…from the quills of the dead white poets
Francois Villon (1431 – 1463)
Fair sons, you’re wasting, ere you’re old
The fairest rose to you that fell.
When to Montpoppeay or Ruel
(My clerks) you wander, keep you well:
For of the tricks that there be played,
Thinking to ‘scape a second spell,
Colin of Cayeulx lost his head.
No trifling game is this to play,
Where one stakes soul and body too:
If losers, no remorse can stay
A shameful death from ending you;
And even the winner, for his due,
Hath not a Dido to his wife,
Foolish and lewd I hold him who
Doth for so little risk his life.
Now all of you to me attend:
Even a load of wine, folk say,
With drinking at last comes to an end,
By fire in winter, in woods in May.
If you have money, it doth not stay,
But this way and that it wastes amain:
What does it profit you, any way?
Ill-gotten good is nobody’s gain.