François Villon (c. 1431 – after 5 January 1463 / Paris)

F alse beauty that costs me so dear,
R ough indeed, a hypocrite sweetness,
A mor, like iron on the teeth and harder,
N amed only to achieve my sure distress,
C harm that's murderous, poor heart's death,
O covert pride that sends men to ruin,
I mplacable eyes, won't true redress
S uccour a poor man, without crushing?

M uch better elsewhere to search for
A id: it would have been more to my honour:
R etreat I must, and fly with dishonour,
T hough none else then would have cast a lure.
H elp me, help me, you greater and lesser!
E nd then? With not even one blow landing?
Or will Pity, in line with all I ask here,
Succour a poor man, without crushing?

That time will come that will surely wither
Your bright flower, it will wilt and yellow,
Then if I can grin, I'll call on laughter,
But, yet, that would be foolish though:
You'll be pale and ugly: and I'll be old,
Drink deep then, while the stream's still flowing:
And don't bring trouble on all men so,
Succour a poor man, without crushing.

Amorous Prince, the greatest lover,
I want no evil that's of your doing,
But, by God, all noble hearts must offer
To succour a poor man, without crushing.