Sonnet 25

Cache pour ceste nuit ta corne, bonne Lune :
Ainsin Endymion soit tousjours ton amy,
Ainsi soit-il tousjours en ton sein endormy,
Ainsi nul enchanteur jamais ne t’importune.

 

Le jour m’est odieux, la nuit m’est opportune,
Je crains de jour l’aguet d’un voisin ennemy :

De nuit plus courageux je traverse parmy

Les espions, couvert de ta courtine brune.

 

Tu sçais, Lune, que peut l’amoureuse poison :

Le Dieu Pan pour le prix d’une blanche toison

Peut bien flechir ton cœur. Et vous Astres insignes,

 

Favorisez au feu qui me tient allumé :

Car s’il vous en souvient, la plus part de vous, Signes,

N’a place dans le ciel que pour avoir aimé.

 

 

                                                                                            Hide your horns for tonight, kind Moon;

                                                                                            So may Endymion always be your friend,

                                                                                            So may he always remain asleep in your bosom,

                                                                                            So does no enchanter ever beg of you.

 

                                                                                           Day is hateful to me, night is opportune,

                                                                                           I fear in day the alert of a nearby enemy;

                                                                                           At night, braver, I pass amongst

                                                                                           Spies, concealed beneath your dark curtain.

 

                                                                                           You know, Moon, what a lover’s poison can do;

                                                                                           The god Pan, for the price of a white fleece,

                                                                                           Can easily influence your heart. And you bright Stars,

 

                                                                                           Show your favour to the fire which burns in me;

                                                                                           For if you remember, the greater part of you, o Signs,

                                                                                           Have your place in the heavens only for having loved.

 

 

Blanchemain offers minor variants in the quatrains. In line 3, he asks for Endymion that he remain “Et sans se réveiller en ton sein endormy” (‘And without waking stay asleep in your bosom’).  Line 8, at the end of the next quatrain, is changed so that the quatrain now ends:

 

De nuit plus courageux je traverse parmy
Le camp des espions, defendu de ta brune.

 

                                                                                             At night, braver, I pass through
                                                                                             The spies’ encampment, protected by your darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 24

Escumiere Venus, Royne en Cypre puissante,
Mere des doux amours, à qui tousjours se joint
Le plaisir et le jeu, qui tout animal point
A tousjours reparer sa race perissante :

 

Sans toy Nymphe aime-ris la vie est languissante,
Sans toy rien n’est de beau de vaillant ny de coint,
Sans toy la Volupté joyeuse ne vient point,
Et des Graces sans toy la grace est desplaisante.

 

Ores qu’en ce printemps on ne sçauroit rien voir,

Qui fiché dans le cœur ne sente ton pouvoir,

Sans plus une pucelle en sera-t’elle exente ?

 

Si tu ne veux du tout la traiter de rigueur,

Au moins que sa froideur en ce mois d’Avril sente

Quelque peu du brasier qui m’enflame le cœur.

 

 

                                                                                            Venus of the foam, powerful Queen in Cyprus,

                                                                                            Mother of sweet love, with whom always

                                                                                            Pleasure and fun are joined, which every beast relies on

                                                                                            To restore its dying breed forever:

 

                                                                                            Without you, Nymph who loves to smile, life is tedious,

                                                                                            Without you there is nothing fine, brave or pleasing,

                                                                                            Without you happy pleasure never arrives,

                                                                                            And without you the grace of the Graces itself is displeasing.

 

                                                                                            There is nothing in this springtime one would expect to see

                                                                                            Which does not feel, driven into its heart, your power;

                                                                                            Will even a maiden be exempt from it?

 

                                                                                            If you do not want at all to treat it harshly,

                                                                                            At least may its coldness in this month of April feel

                                                                                            Some part of the furnace which burns in my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 23

Morfée, si en songe il te plaist presenter

Ceste nuit ma maistresse aussi belle et gentille,

Que je la vy le soir que sa vive scintille

Par un poignant regard vint mes yeux enchanter :

 

Et s’il te plaist ô Dieu, tant soit peu d’alenter

(Miserable souhait) de la Feinte inutile

Le feu, qu’Amour me vient de son aile futile

Tout alentour du cœur sans repos esventer :

 

J’apendray sur mon lit ta peinture plumeuse

En la mesme façon que je t’auray conceu

La nuict par le plaisir de ta forme douteuse :

 

Et comme Jupiter à Troye fut deceu

Du Somme et de Junon, apres avoir receu

De la simple Venus la ceinture amoureuse.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                            Morpheus, would you please present in a dream

                                                                                            Tonight my mistress, as beautiful and noble

                                                                                            As I saw her on the evening when her lively brilliance

                                                                                            In one heart-stopping glance began to enchant my eyes:

 

                                                                                            And would you please, o god, lessen, even just a little

                                                                                            (A pitiful wish), the fire of that useless sham

                                                                                            Which Love with his trifling wing has begun

                                                                                            Ceaselessly to fan all around my heart.

