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À M. P. D. S. R.
Premier commis au département de l'intérieur,
En lui envoyant un exemplaire de La Pucelle de Voltaire.


Accueillez l'immortel enfant
D'une muse un peu libertine ;
Un philosophe qui badine
Nous instruit en nous amusant.

Par une hypocrite cabale
L'honneur du beau sexe outragé,
Sous le fer d'un héros vengé,
N'est-ce pas là de la morale ?

Le père des inquisiteurs
Prêche aux damnés la tolérance :
Ah ! que n'a-t-il pour auditeurs
Tous nos fanatiques de France !

Et nos porteurs de capuchon,
Gens aussi vains qu'insatiables,
Que ne sont-ils à tous les diables,
Avec le père Gris-Bourdon !

Peut-être plus d'une peinture
Blesserait vos yeux délicats,
Si Vénus était sans appas
Pour être parfois sans ceinture.

Un grison trouve à ses discours
Jeanne et les Amours favorables ;
Que de belles ont tous les jours
Des caprices moins excusables !

Du génie et de l'enjouement,
La Pucelle pour héroïne ;
Tous ces objets, je l'imagine,
Sont de votre département.

Écrit en 1787.
Marquise, si mon visage
A quelques traits un peu vieux,
Souvenez-vous qu'à mon âge
Vous ne vaudrez guère mieux.

Le temps aux plus belles choses
Se plaît à faire un affront,
Et saura faner vos roses
Comme il a ridé mon front.

Le même cours des planètes
Règle nos jours et nos nuits
On m'a vu ce que vous êtes ;
Vous serez ce que je suis.

Cependant j'ai quelques charmes
Qui sont assez éclatants
Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes
De ces ravages du temps.

Vous en avez qu'on adore ;
Mais ceux que vous méprisez
Pourraient bien durer encore
Quand ceux-là seront usés.

Ils pourront sauver la gloire
Des yeux qui me semblent doux,
Et dans mille ans faire croire
Ce qu'il me plaira de vous.

Chez cette race nouvelle,
Où j'aurai quelque crédit,
Vous ne passerez pour belle
Qu'autant que je l'aurai dit.

Pensez-y, belle marquise.
Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi,
Il vaut bien qu'on le courtise
Quand il est fait comme moi.
Amour, tu es trop fort, trop foible est ma Raison
Pour soustenir le camp d'un si rude adversaire.
Va, badine Raison, tu te laisses desfaire :
Dez le premier assaut on te meine en prison.


Je veux, pour secourir mon chef demy-grison,
Non la Philosophie ou les Loix : au contraire
Je veux ce deux fois nay, ce Thebain, ce Bon-pere,
Lequel me servira d'une contrepoison.


Il ne faut qu'un mortel un immortel assaille.
Mais si je prens un jour cest Indien pour moy,
Amour, tant sois tu fort, tu perdras la bataille,


Ayant ensemble un homme et un Dieu contre toy.
La Raison contre Amour ne peut chose qui vaille :
Il faut contre un grand Prince opposer un grand Roy.
Mon âge et mon sang ne sont plus en vigueur,
Les ardents pensers ne m'eschauffent le cœur ;
Plus mon chef grison ne se veut enfermer
Sous le joug d'aimer.

En mon jeune avril, d'Amour je fus soudart,
Et, vaillant guerrier, portay son estendart ;
Ores à l'autel de Venus je l'appens,
Et forcé me rens.

Plus ne veux ouyr ces mots delicieux :
« Ma vie, mon sang, ma chere âme, mes yeux. »
C'est pour les amants à qui le sang plus chaud
Au cœur ne défaut.

Je veux d'autre feu ma poitrine eschaufer,
Cognoistre nature et bien philosopher,
Du monde sçavoir et des astres le cours,
Retours et destours.

Donc, sonnets, adieu ! adieu, douces chansons !
Adieu, dance ! adieu de la lyre les sons !
Adieu, traits d'Amour ! volez en autre part
Qu'au cœur de Ronsard.

Je veux estre à moy, non plus servir autruy ;
Pour autruy ne veux me donner plus d'ennuy.
Il faut essayer, sans plus me tourmenter,
De me contenter.

L'oiseau prisonnier, tant soit-il bien traité,
Sa cage rompant, cherche sa liberté :
Servage d'esprit tient de liens plus forts
Que celuy du corps.

Vostre affection m'a servy de bonheur.
D'estre aimé de vous ce m'est un grand honneur.
Tant que l'air vital en moy se respandra,
II m'en souviendra.

Plus ne veut mon âge à l'amour consentir,
Repris de nature et d'un **** repentir.
Combattre contre elle et luy estre odieux,
C'est forcer les dieux.
Kalora Mar 2018
This girl she stood, just tall and thin. Those who knew called her Allison. Alone she stood in pants and shirt, not on pavement but with shoes in the dirt. Rumors were told by few and many, truth was never very plenty. For those who spoke, she did not hear, for instead she would just disappear. For her black shoes against the dirt, looked never ***** to hide her hurt. With her brown hair and her brown eyes, she liked to laugh with all the guys. With her large eyes and bouncing curls, she did not enjoy the company of many girls. It was not but a year ago when life was different and she wore her bows. In dresses too, she learned to sew, on the edge of rolling dough. A helper if there was any and careful too with every penny. Outside, it seemed, her life just gleamed with granted wishes of problems cleaned, from this object to that, she appeared to be a brat, but it was her emotions she was trying to work at. At school she knew almost everyone, she could talk to each until the day was done. Some of them even now did not know, the words written beneath the cover below.

