Sonnet 43

Standard
Ores la crainte et ores l’esperance
De tous costez se campent en mon coeur:
Ny l’un ny l’autre au combat n’est veinqueur,
Pareils en force et en perseverance.
 
Ores douteux, ores plein d’asseurance,
Entre l’espoir le soupçon et la peur,
Pour ester en vain de moy-mesme trompeur,
Au coeur captif je promets delivrance.
 
Verray-je point avant mourir le temps,
Que je tondray la fleur de son printemps,
Sous qui ma vie à l’ombrage demeure ?
 
Verray-je point qu’en ses bras enlassé,
Recreu d’amour tout penthois et lassé,
D’un beau trespas entre ses bras je meure ?

 

 
 
 
                                                                      Now fear, and now hope,
                                                                      Plant themselves all around my heart;
                                                                      Not one nor the other is the winner in their battle,
                                                                      Equal in strength and perseverance.
 
                                                                      Now doubtful, now full of certainty,
                                                                      Between hope, suspicion and fear,
                                                                      To be my own deceiver in vain
                                                                      I promise deliverance to my captive heart.
 
                                                                      Shall I never see the time, before I die,
                                                                      When I shall pluck the flower of her springtime,
                                                                      Beneath which my life is lived in shadow?
 
                                                                      Shall I never see the time when, twined in her arms,
                                                                      Worn out with love, all breathless and weary,
                                                                      I die a beautiful death within her arms?
 
 
 
As usual, Ronsard tinkered with this one to try for minor improvements;  Blanchemain’s chosen version has changes in 5 of the lines, though only in lines 7 and 13 does he really modify the meaning. Rather than list them all, here is the complete sonnet in that version:
 
 
Ores la crainte et ores l’esperance,
De çà, de là, se campent en mon coeur,
Et tour à tour l’un et l’autre est veinqueur,
Pareils en force et en perseverance.
 
Ores douteux, ores plein d’asseurance,
Entre l’espoir le soupçon et la peur,
Heureusement de moy-mesme trompeur,
Au coeur captif je promets delivrance.
 
Verray-je point avant mourir le temps,
Que je tondray la fleur de son printemps,
Sous qui ma vie à l’ombrage demeure ?
 
Verray-je point qu’en ses bras enlassé,
Tantost dispost, tantost demy-lassé,
D’un beau souspir entre ses bras je meure ?

 

 
 
                                                                     Now fear, and now hope,
                                                                     Plant themselves now one side, now the other, within my heart,
                                                                     And turn and turn about, one then the other is the winner,
                                                                     Equal in strength and perseverance.
 
                                                                     Now doubtful, now full of certainty,
                                                                     Between hope, suspicion and fear,
                                                                     Happily my own deceiver,
                                                                     I promise deliverance to my captive heart.
 
                                                                     Shall I never see the time, before I die,
                                                                     When I shall pluck the flower of her springtime,
                                                                     Beneath which my life is lived in shadow?
 
                                                                     Shall I never see the time when, twined in her arms,
                                                                     Sometimes fresh, sometimes half-wearied,
                                                                     I die with a happy sigh within her arms?
 
 
 
 
Advertisements

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')

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s