 

                                                                                            I shall hang over my bed your winged picture

                                                                                            In the same manner in which I perceive you

                                                                                            At night, from the pleasure of your uncertain form;

 

                                                                                            And looking as when Jupiter was deceived at Troy

                                                                                            By Sleep and Juno, after receiving

                                                                                            From simple Venus the belt of love.

 

 

Belleau rather unnecessarily offers us the following note on line 9 – “Morpheus is a god bearing wings and feathers like Rumour, Love and others.” (!)  Rather more usefully, he also outlines the tale alluded to in the final tercet:  “Jupiter was deceived on Mount Ida by Juno and Sleep, Juno having borrowed the belt of Venus to put herself in her husband’s good graces and to make him sleep, so that he would not aid the Trojans. This tale is in Homer’s Iliad.“

 

Blanchemain offers a number of variants including an almost-completely different first tercet. As seems quite common, he opts for a text which more clearly states its meaning, but in a less interesting way. For simplicity here is his text with changes marked:

 

 

Morfée, s’il te plaist de me représenter

Ceste nuit ma maistresse aussi belle et gentille,

Que je la vy le soir que sa vive scintille

Par ne sçais quel regard vint mes yeux enchanter :

 

Et s’il te plaist ô Dieu, tant soit peu d’alenter

(Miserable souhait) de la Feinte inutile

Le feu, qu’Amour me vient de son aile subtile

Tout alentour du cœur sans repos esventer :

 

Sur le haut de mon lit en vœu je t’appendray,

Devot, un saint tableau sur lequel je peindrai

L’heur que j’auray receu de ta forme douteuse 

 

Et comme Jupiter à Troye fut deceu

Du Somme et de Junon, apres avoir receu

De la simple Venus la ceinture amoureuse.

 

 

 

                                                                                             Morpheus, would you please represent to me

                                                                                             Tonight my mistress, as beautiful and noble

                                                                                             As I saw her on the evening when her lively brilliance

                                                                                             In some special glance began to enchant my eyes:

 

                                                                                             And would you please, o god, lessen, even just a little

                                                                                             (A pitiful wish), the fire of that useless sham

                                                                                             Which Love with his subtle wing has begun

                                                                                             Ceaselessly to fan all around my heart.

 

                                                                                             High above my bed I shall hang for you, like a votive offering

                                                                                             From your follower, a holy picture on which I shall paint

                                                                                             The hour when I received your uncertain form,

 

                                                                                             And looking as when Jupiter was deceived at Troy

                                                                                             By Sleep and Juno, after receiving

                                                                                             From simple Venus the belt of love.     

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 22

Que ne suis-je insensible ? ou que n’est mon visage

De rides labouré ? ou que ne puis-je espandre

Sans trespasser le sang, qui chaud subtil et tendre

Bouillonnant dans mon cœur me trouble le courage ?

 

Ou bien, en mon erreur que ne suis-je plus sage ?

Ou, pourquoy la raison qui me devroit reprendre,

Ne commande à ma chair sans paresseuse attendre

Qu’un tel commandement me soit enjoint par l’âge ?

 

Mais que pourroy-je faire, et puis que ma maistresse,

Mes sens, mes ans, Amour, et ma raison traistresse

Ont juré contre moy ? las ! quand mon chef seroit

 

Aussi blanc que celuy de la vieille Cumee,

En la tombe jamais mon mal ne cesseroit,

Tant l’Astre eut contre moy son influence armee.

 

 

 

                                                                                             Why am I not insensible? Or why is my face not

                                                                                             Furrowed with lines? Or why can I not scatter

                                                                                             My blood without dying, the blood which bubbling

                                                                                             Hot and delicate in my heart makes my courage falter?

 

                                                                                             Or rather, why in my error am I not wiser?

                                                                                             Or why does reason, which should hold me back,

                                                                                             Not give orders to my flesh instead of waiting, lazily,

                                                                                             Until a similar order is forced on me by age?

