Poor Rutebeuf (excerpt)
Your Majesty, hear my appeal:
I haven’t the means to buy bread:
Wealth is everywhere in Paris
But none of it belongs to me.
What I see and take is paltry;
I think most about Saint Paultry
Of all the other apostles.
I know Pater, but not noster.
Since living costs took all I owned,
Emptying so much of my home
My Credo requests were declined.
All that’s left is before your eyes.
The Drifters of Grève*
Drifters, you always are on point:
The trees, undressing, shed their leaves
And you bare yourself to the point
Where, down on your haunches, you’d freeze.
You’d do well to wear pourpoints
And fur-lined surcoats with long sleeves.
In summer, dancing is life’s point,
And in winter you drag your feet.
To shine your shoes is a waste of coin:
Your heels are what protect your feet.
The blackest flies have made their point
And now white ones sink in their teeth.
*The place de Grève in 13th-century Paris is known today as the place de l’Hôtel de Ville.
La pauvreté Rutebuef (excerpt)
Sire, je vos fais afavoir
Je n’ai de quoi do pain avoir:
A Paris fui entre touz biens,
Et n’i a nul qui i foit miens.
Pou i voi & fi i preig pou;
Il m’i fouvient plus de faint Pou
Qu’il ne fait de nul autre apôtre.
Bien fai Pater, ne fai qu’eft notre,
Que li chiers tenz m’a tot oftei,
Qu’il m’a fi vuidié mon hoftei
Que li Credo m’eft dévéeiz,
Et ie n’ai plus que vos véeiz.
Li diz des ribaux de greive
Ribaut, or eftes vos à point:
Li aubre defpoillent lor branches
Et vos n'aveiz de robe point;
Si en aureiz froit à vos hanches,
Queil vos fuffent or li porpoint
Et li feurquot forrei à manches.
Vos aleiz en eftai fi joint,
Et en yver aleiz fi cranche,
Voftre foleir n'ont meftier d'oint,
Vos faites de vos talons planches.
Les noires mouches vos ont point,
Or vos repoinderont les blanches.