Sonnet 143

Ce ris plus doux que l’oeuvre d’une abeille,

Ces dents, ainçois deux rempars argentez,

Ces diamans à double ranc plantez

Dans le coral de sa bouche vermeille :

 

Ce doux parler qui les ames resveille,

Ce chant qui tient mes soucis enchantez,

Et ces deux cieulx sur deux astres antez,

De ma Deesse annoncent la merveille.

 

Du beau jardin de son jeune printemps,

Naist un parfum, qui le ciel en tous temps

Embasmeroit de ses doulces aleines.

 

Et de là sort le charme d’une voix,

Qui touts ravis fait sauteler les bois,

Planer les montz, et montaigner les plaines.

 

 

 

                                                                                             This smile, sweeter than bees’ honey

                                                                                             These teeth like two silvery ramparts,

                                                                                             These diamonds planted in double rows

                                                                                             In the coral of her crimson lips,

 

                                                                                             This sweet speech which re-awakens souls

                                                                                             This song which holds my fears enchanted

                                                                                             And these two heavens above two stars

                                                                                             Announce the miracle which is my Goddess.

 

                                                                                             From the beautiful garden of her youthful springtime

                                                                                             Is born a perfume, which heaven at all times

                                                                                             Would perfume with its sweet breath.

 

                                                                                             And from thence issues the magic of a voice

                                                                                             Which makes the woods, completely charmed, jump for joy,

                                                                                             Makes mountains plains, and plains mountains.

 

 

 

 

 Though the metaphors seem plain enough, one of Ronsard’s early editors felt the need to explain that (for instance) that in line 7 he means ‘the eyebrows which are vaulted like the sky, and hence two heavens’; and also to explain the way Ronsard verbalizes nouns in the last line so that “planer” means ‘to make a plain’ and “montaigner” means ‘to make mountains’. It’s a reminder that French has never been a language comfortable with new words or new uses of old words!

 

Blanchemain has a number of small variants; it’s probably easiest to see them in the context of the whole:

 

 

Ce ris plus doux que l’œuvre d’une abeille,

Ces doubles lys doublement argentez,

Ces diamans à double rang plantez

Dans le corail de sa bouche vermeille ;

 

Ce doux parler qui les mourans esveille,

Ce chant qui tient mes soucis enchantez,

Et ces deux cieux sur deux astres entez,

De ma Deesse annoncent la merveille.

 

Du beau jardin de son printemps riant,

Sort un parfum, qui mesme l’Orient

Embasmeroit de ses doulces haleines ;

 

Et de là sort le charme d’une voix,

Qui tout ravis fait sauteler les bois,

Planer les monts, et montaigner les plaines.

 

 

 

                                                                                             This smile, sweeter than bees’ honey

                                                                                             These double lilies doubly silvered,

                                                                                             These diamonds planted in double rows

                                                                                             In the coral of her crimson lips,

 

                                                                                             This sweet speech which would awaken the dying

                                                                                             This song which holds my fears enchanted

                                                                                             And these two heavens above two stars

                                                                                             Announce the miracle which is my Goddess.

 

                                                                                             From the beautiful garden of her smiling springtime

                                                                                             Comes a scent, which would even perfume

                                                                                             The Orient with its sweet breath.

 

                                                                                             And from thence issues the magic of a voice

                                                                                             Which makes the woods, completely charmed, jump for joy,

                                                                                             Makes mountains plains, and plains mountains.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 199

Page suy moy : par l’herbe plus espesse

Fausche l’esmail de la verte saison,

Puis à plein poing en-jonche la maison

Des fleurs qu’Avril enfante en sa jeunesse.

 

Despen du croc ma lyre chanteresse,

Je veux charmer si je puis la poison,

Dont un bel œil enchanta ma raison

Par la vertu d’une œillade maistresse.

 

Donne moy l’encre et le papier aussi :

En cent papiers tesmoins de mon souci

Je veux tracer la peine que j’endure ;

 

En cent papiers plus durs que Diamant,

A fin qu’un jour nostre race future

Juge du mal que je souffre en aimant.

 

 

 

                                                                                             Page, follow me: throughout the thickest grass

                                                                                             Scythe down the jewels of the fresh season,

                                                                                             Then scatter in the house fistfuls

                                                                                             Of the flowers that April has borne in her youth.

 

                                                                                             Take down from its hook my singing lyre;

                                                                                             I want to charm away, if I can, the poison

                                                                                             With which a fair eye has enchanted my reason

                                                                                             Through the power of a masterful glance.

