Sonnet 213

Standard
Je suis plus aise en mon cœur que les Dieux,
Quand chaudement tu me baises, Maistresse :
De ton baiser la douceur larronnesse
Tout esperdu m’en-vole jusqu’aux Cieux.
 
Baise moy donc, mon cœur : car j’aime mieux
Ton seul baiser, que si quelque Deesse
Au jeu d’amour d’une accollade espesse
M’embrassoit nud d’un bras delicieux.
 
Mais ton orgueil a tousjours de coustume
D’accompagner ton baiser d’amertume,
Froid sans saveur : aussi je ne pourrois
 
Souffrir tant d’heur : car mon ame, qui touche
Mille beautez, s’enfuiroit par ma bouche,
Et de trop d’aise en ton sein je mourrois.

 

 
 
                                                                                             I am more at ease in my heart than the Gods
                                                                                             When warmly you kiss me, my mistress;
                                                                                             The stolen sweetness of your kiss
                                                                                             Lifts me up, totally overcome, to the heavens.
 
                                                                                             Kiss me then, my heart; for I prefer
                                                                                             A single kiss from you, than if some goddess
                                                                                             In the game of love should, with a particular embrace,
                                                                                             Kiss me naked in her lovely arms.
 
                                                                                             But your pride has always customarily
                                                                                             Accompanied your kiss with bitterness,
                                                                                             Cold and tasteless: nor could I
 
                                                                                             Suffer such fortune: for my soul which touches
                                                                                             A thousand beauties, would rush out of my mouth
                                                                                             And from being too at ease in your bosom I would die.

 

 
 
A happy Ronsard?!   Happiness obviously worried him; there are major changes between Blanchemain’s version and the one above! The two are not quite separate poems on the same theme, but they’re getting there.
 

 

Je suis plus aise en mon cœur que les Dieux,
Quand maugré toi tu me baises, Maistresse :
De ton baiser la douceur larronnesse
Tout esperdu m’en-vole jusqu’aux Cieux.
 
Quant est de moy, j’estime beaucoup mieux
Ton seul baiser que si quelque deesse,
En cent façons doucement tenteresse,
M’accoloit nud d’un bras delicieux.
 
Il est bien vrai que tu as de coustume
D’entremesler tes baisers d’amertume,
Les donnants courts. Mais quoi ? Je ne pourrois
 
Vivre autrement : car mon ame, qui touche
Tant de beautes, s’enfuyroit par ma bouche,
Et de trop d’aise en ton sein je mourrois.
 
 
 
                                                                                             I am more at ease in my heart than the Gods
                                                                                             When despite yourself you kiss me, my mistress;
                                                                                             The stolen sweetness of your kiss
                                                                                             Lifts me up, totally overcome, to the heavens.
 
                                                                                             As for me, I put far more value
                                                                                             On a single kiss from you, than if some goddess
                                                                                             Tempting me sweetly a hundred different ways
                                                                                             Should embrace me naked in her lovely arms.
 
                                                                                             It is indeed true that you have customarily
                                                                                             Mixed your kisses with bitterness,
                                                                                             Giving short ones only. So what? I could not
 
                                                                                             Live otherwise: for my soul which touches
                                                                                             So many beauties, would rush out of my mouth
                                                                                             And from being too at ease in your bosom I would die.

 

 
 
 
 
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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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