FRENCH OF VILLON.
219
EPISTLE IN FORM OF A BALLAD TO HIS FRIENDS.
Have pity, pity, friends, have pity on me,
Thus much at least, may it please you, of your grace!
I lie not under hazel or hawthorn‑tree
Down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile's place
By leave of God and fortune's foul disgrace.
Girls, lovers, glad young folk and newly wed,
Jumpers and jugglers, tumbling heel o'er head,
Swift as a dart, and sharp as needle‑ware,
Throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed,
Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?
Singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly,
Light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race
