 Enougli 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 my 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 "Noer till it's here.
 
 202 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 in 
 
 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 leagurcd 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 "NoeV' 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 203 
 
 Ballad of Things Known and Unknown 
 
 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 mi/self alone. 
 
 II 
 
 I know the pourpoint by the fell 
 And by his gown I know the frere: 
 
 Master by varlet I can spell : 
 
 Nuns by the veils that hide their hair: 
 T know the sharper and his snare 
 
 And fools that fat on catcs have grown: 
 Wines by the cask I can compare : 
 
 I know 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: 
 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.
 
 204 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Prince, I know all things : fat and spare ; 
 
 Rudy and pale, to me are known : 
 And Death that endeth all our care: 
 
 / know all save myself alone. 
 
 Ballab of Poor Chimneysweeps 
 
 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\ 
 
 n 
 
 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,
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 205 
 
 And quintain play, is hard, I know; 
 But, when all things consider we, 
 Poor chimneysweeps have toil eno*. 
 
 ui 
 
 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.] 
 
 Ballad of Fortune 
 
 I OF old time 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 cornplainest thou? If thou live ill, 
 
 Thou art not singular: so, peace, be still. 
 Think but how many niiglity men of 3'ore 
 I've laid stark dead to stiffen in their gore.
 
 206 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 By whom thou'rt but a scullion knave, perdie. 
 
 Content thee, then, and chide thy fate no m»re; 
 / rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree. 
 
 n 
 
 Oft have I girded me to wreak mj^ 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 Cassar 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: 
 
 / rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree. 
 
 in 
 
 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. 
 
 / rede thee, Villon, take it all in gree.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 2#7 
 
 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 
 
 Let him meet beasts that breathe out fiery rail 
 Even as did Jason hard by Colchis town : 
 
 Or seven years changed into a beast remain, 
 Nebuchadnezzar-like, to earth bowed down ; 
 
 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. 
 
 n 
 
 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
 
 208 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Or vesture, let him his misdeeds bewail ; 
 
 Or with Narcissus death by drowning 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 : 
 
 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, — 
 
 Who 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.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 20i> 
 
 Ballad of the Debate o-f the Heart 
 AND Body of Villon 
 
 VS^HAT 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 Hesse. — 
 
 What irks it thee? — / suffer the distress. 
 
 Leave me in peace. — Why.? — I will cast about. — 
 
 When will that be? — When I'm past childishness. — 
 / say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 n 
 
 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 (dl 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. — 
 
 / say no more. — And I can do without. 
 
 m 
 
 Dule have I, pain and misery thou thereby : 
 If thou wert some poor idiot, happily
 
 210 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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 ! 
 
 / 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 be. 
 
 Thereof see Solomon his homily ; 
 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. — 
 
 / 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 rout 
 And to amendment straightway thee address: 
 Delay not till thou come to hopelessness. 
 
 / say no more. — And I can do without.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 211 
 
 Ballad 
 
 Written by Villon upon a Subject Proposed by 
 
 Charles Due D'Orleans 
 
 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, 
 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!" 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I care for nought, yet all my life I've planned 
 Goods to acquire, although I've none at stake;
 
 212 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 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 m}' wage again is all my care; 
 
 Well entertained, rebuffed of every one. 
 
 Ballad of Villon's Request to 
 THE Due De Bourbon 
 
 Gracious my lord and prince of mickle dread, 
 Flower of the Lily, Royal progeny, 
 
 Francois ViJlon, 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 but waiting shalt thou lose thereby.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 213 
 
 n 
 
 Of no prince has thy creature borrowed, 
 
 Save of thyself, a single penny fee: 
 The six poor crowns were wholly spend in bread. 
 
 That whiles thy favour did advance to me. 
 
 All shall be paid together, I agree. 
 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. 
 
 ui 
 
 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 sh-^wn, 
 
 Nothing but rvaiting 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? 
 Give ear, if it so please thee, to mv moan : 
 
 Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby.
 
 SUNDRY POEMS 
 ATTRIBUTED TO VILLON
 
 Here Follow Sun'dry Poems Commonly 
 Attributed to Master Frax(,ois 
 
 ViLLOX 
 
 ROUNDEL 
 
 Farewell, I so if, with tearful eye. 
 
 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 ])oor heart needs must part from thee; 
 Farewell, I say, xvith 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! 
 Farewell, I say, with tearful eye. 
 
 A Merry Ballad of Vintners 
 
 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 svvoi'd or well-ground ace. 
 By dig of dirk or tuck with double face. 
 
