| LE GRAND TESTAMENT - CLIX-CLXVI | THE TESTAMENT - CLIX-CLXVI |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dean |
|
CLIX "A vous parle, compains de galle, Mal des amers et bien du corps: Gardez vous tous de ce mau halle Qui noircist les gens quant sont mors; Eschevez le, c'est ung mal mors. Passez vous au mieulx que pourrez Et, pour Dieu, soiez tous recors: Une foyz viendra que mourrez." CLX Item, je donne aux .XV. Vings - Qu'autant vauldroit nommer Troys Cens - De Paris, non pas de Prouvins, Car a eulx tenu je me sens; Ilz auront, et je m'y consens, Sans les estuiz, mes grans lunectes, Pour mectre a part, aux Innocens, Les gens de bien des deshonnestes. CLXI Icy n'y a ne riz ne jeu. Que leur valut avoir chevances N'en grans liz de parements jeu, Engloutir vins, engrossir pances, Mener joyes, festes et dances, Et de ce fere prest a toute heure? Toutes faillent telles plaisances, Et la coulpe si en demeure. CLXII Quand je considere ces testes Entassées en charniers, Tous furent maistres des Requestes, Au moins de la Chambre aux deniers, Ou tous furent portepaniers; Autant puis l'un que l'autre dire, Car d'esveques ou lanterniers Je n'y congnois rien a reddire. CLXIII Et icelles qui s'enclinoient Unes contre autres en leurs vies, Desquelles les unes regnoient Des autres craintes et servies, La les voy toutes assouvies, Ensemble en ung tas, pesle mesle; Seigneuries leur sont ravies, Clerc ne maistre ne s'i appelle. CLXIV Or sont ilz morz, Dieu ait leurs ames! Quant est des corps, ilz sont pourriz, Aient esté seigneurs ou dames, Souëf et tendrement nourriz De cresme, froumentee ou riz, Et les oz declinent en pouldre, Auxquelz ne chault d'esbatz ne riz. Plaise au doulx Jhesus les assouldre! CLXV Aux trespassez je faiz ce laiz Et icelluy je communicque A regens cours, sieges, palaiz, Hayneurs d'avarice l'inicque, Lesquelz pour la chose publicque Se seichent les oz et les corps: De Dieu et de saint Dominicque Soient sbsolz, quant seront mors! CLXVI Item, riens a Jacquet Cardon, Car je n'ay riens pour luy d'onneste - Non pas que le gecte habandon - Synon ceste bergeronnecte; S'elle eust le chant Marïonnecte Fait pour Marïon la Peautarde, Ou d'Ouvrez vostre huys Guillemete, Elle alast bien a la moustarde. |
CLIX It’s you I’m talking to, my friends, who’re sick at heart, in body sound. Watch out against the fate that sends the dying black, while still above ground. Avoid it, it’s the worst death around. Keep youself up as best you can and, for God’s sake, let this resound - one day death comes for every man. CLX Item, and to the Fifteen Score (the Three Hundred, as they were known) of Paris, since to them I’m more attached, and not Provence’s own, I leave - and blessing them alone - without their case, my specs to spot the virtuous from the crooks and zone them quite apart on each Innocent’s lot. CLXI I’m not playing games, I’m not being droll - what good to them was their good deal, in their four-poster beds to loll, swigging their wine each hearty meal, and having fun, with feast and reel: and always ready for the next? At last such pleasures lose appeal and with residual shame you’re vexed. CLXII When I consider these remains heaped up within these sepulchres - masters of yes-and-no, men of brains, or, in the Treasury, no worse where all were bearers-of-the-purse, who can tell one from t’other now? For whether of bishops or of triflers I recognise nothing to which to bow. CLXIII And these here who forever vied one against the other in their lives, where some assumed the winning side, the others, craven, getting no prize, here, see them now, where nothing thrives, jumbled together in a heap. What fiefdom of theirs now survives? From clerk or master, not a peep! CLXIV God keep their souls now that they’re dead. As for their bodies, they’re mere dust, whether of gents or ladies, fed on sweet and tender foods made just with cream, fine wheat or rice that’s crushed. To powder, too, their bones are fined - about which no joke or strife, I trust! Let’s pray Lord Jesus will be kind! CLXV To all those sinners passed away this legacy I leave: I state to king, court, bench and palace, they who, above all sins, greed most hate: the same whose bones’ and bodies’ fate for public good will be to dry: may God and St. Dominic abate their penance when they come to die. CLXVI Item, for Jacky Cardon, naught - I’ve nothing left worth anything; but I won’t leave him without a thought even if it’s only a song to sing: the Marionette ditty has a ring - I wrote it for wrinkly Marion - or Open your Door, Guillemette’s a swing to it should help him carry on. |
Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003