Odes 3, 23

Quand je dors je ne sens rien,

Je ne sens ne mal ne bien,

Plus je ne me puis cognoistre,

Je ne sçay ce que je suis,

Ce que je fus, et ne puis

Sçavoir ce que je dois estre.

 

J’ay perdu le souvenir

Du passé, de l’advenir ;

Je ne suis que vaine masse

De bronze en homme gravé,

Ou quelque terme eslevé

Pour parade en une place.

 

Toutesfois je suis vivant,

Repoussant mes flancs de vent,

Et si pers toute mémoire ;

Voyez donc que je seray

Quand mort je reposeray

Au fonds de la tombe noire !

 

L’âme, volant d’un plain saut,

A Dieu s’en ira là haut

Avecque luy se ressoudre,

Mais ce mien corps enterré,

Sillé d’un somme ferré,

Ne sera plus rien que poudre.

 

 

                                                                                               When I sleep I feel nothing,

                                                                                               I feel neither good nor bad;

                                                                                               Further, I cannot understand,

                                                                                               I do not know who I am,

                                                                                               What I was, and cannot

                                                                                               Comprehend what I must be.

 

                                                                                               I have lost my recall

                                                                                               Of the past, of the future,

                                                                                               I am just an empty mass

                                                                                               Of bronze carved as a man,

                                                                                               Or some statue raised

                                                                                               For display in a square.

 

                                                                                               All the while I’m alive,

                                                                                               Expanding my chest as I breathe,

                                                                                               Yet have lost all memory completely;

                                                                                               See then what I will be

                                                                                               When I lie dead

                                                                                               In the depths of the black tomb !

 

                                                                                               My spirit will depart with a great leap,

                                                                                               Flying to God on high

                                                                                               To settle itself with Him;

                                                                                               But this my body buried

                                                                                               Overcome by an iron sleep,

                                                                                               Will be no more than dust.

 

 

 

 Blanchemain marks the last stanza with [parentheses], but doesn’t explain why. While true the poem could have ended after the third stanza, the fourth is not markedly different or worse than the rest!

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 34

Las ! je me plains de mile et mile et mile

Soupirs, qu’en vain des flancs je vais tirant,

En ma chaleur doucement respirant

Trempée en l’eau qui de mes pleurs distile.

 

Puis je me plain d’un portrait inutile,

Ombre du vray que je suis adorant,

Et de ces yeulx qui me vont devorant,

Le coeur bruslé d’une flamme fertile.

 

Mais par sus tout je me plain d’un penser,

Qui trop souvent dans mon coeur fait passer

Le souvenir d’une beaulté cruelle,

 

Et d’un regret qui me pallist si blanc,

Que je n’ay plus en mes veines de sang,

Aux nerfz de force, en mes os de mouëlle.

 

 

 

 

                                                                      Alas, I weep with thousand upon thousand upon thousand

                                                                      Sighs, drawing them from my breast in vain,

                                                                      Breathing lightly, hot and

                                                                      Soaked in water, the distillation of my tears.

 

                                                                      Then I weep over this useless portrait,

                                                                      A mere shadow of the true lady I’m in love with

                                                                      And of those eyes which devour me,

                                                                      While my heart burns with a fertile flame.

 

                                                                      But above all I weep for a thought

                                                                      Which too often makes pass through my heart

                                                                      The memory of her cruel beauty

 

                                                                      And of the regret which leaves me white as a sheet

                                                                      As if I had no blood left in my veins,

                                                                      No strength in my nerves, no marrow in by bones.

 

 

 Another sonnet partly re-written by Ronsard: in this case the end of the first quatrain (though he also changed ‘gentle’ to ‘fertile’ at the end of the 2nd quatrain):

 

 

Las ! je me plains de mile et mile et mile

Soupirs, qu’en vain des flancs je vais tirant,

Heureusement mon plaisir martirant

Au fond d’une eau qui de mes pleurs distille.

 

 

                                                                      Alas, I weep with thousand upon thousand upon thousand

                                                                      Sighs, drawing them from my breast in vain

                                                                      Torturing my pleasure pleasantly

                                                                      At the bottom of a pool made of my own tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 29

Si mille oeillets, si mille liz j’embrasse,

Entortillant mes bras tout à l’entour,

Plus fort qu’un cep, qui d’un amoureux tour

La branche aimée, en mille plis enlasse :

 

Si le soucy ne jaunist plus ma face,

Si le plaisir fait en moy son sejour,

Si j’aime mieux les ombres que le jour,

Songe divin, ce bien vient de ta grace.

 

En te suivant je volerois aux cieux :

Mais ce portrait qui nage dans mes yeux,

Fraude tousjours ma joye entre-rompue.

 

Puis tu me fuis au milieu de mon bien,

Comme un éclair qui se finist en rien,

Ou comme au vent s’évanouit la nuë.

 

 

 

                                                                      If I embrace a thousand carnations, a thousand lilies,

                                                                      Twisting them all around my arms

                                                                      Tighter than a vine which in amorous style

                                                                      Entwines its beloved branch in a thousand curves;

 

                                                                      If care no longer jaundices my face,

                                                                      If pleasure chooses to stay with me,

                                                                      If I prefer the shadows to the day,

                                                                      My divine dream, this good comes from your favour.

 

                                                                      Following you I could fly to the heavens;

                                                                      But this image which swims in my eyes

                                                                      Always deceives my exhausted joy;

 

                                                                      And then you flee from me in the midst of my happiness,

                                                                      Like a flash of lightning which ends in nothing,

                                                                      Or like a cloud which disappears in the breeze.

 

 Although Ronsard did not make substantial changes in this poem, there are variants in the penultimate tercet. What I have put above is actually a mingling of Marty-Laveaux’s text with Blanchemain’s of that tercet (lines 9-11), because I think Blanchemains version is far better in that section.  

 

For reference, and as your judgement may be different from mine, here is Marty-Laveaux’s version of these lines:

 

 

Suivant ton vol je volerois aux cieux :

Mais son portrait qui me trompe les yeux,

Fraude tousjours ma joye entre-rompue.

 

 

                                                                    Following your flight I could fly to the heavens;

                                                                      But her image which fools my eyes

                                                                      Always deceives my exhausted joy;

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 25

Ces deux yeux bruns, deux flambeaux de ma vie

Dessus les miens respandans leur clairté,

Ont esclavé ma jeune liberté,

Pour la damner en prison asservie.

 

Par ces yeux bruns ma raison fut ravie,

Et quelque part qu’Amour m’ait arresté,

Je ne sceu voir ailleurs autre beauté,

Tant ils sont seuls mon bien et mon envie.

 

D’un autre espron mon maistre ne me poind,

Autres pensers en moy ne logent point,

D’un autre feu ma Muse ne s’enflame :

 

Ma main ne sçait cultiver autre nom,

Et mon papier ne s’esmaille, sinon

De leurs beautez que je sens dedans l’ame.

 

 

                                                                      Two lovely brown eyes, twin torches of my life,

                                                                      Spreading a light brighter far than mine,

                                                                      Have enslaved my youth’s liberty

                                                                      To condemn it to service in prison.

 

                                                                      By these brown eyes my reason was stolen,

                                                                      And whatever part of me Love had seized;

                                                                      I cannot see other beauty anywhere,

                                                                      So much are these only my good and desire.

 

                                                                      My master allows me no other hope,

                                                                      Other hopes never arise in me,

                                                                      My Muse is fired by no other flame:

 

                                                                      My hand cannot write any other name,

                                                                      And my page is not embellished unless

                                                                      By their beauty which I sense within my soul.

 

 

Ronsard re-wrote parts of this sonnet quite substantially: here is Blanchemain’s version.

 

 

Ces deux yeux bruns, deux flambeaux de ma vie

Dessus les miens respandans leur clairté,

Ont arresté ma jeune liberté,

Pour la damner, en prison asservie.

