Sonnet 9

Deux puissans ennemis me combatoient alors
Que ma dame vivoit : l’un dans le ciel se serre,
De Laurier triomphant : l’autre dessous la terre
Un Soleil d’Occident reluist entre les morts.
C’estoit la chasteté, qui rompoit les efforts
D’amour, et de son arc qui tout bon cœur enferre :
Et la douce beauté qui me faisoit la guerre,
De l’œil par le dedans, du ris par le dehors.
La Parque maintenant ceste guerre a desfaite :
La terre aime le corps, et de l’ame parfaite
Les Anges de là sus se vantent bien-heureux.
Amour d’autre lien ne sçauroit me reprendre.
Ma flame est un sepulchre, et mon cœur une cendre,
Et par la mort je suis de la mort amoureux.
                                                                                            Two powerful enemies fought in me while
                                                                                            My lady lived: one shuts itself up in heaven,
                                                                                            Honoured with the laurel; the other beneath the earth
                                                                                            The sinking sun illuminates amongst the dead.
                                                                                            It was chastity which defeated the efforts
                                                                                            Of love and of his bow which transfixes every good heart;
                                                                                            And sweet beauty which made war on me
                                                                                            Within, through her eye, without through her smile.
                                                                                            Fate has now broken off this war;
                                                                                            The earth enjoys her body, and with her perfect soul
                                                                                            The angels on high boast themselves happy.
                                                                                            Love cannot catch me again with some other tie.
                                                                                            My flame is a tomb, my heart is ashes,
                                                                                            And through death I am in love with death.

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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