Give me thy Heart , My SAVIOUR says:
'Tis what I strive to do.
It's Barren: Change it, Lord , by Grace,
A Fruitful Soyl into.

[1.] When the Seed of thy Word is cast
On such a Beaten Road ;
Let not the Fruit of all be lost,
Nor under Foot be trod.
May't be no Unattentive Heart,
When There thy Lessons fall;
Let not Hell's Harpyes do their part
To rob me of them all.

Your memory is death to me,
My only good the sight of you;
I swear by all that I hold true
That joy without you cannot be.
When I your face no longer view
I die of sadness, yea — pardie!
Your memory is death to me.

Alas! sweet sister, fair to see,
Have pity on me, for with you
Evil recoils, the sky is blue;
Without you clouds shade land and sea.
Your memory is death to me!

(Epistre, en forme de ballade, a ses amis)

Have pity on me, have pity I pray,
My friends; may I pray you to grant this grace,
For far from the hawthorn-trees of May
I am flung in this dungeon in this far place
Of exile, by God and by Fate's disgrace.
New married and young; girls, lovers that kneel;
Dancers and jugglers that turn the wheel,
Needle-sharp, quick as a dart each one,
Voiced like the bells 'midst the hills that peal:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?

Singers who sing without law your lay,

Repose eternal give to him
O Lord, and Light that never dies;
Even unto him whose platter lies
Empty of meat — yea, even to him
Who standeth bald, in turnip trim,
Sans beard, sans hair above the eyes.
Repose!

Fate sent him forth to exile dim,
And struck him hard, above the thighs;
Yet clear he cried, as still he cries,
" Lord, I appeal! " yea, even to him
Repose!

On return from that hard prison
Where life near was reft from me,
If Fate still shows cruelty,
Judge if she shows not misprision!
For it seems to me, with reason,
She hath found satiety,
On return.

For the Fate is but unreason,
That still wills my misery.
Grant, God! I find sanctuary,
In Thy house from her dark treason,

(Ballade de bonne doctrine)

Be ye carriers of bulls,
Cheats at dice — whate'er ye be,
Coiners — they who risk like fools,
Boiling for their felony.
Traitors perverse — so be ye —
Thieves of gold, or virgin's pearls,
Where goes what ye get in fee?
All on taverns and on girls.

Song, jest, cymbals, lutes —
Don these signs of minstrelsy.
Farce, imbroglio, play of flutes,
Make in hamlet or city.
Act in play or mystery,
Gain at cards, or ninepin hurls.
All your profits, where go they?
All on taverns and on girls.

(Belle Leçon de Villon aux enfans perduz)

Fair children, in waste ye strew
The roses that for you blow.
My clerks, who can clutch like glue,
If ye journey to Montpippeau,
Or Reul, have a care, ye know
For the dice that there he threw —
Risking a second throw —
Was lost Colin de Caileux.

This is no little game,
For body and soul are fee;
If ye lose, from a death of shame

(Ballade des femmes de Paris)

Take those famed for language fair,
Past, or in the present tense,
Each good as Love's messenger:
Florentines, Venetiennes.
Roman girls, Lombardiennes,
Girls whose names Geneva carries,
Piedmont girls, Savoysiennes;
No lips speak like those of Paris.

Though for grace of language are
Famed the Neapolitans,
And in chattering Germans share
Pride of place with Prussians.
Taking Greeks, Egyptians,
Austrians, whom no rhyme marries,
Spanish girls, Castillians;

In his lambskin coat,
With five plain thread seams,
Home to sup from his work,
How smart he seems!

In his lambskin cape,
With five plain thread stitches,
How smart he seems,
As he homeward fetches!

In his lambskin cloak,
With five plain thread coils,
How smart he seems,
Going home from his toils.

His Pen did once Meat from the Eater fetch;
And now he's gone beyond the Eaters reach.
His Body , once so Thin , was next to None;
From Thence, he's to Unbodied Spirits flown .
Once his rare skill did all Diseases heal;
And he does nothing now uneasy feel.
He to his Paradise is Joyful come;
And waits with Joy to see his Day of Doom.