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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391752" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Le Testament: Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">By chance, I heard the belle complain,<br>The one we called the Armouress,<br>Longing to be a girl again,<br>Talking like this, more or less:<br>‘Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,<br>You've battered me so, and why?<br>Who cares, who, for my distress,<br>Or whether at all your blows I die?<br> <br>You've stolen away that great power<br>My beauty ordained for me<br>Over priests and clerks, my hour,<br>When never a man I'd see<br>Would fail to offer his all in fee,<br>Whatever remorse he'd later show,<br>But what was abandoned readily, <br>Beggars now scorn to know.<br> <br>Many a man I then refused -<br>Which wasn't wise of me, no jest -<br>For love of a boy, cunning too,<br>To whom I gave all my largesse.<br>I feigned to him unwillingness,<br>But, by my soul, I loved him bad.<br>What he showed was his roughness,<br>Loving me only for what I had.<br> <br>He could drag me through the dirt,<br>Trample me underfoot, I'd love him,<br>Break my back, whatever's worse,<br>If only he'd ask for a kiss again,<br>I'd soon forget then every pain.<br>A glutton, full of what he could win,<br>He'd embrace me - with him I've lain.<br>What's he left me? Shame and sin.<br> <br>Now he's dead, these thirty years:<br>And I live on, old, and grey.<br>When I think of those times, with tears,<br>What I was, what I am today,<br>View myself naked: turn at bay,<br>Seeing what I am no longer,<br>Poor, dry, meagre, worn away,<br>I almost forget myself in anger.<br> <br>Where's my smooth brow gone:<br>My arching lashes, yellow hair,<br>Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones,<br>That took in the cleverest there:<br>Nose not too big or small: a pair<br>Of delicate little ears, the chin<br>Dimpled: a face oval and fair,<br>Lovely lips with crimson skin?<br> <br>The fine slender shoulder-blades:<br>The long arms, with tapering hands:<br>My small breasts: the hips well made<br>Full and firm, and sweetly planned,<br>All Love's tournaments to withstand:<br>The broad flanks: the nest of hair,<br>With plump thighs firmly spanned,<br>Inside its little garden there?<br> <br>Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey:<br>Sparse eyelashes: eyes so dim,<br>That laughed and flashed once every way,<br>And reeled their roaming victims in:<br>Nose bent from beauty, ears thin,<br>Hanging down like moss, a face,<br>Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin<br>Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.<br> <br>This is the end of human beauty:<br>Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:<br>The shoulders hunched up utterly:<br>Breasts….what? In full retreat,<br>Same with the hips, as with the teats:<br>Little nest, hah! See the thighs,<br>Not thighs, thighbones, poor man's meat,<br>Blotched like sausages, and dried.<br> <br>That's how the bon temps we regret<br>Among us, poor old idiots,<br>Squatting on our haunches, set<br>All in a heap like woollen lots<br>Round a hemp fire men forgot,<br>Soon kindled, and soon dust,<br>Once so lovely, that cocotte…<br>So it goes for all of us.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Fran%C3%A7ois+Villon">François Villon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391752" data-title="Le Testament: Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière de François Villon" data-description="By chance, I heard the belle complain,
The one we called the Armouress,
Longing to be a girl again,
Talking like this, more or less:
‘Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,
You've battered me so, and why?
Who cares, who, for my distress,
Or whether a..."></div>
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