Sonnet 13 – Epitaphe de Marie

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And so we come to the end of the 2nd book; with a double-helping of epitaphs, as this is a poem Ronsard re-wrote quite considerably (though in fact the changes in the fist 5 lines are simply a switch from ‘you’ to ‘she’).

 

Cy reposent les oz de la belle Marie,
Qui me fist pour Anjou quitter mon Vandomois,
Qui m’eschaufa le sang au plus verd de mes mois,
Qui fut toute mon Tout mon bien et mon envie.
 
En sa tombe repose honneur et courtoisie,
Et la jeune beauté qu’en l’ame je sentois,
Et le flambeau d’Amour ses traits et son carquois,
Et ensemble mon cœur mes pensers et ma vie.
 
Tu es, belle Angevine, un bel astre des cieux :
Les Anges tous ravis se paissent de tes yeux,
La terre te regrette, O beauté sans seconde !
 
Maintenant tu es vive, et je suis mort d’ennuy.
Malheureux qui se fie en l’attente d’autruy !
Trois amis m’ont deceu, toy, l’Amour, et le monde.

 

 
 
                                                                                             Here lie the bones of the fair Marie,
                                                                                             Who made me leave my own Vendôme for Anjou,
                                                                                             Who warmed my blood in my most vigorous months,
                                                                                             Who was all my All, my good and my desire.
 
                                                                                             In her tomb lie honour and nobility,
                                                                                             And the young beauty which I felt in my soul,
                                                                                             And the torch of Love, his darts and his quiver,
                                                                                             And together with them my heart, my thoughts, my life.
 
                                                                                             You, fair lady of Anjou, are a fair star in the heavens;
                                                                                             The angels, delighted, feed themselves on your glances,
                                                                                             The earth misses you, o peerless beauty!
 
                                                                                             Now you live, and I am dead from anguish.
                                                                                             Unhappy he who trusts in the desire of another!
                                                                                             Three friends have deceived me: you, Love, and the world.

 

 
 
 Blanchemain’s version with its many variants follows: though less polished, this version reads better to me.
 
 
Cy reposent les oz de toy, belle Marie,
Qui me fis pour Anjou quitter mon Vandomois,
Qui m’eschaufas le sang au plus verd de mes mois,
Qui fus toute mon cœur, mon bien et mon envie.
 
En ta tombe repose honneur et courtoisie,
La vertu, la beauté qu’en l’ame je sentois,
La grâce et les amours qu’aux regards tu portois
Tels qu’ils eussent d’un mort ressuscité la vie.
 
Tu es, belle Angevine, un bel astre des cieux :
Les Anges tous ravis se paissent de tes yeux,
La terre te regrette, O beauté sans seconde !
 
Maintenant tu es vive, et je suis mort d’ennuy.
Ah ! siècle malheureux ! malheureux est celuy
Qui s’abuse d’Amour et qui se fie au monde !
 
 
 
                                                                                             Here lie your bones, fair Marie,
                                                                                             You who made me leave my own Vendôme for Anjou,
                                                                                             You who warmed my blood in my most vigorous months,
                                                                                             You who were all my heart, my good and my desire.
 
                                                                                             In your tomb lie honour and nobility,
                                                                                             The virtue and beauty which I felt in my soul,
                                                                                             The grace and love which you bore in your glances
                                                                                             Which could almost have brought the dead back to life.
 
                                                                                             You, fair lady of Anjou, are a fair star in the heavens;
                                                                                             The angels, delighted, feed themselves on your glances,
                                                                                             The earth misses you, o peerless beauty!
 
                                                                                             Now you live, and I am dead from anguish.
                                                                                             Oh, unhappy age!  Unhappy is he
                                                                                             Who is mistaken in love and who trusts in the world!
 
 
 

FIN DE LA SECONDE PARTIE

SUR LA MORT DE MARIE.

 

 
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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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