| LE GRAND TESTAMENT - XC-XCIII | THE TESTAMENT - XC-XCIII |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dean |
|
XC Item, m'amour, ma chiere rose, Ne luy laisse ne cueur ne foye; Elle aymeroit mieulx aultre chose, Combien qu'elle ait assés monnoye ... Quoy? une grant bourse de soye, Plaine d'escuz, parfonde et large. Mais pendu soit il, qui je soye, Qui luy laira escu ne targe; XCI Car elle en a, sans moy, assés. Mais de cela il ne m'en chault, Mes plus grans dueilz en sont passés, Plus n'en ay le croppïon chault. Si m'en desmez aux hoirs Michault, Qui fut nommé le Bon Fouterre; Priés pour luy, faictes ung sault, A Sainct Sathur gist soubz Sancerre. XCII Ce non obstant, pour m'acquicter _Envers Amours plus qu'envers elle, - Car onques n'y peulz acquester D'espoir une seule estincelle: Je ne sçay s'a tous si rebelle A esté, ce m'est grant esmoy, Mais, par saintce Marie la belle, Je n'y voy que rire pour moy -, XCIII Ceste ballade luy envoye Qui se termine tout par erre. Qui luy portera? Que je voye ... Ce sera Pernet de la Barre, Pourveu, s'il rencontre en son erre Ma damoiselle au nez tortu, Il luy dira, sans plus enquerre: "Orde paillarde, dont viens tu?" |
XC Item; my love, my most dear rose, I leave neither my faith nor heart. She’d much prefer the gifts of those who’ve plenty of cash from which to part. How so? She’s got a silken purse that’s full of ecus, wide and deep; but may he hang, as I, I curse, who’ll leave her just one penny-peep! XCI By this, without me, she’s had enough. I’m not steamed up now, nor morose; although its effects on me were rough, another’s got the parson’s nose. If I herewith leave it to heirs of Mickie, known as Prick Supreme, do pray well for him so that he’s sprung, lying as he is beneath Sancerre’s beam. XCII This said, in order to acquit myself with love, much rather than her (for most won’t find one little bit of hope where she runs up her banner - I don’t know if she plays this game with all, it sets my nerves aflutter, but by the sweet St. Mary’s name for me she’s only scorn to utter!) XCIII This ballad I intend for him whose name ends in the letter R. Who’ll take it him? It wouldn’t bore him. Only Perronet of the Bar will do, provided if he meet, by chance, madame, who’s out of sorts, without further word he’ll thus her greet: "Hello, my old sack - and how’s the sports?" |
Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003