Amelette Ronsardelette, Mignonnelette doucelette, Treschere hostesse de mon corps, Tu descens là bas foiblelette, Pasle, maigrelette, seulette, Dans le froid Royaume des mors : Toutesfois simple, sans remors De meurtre, poison, ou rancune, Mesprisant faveurs et tresors Tant enviez par la commune. Passant, j’ay dit, suy ta fortune Ne trouble mon repos, je dors. Little soul of little Ronsard Darling and sweet, Dearest guest within my body You are going down below weak, Pale, small, thin and lonely, Into the cold kingdom of the dead: And yet modest, not remorseful For murder, poison or malice, Despising favours and treasures So envied by the common herd. Traveller, I have spoken: follow your fortune, Trouble not my rest, I sleep. His very last poem – at least, the last poem in the Dernier Vers, placed at the end of his collected works; though these days followed by a mountain of pieces he’d cut from earlier editions, not published, published but not collected…! Are the last two lines an address to his soul, or to a passing traveller (like an inscription for his tomb)? It’s ambiguous: read it both ways.