Le Testament, also called Le Grand Testament, long poem by François Villon, written in and published in It consists of 2, octosyllabic lines. François Villon was a poet of the first order. In his themes and poetic forms, his poetry is characteristically medieval, although many critics consider that the. On ne sait guère de la vie de François Villon que ce qu’il en dit lui-même, et l’on en sait trop. .. Dans le Grand Testament, il dit qu’il «parle un peu poictevin.
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The Testament of Francois Villon by François Villon
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. This would make her an exact or close contemporary of Thais, beautiful Athenian courtesan and mistress of Alexander the Great BC.
Epitaph et Rondeau Ballade: Du Concours De Blois Ballade: Where is that wise girl Eloise, For whom was gelded, to his great shame, Peter Abelard, at Saint Denis, For love of her enduring pain, And where now is that queen again, Who teatament them to throw Buridan in a sack, in the Seine? Oh, Where are they Virgin, you who reign?
Who cares, who, for my distress, Or whether at all your blows Cillon die? I feigned to him unwillingness, But, by my soul, I loved him bad. What he showed was his roughness, Loving me only for what I had. And I live on, old, and grey. My arching lashes, yellow hair, Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones, That took in the cleverest there: Nose not too big or small: The fine slender shoulder-blades: The long arms, with tapering hands: Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey: Nose bent from beauty, ears thin, Hanging down like moss, a face, Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.
This is the end of human beauty: Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet: The shoulders hunched up utterly: In full retreat, Same with the hips, as with the teats: Your grace, my Lady and Mistress Is greater than my sinfulness, Grace without which, I tell no lie, None deserve their blessedness.
In this faith let me live and die. Testxment to your Son that I am His. Through Him all my sins are lost: Protect me always from like excess, Virgin, who bore, without a cry, Christ whom we celebrate at Mass.
I am a woman, poor and old, I can neither read nor spell. At Mass in church, here, I behold, A painted Heaven, with harps: One gives me joy: With not even one blow landing?
Or will Pity, in line with all I ask here, Succour a poor man, without crushing? Even for this end are we come together. As, in your field, I plant I lose no grain, For the harvest resembles me, and ever God orders me to plough, and sow again: Princess, listen to this I now maintain: That my heart and yours will not dissever: So much I presume of you, and claim: What harm alive, to you, was she?
Death, I cry out at your harshness, That stole my girl away from me. Two we were, with one heart blessed: He never reaped a morsel of corn: Willed all away, as all men know: Bed, table, and basket all are gone. Gallants, now sing his song below: Oh, grant him now eternal peace.
The Testament of Francois Villon
Exiled with strict severity, Rapped behind with a spade, despite It all he cried: Near the flame, I shiver beyond belief: Bare as a worm, dressed in a furry sheathe, I smile in tears, wait without expectation: Taking my comfort in sad desperation: I rejoice, without pleasures, never a one: Strong I am, without power or persuasion, Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
Obscure, whatever is plainly clear to see: Science is what happens accidentally: Lies, truth, to me are all one under the sun: I remember all, have the wisdom of a stone, Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
What more can I do? Epistre Have pity now, have pity now on me, If you at least would, friends of mine.
Girls, lovers, youngsters, fresh to francols, Dancers, tumblers that leap like lambs, Agile as arrows, like shots from a cannon, Throats tinkling, clear as bells on rams, Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon? Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?
Le Testament – Wikipedia
So pigs behave, to each fdancois, they say, When one pig squeals, all rush that way. Five, six, you see us, hung out to view. When the flesh that nourished us well Is eaten piecemeal, ah, see it swell, And we, the bones, are dust and gall, Let no one make fun of our ill, But pray villln God absolves us all.
How few of the others, Are men equipped with common sense. The rain has soaked us, washed us: But pray to God to absolve us all.