 

                                                                                             But what can I do, since my mistress,

                                                                                             My senses, my age, Love and my treacherous reason

                                                                                             Have taken oath against me? Alas, when my head is

 

                                                                                             As white as that of the old Cumaean [Sybil],

                                                                                             Even in the tomb my troubles will not cease,

                                                                                             So strongly-armed is the influence my Evil Star has over me.

 

 

Blanchemain offers 2 variants of the final tercet. One is in a footnote, where he offers Marty-Laveaux’s version above but with “Encor dans le tombeau mon mal ne cesseroit” as the penultimate line – the meaning is essentially unchanged.

The other is a substantive replacement of the whole tercet, and he also re-punctuates the preceding tercet so that the meaning is slightly modified:

 

 

Mais que pourroy-je faire ?  et puis que ma maistresse,

Mes sens, mes ans, Amour, et ma raison traistresse

Ont juré contre moy,  las !  quand mon chef seroit

 

De vieillesse aussi blanc que la vieille Cumée,

Si est-ce que jamais le temps effaceroit

Ceste beauté que j’ay dans le cœur imprimée.

 

 

                                                                                             But what can I do?  Since my mistress,

                                                                                             My senses, my age, Love and my treacherous reason

                                                                                             Have taken oath against me, alas, when my head is

 

                                                                                             As white with age as the old Cumaean [Sybil],

                                                                                             So is it that time will never wipe away

                                                                                             This beauty which I have imprinted in my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 4

I’m feeling rather bereft tonight;  and there are plenty of things in the news to remind us that life is all too fragile. So, here’s a beautiful poem about its fragility. I’m afraid my translation is far from beautiful: but Ronsard’s poem is great art.

Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de May la rose

En sa belle jeunesse, en sa premiere fleur

Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,

Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au poinct du jour l’arrose :

 

La grace dans sa fueille, et l’amour se repose,

Embasmant les jardins et les arbres d’odeur :

Mais batue ou de pluye, ou d’excessive ardeur,

Languissante elle meurt fueille à fueille déclose.

 

Ainsi en ta premiere et jeune nouveauté,

Quand la terre et le ciel honoroient ta beauté,

La Parque t’a tuee, et cendre tu reposes.

 

Pour obseques reçoy mes larmes et mes pleurs,

Ce vase plein de laict, ce panier plein de fleurs,

Afin que vif et mort ton corps ne soit que roses.

 

 

 

                                                                      As you see the rose on the branch in May

                                                                      In her lovely youth, with her first flower

                                                                      Making the sky jealous of her bright colour

                                                                      When the Dawn with her tears makes the sky pink at start of day:

 

                                                                      Grace and love rest in her blooms

                                                                      Perfuming gardens and trees with her scent

                                                                      But then, battered by the rain or too much heat,

                                                                      Fading she dies, stripped of petal after petal.

 

                                                                      Just so in your first new youthfulness

                                                                      When earth and heaven honoured your beauty,

                                                                      Fate killed you, and now you are just ashes.

 

                                                                      As funeral rites, receive my tears and weeping,

                                                                      This vase full of milk, this basket full of flowers

                                                                      So that living or dead your body should be only roses.

 

 

 No need for commentary, nor versions: this poem is perfect as it stands. I only wish I could match ‘arroser’ in line 4 – Dawn bedewing the earth, pouring out her tears, and ‘making pink’ (ar-rose-er) all in one word.

 

Another Peletier poem!

While breaking my rules and putting up another poet’s work, why not add a second? As a Latinist as well, I enjoyed Peletier’s thoughts on the value of the humanist renaissance of Latin poetry-writing!

A un poete qui n’escrivoit qu’en Latin.

 

J’escri en langue maternelle,

Et tasche a la metter en valeur :

Affin de la rendre eternelle,

Comme les vieux ont fait la leur :

Et soutien que c’est grand malheur

Que son propre bien mespriser

Pour l’autruy tant favoriser.

 

Si les Grecz sont si fort fameux,

Si les Latins sont aussi telz,

Pourquoy ne faisons nous come eux,
pour estre comme eux immortelz ?

Toy qui si fort exercé t’es,

Et qui en Latin escriz tant,

Qu’es tu sinon qu’un imitant ?

 

Croiz tu que ton Poeme approche

De ce que Virgile escrivoit ?

Certes non pas (tout sans reproche)

Du moindre qui du temps vivoit.

Mais le François est seul qui voit

Ce que j’escri : et si demeure

En la France, or j’ay peur qu’il meure.

 

Je respons, quoy que tu escrives

Pour l’envoyer en lointains lieux,

Sans ce que les tiens tu en prives,

On pense tousjours que des vieux

Le style vaut encores mieux :

Puis nostre langue n’est si lourde,

Que bien hault elle ne se sourde.