 

                                                                                             Give me ink and paper too:

                                                                                             On a hundred sheets, witnesses of my cares,

                                                                                             I want to set out the trouble I’m enduring;

 

                                                                                             On a hundred sheets harder than diamond,

                                                                                             So that one day in the future our countrymen

                                                                                             Can judge the harm I suffer from being in love.

 

 

 

 Blanchemain offers an alternative, for the first line and a half: 

 

Fauche, garcon, d’une main pilleresse,

Le bel esmail …

 

                                                                                             Scythe, my boy, with a robber’s hand

                                                                                             The fair jewels …

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 164

Certes mon œil fut trop avantureux

De regarder une chose si belle,

Une vertu digne d’une immortelle,

Et dont amour est mesmes amoureux.

 

Depuis ce jour je devins langoureux

Pour aimer trop ceste beauté cruelle :

Cruelle, non, mais doucement rebelle

A ce desir qui me rend malheureux :

 

Malheureux, non, heureux je le confesse,

Tant vaut l’amour d’une telle maistresse,

Pour qui je vy, à qui seule je suis.

 

En luy plaisant je cerche à me desplaire :

Je l’aime tant qu’aimer je ne me puis,

Bien que pour elle Amour me desespere.

 

 

 

                                                                                             Indeed my eye was too adventurous

                                                                                             In looking at a thing so beautiful

                                                                                             Virtue worthy of a goddess

                                                                                             With whom even love is in love.

 

                                                                                             Since that day I’ve become lethargic

                                                                                             From loving too much this cruel beauty –

                                                                                             Cruel, no, but sweetly rejecting

                                                                                             My desire, which makes me unhappy –

 

                                                                                             Unhappy, no, happy I confess it

                                                                                             So much the love of such a mistress is worth,

                                                                                             For her I live, whose alone I am.

 

                                                                                             In pleasing her, I aim to displease myself;

                                                                                             I love her so much that I can’t love myself,

                                                                                             Although love for her makes me desperate.

 

 

 

 Blanchemain has in line 11 “Pour qui je vis…” (‘For her I live…’); I have assumed that the spelling chosen by M-L above has the same meaning, though it could perhaps mean ‘For whom I watch’?

 

More significantly, the last tercet is substantially different in the earlier (Blanchemain) version:

 

 

Je l’aime tant, qu’aimer je ne me puis,

Je suis tant sien, que plus mien je ne suis,

Bien que pour elle Amour me desespere.

 

                                                                                             I love her so much that I can’t love myself,

                                                                                             I am so much hers that I’m no longer mine,

                                                                                             Although love for her makes me desperate.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 93

Le premier jour du mois de May, Madame,

Dedans le cueur je senti vos beaux yeux

Bruns, doux, courtois, rians, delicieux,

Qui d’un glaçon feroyent naistre une flame.

 

De leur beau jour le souvenir m’enflame,

Et par penser j’en deviens amoureux.

O de mon cœur les meurtriers bien-heureux !

Vostre vertu je sens jusques en l’ame :

 

Yeux qui tenez la clef de mon penser,

Maistres de moy, qui peustes offenser

D’un seul regard ma raison toute esmeüe :

 

Si fort au cœur vostre beauté me poingt,

Que je devois jouïr de vostre veüe

Plus longuement ou bien ne vous voir point.

 

 

 

                                                                                             On the first day of May, my lady,

                                                                                             Within my heart I felt your lovely eyes,

                                                                                             Brown, sweet, courteous, laughing, delicious,

                                                                                             Which with a glance started a fire.

 

                                                                                             The memory of their lovely light burns me

                                                                                             And in thinking of it I’ve fallen in love with them,

                                                                                             Those sweet murderers of my heart!

                                                                                             I feel your worth down in my soul;

 

                                                                                             Those eyes which hold the key to my thoughts,

                                                                                             My masters, who can with a single look

                                                                                             Overwhelm my deeply-affected reason.

 

                                                                                             So strongly your beauty wounds me in the heart

                                                                                             That I must enjoy the sight of you

                                                                                             For longer, or else see you no more.

 

 

 

 Blanchemain offers a variation of the final tercet – or rather, the first half of the tercet:

 

 

Ha ! que je suis de vostre amour époingt,

Las ! je devois jouïr de vostre veüe

Plus longuement ou bien ne vous voir point.

