The poems of Master François Villon of Paris : now first done into English verse in the original forms . oney can I see :I wonder what it is, by God His throne!For unto me, save it be wood or stone, No cross at all appears,— I do not lie :But, if the true cross once to me be shown, Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. Envoi Prince of the Lys, that lovst good deeds alone,Thinkst thou it has cost me many a groan That I can not to my intent draw nigh ?Give ear, if it so please thee, to my moan : Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. 227 SUNDRY POEMSATTRIBUTED TO VILLON Jert follofo
The poems of Master François Villon of Paris : now first done into English verse in the original forms . oney can I see :I wonder what it is, by God His throne!For unto me, save it be wood or stone, No cross at all appears,— I do not lie :But, if the true cross once to me be shown, Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. Envoi Prince of the Lys, that lovst good deeds alone,Thinkst thou it has cost me many a groan That I can not to my intent draw nigh ?Give ear, if it so please thee, to my moan : Nothing but waiting shalt thou lose thereby. 227 SUNDRY POEMSATTRIBUTED TO VILLON Jert follofo winbrg Joems tommonlg attribute!* to iflaster Jraucois ©iUon ROUNDEL A RE WELL, I say, with tearful eye. Farewell, the dearest sweet to see ! Farewell, oer all the kindest she IFarewell, with heavy heart say , my love, my soul, good-bye ! My poor heart needs must partfrom thee :Farewell, I say, with tearful eye. Farewell, by whose default I die Deaths more than told of tongue can beFarewell, of all the world to me Whom most I blame and hold most high !Farewell, I say, with tearful 231 POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO VILLON 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 shearOf double-handed sword or well-ground ace,By dig of dirk or tuck with double face, Let them be done to death ; or let them light On some ill stead, where brigands lurk by night, That they the hearts from out their breasts may tear,Cut 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. Let Turkish quarrels run them through the rearAnd rapiers keen their guts and vitals lace ; Singe their perukes with Greek fire, ay, and searTheir brains with levins ; string them brace by braceUp to the gibbet; or for greater grace, Let gout and dropsy slay the knaves outright : Or else l
Size: 1527px × 1637px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookidpoemsofmaste, bookyear1900
