I HERE the last testament doth end Of Villon, who long troubles bore; His burial let all friends attend, When sounds his knell the city o'er; And be your garments red as gore, For love it was that pierced his heart; This truth he by his manhood swore, When from the world about to part. II Nor think I this doth truth offend, For he was driven from her door Whom he had deemed his love and friend. From hence to Roussillon explore. Brambles and thorns you meet good store, And none you find your path athwart; But all his clothes to tatters tore, When from the world about to part. III And thus it was you may depend, That dying, nought but rags he wore. What else? When death did o'er him bend, Love's sting still pierced him as before With fatal wound more sharp and sore Than buckle point to stab and smart. All marvelled that such pangs he bore, When from the world about to part. ENVOY Prince, blithe as hawk aloft to soar, Know that to cheer his final start Large draughts of wine he chose to pour, When from the world about to part. |