 

 

 

                                                                         To a poet who writes only in Latin

 

                                                                         I write in my mother tongue

                                                                         And try to give it value and power,

                                                                         So as to render it immortal

                                                                         As the ancients did theirs;

                                                                         I think it is a great pity

                                                                         For someone to scorn his own

                                                                         And to favour another’s so much.

 

                                                                         If the Greeks are so extremely well-known,

                                                                         If the Latins are known just as much,

                                                                         Why don’t we do as they did

                                                                         To be like them immortal?

                                                                         You who are so very skilled

                                                                         And who write so much in Latin,

                                                                         What are you, in the end, but an imitator?

 

                                                                         Do you believe that your poetry approaches

                                                                         That which Virgil wrote?

                                                                         Certainly not (I mean it without censure)

                                                                         No less than those who lived in his time.

                                                                         But Frenchmen are the only ones who see

                                                                         What I write: and so it remains

                                                                         In France alone – am I afraid that it might die?

 

                                                                         I reply, whatever you write

                                                                         To send to distant lands,

                                                                         You are depriving your own land of it;

                                                                         People always think that the style

                                                                         Of the ancients has such great value;

                                                                         But our own language is not so heavy

                                                                         That it too cannot rise so high.

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to Ronsard, by Peletier

As proposed, here is Jacques Peletier’s response to Ronsard’s ode dedicated to him. It replicates Ronsard’s stanzas, rhyme-scheme, etc. I was reading Peletier to find out about his proposed spelling reforms andideas for a new orthography of French, with lots of different diacritical marks differentiating different ‘e’ sounds etc (think of English – ee-normous, en-normous, in-normous, even a-normous). Though I’ve normalised his e’s, I’ve left some of his other idiosyncratic spelling (-z endings for instance) in the text below.

While Ronsard must have had a smile on his face while describing the ideal (and unattainable) mistress, I imagine Peletier had a broad grin on his face as he described her ideal lover – who’s rather unlike Ronsard in many respects!

Response par Peletier, Des beautez et accomplissemens d’un Amant. – En contemplant ceste jeune femelle, Sa grace, sa ronde mammelle, Elle me semble estre marrie Si bien tost on ne la marie A un Amy aussi gentil comme elle.   Et en cela si mon esprit ne faut, Je say bien quel il le luy faut : Et puis ell’ est si bien apprise, Qu’impossible est qu’elle ne prise Un tel present, y eust il du defaut.   Je veux qu’au plus de dix ans il la passe, Stature ny haute ny basse : Le grand est suget au mocqueur, Et le petit n’a que le cueur : Le seul moyen toutes choses compasse.   Les deux yeux noirs souz deux arcs noirs assis, Ny trop felons ny trop lascisz : Large front, nez de long pourtrait : Bouche bien close a petit trait : Membres nerveux, bien charnuz et massifz.   Teste et menton de noire chevelure, La ou n’y ait rien de mellure : Col musculeux et large dos : Cuisse de chair remplie et d’os : Jambe videe, et mesuree allure.   Je ne luy veux la chere si jolie, Qu’il n’ait rien de melancholie : Une sage simplicité, Avecques dousse gravité : Trop grande joye est trop tost abolie.   De la beauté je ne puis tout ensemble Bien declairer ce qu’il m’en semble : Mais je le veux de telle monstre, Que de la premiere rencontre Les cueurs de tous par dousse force il emble :   Aux armes soit hardis et bienheuré, A cheval droit et asseuré : Soit terrible aux audacieux, Et aux humbles soit gracieux : Cueur de mesure en corps bien mesuré.   Je veux qu’aussi Nature l’ait fait naistre A tous exercices addestre : Car les Dames plus hardiment Jugent au plaisant maniment Combien ailleurs habile il pourroit estre.   En la Musicque il pregne passetemps, Pour faire deux espritz contens : Qu’il sache toucher l’Epinette Avec le Luc de sa Brunette D’un bon accord, gardant mesure et temps.   Pour son maintien et son parler exquis, Il soit des plus belles requis : Affin que par leur grand’ attente Face sa Dame plus contente De ce qui est a elle seule acquis.   De jalousie oncq’ n’ait esté vaincu, Tant qu’avec elle aura vescu : Lors elle sera sans excuse, Si paraventure on l’accuse Que quleque fois elle l’ait fait cocu.

