This is the best ending for any set of verses one may choose out of Villon. It follows and completes the epitaph which in his will he orders to be written in charcoal--or scratched--above his tomb: the sad, sardonic octave of "the little scholar and poor." It is a kind of added dirge to be read by those who pass and to be hummed or chaunted over him dead. But it is a rondeau.
See how sharp it is with the salt and vinegar of his pressed courageous smile--and how he cannot run away from his religion or from his power over sudden and vivid beauty.
"Sire--et clarté perpétuelle"--which last are the best two words that ever stood in the vulgar for lux perpetua.
It is no wonder that as time went on, more and more people learnt these things by heart.
RONDEAU.
Repos éternel, donne à cil,
Sire, et clarté perpétuelle,
Qui vaillant plat ni escuelle
N'eut oncques, n'ung brain de percil.
Il fut rez, chief, barbe et sourcil,