Sonnet 3

Alors que plus amour nourrissoit mon ardeur,

M’asseurant de jouyr de ma longue esperance :

A l’heure que j’avois en luy plus d’asseurance,

La Mort a moissonné mon bien en sa verdeur.

 

J’esperois par souspirs, par peine, et par langueur

Adoucir son orgueil : las ! je meurs quand j’y pense,

Mais en lieu d’en jouyr, pour toute recompense

Un cercueil tient enclos mon espoir et mon cœur.

 

Je suis bien malheureux, puis qu’elle vive et morte

Ne me donne repos, et que de jour en jour

Je sens par son trespas une douleur plus forte.

 

Comme elle je devrois reposer à mon tour :

Toutesfois je ne voy par quel chemin je sorte,

Tant la mort me rempestre au labyrinth d’amour.

 

 

                                                                                            Love fed my ardour more and more,

                                                                                            Strengthening me to rejoice in my long hoping;

                                                                                            But at the moment when I had most confidence in him,

                                                                                            Death harvested my treasure in her prime.

 

                                                                                            I was hoping through sighs, distress and pining

                                                                                            To soften her pride;  alas, I die when I think of it,

                                                                                            But instead of enjoying her, all my recompense

                                                                                            Is a coffin, holding my hope and my heart shut in it.

 

                                                                                            I am most unfortunate, since she living and dead

                                                                                            Gives me no rest, and since day by day

                                                                                            I feel in her death a grief that’s stronger.

 

                                                                                            Like her, I ought to rest [in the tomb] in my turn;

                                                                                            Yet I do not see the road by which I can part,

                                                                                            Love re-entangles me so in the maze of love.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 2

Terre ouvre moy ton sein, et me laisse reprendre

Mon thresor, que la Parque a caché dessous toy :

Ou bien si tu ne peux, ô terre cache moy

Sous mesme sepulture avec sa belle cendre.

 

Le traict qui la tua, devoit faire descendre

Mon corps aupres du sien pour finir mon esmoy :

Aussi bien, veu le mal qu’en sa mort je reçoy,

Je ne sçaurois plus vivre, et me fasche d’attendre.

 

Quand ses yeux m’esclairoient, et qu’en terre j’avois

Le bon-heur de les voir, à l’heure je vivois,

Ayant de leurs rayons mon ame gouvernee.

 

Maintenant je suis mort : la Mort qui s’en-alla

Loger dedans ses yeux, en partant m’appella,

Et me fit de son soir accomplir ma journée.

 

 

 

                                                                                            Earth, open your breast for me, and let me take back

                                                                                            My treasure, which Fate has hidden beneath you;

                                                                                            Or if you cannot, then Earth hide me

                                                                                            Beneath the same tomb with her fair ashes.

 

                                                                                            The stroke which killed her ought to have brought down

                                                                                            My body alongside hers, to end my pain:

                                                                                            As well it might since, given the hurt I receive from her death,

                                                                                            I could not live longer, and am impatient with waiting.

 

                                                                                            When her eyes shone on me, and on earth I had

                                                                                            The happiness of seeing them, at that time I lived,

                                                                                            My soul governed by their rays.

 

                                                                                            Now I am dead:  Death which went

                                                                                            To live in her eyes, called me as it left

                                                                                            And made me finish my day in its night.

 

 

Blanchemain retains the same text, but footnotes the altered last line of the 1578 edition:  “Et me feit de ses pieds accomplir ma journée” (‘And made me complete my day’s journey in its footsteps‘).

 

 

 

 

Stances (Stanzas) – part 3

The concluding stanzas of the poem.