 

                                                                                             Oh how I am stabbed by love for you

                                                                                             Alas, I must enjoy the sight of you

                                                                                             For longer, or else see you no more.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 82

Je meurs, Paschal, quand je la voy si belle,

Le front si beau, et la bouche et les yeux,

Yeux le logis d’Amour victorieux,

Qui m’a blessé d’une fleche nouvelle.

 

Je n’ay ny sang, ny veine, ny moüelle,

Qui ne se change :  et me semble qu’aux cieux

Je suis ravy, assis entre les Dieux,

Quand le bon-heur me conduit aupres d’elle.

 

Ha ! que ne suis-je en ce monde un grand Roy ?

Elle seroit ma Royne aupres de moy :

Mais n’estant rien il faut que je m’absente

 

De sa beauté dont je n’ose approcher,

Que d’un regard transformer je ne sente

Mes yeux en fleuve, et mon cœur en rocher.

 

 

                                                                                             I die Paschal when I see her looking so lovely

                                                                                             Her brow so fine, her lips and eyes,

                                                                                             Her eyes the home of conquering love

                                                                                             Who has wounded me with a new arrow.

 

                                                                                             I have neither blood nor vein nor marrow

                                                                                             Which is not changed, and it seems that to heaven

                                                                                             I’ve been swept up, sat between the gods,

                                                                                             When good fortune brings me near to her.

 

                                                                                             O, how am I not a great king in this world?

                                                                                             She should be my queen beside me –

                                                                                             But being nothing I have to take myself away

 

                                                                                             From her beauty which I dare not approach,

                                                                                             Which with a glance I feel change

                                                                                             My eyes into rivers, my heart into stone.

 

 

Blanchemain acknowledges here that (as with several other poems in his edition) he is cheating! His version comes from 1564 – after the 1560 edition he uses – because it wasn’t yet written in 1560; yet he prefers to include it than to stay strictly with the contents of that ‘first edition’. Nevertheless he preserves ‘first thoughts’ which Marty-Laveaux replaces with later thoughts…

 

In this case, though, the differences are minor:  in line 3, her eyes are “le sejour d’Amour” (‘the resting place of Love’); and in line 10 “Elle seroit toujours aupres de moy” – ‘She should be always beside me’ (implicitly, rather than explicitly, as queen).

 

Another variant sometimes encountered does away with the troublesome ‘Paschal’ of line one:  “Je meurs helas…” (‘I die, alas, …’). Paschal is Pierre de Paschal, royal historian, (1522-1565). Now there’s a history.

 

Paschal appeared soon after the Pleaide (or the Brigade, as it then was) burst to fame: fresh from Italy he promised them a long Latin poem enshrining them all in a literary temple of fame. Incidentally, Paschal like Ronsard probably added the ‘de’ into his name (signifying nobility) on his own initiative and with no legal right. As Wyndham-Lewis writes, “In anticipation of favours to come, the Brigade kept up such a chorus of praise that the very highest quarters took note of Paschal, and before long the Gascon climbed nimbly on [their] shoulders into one of the most enviable literary posts in France, and became Historiographer to the King.” And of course the long Latin eulogy never did appear …

 

Ronsard took his revenge by deleting Paschal from later editions (as in the alternative opening above) and by writing a Latin ‘eulogium Petri Paschalii’ of his own, which was anything but a eulogy – more of an invective. Interestingly, Ronsard’s anger with Paschal wore off: this sonnet was written somewhere between 1564-1567, five years or so after the invective.

 

There is, incidentally, good reason to think that Ronsard’s long autobiographical ode addressed to Paschal was intended as, in effect, the raw material for Paschal’s Latin eulogy …

 

If you’re interested, I’ve written much more about Pierre de Paschal here.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 121

Le Ciel ne veut, Dame, que je jouïsse

De ce doux bien que dessert mon devoir :

Aussi ne veux-je, et ne me plaist d’avoir

Sinon du mal en vous faisant service.

 

Puisqu’il vous plaist que pour vous je languisse,

Je suis heureux, et ne puis recevoir

Plus grand honneur, qu’en vous servant pouvoir

Faire à vos yeux de mon cœur sacrifice.

 

Donc si ma main, maugré-moy, quelquefois

De l’amour chaste outrepasse les loix,

Dans vostre sein cherchant ce qui m’embraise,

 

Punissez-la du foudre de vos yeux,

Et la brulez : car j’aime beaucoup mieux

Vivre sans mains, que ma main vous desplaise.

 

 

 

                                                                                             Heaven does not wish me, Lady, to enjoy

                                                                                             This sweet goodness to which my efforts minister;

                                                                                             I too do not wish it, and I am only pleased to have

                                                                                             Instead some ill in doing you service.

