iEpitaphi br br Here there lies, and sleeps in the grave, br One whom Love killed with his scorn, br A poor little scholar in every way, br He was named François Villon. br He never reaped a morsel of corn: br Willed all away, as all men know: br Bed, table, and basket all are gone. br Gallants, now sing his song below: br br iRondeaui br br Oh, grant him now eternal peace, br Lord, and everlasting light, br He wasn't worth a candle bright, br Nor even a sprig of parsley. br Of eyebrows, hair, and beard he's free, br A turnip scraped with a spade, all right: br Oh, grant him now eternal peace. br br Exiled with strict severity, br Rapped behind with a spade, despite br It all he cried: ‘Appeal, for me!' br - Which wasn't the height of subtlety. br Oh, grant him now eternal peace.