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’).

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')

One response »

  1. Pingback: Sonnet 135 | Oeuvres de Ronsard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s