Sur le Noël, morte saison, Que les loups se vivent de vent […].
Je meurs de soif auprès de la fontaine […] Rien ne m'est sûr que la chose incertaine.
En mon païs suis en terre loingtaine.
Nécessité fait gens mesprendre* Et faim saillir le loup du bois.
Tant crie l'on Noël qu'il vient.
Vente, gresle, gelle, j'ay mon pain cuit.
Alphonse, le roi d'Aragon, Le gracieux duc de Bourbon, Et Artus le duc de Bretagne, Et Charles septième le bon ? Mais où est le preux Charlemagne ?
© 2026 My French LLC
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