Sonnet 25



D’un profond pensement j’avois si fort troublee
L’imagination qui toute en vous estoit,
Que mon ame à tous coups de mes lèvres sortoit,
Pour estre en me laissant à la vostre assemblee.
J’ay cent fois la fuitive au logis r’appellee,
Qu’Amour me desbauchoit : ores elle escoutoit,
Et ores sans m’ouyr le frein elle emportoit,
Comme un jeune Poulain qui court à la vollee.
La tançant je disois, Tu te vas decevant,
Si elle nous aimoit, nous aurions plus souvent
Ou chiffres ou message ou lettre accoustumee.
Elle a de nos chansons et non de nous souci.
Mon ame sois plus fine : il nous faut tout ainsi
Qu’elle nous paist de vent, la paistre de fumee.
                                                                                With profound thought I had so deeply disturbed
                                                                                My imagination, which was entirely occupied with you,
                                                                                That my soul leapt from my lips at every opportunity
                                                                                To be, in leaving me, among your entourage.
                                                                                I have recalled the fugitive to his place a hundred times,
                                                                                Led astray by Love; sometimes he listens to me,
                                                                                But sometimes, not listening, seizes the bit
                                                                                Like a young colt who runs in flight.
                                                                                Reprimanding him I said, “You’re deceiving yourself,
                                                                                If she loved us we’d more often receive
                                                                                Notes or a message or the customary letter.
                                                                                She cares for our poems, not for us.
                                                                                My soul, be more shrewd; we must even as
                                                                                She feeds us on empty breezes, feed her on empty smoke.”


Only one minor difference in Blanchmain’s version: in line 11 he has “Course, poste, message ou lettre accoustumee” (‘Mail, post, a message or the customary letter’) – a minor difference but again a place where I feel the older Ronsard ‘flattened down’ the enthusiasm of his younger self.

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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