EPITAPHE EPITAPH
LE GRAND TESTAMENT - CLXXVIII THE TESTAMENT - CLXXVIII
François Villontr. A.S.Kline
CY GIST ET DORT EN CE SOLLIER,
QU'AMOURS OCCIST DE SON RAILLON,
UNG POVRE PETIT ESCOLLIER,
QUI FUST NOMÉ FRANÇOYS VILLON.
ONCQUES DE TERRE N'EUT SILLON.
IL DONNA TOUT, CHASCUN LE SCET:
TABLES, TRESTEAULX, PAIN, CORBEILLON.
GALLANS, DICTES EN CE VERSET:


VERSET (ou rondeau)

Repos eternel, donne à cil,
Sire, et clarté perpetuelle,
Qui vaillant plat ni escuelle
N'eut oncques, n'ung brain de percil.
Il fut rez, chief, barbe et sourcil,
Comme ung navet qu'on ret ou pelle.
Repos eternel donne à cil.

Rigueur le transmit en exil,
Et luy frappa au cul la pelle,
Non obstant qu'il dit: "J'en appelle!"
Qui n'est pas terme trop subtil.
Repos eternel donne à cil.
HERE THERE LIES, AND SLEEPS IN THE GRAVE,
ONE WHOM LOVE KILLED WITH HIS SCORN,
A POOR LITTLE SCHOLAR IN EVERY WAY,
HE WAS NAMED FRANçOIS VILLON.
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:


RONDEAU

Oh, grant him now eternal peace,
Lord, and everlasting light,
He wasn't worth a candle bright,
Nor even a sprig of parsley.
Of eyebrows, hair, and beard he's free,
A turnip scraped with a spade, all right:
Oh, grant him now eternal peace.

Exiled with strict severity,
Rapped behind with a spade, despite
It all he cried: ‘Appeal, for me!'
- Which wasn't the height of subtlety.
Oh, grant him now eternal peace.

Trans. Copyright © A.S.Kline 2004


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