A sunny day, it may have been, if there was not breath running thin. The news hit fast and the news hit hard, her mother's death caught her off guard. For her friends at school were concerned, no one was ever sick, for each day went by so quick. Who has the time to stop and think, what tears are hidden behind each eye's blink, she was just one girl and a girl alone, on her face no sorrow ever shown. A week she was granted, to stop and relax, and to think about how her mother had passed. Alone with her dad she sat and reviewed, what it really felt like, if there was such a mood. As the loss of this token hit her hard, when she returned to school she received a card. Signed by each student of the class, with a note in each which only words could surpass. With remembrance from two of her most well-known friends, a girl and a guy, written both with their best gel pens.

On the day she returned to school, her once known friends thought she was no longer cool. An awkward beast without a mother, she was no longer like any other. For the ones she knew the best, they talked with her as if they were taking a test. So careful they breathed out every word, through broken teeth soft cries were heard. Different now, and not the same, there was not a soul she could have blamed. The odd one out and the only one in, she watched her friends not grow but thin. Time has passed since this girl was young but still the kids still have a song to be sung, the song, at least, about a girl, with such a sad life it made the children pretend to hurl. Jokingly they would all pretend that life and loss was easy to apprehend, to understand, to love and wait, these were the children that did not appreciate.

It was one day and a grade or two beyond, in a new school, more and more children seemed to spawn. Still she stood, alone and still, for those her knew her talked of her life and how it went downhill. They called her weird, they called her creepy, never getting to learn what was inside her mind when she was sleepy. Laying down, one's thoughts ablaze, each and every day passing by like a thick haze. She reached out to one, a teacher of many, old her in age, but in wisdom plenty. She spoke of hope and held her tight, not giving notice of the tears that soaked her with delight. The teacher told her, “Be strong and keep moving, don't you ever give up, just keep on improving. I know of your skill and your mind is a sponge, just make a to-do list and keep it expunged. Your mom is above you, an angel in the sky, don't ever ignore her loving and watchful eye.” I said to my teacher, “But how do you know?” She looked at me, her face full of woe. She said nothing more and dismissed me to class, for the bell had wrung and it was the day's last.

On the way there, she stood in the hall, a man approached her, he looked very tall. He spoke down to her and he spoke down with anger, “Why do you think you can avoid so much danger? Do you know what you do to this school all the time, skipping and staying home, this school is not to be considered part-time. Do you think your problems are great in the number, do you think that you are the only one who wishes they were in deep slumber? My dad and my mom, they are having a bad time, they are sick and do you think anyone gives them a dime? Their care isn't cheap and you make my work hard, why can't you just come to school instead of being a lard?” The girl was taken back with fear and dismay, her thoughts went abound of what the man said that day. She answered back softly, “You are not my age, sorry, but it is true, I don't mean to upstage it's just hard for me, so hard, at this age too. Your parents are sick? Well I hope they get well, I hope you don't have to go to the hell in which I dwell.” She then walked away and held her head low, feeling selfish and angry at how the man didn't just say 'hello'.

It was when her father questioned her, why her friends have grown so thin, did she reply from her voice within. She spoke lightly but fierce in her words, her eyes mysterious with each word, as if a bird's. “With this time I've had alone, only my thoughts were the ones that shown. Gone are the days I follow and listen, now are the days I feast like a grison. On my own self, of course, my thoughts are free flown, my opinions are only ever my own. For the girls that sit and laugh, I see you afar, your mouths never closed but always ajar. It's nice you laugh and smile with glee, but why is the source sometimes, from me? I stand alone, and no friend can be with me I know, but why must that put me below? In this time I've had alone, I now know what is real, my life, their life, is separate in the ways that we feel. Never did they know me, nor me them, but we end up disliking each other in the end. Even they may have secrets untold, or perhaps lives of their own to rediscover, but we should all know by now not to judge books by their cover.”
Written 2014
Belle dont les yeux doucement m'ont tué
Par un doux regard qu'au cœur ils m'ont rué,
Et m'ont en un roc insensible mué
En mon poil grison,

Que j'estois heureux en ma jeune saison,
Avant qu'avoir beu l'amoureuse poison !
Bien **** de souspirs, de pleurs et de prison,
Libre je vivoy.

Sans servir autruy, tout seul je me servoy ;
Engagé n'avois ny mon cœur ny ma foy ;
De ma volonté j'estois seigneur et roy.
Ô fascheux Amour !

Pourquoy dans mon cœur as-tu fait ton sejour ?
Je languis la nuit, je souspire le jour ;
Le sang tout gelé se ramasse à l'entour
De mon cœur transi.

Mon traistre penser me nourrit de souci ;
L'esprit y consent et la raison aussi.
Longtemps en tel mal vivre ne puis ainsi :
La mort vaudroit mieux.

Devallon là bas à ce bord stygieux ;
D'amour ny du jour je ne veux plus jouyr.
Pour ne voir plus rien je veux perdre les yeux
Comme j'ay l'ouyr.
Sur mes vingt ans, pur d'offense et de vice,
Guidé, mal-caut, d'un trop aveugle oiseau,
Ayant encore le menton damoiseau,
Sain et gaillard je vins à ton service.

Mais, ô cruelle, outré de ta malice,
Je m'en retourne en une vieille peau,
En chef grison, en perte de mon beau :
Tels sont d'Amour les jeux et l'exercice.

Hélas, que dis-je ! où veux-je m'en aller ?
D'un autre bien je ne me puis soûler.
Comme la caille, Amour, tu me fais être,

Qui de poison s'engraisse et se repaît.
D'un autre bien je ne me veux repaître,
Ni vivre ailleurs, tant ta poison me plaît.

— The End —