 Let them be done to death: or lit Hmmu licrht 
 
 217
 
 218 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 On some ill stead, where brigands lurk by night, 
 That they the hearts from out their breasts may 
 
 tear, 
 Cut off 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, 
 
 The vintners that put water in our wine. 
 
 n 
 
 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 ky 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
 ni 
 
 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,
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 219 
 
 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 ray prayer; 
 
 And may they burst with venom all, in fine, 
 These traitorous thieves, accursed and unfair. 
 
 The vintners that put water in our wme. 
 
 Ballad of the Tree of Love 
 
 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 bitt. 
 
 But, since to set it there Love did begin. 
 It hath so mightily struck root and spread 
 Tliat, 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. 
 
 n 
 
 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
 
 220 VILI.OX'S POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 where 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 suffer not thy constant thought be led 
 
 Other to plant or tear the old away.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 221 
 
 Ballad of Ladies' Love 
 No. 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 ; 
 
 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.^^ 
 
 n 
 
 So chanced in 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 
 L'^pon a graybeard, rich but foul as hell: 
 
 A man more hideous never women 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.'*^
 
 222 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 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.j 
 
 The wealthy gallant always gains the day. 
 
 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 gams the day. 
 
 Ballad of Ladies' Love * 
 No. 2 
 
 Here Endeth the Book of the Poems 
 OF Master Frav^ois Villon 
 
 * This Ballad is omitted.
 
 THREE TRANSLATIONS BY 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
 
 TZLI 
 
 Ls 
 
 ffbe 
 
 Ni 
 
 SI 
 But 
 
 Wti 
 
 F 
 
 Lo, 
 
 Wl
 
 The Ballad of Dead Ladies 
 
 Tell me now in wliat hidden way is 
 
 Lady Flora the lovely Roman? 
 Where's Hipparchia, and v/here is Thais, 
 
 Neither of them the fairer woman? 
 
 Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 
 Only heard on ri\er and mere, — 
 
 She whose beauty was more than human? 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 • c 
 
 Where's Heloise, the learned nun, 
 For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, 
 
 Lost manhood and put priesthood on? 
 (From Love he won such dule and teen!) 
 And where, I pray you, is the Queen 
 
 Who willed that Buridan should steer 
 
 Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
 With a voice like any mermaiden, — 
 
 Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 
 
 And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
 And that good Joan whom Englishmen 
 
 At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
 Mother of God, where are they then? . . . 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 225
 
 226 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 
 
 Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 
 
 Save with this much for an overword, — 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 II 
 
 To Death, of His Lady 
 
 Death, of thee do I make my moan, 
 Who hadst my lady away from me, 
 Nor wilt assuage thine enmity 
 
 Till with her life thou hast mine own ; 
 
 For since that hour my strength has flown. 
 Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee. 
 
 Death? 
 
 Two we were, and the heart was one; 
 
 Which now being dead, dead I must be, 
 
 Or seem alive as lifelessly 
 As in the choir the painted stone, 
 
 Death ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 His Mother's Service to Our Lady 
 
 Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal 
 
 Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,- 
 
 I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call. 
 Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, 
 Albeit in nought I be commendable. 
 
 But all mine undeserving may not mar 
 
 Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are ; 
 Without the which (as true words testify)
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 227 
 
 No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. 
 Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 
 
 Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, 
 And to me graceless make Him gracious. 
 
 Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss. 
 Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, 
 Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus 
 
 Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. 
 
 Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass 
 
 (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!) 
 
 The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. 
 Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 
 
 A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, 
 I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore. 
 
 Within my parish-cloister I behold 
 
 A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, 
 And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore: 
 
 One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. 
 
 That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — 
 Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; 
 
 And that which faith desires, that let it see. 
 For in this faith I choose to live and die. 
 
 O excellent Virgin Princess ! thou didst bear 
 King Jesus, the most excellent comforter, 
 
 Who even of this our weakness craved a share 
 And for our sake stooped to us from on high. 
 
 Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. 
 
 Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare. 
 And in this faith I choose to live and die.
 
 TEN TRANSLATIONS BY ALGERNON 
 CHARLES SWINBURNE
 
 The Complaint of the Fair Armouress 
 
 Meseemeth I heard cry and groan 
 
 That sweet who was the armourer's maid ; 
 
 For her young years she made sore moan, 
 And right upon this wise she said : 
 
 "Ah fierce old age with foul bald head, 
 
 To spoil fair things thou art over fain ; 
 
 Who holdeth me? who? would God I were deaid! 
 
 Would God I were well dead and slain ! 
 
 **Lo, thou hast broken the sweet yoke 
 That my high beauty held above 
 
 All priests and clerks and merchant-folk; 
 There was not one but for my love 
 Would give me gold and gold enough. 
 
 Though sorrow his very heart had riven. 
 To win from me such wage thereof 
 
 As now no thief would take if given. 
 