Hà ! belle ame tu es là hault Aupres du bien qui point ne fault, De rien du monde desireuse, En liberté, moy en prison : Encore n’est-ce pas raison Que seule tu sois bien-heureuse.   « Le sort doit tousjours estre égal, Si j’ay pour toy souffert du mal, Tu me dois part de ta lumiere. Mais franche du mortel lien, Tu as seule emporté le bien, Ne me laissant que la misere.   En ton âge le plus gaillard Tu as seul laissé ton Ronsard, Dans le ciel trop tost retournee, Perdant beauté grace et couleur, Tout ainsi qu’une belle fleur Qui ne vit qu’une matinee.   En mourant tu n’as sçeu fermer Si bien tout argument d’aimer, Et toute nouvelle entreprise, Que rien à mon gré je ne voy, Et tout cela qui n’est pas toy Me desplaist et je le mesprise.   Si tu veux, Amour, que je sois Encore un coup dessous tes lois, M’ordonnant un nouveau service, Il te fault sous la terre aller Flatter Pluton, et r’appeler En lumiere mon Eurydice.   Ou bien va-t’en là hault crier A la Nature, et la prier D’en faire une aussi admirable : Mais j’ay grand’peur qu’elle rompit Le moule, alors qu’elle la fit, Pour n’en tracer plus de semblable.   Refay moy voir deux yeux pareils Aux siens qui m’estoient deux soleils, Et m’ardoient d’une flame extrème, Où je soulois tendre tes laqs, Tes hameçons, et tes apas, Où s’engluoit la raison mesme.   Ren moy ce voir et cest ouir, De ce parler fay moy jouyr, Si douteux à rendre responce. Ren moy l’objet de mes ennuis : Si faire cela tu ne puis, Va-t’en ailleurs je te renonce.   A la Mort j’auray mon recours : La Mort me sera mon secours, Comme le but que je desire. Dessus la Mort tu ne peux rien Puis qu’elle a desrobé ton bien, Qui fut l’honneur de ton empire.   Soit que tu vives pres de Dieu, Ou aux champs Elisez, adieu, Adieu cent fois, adieu Marie : Jamais Ronsard ne t’oublira, Jamais la Mort ne deslira Le nœud dont ta beauté me lie.

Ah, lovely soul, you are up there Next to the good which never fails, Desiring nothing in the world, In freedom, while I am in prison; Still it is not reasonable That you alone are fortunate.   “Fate ought always to be fair; If I have suffered ill for you You owe me part of your light. But free of mortal ties You alone have gained the good Leaving me only misery.   While you were alive, he was the gayest, But you have left your Ronsard alone, Too soon returned to heaven, Losing beauty grace and colour Just like a lovely flower Which lives but for a morning.   Dying, you could not have concluded So well all arguments for loving And all new undertakings, Since I see nothing to my taste, And all that is not you Displeases me and I despise it.   If you wish, Love, for me to be Once more under your laws, Ordaining me a new service, You must go beneath the earth To flatter Pluto, and to call back Into the light my Eurydice.   Or else, go up there and call On Nature, and beg her To make another one just as loveable: But I greatly fear that she broke The mould when she made her, So as not to design another.   Make me see again two eyes equal To hers, which were twin suns to me And burned me with extreme passion, Where I was accustomed to fall into your traps, Your bait, your attractions, On which even my reason got ensnared.   Give me back that way of looking, of hearing, Make me enjoy that way of speaking, So uncertain of gaining a reply. Give me back the object of my troubles: If you cannot do that, go away, go somewhere else: I renounce you.   To Death I shall have my resort: Death will be my help, Will be like the goal I wish for. Over Death you have no power Since she has stolen your greatest good, Which was the ornament of your reign.   Whether you live near to God Or in the Elysian Fields, farewell, Farewell a hundred times, farewell Marie: Never shalll Ronsard forget you, Never shall Death untie The knot with which your beauty binds me.

 

 

 Again, there is only one variant in Blanchemain.  In the middle of the 4th stanza from the end, he changes the preposition “Où tu soulois tendre tes laqs / Tes hameçons, et tes apas” (‘In which you used to set your traps…’). Frankly, this seems to me (a non-native speaker) to be what Marty-Laveaux’s text should say too, since I have in my view ‘fudged’ the translation of that version, not having seen ‘tendre’ used elsewhere in the sense I’ve given it of ‘falling into’ a trap rather than ‘setting’ one.

 

For those who’d like the poem all in one place, here is a Word doc containing both versions complete.

 

 

 

Stances (Stanzas) – part 2

Here are the middle stanzas of the poem.

