Sonnet 50

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Cent fois le jour esbahi je repense,
Que c’est qu’Amour, quelle humeur l’entretient,
Quel est son arc, et quelle place il tient
Dedans nos coeurs, et quelle est son essence.
 
Je cognoy bien des astres l’influence,
Comme la mer tousjours fuit et revient,
Comme en son tout le monde se contient :
Seule me fuit d’Amour la cognoissance.
 
Je suis certain qu’il est un puissant Dieu,
Et que, mobile, ores il prend son lieu
Dedans mon cœur, et ores dans mes veines :
 
Que de nature il ne fait jamais bien,
Qu’il porte un fruit dont le goust ne vault rien,
Et duquel l’arbre est tout chargé de peines.
 
 
 
                                                                       A hundred times a day, dumbfounded I consider
                                                                       What Love is, what mood occupies him,
                                                                       What bow he uses, and what place he holds
                                                                       Within our hearts, and what is his essence.
 
                                                                       I understand well the influence of the stars,
                                                                       How the sea continually recedes and returns,
                                                                       How within its all the world contains itself:
                                                                       Only the understanding of Love escapes me.
 
                                                                       I’m certain that he is a powerful god,
                                                                       And that, always on the move, sometimes his place is
                                                                       Within my heart, sometimes in my veins:
 
                                                                       That by his nature he never does good,
                                                                       That he bears a fruit whose taste is worthless,
                                                                       And whose tree burgeons with troubles.
 
 
 
 Another sonnet which appears rather differently in Blanchemain’s edition.  There are minor changes almost throughout, and a completely different final tercet, so here is the full poem in his version:
 
 
Cent fois le jour à part moi je repense,
Que c’est qu’Amour, quelle humeur l’entretient,
Quel est son arc, et quelle place il tient
Dedans nos coeurs, et quelle est son essence.
 
Je cognoy bien des astres la puissance,
Je sais comment la mer fuit et revient,
Comme en son tout le monde se contient :
Seule me fuit d’Amour la cognoissance.
 
Si sais-je bien que c’est un puissant Dieu,
Et que, mobile, ores il prend son lieu
Dedans mon cœur, et ores dans mes veines :
 
Et que depuis qu’en sa douce prison
Dessous mes sens fit serve ma raison,
Toujours mal sain, je n’ai langui qu’en peines.
 
 
                                                                      A hundred times a day, beside myself I consider
                                                                      What Love is, what mood occupies him,
                                                                      What bow he uses, and what place he holds
                                                                      Within our hearts, and what is his essence.
 
                                                                      I understand well the power of the stars,
                                                                      I know how the sea recedes and returns,
                                                                      How within its all the world contains itself:
                                                                      Only the understanding of Love escapes me.
 
                                                                      Yes, I’m certain that he is a powerful god,
                                                                      And that, always on the move, sometimes his place is
                                                                      Within my heart, sometimes in my veins:
 
                                                                       And that, since I’ve been in his sweet prison,
                                                                       My reason has been made to serve my passions,
                                                                       And always felling ill, I’ve not rested except in pain.
 
 
 
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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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  1. Pingback: Cassandre 38-50: a note « Oeuvres de Ronsard

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