…from the quills of dead white poets
Francois Villon (1431-
AND Paris be it or Helen dying,
Who dies soever, dies with pain.
He that lacks breath and wind for sighing,
His gall bursts on his heart; and then
He sweats, God knows what sweat! Again,
No man may ease him of his grief;
Child, brother, sister, none were fain
Death makes him shudder, swoon, wax pale,
Nose bend, vein stretch, and breath surrender,
Neck swell, flesh soften, joints that fail
Crack their strained nerves and arteries slender.
O woman’s body found so tender,
Smooth, sweet, so precious in men’s eyes,
Must thou too bear such count to render?
Yes; or pass quick into skies.