It took me ages to track down even the French text of this epitaph, and I'm posting it here against the day I decide to learn French.
You got me curious, Joshua. And since I find French accent quite annoying, I'm pretty sure the day I decide to learn French will be the same day the hell freezes. Therefore, there's no point in resisting the temptation to know what the poem is about. I decided to butcher the poetry via machine translation.
I took the transcript from here: https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Page:Rons…e,_1554.djvu/36
I took the liberty of replacing all 'long eses' with regular 'eses' and butchered the poem into what follows. I fully expect Mr. Ronsard's ghost to poke holes in all white sheets I conveniently don't posses and use them for dramatic effects during his infernal howls while floating over my bed. What can I say? I'll have a night to remember tonight.
Anyway, here it is if anyone's interested:
Epitaph for Michel Marulle Tarchaniot, from Constantinnople.
Speak good words
Muses, & with my songs,
He faintly agreed with the sounds
From you Luts, & from you Violes.
Here is Marule's Tomb,
Prayed, what ever from heaven,
The sweet manna, & the sweet honey,
And the sweet dew falls there:
I hit the Tomb of Marulle,
From him Tombe didn’t sin
The veins letters of his name,
He lives there with Tibulle.
Above the Elysées rivers,
And under the shade of the myrtle trees,
An noise of waters sings its verses
Between well-prized souls.
Pincetant to lyre cornüe,
In a circle, in the beautiful middle of a valley,
All the first guide the ball
Digging through the grassy wheel
When these sub hums shine
The sweet flames of love,
The Heroines all around
From his Latin mouth hang:
Tibulle and more and more sa Delie
Dance, holding his hand,
Corynne lover Rommain,
And Porperse holds his Cynthia.
But when its gray worms gather
The old praises of the Gods,
The oldest Roman poets
Beans a son Luc s’emerueillent,
Dequoy him born on the riuage
D’Helesponte, sang so well
That his Thalia has overcome
Theirs, in their own language.
Dear soul, for beautiful things
That in your book there is understood,
Take these small prized eyelets,
These beautiful liz, & its beautiful roses.
Always light be the earth
To your bones, and to your tomb,
curling up with my own branch
Tousiours climbs the Lhierre green.