Luminous Decay

The Epitaph in Form of a Ballad

WHICH VILLON MADE FOR HIMSELF AND 
HIS COMRADES, EXPECTING TO BE 
HANGED ALONG 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 yet give, 
The sooner God shall take of you pity. 
Here are we five or six strung up, you see, 
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; yet know that all alive 
Have not wit always 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 are we 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. 
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, 
But pay to God that he forgive us all. 

Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne

THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND 

BODY OF FRANÇOIS 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 are thou, trow?—Art thou a boy still?—Nay.— 
Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting, 
Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?— 
Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, 
I can make out.—No more?—Nay, in no wise. 
Shall I begin again the count of these?— 
Thou are undone.—I care not though thou cease.— 

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. 
Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, 
Then might'st thou plead 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? 
Her 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 made 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.— 

Wouldst thou live still?—God help me that I may!— 
Then thou must—What? turn penitent and pray?— 
Read always—What?—Grave words and good to say; 
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. 

Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne