Autre Ballade François Villon ( poème )

Autre Ballade
François Villon
Charles d'Orléans
                                                                        
                                                      Icy se clost le testament
                                                      Et finist du pauvre Villon,
                                                      Venez a son enterrement,
                                                      Quant vous orrez le carillon,
                                                      Vestus rouge com vermillon,
                                                      Car en amours mourut martur :
                                                      Ce jura il sut son couillon,
                                                      Quant de ce monde voult partir.

                                                      Et je croy bien que pas n'en ment ;
                                                      Car chassié fut comme ung souillon
                                                      De ses amours hayneusement,
                                                      Tant que, d'icy a Roussillon,
                                                      Brosse n'y a ne brossillon
                                                      Qui n'eust, ce dit il sans mentir,
                                                      Ung lambeau de son cotillon,
                                                      Quant de ce monde voult partir.

                                                      Il est ainsi et tellement
                                                      Quant mourut n'avoir qu'ung haillon ;
                                                      Qui plus, en mourant, mallement
                                                      L'espoignoit d'Amours l'esguillon ;
                                                      Plus agu que le ranguillon
                                                      D'ung baudrier luy faisoit sentir
                                                      ( C'est de quoy nous esmerveillon ),
                                                      Quant de ce monde voult partir.

                                                      Prince, gent comme esmerillon,
                                                      Sachiez qu'il fist au departir :
                                                      Ung traict but de vin morillon,
                                                      Quant de ce monde voult partir.


                                                                                                  
                                                                                                         François Villon