Response by Peletier, On the beauties and accomplishments of a lover – In contemplating this young lady, Her grace, her round breast, It seems to me she’ll be sad If we don’t marry her very quickly To a lover as noble as herself.   And in that respect, if my mind is not in error, I know well what he should be like: And then, she is so well informed That it’s impossible that she wouldn’t take Such a man if he were here, even if by default.   I’d like him to be more than ten years older than her, In stature neither tall nor short; The tall man is subject to mockery, The small man has only his heart; Only the man of average height compasses all things.   Two black eyes set beneath two black brows, Neither too tricky nor too lewd; A broad forehead, a long well-made nose; A mouth nicely-closed, with small lips; Lively limbs, well-fleshed and massive.   His head and chin covered in black hair Since nothing looks better there; A muscular neck, a broad back; Thighs strong in flesh and bone, A well-set leg and a measured gait.   I don’t wish him to have so pretty a love That he is never melancholic; A wise simplicity With gentle gravity; Too great a joy is too quickly gone.   Concerning beauty, I cannot briefly Set out exactly what I think it is; But I wish for it in such a paladin, Such that at the first encounter he warms everyone’s hearts with its sweet power.   He should be bold and fortunate in arms, On a horse upright and assured; He should be terrifying to the bold, And gracious to the lowly; A moderate heart in a well-moderated body.   I wish Nature also to have given him from birth Skill in all pursuits; For ladies judge most boldly By a pleasing capability How skilful he might be in other matters…   He should spend his leisure time in music So as to make two spirits content; He should know how to play the spinet Accompanying his brown-haired lass’s lute In good harmony, keeping rhythm and time.   For his bearing and his delightful conversation He should be sought by all the beauties; So that, through their great desire, His Lady should appear still happier With the man that she alone has won.   By jealousy, though, he should not be overcome, Even when he has lived with her; Then she will be without excuse If perchance someone should accuse her Of sometimes making him a cuckold…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to Jacque Peletier

Apologies for the long time without a post: I’ve been too ill and tired to make any sensible translations!  But it did give me a chance to read a bit: while glancing through the works of Jacques Peletier du Mans [as one does…! 🙂 ], I found this ode which Ronsard dedicated to him. As it’s in a volume of Peletier’s works published in 1547, this is Ronsard’s first published work, as well as his first Ode.  It eventually ended up in the Pièces retranchées des Odes.

Ode de Pierre de Ronsart a Jacques Peletier, Des beautez qu’il voudroit en s’Amie. – Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir Maistresse selon mon desir, Saiz tu quelle je la prendroye, Et a qui suget me rendroye, Pour la servir, constant, a son plaisir ?   L’age non meur, mais verdelet encore : C’est celuy seul qui me devore Le cueur d’impatience atteint : Noir je veux l’œil, et brun le teint, Bien que l’œil verd le François tant adore.   J’aime la bouche imitante la rose Au lent Soleil de May desclose : Un petit Tetin nouvelet, Qui se fait desja rondelet, Et s’eslever dessus l’Albastre s’ose.   La taille droitte, a la beauté pareille, Et dessouz la coeffe une oreille Qui toute se monstre dehors : En cent façons les cheveux tors : La joue egalle a l’Aurore vermeille.   L’estomac plain, la jambe longue et grelle, D’autant que moins sembleroit elle A celles qui l’ont volontiers Plus grosse qu’il ne faut d’un tiers : Le flanc haussé, la cuisse ronde et belle. La dent d’ivoire, odorante l’aleine, A qui s’egalleroient a peine Toutes les fleurs de la Sabee, Ou toute l’odeur desrobee Que l’Inde riche heureusement ameine.   L’esprit naif, et naive la grace : La main lascive, ou qu’elle embrasse L’amy en son giron couché, Ou que son Luc en soit touché, Et une voix qui mesme son Luc passe.   Qu’el’ seust par cueur tout cela qu’a chanté Petrarque en Amours tant venté, Ou la Rose par Meun decritte : Et contre les femmes despite Avecques qui jeune j’auroy’ hanté.   Quand au maintien, inconstant et volage, Follatre, et digne de tel age : Le regard errant ça et la, Et une dousseur sus cela Qui plus cent fois que la beauté soulage. Je ne voudroye avoir en ma puissance A tous coups d’elle jouissance : Souvent le nier un petit En amour donne l’appetit, Et donne encor’ la longue obeissance.   Quand est de moy, je ne voudroy’ changer Femme telle a l’or estranger, Ny a tout cela qui arrive De l’Orient en nostre rive, Ny a la Lote heureux fruit a manger.   Lors que sa bouche a me baiser tendroit, Ou que tendre ne la voudroit, Feignant la cruelle faschee : Ou quand en quelque coing cachee, A l’impourveu accoller me viendroit.

