Three Ballades by François Villon

False beauty, who costs me so dearly,
Harsh indeed, hypocritical sweetness,
[Your] love lasts longer than [it takes] to chew iron;
And [I’m] naming you, [the] top [cause of] my ruin. 
Treacherous enchantment, death to a poor heart, 
Hidden pride that puts people to death, 
Eyes without pity, can’t the rights I am entitled to 
Without worsening [my lot], help a poor [soul]? 

It would’ve been better for me to cry
Elsewhere [for] help: it would’ve been my good fortune;	
Nothing would’ve been able to tear me away from that.	
I pick up a trot in [my] flight from dishonor.	
Help, help, [I call both] urgently and beseechingly!
And what’s this? Should I die without a shot being fired?	
Or can pity, given this situation,	
Without worsening [my lot], help a poor [soul]?

[Your] time will come: your blossoming flower
Will dessicate, turn yellow, and wilt;	
I’ll laugh then, if I can still chew,	
But alas! nay; It would be folly,	
I’ll be old; you, ugly, and without color;	
So drink deep, while the river still runs;	
Don’t inflict on anyone [else] this pain,	
[Don't] worsen [my lot, and] help a poor [soul]. 

Envoi
Prince of love, the greatest of lovers,
Your disfavor I don’t wish to incur,
But every honest heart must, by Our Lord,
Without worsening [my lot], help a poor [soul].

Lady of heaven, earthly regent,	
Empress of the infernal marshes,
Receive me, your humble Christian [believer],
So I may be numbered among your elect,	
Notwithstanding that I sam worth nothing.	
Your good [qualities], my Lady and my Mistress,	
Are far too great; I’m only a sinner,	
Without those good [qualities], [a] soul can’t merit 
Nor attain heaven. I not a liar.	
In this faith I want to live and die.

Tell your Son that I am his;	
Through him may my sins be absolved;	
Pardon me, like the Egyptian woman1,
Or as you did for the cleric Theophilus2,
Who through you were acquitted and absolved,	
[In spite of] how many promises were made to the Devil.
Keep me from doing such a thing!	
O Virgin, carrying, without risk of rupture3,
The sacrament which is celebrated at Mass4:
In this faith I want to live and die.

I am [a] woman, poor and old,	
Who knows nothing; who never read [a single] letter.	
At the monastic church where I am a parishioner, I see
Paradise painted, where [there] are harps and lutes, 
And a Hell where the damned are boiled: 
One frightens me, the other [causes] joy and jubilation. 
Give me joy, lofty goddess, 
From whom sinners must all resort, 
Filled with faith, without feining or laziness:
In this faith I want to live and die.

Whoever we consider [to be] charming conversationalists
Florentines, Venetians,	
Enough for [them to be able] to be messengers,	
As were those of old;	
But, be they Lombards, Romans,	
Genevans, [I assert] at my peril,	
Piedmontese, Savoyards,	
There is none more loquacious1 than [a woman] from Paris.	

In fine speaking, they hold chairs. 
That is said of Neapolitans. 
And they are good babblers 
[those] Germans and Prussians;	
Such is said of Greeks, Egyptians,	
[And those] from Hungary or other lands,	
Spaniards and Catalans, [yet]
There is none more loquacious than [a woman] from Paris.

Bretons, Swiss, they scarcely know anything,	
Neither [do] Gascons and Toulousianes:	
[Even] two fishwives at the Petit Pont2
Can out-talk them, and those from Lorraine,	
England or Calais,	
(Have I included enough places?)	
Those from Picardy, from Valencia;
There is none more loquacious than [a woman] from Paris.

[Envoi]3
Prince, to the women of Paris 
Who speak so well, give the prize; 
Whatever we say of the Italians,
There is none more loquacious than [a woman] from Paris.