 231
 
 232 VILLON'S TOEMS 
 
 III 
 
 "I was right chary of the same, 
 
 God wot it was my great folly, 
 For love of one sly knave of them. 
 
 Good store of that same sweet had he; 
 
 For all ni}' subtle wiles, perdie, 
 God wot I loved him well enow ; 
 
 Right evilly handled me, 
 But he loved well my gold, I trow. 
 
 IV 
 
 t<i 
 
 Though I gat bruises green and black, 
 I loved him never the less a jot; 
 
 Though he bound burdens on my back. 
 If he said, 'Kiss me, and heed it not,' 
 Right little pain I felt, God wot, 
 
 When that foul thief's mouth, found so sweet, 
 Kissed me — Much good thereof I got! 
 
 I keep the sin and the shame of it. 
 
 "And he died thirty year agone. 
 
 I am old now, no sweet thing to see; 
 By God, though, when I think thereon. 
 
 And of that good glad time, woe's me, 
 
 And stare upon my changed body 
 Stark naked, that has been so sweet. 
 
 Lean, wizen, like a small dry tree, 
 I am nigh mad with the pain of it.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 233 
 
 VI 
 
 "\\Tiere is my faultless forehead's white, 
 
 The lifted eyebrows, soft gold hair. 
 Eyes wide apart and keen of sight, 
 
 With subtle skill in the amorous air; 
 
 The straight nose, great nor small, but fair. 
 The small carved ears of shapeliest growth, 
 
 Chin dimpling, colour good to wear. 
 And sweet red splendid kissing mouth? 
 
 vn 
 
 <( 
 
 The shapely slender shoulders small, 
 Long arms, hands wrought in glorious wise, 
 Round little breasts, the hips withal 
 High, full of flesh, not scant of size. 
 
 Fit for all amorous masteries ; 
 
 ♦ * * * * 
 
 • * » ♦ ♦ 
 
 ♦ * ♦ * « 
 
 vm 
 
 "A writhled forehead, hair gone grey, 
 
 Fallen eyebrows, eyes gone blind and red. 
 Their laughs and looks all fled away. 
 
 Yea, all that smote men's hearts are fled ; 
 
 The bowed nose, fallen from goodlihead : 
 Foul flapping ears like water-flags ; 
 
 Peaked chin, and cheeks all waste and dead, 
 And lips that are two skinny rags:
 
 234 VILLOxN'S TOEMS 
 
 IX 
 
 "Thus endeth all the beauty of us. 
 
 The arms made short, the hands made lean, 
 The shoulders bowed and ruinous, 
 
 The breasts, alack ! all fallen in ; 
 
 The flanks too, like the breasts, grown thin; 
 
 ***** 
 
 For the lank thighs, no thighs but skin. 
 They are specked with spots like sausage-meat. 
 
 "So we make moan for the old sweet days, 
 
 Poor old light women, two or three 
 Squatting above the straw-fire's blaze. 
 
 The bosom crushed against the knee, 
 
 Like fagots on a heap we be. 
 Round fires soon lit, soon quenched and done; 
 
 And we were once so sweet, even we ! 
 Thus fareth many and many an one." 
 
 II 
 
 A Double Ballad of Good Counsel 
 
 Now take your fill of love and glee. 
 And after balls and banquets hie; 
 
 In the end ye'll get no good for fee, 
 But just heads broken by and by;
 
 VILLON'S P0E:\IS 235 
 
 Light loves make beasts of men that sigh ; 
 They changed the faitli of Solomon, 
 
 And left not Samson lights to spy ; 
 Good luck has he that deals with none ! 
 
 Sweet Orpheus, lord of minstrelsy. 
 
 For this with flute and pipe came nigh 
 The danger of the dog's heads three 
 
 That ravening at hell's door doth lie; 
 
 Fain was Narcissus, fair and shy, 
 For love's love lightly lost and won, 
 
 In a deep well to drown and die ; 
 Good luck has he that deals with none ! 
 
 Sardana, flower of chivalry, 
 
 Who conquered Crete with horn and cry, 
 For this was fain a maid to be 
 
 And learn with girls the thread to ply ; 
 
 King David, wise in prophecy. 
 Forgot the fear of God for one 
 
 Seen washing either shapely thigh; 
 Good luck has he that deals with none! 
 
 For this did Amnon, craftily 
 
 Feigning to eat of cakes of rye, 
 
 Deflower his sister fair to see. 
 
 Which was foul incest ; and hereby 
 Was Herod moved, it is no lie. 
 
 To lop the head of Baptist John 
 
 For dance and jig and y)saltcry ; 
 
 Good luck has he that deals with none!
 