Ode of Pierre de Ronsard to Jacques Peletier, On the beauties he would wish for in a lover – When I’m fortunate enough to choose A mistress according to my wishes, Do you know whom I shall take And to whom I shall make myself subject To serve constantly, at her pleasure?   Not too mature in years, but still in fresh youth: That alone gnaws at my heart, Wounded with impatience; I want her eyes to be black, her skin tanned, Even though the French love green eyes so much.   I love a mouth which imitates the rose Blooming in the lazy sunshine in May; A small budding breast, Just rounding out, And daring to lift itself above the alabaster [of her skin]   A fine figure, equal to her beauty, And beneath her hair, ears Which show themselves entire beyond it; Her hair curled a hundred ways; Her cheek crimson to equal the Dawn.   A rounded stomach, a long and slender leg, In which respect she should resemble as little as possible Those who choose to have legs A third thicker than necessary; A high waist, a round and pretty thigh.   Teeth of ivory, sweet-smelling breath Scarcely to be equalled by All the flowers of Sheba, Or all the secret perfumes Which the rich Indies happily bring us.   A simple spirit, and simple charm; A naughty hand, whether she’s embracing A lover lying in her lap Or whether she’s playing her lute with it, And a voice which surpasses even her lute.   She should know by heart all that Petrarch sang in his so-well-known Love poems, Or the Rose described by [Jean de] Meun; And she should vex those women With whom I might have spent time when young.   As for how she behaves herself – inconstant, fickle, Flighty, just as she should be at that age; Her glance should wander here and there, And a sweetness over all Which comforts a hundred times more than her beauty.   I wouldn’t want to have in my power Happiness from her, not at any price; Denying your man a little thing often Increases desire in love, And also makes for long-lasting obedience.   As for me, I would not want to change Such a lady for foreign gold, Nor for everything which arrives On our shores from the Orient, Nor for Lotus, that fruit so enjoyable to eat:   Whether her lips reached to kiss me, Or whether she didn’t want to, tenderly Feigning cruel anger; Or whether hidden in some corner She came unexpectedly to embrace me.

 

 In stanza 8, “the Rose” is a reference to the famous ‘Roman de la Rose’ (Romance of the Rose), completed by Jean de Meun.  In the penultimate stanza the Lotus refers to the food of the  Lotus-Eaters in Homer’s Odyssey IX – see also Tennyson’s ‘Lotus Eaters’. The lotus was a narcotic; though it is also sometimes identified with the persimmon! The version above is taken from the 1547 edition of Peletier, where it is accompanied by Peletier’s Ode in response, using the same stanza-form and the same number of stanzas, which I may put up soon!

 

I mention this because Blanchemain’s version has an extra stanza; but as Peletier’s poem has the same number of stanzas as the above, the revised version printed by Blanchemain would not fit the context of the paired Odes in Peletier’s book.

 

Blanchemain’s version also has little changes throughout, so as usual it is easiest to print his version as well, entire, with changes marked. As usual also, I’m far from convinced that the majority of these changes improve the poem; though some undoubtedly improve obscurities in the original version

 

Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir Maistresse selon mon desir, Mon Peletier, je te veux dire Laquelle je voudrois eslire Pour la servir, constant, a son plaisir.    L’age non meur, mais verdelet encore : Est l’age seul qui me devore Le cueur d’impatience atteint : Noir je veux l’œil, et brun le teint, Bien que l’œil verd toute la France adore.   J’aime la bouche imitante la rose Au lent Soleil de May desclose : Un petit Tetin nouvelet, Qui se fait desja rondelet, Et sur l’yvoire eslevé se repose.   La taille droitte, a la beauté pareille, Et dessouz la coeffe une oreille Qui toute se monstre dehors : En cent façons les cheveux tors : La joue egalle a l’Aurore vermeille.   L’estomac plain, la jambe de bon tour, Pleine de chair tout à l’entour, Que par souhait on tasteroit, Un sein qui les Dieux tenteroit Le flanc haussé, la cuisse faite au tour.   La dent d’ivoire, odorante l’aleine, A qui s’egalleroient a peine Les doux parfums de la Sabee, Ou toute l’odeur desrobee Que l’Arabie heureusement ameine.   L’esprit naif, et naive la grace : La main lascive, ou qu’elle embrasse L’amy en son giron couché, Ou que son luth en soit touché, Et une voix qui mesme son luth passe.   Le pied petit, la main longuette et belle, Dontant tout cueur dur et rebelle, Et un ris qui en descouvrant Maint diamant, allast ouvrant Le beau sejour d’une grace nouvelle ;   Qu’el’ seust par cueur tout cela qu’a chanté Petrarque en Amours tant venté, Ou la Rose si bien escrite : Et contre les femmes despite Par qui je fus des enfance enchanté ;   Quand au maintien, inconstant et volage, Follatre, et digne de tel age : Le regard errant ça et la, Un naturel avec cela Qui plus que l’art miserable soulage.   Je ne voudroye avoir en ma puissance A tous coups d’elle jouissance : Souvent le nier un petit En amour donne l’appetit, Et fait durer la longue obeissance.   D’elle le temps ne pourroit m’estranger, N’autre amour, ne l’or estranger, Ny a tout le bien qui arrive De l’Orient à nostre rive, Je ne voudrois ma brunette changer,   Lors que sa bouche a me baiser tendroit, Ou qu’approcher ne la voudroit, Feignant la cruelle faschee : Ou quand en quelque coing cachee, Sans l’aviser pendre au col me viendroit.