Helas ! où est ce doux parler, Ce voir, cest ouyr, cest aller, Ce ris qui me faisoit apprendre Que c’est qu’aimer ? hà, doux refus ! Ha ! doux desdains, vous n’estes plus, Vous n’estes plus qu’un peu de cendre.   Helas, où est ceste beauté, Ce Printemps, ceste nouveauté Qui n’aura jamais de seconde ? Du ciel tous les dons elle avoit : Aussi parfaite ne devoit Long temps demeurer en ce monde.   Je n’ay regret en son trespas, Comme prest de suivre ses pas. Du chef les astres elle touche : Et je vy ! et je n’ay sinon Pour reconfort que son beau nom, Qui si doux me sonne en la bouche.   Amour, qui pleures avec moy, Tu sçais que vray est mon esmoy, Et que mes larmes ne sont feintes : S’il te plaist renforce ma vois, Et de pitié rochers et bois Je feray rompre sous mes plaintes.   Mon feu s’accroist plus vehement, Quand plus luy manque l’argument Et la matiere de se paistre : Car son œil qui m’estoit fatal, La seule cause de mon mal, Est terre qui ne peult renaistre.   Toutesfois en moy je la sens Encore l’objet de mes sens, Comme à l’heure qu’elle estoit vive : Ny mort ne me peult retarder, Ny tombeau ne me peult garder Que par penser je ne la suive.   Si je n’eusse eu l’esprit chargé De vaine erreur, prenant congé De sa belle et vive figure, Oyant sa voix, qui sonnoit mieux Que de coustume, et ses beaux yeux Qui reluisoient outre mesure,   Et son souspir qui m’embrasoit, J’eusse bien veu qu’elle me disoit : Or’ soule toy de mon visage, Si jamais tu en euz souci : Tu ne me voirras plus ici, Je m’en vay faire un long voyage.   J’eusse amassé de ses regars Un magazin de toutes pars, Pour nourrir mon ame estonnee, Et paistre long temps ma douleur : Mais onques mon cruel malheur Ne sçeut prevoir ma destinee.   Depuis j’ay vescu de souci, Et de regret qui m’a transi, Comblé de passions estranges. Je ne desguise mes ennuis : Tu vois l’estat auquel je suis, Du ciel assise entre les anges.

Alas, where is that sweet way of speaking, Of looking, of hearing, of walking, That smile which taught me What it is to love? Ah, sweet denial ! Ah, sweet disdain,  you are no more You are no more than a handful of ashes.   Alas, where is that beauty, That Spring, that freshness Which will never have a second? She had all the gifts of heaven: Something so perfect should not Remain for long in this world.   I do not regret her death, Since I am ready to follow her steps. With her head she touches the stars; Yet I live! And I have nothing For my comfort but her fair name, Which sounds so sweet in my mouth.   Love, who weep with me, You know that my dismay is real And that my tears are not pretend; If it please you, strengthen my voice And I shall make rocks and woods Split with pity beneath my laments.   My fire grows more violent The more it lacks the substance And material to feed itself: For her eye which dealt death to me, The sole cause of my woes, Is dust which can never be reborn.   Always I sense her within me, Still the object of all my senses As at the time when she lived: Death cannot hold me back Nor the tomb prevent me From following her in my thoughts.   If my spirit were not filled With vain error, taking leave Of her fair lively form, Hearing her voice which sounded better Than usual, and her fair eyes Which lit up beyond measure,   And her sigh which set me afire, I would have seen that she was saying to me: “Well, surfeit yourself on my appearance, If ever you cared for it; You will not see me again here, I am going away to make a long journey.”   I would have heaped up from her looks Everywhere a storehouse To nourish my stunned spirit And for long to feed my grief; But indeed my cruel misfortune Could not foresee my fate.   Since then, I have lived with care And regret which have pierced me, Filled with uncommon emotions. I do not conceal my pain: You see the state I am in From heaven where you sit amongst the angels.

 

 

Only one tiny variant in Blanchemain: in the 3rd stanza from the end of this section, he deletes the ‘”me” in the line, which thus becomes “J’eusse bien veu qu’elle disoit…” (‘I would have seen that she was saying…‘).

 

 

 

Stances (Stanzas) – part 1

After the opening sonnet, Ronsard writes a long poem of about 180 lines, in many ‘stanzas’. It’s interesting to compare the regularity of these stanzas with those in the elegy near the end: in that later poem, the initially regular stanzas become more erratic in length, ‘unbalancing’ the reader, and go hand in hand with sudden and seemingly-erratic changes of theme to convey the distress in the poet’s mind. In these ‘stances‘ at the beginning of the book, the regularity of the form instead contrasts with similar sudden changes in the train of thought, providing a contrasting instead of complementary framework for Ronsard’s elegy.  (Though, remember too that it is 15 years since Ronsard was actually in love with Marie, and that the poems are partly a presentation for the king, so that this is as much (or more) about art than it is about loss…)

Since the poem is so long, I have decided to ‘publish’ in several parts!

