Have pity now, have pity now on me, <br />If you at least would, friends of mine. <br />I'm in the depths, not holly or may, <br />In exile, where I've been consigned <br />By Fortune, as God too has designed. <br />Girls, lovers, youngsters, fresh to hand, <br />Dancers, tumblers that leap like lambs, <br />Agile as arrows, like shots from a cannon, <br />Throats tinkling, clear as bells on rams, <br />Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon? <br /> <br />Singers, singing in lawless freedom, <br />Jokers, pleasant in word and deed, <br />Run free of false gold, alloy, come, <br />Men of wit - somewhat deaf indeed - <br />Hurry, be quick now, he's dying poor man. <br />Makers of lays, motets and rondeaux, <br />Will you bring him warmth when he's down below? <br />No lightning or storm reach where he's gone. <br />With these thick walls they've blinded him so. <br />Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon? <br /> <br />Come see him here, in his piteous plight, <br />Noblemen, free of tax and tithe, <br />Holding nothing by king or emperor's right, <br />But by grace of the God of Paradise. <br />Sundays and Tuesdays he fasts and sighs, <br />His teeth are as sharp as the rats' below, <br />After dry bread, and no gateaux, <br />Water for soup that floats his guts along. <br />With no table or chair, he's lying low. <br />Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon? <br /> <br />Princes of note, old, new, don't fail: <br />Beg the king's pardon for me, and seal, <br />And a basket to raise me, I'll sit upon: <br />So pigs behave, to each other, they say, <br />When one pig squeals, all rush that way. <br />Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?<br /><br />François Villon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ballade-epistre/