 

                                                                                             Since it pleases you that I pine for you

                                                                                             I am glad, and cannot receive

                                                                                             Any greater honour than in serving you to be able

                                                                                             To make sacrifice of my heart to your eyes.

 

                                                                                             So if my hand despite myself sometimes

                                                                                             Goes further than the chaste laws of love allow

                                                                                             Seeking in your breast that which enflames me,

 

                                                                                             Punish it with the lightning of your eyes

                                                                                             And burn it; for I far prefer

                                                                                             To live without hands, than that my hand should displease.

 

 

 

 

 Blanchemain offers only minor variants: in line 7, “qu’en mourant, de pouvoir” (‘than in dying to be able’); and in the final line he makes “main” singular both times – ‘To live without a hand, than …’

 

 

 

 

Baiser (A kiss)

Ronsard closes his book of poems to Cassandre with a kiss:

Quand hors de tes lèvres décloses

(Comme entre deux fleuris sentiers)

Je sens ton haleine de roses,

Les miennes les avant portiers

Du baiser, se rougissent d’aise,

Et de mes souhaits tous entiers

Me font jouyr, quand je te baise.

Car l’humeur du baiser appaise,

S’escoulant au cœur peu à peu,

Ceste chaude amoureuse braise,

Dont tes yeux allumoient le feu.

 

 

                                                                               When from your unclosed lips

                                                                              (As between two flowery paths)

                                                                              I feel your rose-scented breath,

                                                                              My own lips, the door-keepers

                                                                              Of the kiss, redden easily,

                                                                              And all my longing

                                                                              Makes me happy when I kiss you.

                                                                              For the mood for kissing calms me,

                                                                              Flowing little by little to my heart,

                                                                              In whose warm and loving embers

                                                                              Your eyes could light a fire.

 

 

Though prominently placed, this poem post-dates the first collected edition – in fact it dates from 1572.  Blanchemain nevertheless includes it in his text; as so often with poems prominently placed, Ronsard came back and re-worked them in later editions, so Blanchemain’s early version begins rather differently:

 

 

Quand de ta lèvre à demi close,

(Comme entre deux fleuris sentiers)

Je sens ton haleine de rose,

Mes lèvres, les avant-portiers…

 

                                                                              When from your lips, half-closed,

                                                                              (As between two flowery paths)

                                                                              I feel your rose-scented breath,

                                                                              My lips, the door-keepers…

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 136

Ce ne sont qu’haims, qu’amorces et qu’apas

De son bel œil qui m’alléche en sa nasse,

Soit qu’elle rie, ou soit qu’elle compasse

Au son du luth le nombre de ses pas.

 

Une mi-nuit tant de flambeaux n’a pas,

Ny tant de sable en Euripe ne passe,

Que de beautez embellissent sa grace,

Pour qui j’endure un millier de trespas.

 

Mais le tourment qui desseche ma vie

Est si plaisant, que je n’ay point envie

De m’esloigner de sa douce langueur :

 

Ains face Amour, que mort encore j’aye

L’aigre-douceur de l amoureuse playe,

Que vif je garde au rocher de mon cœur.

 

 

 

                                                                                              These are just the charms, lures and bait

                                                                                              Of her fair eyes which attract me into her trap

                                                                                              Whether she smiles, or whether she measures

                                                                                              Her steps to the sound of a lute.

 

                                                                                              Midnight has not so many torches

                                                                                              Nor does so much sand flow through the straits at Euripus

                                                                                              As she has beauties to enhance her grace

                                                                                              For her I endure a thousand deaths.

 

                                                                                              But the torture which dessicates my life

                                                                                              Is so pleasant that I have no desire

                                                                                              To part from this sweet idleness.

 

                                                                                              But through Love, when dead I will still have

                                                                                              The bitter-sweetness of love’s wound

                                                                                              Which living I preserve in the stone which is my heart.

 

 

The Euripus strait is the one between the Greek island of Euboea (Evvoia) and the mainland at Boeotia, which narrows to only a few tens of metres at Chalcis.

 

 Blanchemain offers a couple of alternatives: in line 9 “moissonne” for “desseche” – ‘But the torture which my life reaps as reward /Is so pleasant…’; and then the final line which becomes “Que vif je porte au plus beau de mon cœur” (‘Which living I bear as the best thing in my heart’).

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 114

Je vy ma Nymphe entre cent damoiselles,

Comme un Croissant par les menus flambeaux,

Et de ses yeux plus que les astres beaux

Faire obscurcir la beauté des plus belles.