Je lamente sans reconfort, Me souvenant de ceste mort Qui desroba ma douce vie : Pensant en ces yeux qui souloient Faire de moy ce qu’ils vouloient, De vivre je n’ay plus d’envie.   Amour tu n’as point de pouvoir : A mon dam tu m’as fait sçavoir Que ton arc par tout ne commande. Si tu avois quelque vertu, La Mort ne t’eust pas devestu De ta richesse la plus grande.   Tout seul tu n’as perdu ton bien : Comme toy j’ay perdu le mien, Ceste beauté que je desire, Qui fut mon thresor le plus cher : Tous deux contre un mesme rocher Avons froissé nostre navire.   Souspirs, eschaufez son tombeau : Larmes, lavez-le de vostre eau : Ma voix, si doucement lamente, Qu’à la Mort vous faciez pitíé, Ou qu’elle rende ma moitié, Ou bien que je la suive absente.   Fol qui au monde met son cœur, Fol qui croit en l’espoir mocqueur, Et en la beauté tromperesse ! Je me suis tout seul offensé, Comme celuy qui n’eust pensé Que morte fust une Deesse.   Quand son ame au corps s’attachoit, Rien, tant fust dur, ne me faschoit, Ny destin ny rude influance : Menaces, embusches, dangers, Villes et peuples estrangers M’estoient doux pour sa souvenance.   En quelque part que je vivois, Tousjours en mes yeux je l’avois, Transformé du tout en la belle : Et si bien Amour de son trait Au cœur m’engrava son portrait, Que mon tout n’estoit sinon qu’elle.   Esperant luy conter un jour L’impatience de l’Amour Qui m’a fait des peines sans nombre, La mort soudaine m’a deceu : Pour le vray le faux j’ay receu, Et pour le corps seulement l’ombre.   Ciel, que tu es malicieux ! Qui eust pensé que ces beaux yeux Qui me faisoient si douce guerre, Ces mains, ceste bouche et ce front Qui prindrent mon cœur, et qui l’ont, Ne fussent maintenant que terre ?

I lament with no comfort, Recalling that death Which stole away my sweet life: Thinking on those eyes which used To do with me whatever they wanted, For life I have no more desire.   Love, you have no power at all: To my displeasure you have made me realise That your bow is not all-powerful. If you had some power Death would not have stripped you Of your greatest riches.   It’s not you alone who have lost your property: Like you I have lost mine, That beauty which I love, Which was my dearest treasure: Both of us, against one and the same rock, Have smashed our vessel.   Sighs, warm her tomb; Tears, wash her with your water: My voice, lament so sweetly: So that you will make Death have pity Either so that it will return my other half, Or indeed so that I will follow she who’s gone.   Foolish is he who places his faith in the world, Foolish he who believes in mocking hope And deceitful beauty! I alone have injured myself Like one who had not believed That death was a goddess.   When her soul was fixed in her body, Nothing however harsh would have upset me, Neither fate nor rough authority; Threats, ambushes, dangers, Foreign towns and peoples Were kind to me, remembering her.   In whatever place I lived, Always I had her before my eyes Transformed entirely to beauty; And so well had Love with his dart Engraved her portrait in my heart That my all was only her.   As I was hoping to tell her one day Of the impatience of Love Which had given me troubles without number, Sudden death disappointed me: In place of the real thing, I received a fake, And in place of her body, just her shade.   Heaven, how malicious you are! Who would have thought that those fair eyes Which made such sweet war on me, Those hands, those lips, that face Which stole my heart, and which have it still, Would now be nothing but dust?

 

 

 Fortunately this is also a poem which Ronsard did not change too much; Blanchemain’s variants are minor. For simplicity entire stanzas from his edition are re-printed below with changes marked:

 

stanza 4

Souspirs, eschaufez son tombeau :

Larmes, lavez-le de vostre eau :

Ma voix si doucement se plaigne

Qu’à la Mort vous faciez pitíé,

Ou qu’elle rende ma moitié,

Ou que ma moitié j’accompaigne.

