Sonnet 10

De ceste belle, douce, honneste chasteté
Naissoit un froid glaçon, ains une chaude flame,
Qu’encores aujourd’huy esteinte sous la lame
Me reschauffe, en pensant quelle fut sa clarté.
La traict que je receu, n’eut le fer espointé :
Il fut des plus aigus qu’Amour nous tire en l’ame,
Qui s’armant d’un trespas, par le penser m’entame,
Et sans jamais tomber se tient à mon costé.
Narcisse fut heureux mourant sur la fontaine,
Abusé de miroër de sa figure vaine :
Au moins il regardoit je ne sçay quoy de beau.
L’erreur le contentoit, voyant sa face aimee :
Et la beauté que j’aime, est terre consumee.
Il mourut pour une ombre et moy pour un  tombeau.
                                                                                             From this fair, sweet, respectable chastity
                                                                                             Was born a cold icicle, and too a hot flame,
                                                                                             Which still today – extinguished beneath the blade –
                                                                                             Warms me, in thinking of the brightness that was hers.
                                                                                             The wound that I received was not pointed steel:
                                                                                             It was among the sharpest that Love shoots into our hearts
                                                                                             Which, arming itself with a death, through my thoughts slices me
                                                                                             And stays, without ever falling, at my side.
                                                                                             Narcissus was happy dying on his spring,
                                                                                             Deceived by a mirror with his own empty form;
                                                                                             At least he was looking at something fair.
                                                                                             The error of seeing his beloved face contented him;
                                                                                             But the beauty that I love is now absorbed into the earth.
                                                                                             He died for a shadow, I for a tomb.



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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