 

Dedans son sein les Graces immortelles,

La Gaillardise, et les freres jumeaux,

Alloient volant, comme petits oiseaux

Parmy le verd des branches plus nouvelles.

 

Le ciel ravy, qui si belle la voit,

Roses et liz et ghirlandes pleuvoit

Tout au rond d’elle, au milieu de la place :

 

Si qu’en despit de l’hyver froidureux,

Par la vertu de ses yeux amoureux,

Un beau printemps s’engendra de sa face.

 

 

 

                                                                                             I can spot my Nymph among a hundred ladies

                                                                                             Like the crescent moon among those lesser lights

                                                                                             And with her eyes, fairer than the stars,

                                                                                             Eclipsing the beauty of the loveliest.

 

                                                                                             Within her breast the immortal Graces,

                                                                                             Frivolity, and the twin brothers

                                                                                             Fly like little birds

                                                                                             Among the greenery of young branches.

 

                                                                                             Delighted heaven, seeing she is so fair

                                                                                             Rains roses, lilies and garlands

                                                                                             All round her in the middle of the place where she is

 

                                                                                             So that, despite the freezing winter

                                                                                             Through the virtue and power of her loving eyes

                                                                                             A fair spring is born in her face.

 

 

 

 The Gemini (the twins), Castor and Pollux, seem odd companions for the Graces and Frivolity, but are perhaps invoked here as the bringers of fair weather – fitting the image of winter giving way to spring?

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 79

Si je trespasse entre tes bras, Madame,

Je suis content : aussi ne veux-je avoir

Plus grand honneur au monde, que de me voir

En te baisant, dans ton sein rendre l’ame.

 

Celuy dont Mars la poictrine renflame

Aille à la guerre ; et d’ans et de pouvoir

Tour furieux, s’esbate à recevoir

En sa poitrine une Espagnole lame :

 

Moy plus couard, je ne requier sinon

Apres cent ans sans gloire et sans renom

Mourir oisif en ton giron, Cassandre.

 

Car je me trompe, ou c’est plus de bon-heur,

D’ainsi mourir, que d’avoir tout l’honneur,

Et vivre peu, d’un monarque Alexandre.

 

 

 

                                                                                             If I die in your arms, Madame,

                                                                                             I am happy; and I crave

                                                                                             No greater honour in the world than to see myself

                                                                                             Surrender my soul in your embrace, as I kiss you.

 

                                                                                             The man whose breast Mars inflames

                                                                                             Can go to war, and all passionate

                                                                                             With years and strength, gambol about till he receives

                                                                                             In his chest a Spanish blade;

 

                                                                                             I’m more faint-hearted, I don’t want to die, unless it’s

                                                                                             In a hundred years, without glory, without renown,

                                                                                             Dying idly in your lap, Cassandra.

 

                                                                                             For I fool myself that it’s more fortunate

                                                                                             To die thus, than to have all the  honour

                                                                                             Of a king Alexander, but to live only a little.

 

 

 Ronsard with tongue firmly in cheek again!  Blanchemain offers a few alternative readings: in the first 5 lines,

 

Si je trespasse entre tes bras, Madame,

Il me suffit, car je ne veux avoir

Plus grand honneur, si non que de me voir

En te baisant, dans ton sein rendre l’ame.

 

Celui que Mars horriblement renflame, …

 

 

                                                                                             If I die in your arms, Madame,

                                                                                             It will be enough, for I crave

                                                                                             No greater honour than to see myself

                                                                                             Surrender my soul in your embrace, as I kiss you.

 

                                                                                             The man who is terribly excited by Mars …

 

He also changes the first line of the sestet:  “Mais moy, plus froid, je ne requiers, sinon …” (‘But me, I’m colder, I don’t want to die, unless…’); and begins the last line “Pour vivre…” instead of “Et vivre…”.

 

But there are other variants too, not in either of these two editions:  in the second quatrain (lines 6-7), there is this variant:

 

 

Aille à la guerre, et manque de pouvoir,

Et jeune d’ans, s’esbate à recevoir

 

                                                                                             Can go to war, and little in strength

                                                                                             And young of years, gambol about till he receives

 

And then the last two lines thus:

 

Mourir ainsi, que d’avoir tout l’honneur,

Et vivre peu, d’un guerrier Alexandre.

 

                                                                                             To die thus, than to have all the  honour

                                                                                             Of a warlike Alexander, but to live only a little.