 

Par ces yeux bruns ma raison fut ravie,

Si qu’esbloui de leur grande beauté,

Opiniastre à garder loyauté

Autres yeux voir depuis je n’eus envie.

 

D’autre esperon mon tyran ne me poind ;

Autres pensers en moy ne logent point,

Ni autre idole en mon coeur je n’adore ;

 

Ma main ne sçait cultiver autre nom,

Et mon papier n’est esmaillé sinon

De ses beautez que ma plume colore.

 

 

 

                                                                      Two lovely brown eyes, twin torches of my life,

                                                                      Spreading a light brighter far than mine,

                                                                      Have seized my youth’s liberty

                                                                      To condemn it to service in prison.

 

                                                                      By these brown eyes my reason was stolen,

                                                                      So dazzled by theirr great beauty

                                                                      Persistently remaining loyal

                                                                      I’ve had no wish to see other eyes since.

 

                                                                      My tyrant allows me no other hope,

                                                                      Other hopes never arise in me,

                                                                      Nor do I worship any other idol in my heart.

 

                                                                      My hand cannot write any other name,

                                                                      And my page is not embellished unless

                                                                      My pen colours it with their beauty.

 

 

 

 

Odes 4, 31 – Odelette (little ode)

Janne, en te baisant tu me dis

Que j’ay le chef à demy gris,

Et tousjours me baisant tu veux

De l’ongle oster mes blancs cheveux,

Comme s’un cheveu blanc ou noir

Sur le baiser avait pouvoir.

Mais, Janne, tu te trompes fort :

Un cheveu blanc est assez fort

Au seul baiser, pourveu que point

Tu ne veuilles de l’autre poinct.

 

 

                                                                                               Jane, as I kiss you you tell me

                                                                                               That my head is half grey;

                                                                                               Still kissing me, you try

                                                                                               To pull out my white hairs with your fingernails

                                                                                               As if white or dark hair could

                                                                                               Have any effect on a kiss.

                                                                                               But Jane, you are completely mistaken:

                                                                                               White hair is good enough

                                                                                               For kissing alone, provided that

                                                                                               You don’t want any of the other.

 

 

 

 

Interesting, isn’t it, how expressions are recognisable across the years? We still use ‘a bit of the other’ in this way as a reference to sex…

 

Blanchemain comments ‘This little Ode is similar in invention to this epigram of Martial.’ Well, maybe, but Martial (writing to a famous prostitute or courtesan) is rude and offensive, while Ronsard is gently and smilingly commenting on his relative age.

 

 

Quid me, Thai, senem subinde dicis?

Nemo est, Thai, senex ad irrumandum.

 

                                                 Why, Thais, do you so often say that I’m an old man?

                                                 No-one is too old, Thais, to demand a blow-job.

 

 

Odes 4, 26

Plusieurs, de leurs corps desnuez,

Se sont veus en diverse terre

Miraculeusement muez,

L’un en serpent et l’autre en pierre,

 

L’un en fleur, l’autre en arbrisseau,

L’un en loup, l’autre en colombelle ;

L’un se vid changer en ruisseau,

Et l’autre devint arondelle.

 

Mais je voudrais estre miroir

A fin que tousjours tu me visses ;

Chemise je voudrois me voir,

Afin que souvent tu me prisses.

 

Volontiers eau je deviendrois,

Afin que ton corps je lavasse ;

Estre du parfum je voudrois,

Afin que je te parfumasse.

 

Je voudrois estre le riban

Qui serre ta belle poitrine ;

Je voudrois estre le carquan

qui orne ta gorge yvoirine.

 

Je voudrois estre tout autour

Le coral qui tes lèvres touché,

Afin de baiser nuit et jour

Tes belles lèvres et ta bouche.