When I’m fortunate enough to choose A mistress according to my wishes, My Peletier, I’d like to tell you Which I’d choose To serve constantly, at her pleasure?    Not too mature in years, but still in fresh youth: That’s the only age which gnaws at My heart, wounded with impatience; I want her eyes to be black, her skin tanned, Even though all France loves green eyes.   I love a mouth which imitates the rose Blooming in the lazy sunshine in May; A small budding breast, Just rounding out, Which lies raised up on the ivory [of her skin]   A fine figure, equal to her beauty, And beneath her hair, ears Which show themselves entire beyond it; Her hair curled a hundred ways; Her cheek crimson to equal the Dawn.   A rounded stomach, a well-rounded leg, Plenty of flesh all around it, Which you’d want to touch, A breast which would tempt the Gods, A high waist, a rounded thigh.   Teeth of ivory, sweet-smelling breath Scarcely to be equalled by The sweet perfumes of Sheba, Or all the secret perfumes Which Arabia happily brings us.   A simple spirit, and simple charm; A naughty hand, whether she’s embracing A lover lying in her lap Or whether she’s playing her lute with it, And a voice which surpasses even her lute.   A little foot, a hand, quite long and beautiful, Overcoming every hard, rebellious heart, And a smile which, displaying Many a diamond, indicates the beginning Of the fair visit of a new Grace;   She should know by heart all that Petrarch sang in his so-well-known love poems, Or the Rose so well written; And she should vex those women By whom I’d been enchanted since youth.   As for how she behaves herself – inconstant, fickle, Flighty, just as she should be at that age; Her glance should wander here and there, A naturalness with her Which comforts more than wretched art.   I wouldn’t want to have in my power Happiness from her, not at any price; Denying your man a little thing often Increases desire in love, And makes obedience long-lasting.   From her time could not part me, Nor other love, nor foreign gold, Nor for all the goods which arrive On our shores from the Orient, Would I want to exchange my brown-haired lass:   Whether her lips reached to kiss me, Or whether she didn’t want to come close, Feigning cruel anger; Or whether hidden in some corner She came without warning to hang on my neck.

 I also have another version, similar to Blanchemain’s but with further changes.  The opening of stanza 1 becomes

 

Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir

Une maistresse à mon desir

                                                                                When I’m fortunate enough to choose

                                                                                A mistress at my wish …

 

Then in that additional (8th) stanza,

 

Maint diamant, allast ouvrant

Le beau vermeil d’une lèvre jumelle

                                                                                Many a diamond, begins by opening

                                                                                The fair crimson of her twin lips.

 

and the last line of the next stanza becomes

 

Dont je serois comme d’elle enchanté

                                                                                Of whom I’d be enchanted as with her

 

In the next stanza, “avec” becomes “outre” – ‘A naturalness beyond that which comforts…”.   And finally in the last stanza the middle line changes:

 

Comme feignant d’estre faschee 

                                                                               As one feigning to be angry…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contre un qui luy desroba son Horace

As it’s my birthday I feel I should allow myself the luxury of putting up a poem just because it amuses me…

The title means: “Against someone who stole his Horace” – clearly losing your source-book of Classical poetry was a serious matter in Ronsard’s time!  I might add, this poem feels as if it should translate nimbly into rhyming English verse – but having struggled with it for a while I haven’t been able to manage it!  Help welcome!