 236 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Next of myself I tell, poor me, 
 
 How thrashed like clothes at wash was I 
 Stark naked, I must needs agree; 
 
 Who made me eat so sour a pie 
 
 But Katherine of Vaucelles? thereby 
 Noe took third part of that fun ; 
 
 Such wedding-gloves are ill to buy; 
 Good luck has he that deals with none! 
 
 But for that young man fair and free 
 
 To pass those young maids lightly by, 
 
 Nay, would you burn him quick, not he; 
 
 Like broom-horsed witches though he fry, 
 They are sweet as civet in his eye; 
 
 But trust them, and you're fooled anon; 
 For white or brown, and low or high, 
 
 Good luck has he that deals with none! 
 
 Ill 
 Fragment on Death 
 
 And Paris be it or Helen dying, 
 
 Who dies soever, dies with pain. 
 
 He that lacks breath and wind for sighing, 
 His gall bursts on his heart; and then 
 He sweats, God knows what sweat! again, 
 
 No man may ease him of his grief; 
 
 Child, brother, sister, none were fain 
 
 To bail him thence for his relief.
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 237 
 
 Death makes him shudder, swoon, wax palu, 
 
 Nose bend, veins stretch, and breath surrender, 
 Neck swell, flesh soften, joints that fail 
 
 Crack their strained nerves and arteries slender. 
 
 O woman's body found so tender. 
 Smooth, sweet, so precious in men's eyes, 
 
 Must thou too bear such count to render? 
 Yes ; or pass quick into the skies. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ballad of the Lords of Old Time 
 (after the former argument) 
 
 What more? Where is the third Calixt, 
 
 Last of that name now dead and gone, 
 Who held four years the Papalist? 
 
 Alfonso king of Aragon, 
 
 The gracious lord, duke of Bourbon, 
 And Arthur, duke of old Britaine? 
 
 And Charles the Seventh, that worthy one? 
 Even with the good knight Charlemain. 
 
 The Scot too, king of mount and mist. 
 
 With half his face vermilion. 
 Men tell us, like an amethyst 
 
 From brow to chin that blazed and shone ; 
 
 The Cypriote king of old renown, 
 Alas ! and that good king of Spain, 
 
 Whose name I cannot think upon? 
 Even with the good knight Charlemain.
 
 238 VILLON -S POEMS 
 
 No more to say of them I list ; 
 
 'Tis all but vain, all dead and done: 
 For death may no man born resist, 
 
 Nor make appeal when death comes on. 
 
 I make yet one more question ; 
 Where's Lancelot, king of far Bohain? 
 
 Where's he whose grandson called him son? 
 Even with the good knight Charlemain. 
 
 Where is Guesclin, the good Breton? 
 
 The lord of the eastern mountain-chain, 
 And the good late duke of Alen9on? 
 
 Even with the good knight Charlemain. 
 
 Ballad of the Women of Paris 
 
 Albeit the Venice girls get praise 
 
 For their sweet speech and tender air, 
 And though the old women have wise ways 
 
 Of chaffering for amorous ware, 
 
 Yet at my peril dare I swear, 
 Search Rome, where God's grace mainly tarries, 
 
 Florence and Savoy, everywhere. 
 There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 
 
 The Naples women, as folk prattle. 
 
 Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough: 
 
 German girls are good at tattle, 
 
 And Prussians make their boast thereof;
 
 MLLOX'S rOE.MS '239 
 
 Take Egypt for the next remove, 
 Or that waste land the Tartar harries, 
 
 Spain or Greece, for the matter of love, 
 There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 
 
 Breton and Swiss know nougiit of the matter, 
 
 Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse ; 
 Two fishwomen with a half-hour's chatter 
 
 Would shut them up by threes and twos ; 
 
 Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews, 
 (Names enow the mad song marries) 
 
 England and Picardy, search them and choose, 
 There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 
 
 Prince, give praise to our French ladies 
 
 For the sweet sound their speaking carries ; 
 
 'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is, 
 But no good girl's lip out of Paris. 
 
 VI 
 
 Ballad Written for a Bridegroom 
 
 which villon gave to a gentleman newly mar- 
 ried to send to his wife whom he had won 
 with the sword 
 
 At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings. 
 No whit for grief, but noble heart and high 
 
 With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs. 
 And takes his meat and towai'd his lure draws nigh ; 
 Such good I wish you ! Yea, and heartily
 
 240 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 I am fired with hope of true love's meed to get; 
 
 Know that Love writes it in his book ; for why, 
 This is the end for which we twain are met. 
 
 Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings 
 
 You shall be always wholly till I die ; 
 And in my right against all bitter things 
 
 Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try; 
 
 Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by 
 (Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret) 
 
 Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly; 
 This is the end for which we twain are met. 
 
 And, which is more, when grief about me clings 
 
 Through Fortune's fit or fume of jealousy, 
 Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings 
 
 As wind doth smoke ; such power sits in your eye. 
 
