Stances (Stanzas) – part 2

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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…‘).
 
 
 
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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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