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 …

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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