 

Quiconques ait mon livre pris,

D’oresnavant soit-il épris

D’une fureur, tant qu’il luy semble

Voir au ciel deux soleils ensemble,

     Comme Penthée!

 

Au dos, pour sa punition,

Pende sans intermission

Une furie qui le suive!

Sa coulpe luy soit tant qu’il vive

     Representée.

 

 

                                                                    Whoever took my book,

                                                                    Henceforth let him be seized

                                                                    By madness, such that he thinks

                                                                    He sees two suns together in the sky

                                                                           Like Pentheus!

 

                                                                    On his back, for his punishment,

                                                                    May a Fury cling to pursue

                                                                    Him without a break!

                                                                    May his guilt be before his eyes

                                                                          As long as he lives.

 

 

 The reference to Pentheus is from Euripides’ “Bacchae” (line 918), where Pentheus “seems to see two suns”, under an enchantment from Dionysus which will lead to his gory death…  An appropriate punishment for a book-stealer, obviously.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 21

Amour est un charmeur : si je suis une année
Avecque ma maistresse à babiller tousjours,
Et à luy raconter quelles sont mes amours,
L’an me semble plus court qu’une courte journée.

 

Si quelque tiers survient, j’en ay l’ame gennee,
Ou je deviens muet, ou mes propos sont lours :
Au milieu de devis s’esgarent mes discours,
Et tout ainsi que moy ma langue est estonnee.

 

Mais quand je suis tout seul aupres de mon plaisir,

Ma langue interpretant  le plus de mon desir,

Alors de caqueter mon ardeur ne fait cesse :

 

Je ne fais qu’inventer, que conter, que parler :

Car pour estre cent ans aupres de ma maistresse,

Cent ans me sont trop courts, et ne m’en puis aller.

 

 

 

                                                                      Love is a charmer: if I spent a whole year
                                                                      With my mistress, constantly chattering
                                                                      And telling her about my love,
                                                                      The year would seem to me shorter than a short day.

 

                                                                      If some third person interrupt, my soul is troubled:
                                                                      Either I fall silent, or my conversation gets heavy;
                                                                      In the middle of a thought my speech goes astray
                                                                      And my tongue, as well as I, is stunned.

 

                                                                      But when I am all alone beside my pleasure

                                                                      My tongue, interpreting my desire all the more,

                                                                      Never stops babbling on about my ardour;

 

                                                                      I do nothing but compose, tell stories, talk;

                                                                      For to be beside my mistress for a hundred years,

                                                                      A hundred years would be too short, and I cannot leave.

 

 

 Note that the final phrase, “ne m’en puis aller”, could also mean ‘and I cannot die’.

 

Blanchemain’s version shows that this is a poem Ronsard reworked significantly throughout, though even when he re-wrote 4 lines in the second half he did not really make any substantial change in the sense!  So here it is in his version, complete with a different – and in my view better – opening gesture.  (Changes in red)

 

 

C’est grand cas que d’aimer : si je suis une année
Avecque ma maistresse à deviser tousjours,
Et à luy raconter quelles sont mes amours,
L’an me semble plus court qu’une courte journée.

 

Si quelqu‘un parle à moi, j’en ay l’ame gennée,

Ou je ne lui dis mot, ou mes propos sont lours :

Au milieu de devis s’esgarent mes discours,

Et tout ainsi que moy ma langue est estonnee.

 

Mais quand je suis auprès de celle qui me tient

Le coeur dedans les yeux, sans me forcer me vient

Un propos dessus l’autre, et jamais je ne cesse

 

De baiser, de taster, de rire et de parler :

Car pour estre cent ans aupres de ma maistresse,

Cent ans me sont trop courts, et ne m’en puis aller.

 

 

 

                                                                      It‘s a great thing to love: if I spent a whole year

                                                                      With my mistress, constantly conversing

                                                                      And telling her about my love,

                                                                      The year would seem to me shorter than a short day.

 

                                                                      If someone speaks to me, my soul is troubled:

 

                                                                      Either I say nothing to him, or my conversation gets heavy;

                                                                      In the middle of a thought my speech goes astray

                                                                      And my tongue, as well as I, is stunned.

 

                                                                      But when I am beside her who keeps me

                                                                      With my heart in my eyes, without any effort there comes to me

                                                                      One idea upon another, and I never stop

 

                                                                      Kissing, touching, laughing, talking;

                                                                      For to be beside my mistress for a hundred years,

                                                                      A hundred years would be too short, and I cannot leave.