 Thus in your field my seed of harvestry 
 Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set; 
 
 God bids me tend it with good husbandry ; 
 This is the end for which we twain are met. 
 
 Princess, give ear to this my summar}^ ; 
 
 That heart of mine your heart's love should forget, 
 Shall never be : like trust in you put I : 
 
 This is the end for which we twain are met. 
 
 VII 
 
 Ballad Against the Enemies of France 
 
 May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire, 
 
 Like Jason, when he sought the fleece of gold,
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 241 
 
 Or change from man to beast three years entire, 
 
 As King Nebuchadnezzar did of old ; 
 Or else have times as shameful and as bad 
 As Trojan folk for ravished Helen had: 
 Or gulfed with Proserpine and Tantalus 
 Let hell's deep fen devour him dolorous, 
 
 With worse to bear than Job's worst sufferance, 
 Bound in his prison-maze with Daedalus, 
 
 Who could wish evil to the state of France! 
 
 May he four months, like bitterns in the mire, 
 
 Howl with head downmost in the lake-springs 
 cold 
 Or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire 
 
 To the Great Turk for money down be sold ; 
 Or thirty years like Magdalen live sad. 
 With neither wool nor web of linen clad: 
 Drown like Narciss', or swing down pendulous 
 Like Absalom with locks luxurious, 
 
 Or liker Judas fallen to reprobance ; 
 Or find such death as Simon sorcerous, 
 
 Who could wish evil to the state of France! 
 
 May the old times come of fierce Octavian's ire, 
 
 And in his belly molten coin be told ; 
 May he like Victor in the mill expire, 
 
 Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled, 
 Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad 
 Than in the whale's bulk Jonas, when God bade: 
 From Phoebus' light, from Juno's treasure-house 
 Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous. 
 
 And cursed of God most high to the utterance,
 
 •242 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 As was the Syrian king Antiochus, 
 
 Who could wish evil to the state of France ! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Prince, may the bright-winged brood of ^olus 
 To sea-king Glaucus' wild wood cavernous 
 
 Bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance, 
 For worthless is he to get good of us, 
 
 Who could wish evil to the state of France! 
 
 VIII 
 
 The Dispute of ttie Heart and Body of 
 Francois Villon 
 
 Who is this I hear? — Lo, this is I, thine heart, 
 That holds on merely- now by a slender string. 
 
 Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, 
 The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing. 
 Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering. — 
 
 Yea, and for what? — For that thy sense found 
 sweet.— 
 
 What irks it thee? — I feel the sting of it. — 
 
 Leave me at peace. — Why ? — Nay now, leave me 
 at peace ; 
 
 I will repent when I grow ripe in wit. — 
 
 I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. — 
 
 What art thou, trow? — A man worth praise per- 
 fay.— 
 This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring. — 
 'Tis a mule's age. — Art thou a boy still? — Nay. — 
 Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting. 
 Grasping th}' throat? Know'st thou not any- 
 thing? —
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 243 
 
 Yea, black and nhite, when milk is specked with flies, 
 I can make out. — No more? — Nay, in no wise. 
 
 Shall I bcf^in again the count of these? — 
 Thou art undone. — I will make shift to rise. — 
 
 I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. — 
 
 I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. 
 
 Wert thou a ])oor mad fool or weak of wit, 
 Then might'st thou yilcad this pretext with thine 
 heart ; 
 
 But if thou know not good from evil a whit, 
 
 Either thy head is hard as stone to hit. 
 Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content. 
 What canst thou answer to this argument? — 
 
 When I am dead I shall be well at ease. — 
 God ! what good luck ! — Thou art over eloquent. — 
 
 I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. — 
 
 Whence is this ill? — From sorrow and not from sin. 
 
 When Saturn packed my wallet up for me 
 I well believe he put these ills therein. — 
 
 Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee? 
 
 Hear now the wise king's counsel ; thus saith he ; 
 All power upon the stars a wise man hath : 
 There is no planet that shall do him scathe. — 
 
 Nay, as they mad? me I grow and I decrease. — 
 What say'st thou? — Truly this is all my faith. — 
 
 I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. — 
 
 W^ouldst thou live still ? — God help me that I may ! — 
 Then thou must — ^Vllat? turn penitent and pray.'' — 
 Read always — What? — Grave words and good to 
 say;
 
 244 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 Leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease. — 
 Good: I will do it. — Wilt thou remember? — Yea. — 
 Abide not till there come an evil day. 
 
 I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. 
 
 IX 
 
 Epistle in Form of a Ballad to His Friends 
 
 Have pity, pity, friends, have pity on me, 
 
 Thus much at least, may it please you, of your 
 grace ! 
 
