| EPÎTRE A SES AMIS | EPISTLE (WRITTEN IN THE JAIL AT MEUN) |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dean |
|
Aiez pictié, aiez pictié de moy, A tout le moins, s'i vous plaist, mes amis! En fosse giz, non pas soubz houz ne may, En cest exil ouquel je suis transmis Par Fortune, comme Dieu l'a permis. Filles amans jeunes gens et nouveaulx, Danceurs, saulteurs faisans les piez de veaux, Vifz comme dars, aguz comme aguillon, Goussiers tintans clers comme gascaveaux, Le lesserez la, le povre Villon? Chantres chantans a plaisance, sans loy, Galans, rians, plaisans en faiz et diz, Courenx alans, franc de faulx or, d'aloy, Gens d'esperit, ung petit estourdiz, Trop demourez, car il meurt entandiz. Faiseurs de laiz, de motés et de rondeaux, Quant mort sera, vous lui ferez chaudeaux! Ou gist, il n'entre escler ne tourbillon; De murs espoix on lui a fait bandeaux. Le lesserez la, le povre Villon? Venez le voir en ce piteux arroy, Nobles hommes, francs de quars et de dix, Qui ne tenez d'empereur ne de roy, Mais seulement de Dieu de Paradiz; Jeuner lui fault dimenches et merdiz, Dont les dens a plus longues que ratteaux; Aprés pain sec, non pas aprés gasteaux, En ses boyaulx verse eaue a gros bouillon, Bas en terre - table n'a ne tresteaux -. Le lesserez la, le povre Villon? Princes nommez, ancïens, jouvenciaulx, Impertez moy graces et royaulx seaulx Et me montez en quelque corbillon. Ainsi le font, l'un a l'autre, pourceaux, Car ou l'un brait, ilz fuyent a monceaux. Le lesserez la, le povre Villon? |
Show some pity, show some pity for me - at least if it pleases you, my good friends! Dumped in a ditch without a bush or tree, in this exile I’ve been sent to for ends that God at the moment to Fortune lends. Girls, lovers, young folk, adolescents, dancers, clowns in your elemental essence, lively as darts, sharp as a prick-spur’s prod, voices like bells announcing your presence - will you leave him stuck here, Villon, poor sod? Singers singing as the fancy takes you, gallants, full of laughter, pleasant in word and deed, spreading false coin, francs the forger makes you, lads of spirit even if not brain-guaranteed - too much remains, for now he dies in need. Makers of lays, motets, rondos - you choose - once dead, you’ll offer him hot nuptial brews! He lies where no whirlwind nor lightning rod can penetrate: where thick walls blind his views - will you leave him stuck here, Villon, poor sod? Come, see him in this pitiful condition, you lords, free but as untaxed men can be, who owe not king nor emperor your position but only God, who rules the heavenly city: he should eat Sundays and on Tuesdays for he grows longer in the tooth than is a rat: after dry bread, no cakes follow - that’s that! and water’s poured into him like a flood and with no seat or table, on the ground flat: will you leave him stuck here, Villon, poor sod? Princes of name, ancient or young in years, let me have pardon, find your royal ears and raise me to the heights that once I trod. Do as pigs do - whole herds from what one hears - when one squeals, one by one each disappears. Will you leave him stuck here, Villon, poor sod? |
Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003