9732

OLD-TIME LOVE

N GOOD old days such sort of love held sway

IN

As artlessly and simply made its way,

And a few flowers, the gift of love sincere,

Than all the round earth's riches were more dear:

For to the heart alone did they address their lay.
And if they chanced to love each other, pray
Take heed how well they then knew how to stay
For ages faithful - twenty, thirty year-

In good old days.

But now is lost Love's rule they used t' obey;
Only false tears and changes fill the day.
Who would have me a lover now appear
Must love make over in the olden way,
And let it rule as once it held its sway
In good old days.

My bright Springtime and my Summer
Through the window flew from me.
Love, thou hast ever been my master,

I've served no other God so well; -
Oh, were I born a second time, Love,
Then my service none could tell.

TO A LADY WHO WISHED TO BEHOLD MAROT

B

EFORE she saw me, reading in my book,

She loved me; then she wished to see my face:
Now she has seen me, gray, and swart of look,
Yet none the less remain I in her grace.
O gentle heart, maiden of worthy race,
You do not err: for this my body frail,
It is not I; naught is it but my jail:

And in the writings that you once did read,
Your lovely eyes-so may the truth avail

Saw me more truly than just now, indeed.

THE LAUGH OF MADAME D'ALBRET

HE has indeed a throat of lovely whiteness,

SH

The sweetest speech, and fairest cheeks and eyes; But in good sooth her little laugh of lightness

Is where her chiefest charm, to my thought, lies. With its gay note she can make pleasure rise, Where'er she hap to be, withouten fail; And should a bitter grief me e'er assail,

So that my life by death may threatened be, To bring me back to health will then avail

To hear this laugh with which she slayeth me.

FROM AN "ELEGY»

HY lofty place, thy gentle heart,

THY

Thy wisdom true in every part,
Thy gracious mien, thy noble air,

Thy singing sweet, and speech so fair,
Thy robe that does so well conform

To the nature of thy lovely form:

In short, these gifts and charms whose grace
Invests thy soul and thee embrace,

Are not what has constrainèd me

To give my heart's true love to thee.

'Twas thy sweet smile which me perturbed,

And from thy lips a gracious word

Which from afar made me to see

Thou'd not refuse to hear my plea.

Come, let us make one heart of two!
Better work we cannot do;

For 'tis plain our starry guides,

The accord of our lives besides,

Bid this be done. For of us each

Is like the other in thought and speech:
We both love men of courtesy,

We both love honor and purity,

We both love never to speak evil,
We both love pleasant talk that's civil,
We both love being in those places
Where rarely venture saddened faces,
We both love merry music's measure,
We both in books find frequent pleasure.

9734

What more is there? Just this to sing
I'll dare in almost everything

Alike we are, save hearts; - for thine
Is much more hard, alas! than mine.
Beseech thee now this rock demolish,
Yet not thy sweeter parts abolish.

S

THE DUCHESS D'ALENÇON

UCH lofty worth has she, my great mistress,

That her fair body's upright, pure, and fine;

Her steadfast heart, when Fortune's star doth shine,

Is ne'er too light, nor elsetimes in distress.

Her spirit rare than angels is no less,

The subtlest sure that e'er the heavens bred.

O marvel great! Now can it clear be seen
That I the slave am of a wonder dread.—

Wonder, I say, for sooth she has, I ween,
A woman's form, man's heart, and angel's head.

M

TO THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE

OURN for the dead, let who will for them mourn;
But while I live, my heart is most forlorn

For those whose night of sorrow sees no dawn
On this earth.

O Flower of France whom at the first I served,
Those thou hast freed from pain that them unnerved
Have given pain to thee, ah! undeserved,

I'll attest.

Of ingrates thou hast sadly made full test;
But since I left thee (bound by stern behest),-
Not leaving thee,- full humbly I've addrest

A princess

Who has a heart that does not sorrow less
Than thine. Ah God! shall I ne'er know mistress,
Before I die, whose eye on sad distress
Is not bent?

Is not my Muse as fit and apt to invent

A song of peace that would bring full content
As chant the bitterness of this torment

Exceeding?

Ah! listen, Margaret, to the suffering

That in the heart of Renée plants its sting;

Then, sister-like, than hope more comforting,
Console her.

FROM A LETTER TO THE KING; AFTER BEING ROBBED

I

HAD of late a Gascon serving-man:

A monstrous liar, glutton, drunkard, both,
A trickster, thief, and every word an oath,-
The rope almost around his neck, you see,—
But otherwise the best of fellows he.

This very estimable youngster knew
Of certain money given me by you:
A mighty swelling in my purse he spied;
Rose earlier than usual, and hied

To take it deftly, giving no alarm,

And tucked it snugly underneath his arm,—
Money and all, of course,—and it is plain
'Twas not to give it back to me again,
For never have I seen it, to this day.

But still the rascal would not run away
For such a trifling bagatelle as that,
So also took cloak, trousers, cape, and hat,
In short, of all my clothes the very best,—
And then himself so finely in them dressed
That to behold him, e'en by light of day,
It was his master surely, you would say.

He left my chamber finally, and flew
Straight to the stable, where were horses two;
Left me the worst, and mounted on the best,
His charger spurred, and bolted; for the rest,
You may be sure that nothing he omitted,
Save bidding me good-by, before he quitted.

So ticklish round the throat, to say the truth,
But looking like St. George-this hopeful youth
Rode off, and left his master sleeping sound,
Who waking, not a blessed penny found.
This master was myself,-the very one,—
And quite dumbfounded to be thus undone;
To find myself without a decent suit,

And vexed enough to lose my horse, to boot.

But for the money you had given me,
The losing it ought no surprise to be;
For, as your gracious Highness understands,
Your money, Sire, is ever changing hands.

I

FROM A RHYMED LETTER TO THE KING

AT THE TIME OF HIS EXILE AT FERRARA — 1535

THINK it may be that your Majesty, Sovereign King, may be. lieve that my absence is occasioned by my feeling the prick of some ill deed; but it is not so, for I do not feel myself to be of the number of the guilty: but I know of many corruptible judges in Paris, who, for pecuniary gain, or for friends, or for their own ends, or in tender grace and charity to some fair humble petitioner, will save the foul and guilty life of the most wicked criminal in the world; while on the other hand, for lack of bribing or protection, or from rancor, they are to the innocent so inhuman that I am loth to fall into their hands.

They are much my enemies because of their hell, which I have set in a writing, wherein some few of their wicked wiles I lay bare. They wish great harm to me for a small work.

As much as they, and with no good cause, wishes ill to me the ignorant Sorbonne. Very ignorant she shows herself in being the enemy of the noble trilingual academy [Collège de France] your Majesty has created. It is clearly manifest that within her precincts, against your Majesty's will is prohibited all teaching of Hebrew or Greek or Latin, she declaring it heretical. O poor creatures, all denuded of learning, you make true the familiar proverb, "Knowledge has no such haters as the ignorant."

They have given me the name of Lutheran. I answer them that it is not so. Luther for me has not descended from heaven. Luther for my sins has not hung upon the cross; and I am quite sure that in his name I have not been baptized: I have been baptized in that Name at whose naming the Eternal Father gives that which is asked for, the sole Name in and by which this wicked world can find salvation.

O Lord God . grant that whilst I live, my pen may be employed in thy honor; and if this my body be predestined by thee one day to be destroyed by fire, grant that it be for no light cause, but for thee and for thy Word. And I pray thee, Father, that the torture may not be so intense that my soul may be sunk in forgetfulness of thee, in whom is all my trust.