Sonnet 12

Standard
J’espère et crain, je me tais et supplie,
Or’ je suis glace et ores un feu chaud,
J’admire tout et de rien ne me chaut,
Je me delace et mon col je relie.
 
Rien ne me plaist sinon ce qui m’ennuie :
Je suis vaillant et le coeur me défaut,
J’ay l’espoir bas j’ay le courage haut,
Je doute Amour et si je le desfie.
 
Plus je me picque, et plus je suis retif,
J’aime estre libre, et veux estre captif,
Tout je desire, et si n’ay qu’une envie.
 
Un Promethée en passions je suis.
J’ose, je veux, je m’efforce, et ne puis
Tant d’un fil noir la Parque ourdit ma vie.
 
 
                                                                       I hope and fear, I’m silent, I beg;
                                                                       Now I’m like ice, now like hot fire;
                                                                       I’m amazed at everything, and care for nothing;
                                                                       I relax, and then tense my neck again.
 
                                                                       Nothing pleases me, except what bores me;
                                                                       I’m courageous and my heart fails me;
                                                                       I have no hope, I have high hopes;
                                                                       I doubt Love, and even so I defy him.
 
                                                                       The more I’m goaded, the more stubborn I get;
                                                                       I love to be free, and want to be imprisoned;
                                                                       I want everything, and yet have only one wish.
 
                                                                       I’m like a Prometheus in my suffering,
                                                                       I dare, I wish, I make great efforts but achieve nothing,
                                                                       In such a way does Fate with her black thread order my life.
 
 
 
 In Greek myth, Prometheus had his body torn every day by an eagle, and every night his wounds healed. Fate (or the Fates) measured out everyone’s life with their thread, and when they cut the thread, you died.
 
 It won’t surprise you that a variant of the last 6 lines was also offered by Ronsard. Here it is:
 
 
Plus je me picque, et plus je suis retif.
J’aime etre libre. et veux etre captif.
Cent fois je meurs, cent fois je prend naissance.
 
Un Promethée en passions je suis.
Et pour aimer pendant toute puissance
Crier mercy seulement je ne puis.
 
 
                                                                       The more I’m goaded, the more stubborn I get;
                                                                       I love to be free, and want to be imprisoned;
                                                                       I die again and again, again and again I’m reborn.
 
                                                                       I’m like a Prometheus in my suffering
                                                                       And, to love through every trial,
                                                                       Just cannot cry ‘enough’.
 

 
 
 
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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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