LH À AA

Necessity makes folk transgress .

And want drives wolven from the brakes.

- Oct. XXII. My time of youth I do bewail.

That more than most lived merrily, Until old age gan me assail For youth had passed unconsciously.

It wended not afoot from me Nor yet on horseback. Ah ! how then?

It fled away all suddenly And never will return again.

Oct. XXIII. It’s gone and I am left behind Poor both in knowledge and in wit Black as à berry, drear and dwined Coin land and goods, gone every whit Whilst those by kindred to me knit The due of nature all forgot To disavow me have seen fit For lack of pelf to pay the scot.

Oct. XXIX. Where are the gracious gallants now That of old time I did frequent So fair of fashion and of show In song and speech s0 excellent.

Stark dead are some, their lives are spent There rests of them nor mark nor trace May they in Heaven have content God keep the others of his grace.

Oct. XXV. Some, Christ-a-mercy are become Masters and lords of high degree Some beg, all naked and no crumb Of bread, save in some window see; Some having put on monkery, Carthews, Celestines, and what not Shod, breeched, like oyster fishers be; Look you, how divers is their lot !

Oct. For I am not as well I know XXXVIII. An angel’s son, that crowned with light

Oct. XLI.

Octave I.

Octave I.

DR OS Last

Among the starry heavens doth go; My sire is dead — God have his spright !

His body buried out of sight.

I know my mother too must die — She knows it too, poor soul aright — And soon her son by her must lie.

Death makes him shiver and turn pale Sharpens his nose, and swells his veins Puñfs up his throat, makes his flesh fail, His joints and nerves greatens and strains Fair women’s bodies soft as skeins

Of silk so tender, smooth and rare

Must you too suffer all these pains?

Ay, or alive to heaven fare.

Bailade of Old Time Ladies.

Tell me where in what lands of shade Bides fair Flora of Rome and where Are Thaïs and Archipade

Cousins german of beauty rare

And Echo, more than mortal fair That when one calls by river flow,

Or marish, answers out of the air But what is become of last year’s snow ?

Ballade of Old Time Lords.

Where is Calixtus third of the name

That died in the purple whiles ago,

Four years since he to the tiar came ?

And the king of Aragon Alfonso ?

And the Duke of Bourbon sweet of show

And the Duke Arthur of Brittaine

And Charles the Seventh the Good? Heigho !

But where is the doughty Charlemaine.

Envoi.

Where is Du Guesclin the Breton prow?!

due

Where Auvergne’s Dauphin and wlere again The late good duke of Alençon? Lo !

But where is the doughty Charlemaiïne.

Ballade of Old Time Lords (auméro II).

Oct. XLIII. This world is not perpetual Deem the rich robber what he may, Under death’s whittle are we all Old men to heart this comfort lay That had repute in their young day.

Of being quick at jest and flout — Whom folk, if now that they are grey Théy should crack jokes as fools would scout.

Oct. XLVI. So with poor women that are old And have no vivers in the chest When that young wenches they behold Fare at their ease and well addrest They ask God, why before the rest Themselves were born. They cry and shout; God answer not : for second best He’d come off at a scolding bout.

The Doctrine of the Fair Helm maker to the Light o’loves.

Oct. LIV. The Shuttlecock light lovers be Their ladies loves the battledore This is love’s way in verity !

Spite clips and kisses evermore By constancy, it sets small store For every one this wise complains Of dogs and horses love and war Each pleasure’s bought with fifty pains.

Oct. LXII. I feel the droughts of death draw nigh Gobbets of phlegm as white as snow And big as tennis balls split I By token Jehanneton no mo’ Doth me for squire and servant owe

Factt DR

But for à worn out rook ah well !

I have the voice and air I know; Yet am I but a cockerel.

Oct. LXIV. Yet do I mean no ill to him.

Or his lieutenant; nought but well Of his official eke deem Who’s merry and conformable Nor with the rest have I to mell Save Master Robert. great and small As God loves Lombards, sooth to tell I love the whole lot, one and all.

La Ballade des Femmes de Paris fut jugée par Stacpoole,

la ballade la plus gaie et la plus délicieuse, qu’on ait jamais écrite.

Though folk deem women young and old.

Of Venice and Genoa well eno’ Favoured with speech, both glib and bold To carry messages to and fro . Savoyards, Florentines less or no Romans and Lombards though folk renown I at my peril, I say no There’s no right speech out of Paris town

The Naples women (so we are told).

Can school all comers in speech and show ; Prussians and Germans were still extolled For pleasant prattle of friend and foe But haïl they from Athens or Grand Cairo Castille or Hungary black or brown Greeks or Egyptians high or low

There’s no right speech out of Paris town

Switzers nor Bretons, know how to scold Nor Provence nor Gascony women : lo !

Two fishfags in Paris the bridge that hold