Who could wish evil to the state of France!

May the old times come of fierce Octavian's ire,
And in his belly molten coin be told;
May he like Victor in the mill expire,
Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled,
Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad
Than in the whale's bulk Jonas, when God bade:
From Phoebus' light, from Juno's treasure-house
Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous,
And cursed of God most high to the utterance,
As was the Syrian king Antiochus,
Who could wish evil to the state of France!

Prince, may the bright-winged brood of AEolus
To sea-king Glaucus' wild wood cavernous
Bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance,
For worthless is he to get good of us,
Who could wish evil to the state of France.

THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANCOIS VILLON

Who is this I hear?--Lo, this is I, thine heart,
That holds on merely now by a slender string.
Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart,
The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing,
Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering.--
Yea, and for what?--For that thy sense found sweet.--
What irks it thee?--I feel the sting of it.--
Leave me at peace.--Why?--Nay now, leave me at peace;
I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.--
I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

What art thou, trow?--A man worth praise, perfay.--
This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.--
'Tis a mule's age.--Art thou a boy still?--Nay.--
Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting,
Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?--
Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies,
I can make out.--No more?--Nay, in no wise.
Shall I begin again the count of these?--
Thou art undone.--I will make shift to rise.--
I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart.
Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit,
Then might'st thou plead this pretext with thine heart;
But if thou know not good from evil a whit,
Either thy head is hard as stone to hit,
Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content.
What canst thou answer to this argument?--
When I am dead I shall be well at ease.--
God! what good hope!--Thou art over eloquent.--
I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

Whence is this ill?--From sorrow and not from sin.
When Saturn packed my wallet up for me
I well believe he put these ills therein.--