 I lie not under hazel or hawthorn-tree 
 
 Down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile's place 
 B}' leave of God and fortune's foul disgrace. 
 
 Girls, lovers, glad young folk and newly wed, 
 
 Jumpers and jugglers, tumbling heel o'er head. 
 Swift as a dart, and sharp as needle-ware, 
 
 Throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed, 
 Your poor old friend, what, will you leave hira 
 there .'' 
 
 Singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly. 
 
 Light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race 
 
 And run like folk light-wittcd as ye be 
 
 And have in hand nor current coin nor base. 
 Ye wait too long, for now he's dying apace. 
 
 Rhvmcrs of lays and roundels sung and read, 
 
 Ye'll brew him broth too late when he lies dead. 
 Nor wind nor lightning, sunbeam nor fresh air. 
 
 May pierce the thick wall's bound where lies his bed ; 
 
 Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? 
 there ?
 
 VILLON'S POEMS 245 
 
 O noble folk from tithes and taxes free, 
 
 Come and behold him in this piteous case, 
 
 Ye that nor king nor emperor holds in fee, 
 But only God in heaven ; behold his face 
 Who needs must fast, Sundays and holidays, 
 
 Which makes his teeth like rakes ; and when he hath 
 fed 
 
 With never a cake for banquet but dry bread. 
 
 Must drench his bowels with much cold watery fare, 
 
 With board nor stool, but low on earth instead ; 
 
 Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? 
 
 Princes afore-named, old and young foresaid, 
 Get me the king's seal and my pardon sped, 
 
 And hoist me in some basket up with care: 
 So swine will help each other ill bested. 
 For where one squeaks they run in heaps ahead. 
 
 Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him 
 there ? 
 
 X 
 
 The Epitaph in Form of a Ballad 
 
 which villon made for himself and his com- 
 rades, expecting to be hanged alon<j with 
 
 THEM 
 
 Men, brother men, that after us yet live. 
 Let not your hearts too hard against us be; 
 
 For if some pity of us poor men ye give. 
 The sooner God shall take of you pity. 
 Here are we five or six strung uj), you see,
 
 246 VILLON'S POEMS 
 
 And here the flesh that all too well we fed 
 Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, 
 
 And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; 
 Let no man laugh at us discomforted, 
 
 But pray to God that he forgive us all. 
 
 If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, 
 
 Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we 
 Were slain by law ; ye know that all alive 
 
 Have not wit alway to walk righteously ; 
 
 Make therefore intercession heartily 
 With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, 
 That his grace be not as a dry well-head 
 
 For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; 
 We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, 
 
 But pray to God that he forgive us all. 
 
 The rain has washed and laundered us all five, 
 And the sun dried and blackened ; yea, perdie, 
 
 Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive 
 Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee 
 Our beards and eyebrows ; never we are free, 
 
 Not once, to rest ; but here and there still sped, 
 
 Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led, 
 More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; 
 
 Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said, 
 But pray to God that he forgive us all. 
 
 Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, 
 Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; 
 
 We have nought to do in such a master's hall. 
 IV? not ye therefore of our fellowhead. 
 
 But pray to God that he forgive us all.
 
 On the following pages will be found 
 the complete list of titles in "The Mod- 
 ern Library," including those published 
 during the Fall of Nineteen Hundred 
 and Nineteen. New titles are added 
 in the Spring and Fall of every year.
 
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 Modern Library of the World's Best Books 
 LIST OF TITLES 
 
 For convenience in ordering please use number at right cf title. 
 
 A MODERN BOOK OF CRITICISMS (81) 
 
 Fdited with an Introduction by 
 LUDWIG LEWISHON 
 
 ANDREYEV, LEONID (1871- ) 
 
 The Seven That Were Hanged and The Red 
 Laugh (45) 
 
 Introduction by THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 ATHERTON, GERTRUDE 
 Rezanov (71) 
 
 Introduction by WILLIAM MARION REEDY 
 
 BALZAC, HONORE DE (1799-1850) 
 
 Short Stories (40) 
 BAUDELAIRE, PIERRE CHARLES (1821-1867) 
 
 His Prose and Poetry (70) 
 
 BEARDSLEY, THE ART OF AUBREY (1872-189S) 
 64 Black and White Reproductions (42) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR SYMONS 
 
 BEERHOHM, MAX (1872- ) 
 Zuleika Dobson (50) 
 
 Introduction by FRANCIS HACKETT 
 
 BEST GHOST STORIES (73) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR B. REEVE 
 
 BEST HUMOROUS AMERICAN SHORT 
 STORIES (87) 
 
 Edited with an Introduction by 
 ALEXANDER JESSUP 
 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES (18) 
 
 Edited with an Introduction by 
 THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL (1835-1902) 
 