 

 

                                                                              Sighs, warm her tomb;

                                                                              Tears, wash her with your water:

                                                                              My voice so sweetly protests

                                                                              That you should make Death have pity

                                                                              Either so that it will return my other half,

                                                                              Or that my other half I can accompany.

 stanza 7

En quelque part que je vivois,

Tousjours en mes yeux je l’avois,

Transformé du tout en la belle :

Si bien Amour à coups de trait

Au cœur m’engrava son portrait,

Que mon tout n’estoit sinon qu’elle.

 

 

                                                                              In whatever place I lived,

                                                                              Always I had her before my eyes

                                                                              Transformed entirely to beauty;

                                                                              So well had Love with his arrow-shots

                                                                              Engraved her portrait in my heart

                                                                              That my all was only her.

 

 

 

Sonnet 1

Je songeois sous l’obscur de la nuict endormie,

Qu’un sepulcre entre-ouvert s’apparoissoit à moy :

La Mort gisoit dedans toute palle d’effroy,

Dessus estoit escrit Le tombeau de Marie.

 

Espouvanté du songe en sursault je m’escrie,

Amour est donc sujet à nostre humaine loy !

Il a perdu son regne, et le meilleur de soy,

Puis que par une mort sa puissance est perie.

 

Je n’avois achevé, qu’au poinct du jour voicy

Un Passant à ma porte adeulé de soucy,

Qui de la triste mort m’annonça la nouvelle.

 

Pren courage mon ame, il faut suivre sa fin,

Je l’entens dans le ciel comme elle nous appelle :

Mes pieds avec les siens ont fait mesme chemin.

 

 

                                                                                            I dreamed, asleep in the dark of the night,

                                                                                            That a half-open tomb appeared to me;

                                                                                            Death lay within, all pale with terror,

                                                                                            And above was written: The tomb of Marie.

 

                                                                                            Overwhelmed by the dream I leapt up and cried

                                                                                            “Love then is subject to our human law!

                                                                                            He has lost his kingdom, and the best of himself,

                                                                                            Since through a death his power has perished.”

 

                                                                                            I’d just said this when at daybreak, see,

                                                                                            A passer-by at my door, grief-stricken,

                                                                                            Who told me the news of this sad death.

 

                                                                                            Take courage, my soul, I must follow her end;

                                                                                            I hear her in heaven as she calls us;

                                                                                            My feet with hers must make the same journey.

 

The beginning of the second part of ‘Marie’, added by Ronsard in the 1470s following her death.  Ronsard sets the tone promptly, and effectively, with this dramatic vision.

 

 

 

 

Ronsard as translator: the Epigrams of Marullus

Ronsard translated a number of poems by Michael Tarchaniota Marullus, a favourite Neo-Latin poet of the late 15th century. Today, sadly, Marullus is nearly forgotten. If you are like me, when you see a footnote in an edition claiming that a poem is a translation of another one in another language, or an adaptation/response to one in the same language, you want more than the footnote – you want to see the original poem to appreciate the correspondences, the re-imaginings, the way in which the poet has adapted the original to make it a true poem in his own terms.

Apart from a few songs at the opening of Amours 2, the chansons in that book represent a ‘run’ of translations of Marullus dotted through the book. A set of links that show the Epigrammata of Marullus corresponding to Ronsard chansons – or the Ronsard chansons corresponding to the Marullus epigram – is here. In each case the Latin epigram & its translation appear with the entry for the corresponding chanson.

 

Edit:  the tables of correspondences between poems etc have now moved to a page you can access under the ‘What? Why?’ tab, or via the link above.

 

 

 

pause…

The next poem in Amours 2 is a 300-line pastoral; before tackling that I feel like a change, so we’re off to ‘part 2’ of Amours 2, which was published some years after the first when Marie died. So, sad poems for a while…!

Before that, I also plan a short re-work of a number of the chanson posts in book 2, as I have been exploring the poems on which Ronsard based them: the work of Michael Tarchaniota Marullus ‘of Constantinople’. Ronsard’s poems are remarkably close translations of the original Latin poems of Marullus, so putting the two sets side by side throws an interesting light on Ronsard the well-read poet-translator.

And I shall do a ‘collected set’ of Amours 2 (so far) in a Word doc for download.

Chanson (38a)

Mon soin, amoureux esmoy,

Voyez combien de merveilles

Vous parfaites dedans moy

Par vos beautez nompareilles.

