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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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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,
No evil times has he to dread
Who still has silver at his need.
Rutebœuf.
A BALLADE OF OLD-TIME LADIES
(Translated by John Payne.)
TELL me, where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where
Are Thaìs and Archipiade,
Cousins-german in beauty rare?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That when one calls by river flow,
Or marish, answers out of the air?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who will’d whilere
That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were?
Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,
The good Lorrainer the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there?
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys – lo!
Where are they, virgins debonair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Envoi
Prince, you may question how they fare,
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall this burden the answer bear —
But what has become of last year’s snow?
François Villon.
A CARMAN’S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT
MARRY, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals,
And he her drounit into the quarry holes;
And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie,
And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie.
They gave me first ane thing they call citandum,
Within aucht days I gat but libellandum;
Within ane month I gat ad opponendum;
In half ane year I gat inter-loquendum;
And syne I gat – how call ye it? —ad replicandum;
Bot I could never ane word yet understand him:
And then they gart me cast out mony placks,
And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts.
Bot or they came half gate to concludendum,
The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him.
Thus they postponed me twa year with their train,
Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again;
And then their rooks they rowpit wonder fast
For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last.
Of pronunciandum they made me wonder fain,
Bot I gat never my gude gray mare again.
Sir David Lyndsay.
THE SOUL’S ERRAND
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,
No evil times has he to dread
Who still has silver at his need.
Rutebœuf.
A BALLADE OF OLD-TIME LADIES
(Translated by John Payne.)
TELL me, where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where
Are Thaìs and Archipiade,
Cousins-german in beauty rare?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That when one calls by river flow,
Or marish, answers out of the air?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who will’d whilere
That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were?
Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,
The good Lorrainer the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there?
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys – lo!
Where are they, virgins debonair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Envoi
Prince, you may question how they fare,
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall this burden the answer bear —
But what has become of last year’s snow?
François Villon.
A CARMAN’S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT
MARRY, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals,
And he her drounit into the quarry holes;
And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie,
And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie.
They gave me first ane thing they call citandum,
Within aucht days I gat but libellandum;
Within ane month I gat ad opponendum;
In half ane year I gat inter-loquendum;
And syne I gat – how call ye it? —ad replicandum;
Bot I could never ane word yet understand him:
And then they gart me cast out mony placks,
And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts.
Bot or they came half gate to concludendum,
The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him.
Thus they postponed me twa year with their train,
Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again;
And then their rooks they rowpit wonder fast
For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last.
Of pronunciandum they made me wonder fain,
Bot I gat never my gude gray mare again.
Sir David Lyndsay.
THE SOUL’S ERRAND
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