Sonnet 16

Standard
Amour, qui dés jeunesse en ton camp m’as tenu,
Qui premier desbauchas ma liberté nouvelle,
S’il te plaist d’adoucir la fierté de ma belle,
Et si par ton moyen mon mal est recognu :

Sur un pilier d’airain je t’apendray tout nu,
En l’air un pied levé, à chaque flanc une aile,
L’arc courbé dans la main, le carquois sous l’aisselle,
Le corps gras et douilet, le poil crespe et menu.

Tu vois (un Dieu voit tout) combien j’ay de tristesse :
Tu vois de quel orgueil me brave ma maistresse :
Ton soldat en ton camp te doit accompagner.

Mais tu le dois defendre : et si tu le desdaignes
Seul tu voirras aux champs sans hommes tes enseignes.
Un Roy qui perd les siens, n’est digne de regner.

 
 
                                                                      Love, who have had me on your side since my youth,
                                                                      And who first corrupted my new freedom,
                                                                      If you please to soften the pride of my fair one
                                                                      And if by your means my ills are recognised;

                                                                      On a bronze pillar I shall set you up, naked,
                                                                      One leg raised in the air, a wing on each side,
                                                                      A bow curved in your hand, the quiver under your arm,
                                                                      Your body plump and soft, your hair curled and short.

                                                                      You can see (a god sees everything) how sad I am;
                                                                      You can see with what disdain my mistress defies me;
                                                                      You should go with your soldier who is on your side.

                                                                      You should defend him; and if you scorn him
                                                                      You will march into battle alone, without men as your flag-bearers.
                                                                      A King who abandons his own people, is not worthy of reigning.

 
 
 
Blanchemain’s version has a number of changes in the first half, in part upgrading the pillar on which Cupid’s staue will stand to a golden one!  He then has a completely different second half, which goes off in a completely different direction, criticising Marie rather than Cupid.  It’s easiest to present the whole sonnet again (with the differences highlighted):
 
 
Amour, qui si longtemps en peine m’as tenu,
Qui premier desbauchas ma liberté nouvelle,
S’il te plaist d’adoucir la fierté de ma belle,
Tant que par ton moyen mon travail soit cognu,

Sur un pilier doré je te peindray tout nu,
En l’air un pied levé, à chaque flanc une aile,
L’arc courbé dans la main, le carquois sous l’aisselle,
Le corps gras et douilet, le poil crespe et menu.

Tu sais, Amour, combien mon coeur souffre de peine ;
Mais tant plus il est doux, plus d’audace elle est pleine,
Et mesprise tes dards, comme si tout son coeur

Estoit environné de quelque roche dure ;
Fais luy cognoistre au moins que tu es le vainqueur,
Et qu’un mortel ne doit aux Dieux faire d’injure.

 
 
                                                                      Love, who have kept me in pain for so long,
                                                                      And who first corrupted my new freedom,
                                                                      If you please to soften the pride of my fair one
                                                                      So that by your means my trouble may be recognised;

                                                                      On a golden pillar I shall set you up, naked,
                                                                      One leg raised in the air, a wing on each side,
                                                                      A bow curved in your hand, the quiver under your arm,
                                                                      Your body plump and soft, your hair curled and short.

                                                                      You know, Love, how much pain my heart suffers;
                                                                      But the sweeter that is, the fuller she is of daring
                                                                      And despises your darts as if her heart were entirely

                                                                      Surrounded by some hard stone;
                                                                      Make her understand at least that you are the conqueror,
                                                                      And no mortal should offer insult to the gods.

 
 
 
 
 
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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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