 

De telle façon vos yeux,

Où tousjours mon cœur s’en-vole,

Vostre front imperieux,

Vostre ris vostre parole

 

Me bruslent depuis le jour

Que j’en eu la cognoissance,

Desirant d’extreme amour

En avoir la jouyssance :

 

Que sans l’aide de mes pleurs

Dont ma vie est arrosée,

Long temps a que les chaleurs

D’Amour l’eussent embrasée.

 

Au contraire vos beaux yeux,

Où tousjours mon cœur s’en-vole,

Vostre front imperieux,

Vostre ris vostre parole

 

Me gelent depuis le jour

Que j’en eu la cognoissance,

Desirant d’extreme amour

En avoir la jouyssance :

 

Que sans l’aide des chaleurs

Dont mon ame est embrasée,

Long temps a que par mes pleurs

En eau se fust espuisée.

 

Voyez donc mon doux esmoy,

Voyez combien de merveilles

Vous parfaites dedans moy

Par vos beautez nompareilles.

 

 

                                                                      My care, love’s upset,

                                                                      See how many wonders

                                                                      You perfect within me

                                                                      Through your matchless beauty.

 

                                                                      In such a way your eyes

                                                                      To which my heart always flies,

                                                                      Your imperious brow,

                                                                      Your smile, your words

 

                                                                      Have been burning me since the day

                                                                      When I first knew them,

                                                                      Wishing with extreme passion

                                                                      To have the pleasure of them;

 

                                                                      So that without the aid of my tears

                                                                      With which my life is bedewed,

                                                                      Long since the heats

                                                                      Of Love would have set me ablaze.

 

                                                                      On the contrary, your fair eyes

                                                                      To which my heart always flies,

                                                                      Your imperious brow,

                                                                      Your smile, your words

 

                                                                      Have been freezing me since the day

                                                                      When I first knew them,

                                                                      Wishing with extreme passion

                                                                      To have the pleasure of them;

 

                                                                      So that without the aid of the heats

                                                                      With which my soul is burning,

                                                                      Long since my plaints

                                                                      Would have been exhausted in water.

 

                                                                      See then my sweet agitation,

                                                                      See how many wonders

                                                                      You perfect within me

                                                                      Through your matchless beauty.

 

 

Another of Ronsard’s experiments with repetition and contrast to help shape the form of the poem: an opening and closing stanza respond closely; and then 2-3-4 is matched by 5-6-7.  The earlier Blanchemain version is surprisingly little different: a big change in the opening of the ‘refrain’, verses 2 & 5, but otherwise only a couple of minor variants.  One of those is the very opening: “Mais voyez, mon cher esmoy !” (Ah see, my dear trouble!’); the other in the 6th stanza, where in line 3 he writes “Desirant par grande amour” (‘Wishing in great passion‘). Interestingly the later thoughts (above) show Ronsard eliminating the subtle diffrence between this line in verse 6 and its equivalent in verse 3.

 

The refrain in the 2nd & 5th stanza is adapted as follows:

 

 

… De telle façon vos yeux,

Vostre ris et vostre grace,

Vostre front et vos cheveux,

Et vostre angélique face,

 

Me bruslent depuis le jour  …

 

 

                                                                      … In such a way your eyes,

                                                                      Your smile and your grace,

                                                                      Your brow and your hair,

                                                                      And your angelic face

 

                                                                      Have been burning me since the day …

 

 

Interestingly, the original poem by Marullus offers a very different, more complex, set of structural links between the first and second half.  His scheme is broadly 6+6+1, or more precisely  (3+3)+(2+1 wrapped around 3)+1… Ronsard simplifies and restructures the respondences between the two halves; but it’s interesting how, reading the two, the simplicity/complexity of those respondences ‘feels’ pretty equivalent, so that both ‘feel’ like 2 corresponding halves, with a tailpiece or wrapper around them. Here’s Marullus for you to consider, another of his more famous poems:

 

 

Sic me blanda tui Neaera ocelli,

sic candentia colla, sic patens frons,

sic pares minio genae perurunt,

ex quo visa mihi et simul cupita es,

ut, ni me lacrimae rigent perennes,

totus in tenues eam favillas.

Sic rursum lacrimae rigant perennes,

ex quo visa mihi et simul cupita es,

ut, ni blanda tui Neaera ocelli,

ni candentia colla, ni patens frons,

ni pares minio genae perurant,

totus in riguos eam liquores.