 The Way of All Flesh (13) 
 CARPENTER, EDWARD (1844- ) 
 
 Love Coming of Age (51) 
 
 CHEKHOV, ANTON (1860-1904) 
 
 Rothschild's Fiddle and Thirteen Other 
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 CHESTERTON, G. K. (1874- ) 
 
 The Man Who Was Thursday (35)
 
 Modern Library of the World's Best Books 
 
 D'ANNUNZIO, GABRIELE (1864- ) 
 The Flame of Life (65) 
 
 DAUDET, ALPHONSE (1840-1897) 
 Sapho (85) 
 
 In same volume with Prev-ost's "Maion 
 Lescaut" 
 
 DOSTOYEVSKY, FEDOR (1831-1881) 
 Poor People (10) 
 
 Introduction by THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 DOWSON, ERNEST (1867-1900) 
 Poems and Prose (74) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR SYMONS 
 
 DUNSANY, LORD (Edward John Plunkett) 
 US78- ) 
 
 A Dreamer's Tales (34) 
 
 Introduction by PADRIAC COLUM 
 
 Book of Wonder (43) 
 
 EVOLUTION IN MODERN THOUGHT (37> 
 A Symposium, including Essays by Haeckei, 
 Thomson, Weismann, etc. 
 
 FLAUBERT, GUSTAVE (1821-1880) 
 Madame Bovary (28) 
 
 FRANCE, ANATOLE (1844- ) 
 
 The Red Lily (7) 
 
 The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard (22) 
 Introduction by L.-\FCADIO HEARN 
 GAUTIER, THEOPHILE (1811-1872) 
 
 Mile, de Maupin (53) 
 
 GEORGE, W. L. (1882- ) 
 A Bed of Roses (75) 
 
 Introduction by EDGAR SALTUS 
 GILBERT, W. S. (1836-1911) 
 
 The Mikado. The Pirates of Penzance. lolanthe. 
 The Gondoliers (26) 
 
 Introduction by CL.ARENCE DAY, Jr. 
 
 GISSING, GEORGE (1S57-1903) 
 
 The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft (46) 
 
 Introduction by PAUL ELMER MORE 
 
 De GONCOURT, E. and J. (1822-1896) (1830-1870) 
 Renee Mauperin (76) 
 
 Introduction bv EMILE ZOLA
 
 Modern Library of the World's Best Books 
 
 GORKY, MAXIM (1868- ) 
 
 Creatures That Once Were Men and Four 
 Other Stories (48) 
 
 Introduction by G. K. CHESTERTON 
 
 HARDY, THOMAS (1840- ) 
 
 The Mayor of Casterbridge (17) 
 Introduction by JOYCE KILIVLER 
 
 HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN (1837- ) 
 A Hazard of New Fortunes (25) 
 
 introduction by ALEXANDER HARVEY 
 
 IBANEZ, VICENTE BLASCO (1867- ) 
 The Cabin (69) 
 
 Introduction bv 
 
 JOHN GARRETT UNDERHILL 
 
 IBSEN, HENRIK (1828-1906) 
 
 A Doll's House, Ghosts, An Enemy of the 
 People (6); Hedda Gabler, Pillars of Society, 
 The Master Builder (36) 
 
 Introduction by H. L. MENCKEN 
 The Wild Duck, Rosmersholm, The League of 
 Youth (54) 
 
 JAMES, HENRY (1843-1916) 
 
 Daisy Miller and An International Episode (63) 
 
 Introduction by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 
 
 KIPLING, RUDYARD (1865- ) 
 Soldiers Three (3) 
 
 LATZKO, ANDREAS (1876- ) 
 Men in War (88) 
 
 MACY, JOHN (1877- ) 
 
 The Spirit of American Literature (56) 
 
 MAETERLINCK, MAURICE (1862- ) 
 
 A Miracle of St. Antony, Pelleas and Melisande, 
 The Death of Tintagiles, AUadine and Palomides, 
 Interior, The Intruder (11) 
 
 De MAUPASSANT, GUY (1850-1893) 
 Love and Other Stories (72) 
 
 Edited and translated with an Introduction by 
 
 MICHAEL MONAHAN 
 Mademoiselle Fifi, and Twelve Other Stories (8) 
 Une Vie (57) 
 
 Introduction by HENRY JAMES
 
 Modern Library of the World's Best Books 
 
 MEREDITH, GEORGE (1828-1909) 
 Diana of the Crossways (14) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR SYMONS 
 
 MOORE, GEORGE (1853- ) 
 
 Confessions of a Young Man (16) 
 
 Introduction by FLOYD DELI. 
 
 NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH (1844-1900) 
 Thus Spake Zarathustra (9) 
 
 Introduction by 
 
 FRAU FOERSTER-NIETZSCHE 
 Beyond Good and Evil (20) 
 
 Introduction by 
 
 WILLARD HUXTIXGTON WRIGHT 
 Genealogy of Morals (62) 
 
 NORRIS, FRANK (1870-1902) 
 McTeague (60) 
 
 Introduction by HENRY S. PANCOAST 
 
 PATER, WALTER (1839-1894) 
 The Renaissance (86) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR SYMONS 
 
 PREVOST, ANTOINE FRANCOIS (1697-1763) 
 Manon Lescaut (85) 
 
 In same volume with Daudet's Sapho 
 
 RODIN, THE ART OF (1840-1917) 
 
 64 Black and White Reproductions (41) 
 Introduction by LOUIS WEINBERG 
 
 ROOSEVELT, THEODORE (1858-1919) 
 
 Selected Addresses and Public Papers (78) 
 
 Edited with an Introduction by 
 ALBERT BUSHNELL HART 
 
 SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR (1862- ) 
 
 Anatol, Living Hours, The Green Cockatoo (32> 
 
 Introduction by ASHLEY DUKES 
 Bertha Garlan (39) 
 
 SCHOPENHAUER, ARTHUR (1738-1S60) 
 Studies in Pessimism (12) 
 
 Introduction by T. B. SAUNDERS 
 
 SHAW, G. B. (1856- ) 
 
 Aji Unsocial Socialist (15)
 
 Modern Library of the World's Best Books 
 
 SINCLAIR, MAY 
 The Belfry (68) 
 
 STEPHENS, JAMES 
 Mary, Mary (30) 
 
 Introduction by PADRIAiC'GOLUM 
 
 STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS (1850-1894N 
 Treasure Island (4) 
 
 STIRNER, MAX (Johann Caspar Schmidt) 
 
 The Ego and His Own (49) 
 
 STRINDBERG, AUGUST (1849-1912) 
 
 Married (2) 
 
 Introduction by THOMAS SELTZER 
 Miss Julie, The Creditor, The Stronjier Woman, 
 
 Motherly Love, Paria, Simoon (52) 
 
 SUDERMANN, HERMANN (1857- ) 
 Dame Care (33) 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES 
 
 (1837-1909) 
 
 Poems (23) 
 
 Introduction by ERNEST RHYS 
 
 THOMPSON, FRANCIS (1859-1907) 
 Complete Poems (38) 
 
 TOLSTOY, LEO (1828-1910) 
 
 Redemption and Two Other Plays (77) 
 
 Introduction by ARTHUR HOPKINS 
 The Death of Ivan Uyitch and Four Other 
 Stories (64) 
 
 TRAUBEL, HORACE (1858- ) 
 Chants Communal (79) 
 
 Special Introduction by the author for this 
 edition 
 
 TURGENEV, IVAN (1818-1883) 
 Fathers and Sons (21) 
 
 Introduction by THOMAS SELTZER 
 Smoke (80) 
 
 Introduction by JOHN REED 
 
 VILLON, FRANCOIS (1431-1461) 
 Poems (58) 
 
 Introduction by JOHN PaYNE
 
 Modern Library of the World's Best Book; 
 
 VOLTAIRE. (FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET) 
 
 (1694-1778) 
 
 Candide (47) 
 
 Introduction by PHILIP LITTELL 
 
 WELLS, H. G. (1866- ) 
 The War in the Air (5) 
 
 Xew Preface by H. G. Wells for this edition 
 
 Ann Veronica (27) 
 
 WILDE, OSCAR (1856-1900) 
 
 Dorian Gray (1) 
 
 Poems (19) 
 
 Fairy Tales and Poems in Prose (61) 
 
 Salome, The Importance of Being Earnest, 
 
 Lady Windermere's Fan (83) 
 
 Introduction by EDGAR SALTUS 
 
 An Ideal Husband, A Woman of No 
 Importance (84) 
 
 WILSON, WOODROW (1856- ) 
 Selected Addresses and Public Papers (55) 
 
 F.dited with an Introduction bv 
 ALBERT RUSHXELL HART 
 
 WOMAN QUESTION, THE (59) 
 
 A Symposium, including Essays by Ellen Key, 
 Havelock Ellis, G. Lowes Dickinson, etc. 
 
 Edited by T.R. SMITH 
 
 YEATS, W. B. (1865- ) 
 
 Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (44)
 
 edition ii 
 
 TURGENEV, IVAN (1818-1883) ' 
 
 Fathers and Sons (21) 
 
 Introduction by THOMAS SELTZER 
 Smoke (80) 
 
 Introduction by JOHN REED 
 
 VILLON, FRANCOIS (1431-1461) 
 Poems (58) 
 
 Introduction by JOHN PaYNE
 
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