 

 

 

                                                                                               Many a lover, stripped of his mortal body,

                                                                                               Has been seen in varied lands

                                                                                               Changed miraculously –

                                                                                               One into a serpent, another into stone,

 

                                                                                               One to a flower, another a bush,

                                                                                               One into a wolf, another a dove;

                                                                                               One is seen to change into a river,

                                                                                               Another becomes a swallow.

 

                                                                                               But I’d rather be a mirror,

                                                                                               So long as you would always look at me;

                                                                                               Or I’d wish to be a blouse,

                                                                                               So long as you often wore me.

 

                                                                                               I’d willingly become water

                                                                                               If I could wash your body;

                                                                                               Or I’d wish to be perfume

                                                                                               If I could perfume your body.

 

                                                                                               I’d wish to be the ribbon

                                                                                               Which is tied round your waist,

                                                                                               I’d wish to be the collar

                                                                                               Which ornaments your ivory throat.

 

                                                                                               I’d wish to be transformed entirely to

                                                                                               The coral which your lips wear,

                                                                                               So that night and day I could kiss

                                                                                               Your fair lips and your mouth.

 

 

 Ronsard plays some lover’s games with the theme of Ovid’s Metamorphoses …

 

Odes 4, 25

La terre les eaux va buvant,

L’arbre la boit par sa racine

La mer éparse boit le vent,

et le soleil boit la marine ;

Le soleil est beu de la lune ;

Tout boit, soit en haut ou en bas :

Suivant ceste reigle commune,

Pourquoy donc ne boirons-nous pas?

 

 

                                                                                               The earth goes on drinking the rain,

                                                                                               The tree drinks in earth through its roots

                                                                                               The scattered seas drink the wind,

                                                                                               And the sun drinks the ocean;

                                                                                               The sun is drunk by the moon.

                                                                                               All things drink, high or low;

                                                                                               Following this common rule

                                                                                               Why then will we not too?

 

 

 

 

Odes 2, 17

Pour boire dessus l’herbe tendre

Je veux sous un laurier m’estendre,

Et veux qu’Amour, d’un petit brin

Ou de lin ou de chenevière

Trousse au flanc sa robe legere,

Et my-nud me verse du vin.

 

L’incertaine vie de l’homme

De jour en jour se roule comme

Aux rives se roulent les flots,

Et, après nostre heure derniere

Rien de nous ne reste en la biere

Que je ne sçay quels petits os.

 

Je ne veux, selon la coustume,

Que d’encens ma tombe on parfume,

Ny qu’on y verse des odeurs ;

Mais, tandis que je suis en vie,

J’ay de me parfumer envie,

Et de me couronner de fleurs,

 

Corydon, va quérir ma mie.

Avant que la Parque blesmie

M’envoye aux éternelles nuits

Je veux, avec la tasse pleine

Et avec elle, oster la peine

De mes misérables ennuis.

 

 

 

                                                                                               To drink upon the tender grass

                                                                                               I’d like to stretch out under a laurel,

                                                                                               And I’d like Love to tie, with a strand

                                                                                               Of linen or of hemp,

                                                                                               Her light dress at her side

                                                                                               And, half-naked, pour me wine.

 

                                                                                               The uncertain life of man

                                                                                               Unfolds from day to day like

                                                                                               Waves rolling onto the riverbanks;

                                                                                               And, after our final hour,

                                                                                               Nothing of us remains in the coffin

                                                                                               But a few little bones.

 

                                                                                               I do not wish, as is the custom,

                                                                                               That they perfume my tomb with incense,

                                                                                               Nor pour out sweet-smelling oil on it,

                                                                                               But so long as I am alive

                                                                                               I would like to be perfumed

                                                                                               And indeed crowned with flowers.

 

                                                                                               Corydon, go and summon my love.

                                                                                               Before ill-featured Fate

                                                                                               Sends me into the eternal night,

                                                                                               With full cup and with her

                                                                                               I want to take away the pain

                                                                                               Of my lamentable troubles.