O vitam miseram et cito caducam !

 

 

                                                                      Your eyes have so consumed me, my alluring Neaera,

                                                                      Your white neck, your open brow,

                                                                      Your cheeks equal to vermilion,

                                                                      For which you were seen and loved by me all at once,

                                                                      That unless my continual tears numb me

                                                                      I shall turn entirely into scattered ashes.

                                                                      So may my continual tears numb me again,

                                                                      Since you were seen and loved by me all at once,

                                                                      So that neither your eyes consume me, my alluring Neaera,

                                                                      Nor your white neck, nor your open brow,

                                                                      Nor your cheeks equal to vermilion,

                                                                      And I turn entirely to running water.

                                                                      O wretched life, destined for quick death!

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 38

Si quelque amoureux passe en Anjou par Bourgueil,

Voye un Pin qui s’esleve au dessus du village,

Et là sur le sommet de son pointu fueillage,

Voirra ma liberté trofée d’un bel œil

 

Qu’amour victorieux, qui se plaist de mon dueil,

Appendit pour sa pompe et mon servil hommage :

A fin qu’à tous passans elle fust tesmoignage

Que l’amoureuse vie est un plaisant cercueil.

 

Je ne pouvois trouver plante plus estimée

Pour pendre ma despouille, en qui fut transformée

La jeune peau d’Atys dessur le mont Idé.

 

Mais entre Atys et moi il y a difference,

C’est qu’il fut amoureux d’un visage ridé,

Et moy d’une beauté qui ne sort que d’enfance.

 

 

                                                                                            If any lover passes through Bourgueil in Anjou,

                                                                                            Let him look at the pine which rises above the village,

                                                                                            And there on the top of its pointed foliage

                                                                                            He’ll see my freedom, the trophy of a fair eye

 

                                                                                            Which victorious love, who is pleased with my grief,

                                                                                            Hung up for his splendour and my slavish tribute;

                                                                                            So that it would be evidence to all passers-by

                                                                                            That the lover’s life is an absurd coffin.

 

                                                                                            I could not find a plant more valued

                                                                                            To hang up my mortal effects, for into it was transformed

                                                                                            The young skin of Atys upon mount Ida.

 

                                                                                            But between Atys and me there is a difference –

                                                                                            It is that he was in love with a lined face,

                                                                                            And I with a beauty who is just leaving childhood.

 

 For the allusion in the sestet to Atys, Remy Belleau provides us a note:  “Atys, young and merry, falling into madness from the love which he bore for Cybele, mother of the gods, was transformed into a pine.”  This is another poem which Ronsard re-worked thoroughly, changing a lot of the text without substantially changing the content! Here is his version:

 

 

Si quelque amoureux passe en Anjou par Bourgueil,

Voye un pin eslevé par-dessus le village,

Et là sur le sommet de son pointu fueillage,

Verra ma liberté qu’un favorable accueil

 

A pendu pour trophée aux graces d’un bel œil

Qui depuis quinze mois me detient en servage,

Mais servage si doux que la fleur de mon age

Est heureuse d’avoir le bien d’un si beau deuil.

 

Amour n’eust seu trouver un arbre plus aimé

Pour pendre ma despouille, en qui fut transformée

La jeune peau d’Atys sur la montagne Idée.

 

Mais entre Atys et moi il y a difference,

C’est qu’il fut amoureux d’une vieille ridée,

Et moy d’une beauté qui ne sort que d’enfance.

 

                                                                                             If any lover passes through Bourgueil in Anjou,

                                                                                             Let him look at the pine rising above the village,

                                                                                             And there on the top of its pointed foliage

                                                                                             He’ll see my freedom, which a favourable reception

 

                                                                                             Hung up as a trophy to the graces of a fair eye,

                                                                                             Which has kept me in servitude for fifteen months;

                                                                                             But a servitude so sweet that the flower of my youth

                                                                                             Is fortunate to have the benefit of so fair a grief.

 

                                                                                             Love could not have found a tree more beloved

                                                                                             To hang up my mortal effects, for into it was transformed

                                                                                             The young skin of Atys on the mountain of  Ida.

 

                                                                                             But between Atys and me there is a difference –

                                                                                             It is that he was in love with an old wrinkled woman,

                                                                                             And I with a beauty who is just leaving childhood.