A une Damoyselle Malade - by Clement Marot

From Douglas Hofstadter's incredible book:
'Le Ton beau de Marot
In Praise of the Music of Language
(1997 by Basic Books).

A few simple rules:

1. The poem is made up of twenty-eight lines.
2. Each line has three syllables.
3. The stress falls on the last of these syllables.
4. In a series of rhyming couplets (AABBCCDD…)
5. In the first fourteen lines, he addresses her using the formal 'vous' form, and then goes on to call her 'tu'- more friendly or colloquial.
6. The last line echoes the first.
7. The poet slips his own name into the poem.

A une Damoyselle Malade Clement Marot Ma mignonne, Je vous donne Le bon jour ; Le séjour C'est prison. Guérison Recouvrez, Puis ouvrez Votre porte Et qu 'on sorte Vitement, Car Clément Le vous mande. Va, friande De ta bouche, Qui se couche En danger Pour manger Confitures ; Si tu dures Trop malade, Couleur fade Tu prendras, Et perdras L'embonpoint. Dieu te doint Santé bonne, Ma mignonne.

Cutie pie Douglas Hofstadter Cutie pie, Herewith I Wish you well, In you cell. It's like jail When you ail, Hope you make Jailbreak Straightaway. 'Twill be gay, Without doubt, Once you're out. "Quick!" says Clem, "Flush your phlegm!" Think of ham, Eggs and jam -- Pretty posh Stuff to nosh; But no way, If you stay Stuck abed, With those med- ical folks Making pokes. "One needs sun- light and fun!!" So say I, Cutie pie.

Fairest friend Robert French Fairest friend, Let me send My embrace. Quit this place, Its dark halls And dank walls. I soft stealth. Regain health: Dress and flee Off with me, Clement, who Calls for you. Fin gourmet, Hid from day, Danger's past, So at last Let's be gone, To dine on Honeyed ham And sweet jam. If you're still Wan and ill, You will cede Pounds you need. May God's wealth Bless your health Till the end, Fairest friend.

Chickadee Carol Hofstadter Chickadee, I decree A fine day. Dart away From your cage And engage In brave flight, So you might Flee the coup. Hope you swoop Into ham, Apple jam, And French bread, Or instead You will lose The bright hues Of your plumes. Flu consumes Scrawny birds; Heed my words And take care. Slip the snare That does pinch My wee finch. Hopes abound That aground You won’t be, Chickadee.

Love Robert French Love dove, still ill? "Fly High!" I cry. "Why lie so low?" For your sweet treat, eat meat. jam, ham. Pray stay in thin, slim trim love dove.