 

 

This is Blanchemain’s chosen text.  Ronsard later improved the weak line at the end of the 1st stanza, offering instead “Qu’une vieille carcasse d’os” (“Nothing but an old frame of bones”). He also completely re-wrote the end of the sonnet; Blanchemain records this alternative last stanza from 1587 in a footnote:

 

De moy-mesme je me veux faire

L’heritier pour me satisfaire ;

Je ne veux vivre pour autruy.

Fol le pelican qui se blesse

Pour les siens, et fol qui se laisse

Pour les siens travailler d’ennuy.

 

                                                                                               I would like to make myself

                                                                                               My legatee, to satisfy myself;

                                                                                               I wish to live for no-one else.

                                                                                               Foolish the pelican who wounds herself

                                                                                               For her little ones, and foolish he who lets himself

                                                                                               For his little ones work in boredom.

 

The image of the ‘pelican in his/her pride’, pecking its own breast to make it bleed so that (s)he can feed the youngsters, is a commonplace of medieval art, because of its obvious metaphor for the blood of Christ. So, mocking it like this is quite a daring way to round off the tone of levity !

 

 

 

 

Odes 2, 16 – to Cassandre

Ma petite colombelle,

Ma mignonne toute belle,

Mon petit oeil, baisez-moy ;

D’un bouche toute pleine

De baisers chassez la peine

De mon amoureux esmoy.

 

Quand je vous diray : Mignonne,

Approchez-vous, qu’on me donne

Neuf baisers tout à la fois ;

Lors, ne m’en baillez que trois,

 

Tels que Diane guerriere

Les donne à Phebus son frere,

Et l’Aurore à son vieillard ;

Puis reculez vostre bouche,

Et bien loin, toute farouche,

Fuyez d’un pied fretillard.

 

Comme un taureau par la prée

Court après son amourée,

Ainsi , tout plein de courroux

Je courray fol après vous,

 

Et, prise d’une main forte,

Vous tiendray de telle sorte

Qu’un aigle l’oiseau tremblant.

Lors, faisant de la modeste,

De me redonner le reste

Des baisers ferez semblant.

 

Mais en vain serez pendant

Toute à mon col, attendante

(Tenant un peu l’oeil baissé)

Pardon de m’avoir laissé :

 

Car, en lieu de six, adonques

J’en demanderay plus qu’onques

Tout le ciel d’estoiles n’eut,

Plus que d’arene poussée

Aux bords, quand l’eau courroussée

Contre les rives s’esmeut.

 

 

 

                                                                                               My little turtledove,

                                                                                               My beautiful darling,

                                                                                               Apple of my eye, kiss me

                                                                                               With a mouth full

                                                                                               Of kisses, chase away the pain

                                                                                               Of my lover’s agitation.

 

                                                                                               When I say to you, “Darling”,

                                                                                               Come to me, give me

                                                                                               Nine kisses all at once ;

                                                                                               Or, grant me but three,

 

                                                                                               Such as those which warlike Diana

                                                                                               Gives to her brother Phoebus [Apollo],

                                                                                               And as Dawn gives to her ancient husband;

                                                                                               Then draw back your lips

                                                                                               And far away, like a shy wild creature,

                                                                                               Flee with nervous feet.

 

                                                                                               As a bull in the meadow

                                                                                               Runs after his beloved,

                                                                                               So will I, full of passion,

                                                                                               Run madly after you,

 

                                                                                               And caught by my strong hand,

                                                                                               I shall hold you in the same way

                                                                                               That an eagle holds a trembling bird.

                                                                                               Then, acting modestly,

                                                                                               You shall make it seem you’ll give me back

                                                                                               The remainder of the kisses.

 

                                                                                               But in vain will you hang

                                                                                               From my neck, waiting –

                                                                                               With your gaze slightly lowered –

                                                                                               For pardon for having left me :

 

                                                                                               For instead of six, as many

                                                                                               I shall ask indeed as

                                                                                               All the heavens hold of stars,

                                                                                               More than the [grains of] sand pushed

                                                                                               Onto the shore when the wrathful waters

                                                                                               Riot against the riverbanks.

