The term arrived, the priest appeared, And met the bishop, nothing feared; For ’neath his girdle safe there hung A leathern purse, well stocked and strung With twenty pieces fresh and bright, Good money all, none clipped or light. “Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou have Answer to give to charge so grave, ’Tis now the time.” “Sir, grant me leave My answer secretly to give. Let me confess to you alone, And, if needs be, my sins atone.” The bishop bent his head to hear, The priest he whispered in his ear: “Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell. My poor ass served me long and well, For twenty years my faithful slave, Each year his work a saving gave Of twenty sous---so that in all To twenty livres the sum will fall; And, for the safety of his soul, To you, my lord, he left the whole.” “’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said, And gravely shook his godly head: “And, that his soul to heaven may go, My absolution I bestow.” Now have you heard a truthful lay, How with rich priests the bishops play; And Rutebœuf the moral draws That, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws, ’Gainst evil is the man secure That shields himself with money’s lure. In the Fourteenth century, Eustache Deschampes wrote more than a thousand ballades, virelais and other forms of light verse. One of his ballades, here given in translation, is of a distinctly modern type of wit. _ADVICE TO A FRIEND ON MARRIAGE_ Ope! Who? A friend! What wouldst obtain? Advice! Whereof? Is’t well to wed? I wish to marry. What’s your pain? No wife have I for board and bed, By whom my house is wisely led. One meek and fair I wish to gain, Young, wealthy, too, and nobly bred; You’re crazy--batter out your brain! Consider! Grief can you sustain? Women have tempers bold and dread; When for a dish of eggs you’re fain, Broth, cheese, you’ll have before you spread: Now free, you’ll be a slave instead-- When married, you yourself have slain. Think well. My first resolve is said; You’re crazy--batter out your brain! No wife will be like her you feign; On angry words you shall be fed, So shall you bitterly complain, With woes too hard to bear, bested: Better a life in forest led Than of such beast to bear the strain. No! The sweet fancy fills my head; You’re crazy--batter out your brain! _ENVOY_ Soon you will long that you were dead When married; seek in street or lane Some love. No! Passion bids me wed; You’re crazy--batter out your brain!