CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465. To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered by jealousy. * * * * * STRENGTHEN, my Love, this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid, For Jealousy, with all them of his part, Strong siege about the weary tower has laid. Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid, Too weak to make his cruel force depart, Strengthen at least this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid. Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art Be master, and the tower in ruin laid, That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed. Advance, and give me succour of thy part; Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart. RONDEL. FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460 GOODBYE! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell, farewell, my prettiest; Farewell, of women born the best; Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes. Farewell! with many vows and sighs My sad heart leaves you to your rest; Farewell! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell! from you my miseries Are more than now may be confessed, And most by thee have I been blessed, Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs; Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes. ARBOR AMORIS. FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460 I HAVE a tree, a graft of Love, That in my heart has taken root; Sad are the buds and blooms thereof, And bitter sorrow is its fruit; Yet, since it was a tender shoot, So greatly hath its shadow spread, That underneath all joy is dead, And all my pleasant days are flown, Nor can I slay it, nor instead Plant any tree, save this alone. Ah, yet, for long and long enough My tears were rain about its root, And though the fruit be harsh thereof, I scarcely looked for better fruit Than this, that carefully I put In garner, for the bitter bread Whereon my weary life is fed: Ah, better were the soil unsown That bears such growths; but Love instead Will plant no tree, but this alone. Ah, would that this new spring, whereof The leaves and flowers flush into shoot, I might have succour and aid of Love, To prune these branches at the root, That long have borne such bitter fruit, And graft a new bough, comforted With happy blossoms white and red; So pleasure should for pain atone, Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead Plant any tree, but this alone. L’ENVOY. Princess, by whom my hope is fed, My heart thee prays in lowlihead To prune the ill boughs overgrown, Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead Another tree, save this alone. BALLAD OF THE GIBBET. An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villon wrote of himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.