 

 

Ronsard made quite a few changes in the first half of this ode. The version above is Blanchemain’s; another version I have – which may be Marty-Laveaux’s though I cannot check his edition to make sure – begins:

 

 

Ma petite colombelle,

Ma petite toute belle,

Mon petit oeil, baisez-moi

D’un baiser qui longtemps dure

Poussés hors la peine dure

De mon amoureux esmoy.

 

Quand je vous dirai: Mignonne,

Sus, venez que l’on me donne

Neuf baisers tout simplement

Lors, ne m’en baillez que trois,

 

 

 

                                                                                               My little turtledove,

                                                                                               My beautiful little one,

                                                                                               Apple of my eye, kiss me

                                                                                               With a kiss that lasts long,

                                                                                               Thrust aside the harsh pain

                                                                                               Of my lover’s agitation.

 

                                                                                               When I say to you, “Darling”,

                                                                                               Up, come, to give me

                                                                                               Nine kisses quite simply,

                                                                                               Or, grant me but three, …

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 4, 18

Dieu vous gard, messagers fidelles

Du printemps, gentes arondelles,

Huppes, cocus, rossignolets,

Tourtres, et vous oiseaux sauvages

Qui de cent sortes de ramages

Animez les bois verdelets.

 

 Dieu vous gard, belles paquerettes,

Belles roses, belles fleurettes

De Mars, et vous boutons cognus

Du sang d’Ajax et de Narcisse ;

Et vous, thym, anis et melisse,

Vous soyez les bien revenus.

 

Dieu vous gard, troupe diaprée

De papillons, qui par la prée

Les douces herbes suçotez ;

Et vous, nouvel essain d’abeilles,

Qui les fleurs jaunes et vermeilles

Indifferemment baisotez.

 

Cent mille fois je resalue

Vostre belle et douce venue ;

O que j’aime ceste saison

Et ce doux caquet des rivages,

Au prix des vents et des orages

Qui m’enfermoient en la maison !

 

[Sus, page, à cheval ! que l’on bride !

Ayant ce beau printemps pour guide,

Je veux ma dame aller trouver

Pour voir, en ces beaux mois, si elle

Autant vers moi sera cruelle

Comme elle fut durant l’hyver.]

 

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, faithful messengers

                                                                                               Of Spring, noble swallows,

                                                                                               Hoopoes, cuckoos, little nightingales,

                                                                                               Turtledoves, and you wild birds

                                                                                               Who with a hundred kinds of song

                                                                                               Bring the green wood to life.

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, lovely daisies,

                                                                                               Lovely roses, lovely little flowers

                                                                                               Of March, and you well-known buds

                                                                                               From the blood of Ajax and Narcissus;

                                                                                               And you thyme, anise, lemon balm,

                                                                                               Are all very welcome back.

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, many-coloured band

                                                                                               Of butterflies, who suck

                                                                                               The sweet grasses in the meadow;

                                                                                               And you, fresh swarm of bees

                                                                                               Who kiss indifferently

                                                                                               Both yellow and red flowers.

 

                                                                                               A hundred times I greet again

                                                                                               Your fair and sweet return;

                                                                                               Oh, how I love this season

                                                                                               And the sweet babbling of the brooks

                                                                                               Even with the winds and storms

                                                                                               Which may imprison me in the house!

 

                                                                                               [Up then, page, to horse! Bridle him!

                                                                                               With this fair spring as guide

                                                                                               I want to go and find my lady

                                                                                               To see if, in these lovely months, she

                                                                                               Will be as cruel to me

                                                                                               As she was through the winter.]

 

 

 Blanchemain in his edition parenthesises the last stanza without explanation; it is certainly a change of direction, but hardly unparalleled in Ronsard!

 

The flowers of Ajax and Narcissus are the violet (marked with AI, the first two letters of Ajax’s Greek name AIAS), and of course the narcissus (or perhaps the daffodil) which was said to have sprung from his blood.