Sonnet 2

Standard
Nature ornant la dame qui devoyt
De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles,
Luy fit present des beautez les plus belles,
Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt
 
Tout ce qu’Amour avarement couvoyt,
De beau, de chaste, et d’honneur soubz ses ailles,
Emmiella les graces immortelles
De son bel oeil qui les dieux emouvoyt.
 
Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue,
Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue
En devint folle: et d’un si poignant trait,
 
Le fier destin l’engrava dans mon ame,
Que vif ne mort, jamais d’une aultre dame
Empraint au cuoeur je n’auray le portraict.  
 
 
                                                                       Nature, adorning the lady who ought

                                                                      By her sweetness to compel the most mutinous,
                                                                      Made her a gift of the most lovely of beautiful features
                                                                      Which she had been keeping in her closet for a thousand years.
 
                                                                      Everything which Cupid avariciously brewed
                                                                      Of beauty, chastity and honour beneath his wings
                                                                      Sweetened the immortal grace
                                                                      Of her beautiful eyes, which moved the gods themselves.
 
                                                                      Scarcely had she come down from heaven
                                                                      When I saw her, when my soul was lost
                                                                      And became crazy for her: and with such a sharp wound
 
                                                                      Did proud Fate engrave her on my soul
                                                                      That living or dead, I shall never have the portrait
                                                                      Of any other lady imprinted on my heart.
 
 
 After seeing Ronsard change sonnet 1 so much over his lifetime, is it any surprise that sonnet 2 should also have substantial variants? Though Blanchemain’s main text is the same, he offers two substantial variants in footnotes:
 
 
 
Nature ornant la dame qui devoyt
De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles,
Luy fit present des beautez les plus belles,
Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt
 
De tous les biens qu’Amour au ciel couvoit,
Comme un tresor cherement sous ses ailles,
Elle enrichit les graces immortelles
De son bel oeil qui les dieux emouvoyt.
 
Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue,
Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue
En devint folle: et d’un si poignant trait,
 
Amour coula ses beautez en mes veines,
Qu’autres plaisirs je ne sens que mes peines,
Ny autre bien qu’adorer son portrait.  
 
 
 
                                                                       Nature, adorning the lady who ought
                                                                       by her sweetness to compel the most mutinous,
                                                                       made her a gift of the most lovely of beautiful features
                                                                       which she had been keeping in her closet for ages.
 
                                                                       With all the good things which Cupid in heaven brewed
                                                                       like a treasure dear to him under his wings
                                                                       she enriched the immortal grace
                                                                       of her beautiful eyes which moved the gods themselves.
 
                                                                       Scarcely had she come down from heaven
                                                                       when I saw her, when my soul was lost
                                                                       and became crazy for her: and with such a sharp wound
 
                                                                       did Love pour her beauty into my veins
                                                                       that other pleasures than my pains I feel not,
                                                                       nor any good but worshipping her portrait.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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About fattoxxon

Who am I? Lover of all sorts of music - classical, medieval, world (anything from Africa), world-classical (Uzbek & Iraqi magam for instance), and virtually anything that won't be on the music charts... Lover of Ronsard's poetry (obviously) and of sonnets in general. Reader of English, French, Latin & other literature. And who is Fattoxxon? An allusion to an Uzbek singer - pronounce it Patahan, with a very plosive 'P' and a throaty 'h', as in 'khan')

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