Sonnet 43

J’avois, en regardant tes beaux yeux, enduré
Tant de flames au cœur, que plein de secheresse

Ma langue estoit reduite en extreme destresse,

Ayant de trop parler tout le corps alteré.

Lors tu fis apporter en ton vase doré
De l’eau froide d’un puits : et la soif qui me presse,
Me fist boire à l’endroit où tu bois, ma Maistresse,
Quand ton vaisseau se voit de ta lévre honoré.

Mais le vase amoureux de ta bouche qu’il baise,
En rechaufant ses bords du feu qu’il a receu,
Le garde en sa rondeur comme en une fournaise.

Seulement au toucher je l’ay bien apperceu.
Comment pourroy-je vivre un quart d’heure à mon aise,
Quand je sens contre moy l’eau se tourner en feu ?

 

 

 

                                                                              Looking into your fair eyes I had endured

                                                                              So much fire in my heart that my tongue was

                                                                              Completely dried out and reduced to extreme distress,

                                                                              Having withered my whole body with talking too much.

 

                                                                              Then you had them bring, in your golden vase,

                                                                              Cold water from a well; and the thirst which oppressed me

                                                                              Made me drink from the same place that you drank, my lady,

                                                                              When your vessel was honoured by your lips.

 

                                                                              But the vase, in love with the lips he’d kissed,

                                                                              Warming his rim with the fire he’d absorbed

                                                                              Guarded it within his bowl as in a furnace.

 

                                                                              Just touching him, I readily felt it.

                                                                              How could I live a quarter-hour at ease

                                                                              When I feel water itself turning against me and into fire?

 

  

 

 

Blanchemain has “comme” for “comment” in line 13 (no impact on meaning; and I think “comme” runs better in the line?).  He does however have a more substantial variant in the opening stanza: again, I think I prefer the variety of the ealrier version to the more prosaic newer version.

 

 

J’avois, en regardant tes beaux yeux, enduré
Tant de flames au cœur, qu’une aspre seicheresse
Avoit cuitte ma langue en extreme destresse,
Ayant de trop parler tout le corps alteré.

 

 

                                                                              Looking into your fair eyes I had endured

                                                                              So much fire in my heart that a harsh dryness

                                                                              Had baked my tongue, in extreme distress,

                                                                              Having withered my whole body with talking too much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 42

Cet amoureux desdain, ce Nenny gracieux,
Qui refusant mon bien, me reschaufent l’envie
Par leur fiere douceur d’assujettir ma vie,
Où sont desja sujets mes pensers et mes yeux,

Me font transir le cœur, quand trop impetueux
A baiser vostre main le desir me convie,
Et vous la retirant feignez d’estre marrie,
Et m’appelez, honteuse, amant presomptueux.

Mais sur tout je me plains de vos douces menaces,
De vos lettres qui sont toutes pleines d’audaces,
De moymesme, d’Amour, de vous et de vostre art,

Qui si doucement farde et sucre sa harangue,
Qu’escrivant et parlant vous n’avez traict de langue,
Qui ne me soit au cœur la pointe d’un poignart.

 

 

 

                                                                              That disdainful love, that gracious No,

                                                                              Refused me some good and so re-ignited in me

                                                                              Through their proud sweetness the desire to make my life their slave;

                                                                              They are already the subjects of my thoughts and eyes;

 

                                                                              They wound my heart, when too impetuously

                                                                              The wish to kiss your hand urges me

                                                                              And you, drawing it back, feign being upset

                                                                              And shame-faced call me a presumptuous lover.

 

                                                                              But above all I complain of your sweet threats,

                                                                              Of your letters which are full of insolence,

                                                                              Of myself, of love, of you and your art;

 

                                                                              Which so sweetly disguise and sugar their harangue

                                                                              That in writing and speaking you strike no blow with your words

                                                                              Which is not like the point of a dagger in my heart.

 

  

 

 

No variants in Blanchemain: a perfect poem?!  Note that, in line 13, I have translated ‘langue’ as words, trying to retain some of the ambiguities of ‘langue’ – her tongue, her words, her (use of) language; though in fact the tranlsation is flat & dull. Pick your own substitute!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 41

Comme je regardois ces yeux, mais ceste fouldre,

Dont l’esclat amoureux ne part jamais en vain,

Sa blanche charitable et delicate main

Me parfuma le chef et la barbe de pouldre.

 

Pouldre, l’honneur de Cypre, actuelle à resouldre

L’ulcere qui s’encharne au plus creux de mon sein,

Depuis telle faveur j’ay senty mon cœur sain,

Ma playe se reprendre, et mon mal se dissouldre.

 

Pouldre, Atomes sacrez qui sur moy voletoient,

Où toute Cypre, l’Inde et leurs parfums estoient,

Je vous sens dedans l’ame. O Pouldre souhaitee,

 

En parfumant mon chef vous avez combatu

Ma douleur et mon cœur : je faux, c’est la vertu

De ceste belle main qui vous avoit jettee.

 

 

 

                                                                              As I looked upon those eyes, or rather those lightning-bolts

                                                                              Whose explosion of love never flashes out in vain,

                                                                             Her graceful white and delicate hand

                                                                              Perfumed my hair and beard with powder.

 

                                                                             O Powder, the gift of Cyprus, immediately dissolving

                                                                              The ulcer which burrows into the deepest crevice of my breast,

                                                                              Since receiving this favour I have felt my heart whole,

                                                                              My wound recover, my ills dissolve.

 

                                                                              O Powder, holy grains which flutter upon me

                                                                              In which are all of Cyprus, the Indies and their perfumes,

                                                                              I feel you within my soul. O much-deired powder,

 

                                                                              In perfuming my head you have defeated

                                                                              My sadness and my heart; I’m wrong, it was the virtue

                                                                              Of that fair hand which shook you.

  

 

 

 Cyprus here is associated with Venus’s cult. One of Ronsard’s more artificial conceits; but a well-formed poem, and one which remained unchanged from Blanchemain (early) to Marty-Laveaux (late) editions;  though it appeared in the Amours diverses (1578) before being re-located to Helen!

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 40

Puis que tu cognois bien qu’affamé je me pais
Du regard de tes yeux, dont larron je retire
Des rayons, pour nourrir ma douleur qui s’empire,
Pourquoy me caches-tu l’œil par qui tu me plais ?

 

Tu es deux fois venue à Paris, et tu fais
Semblant de n’y venir, afin que mon martire
Ne s’allege en voyant ton œil que je desire,
Ton œil qui me nourrit par le trait de ses rais.

 

Tu vas bien à Hercueil avecque ta cousine
Voir les prez les jardins et la source voisine
De l’Antre où j’ay chanté tant de divers accords.

 

Tu devois m’appeler, oublieuse Maistresse :
En ton coche porté je n’eusse fait grand presse :
Car je ne suis plus rien qu’un fantôme sans corps.

 

 

 

                                                                              As you understand clearly that I hungrily feed

                                                                              On the glance of your eyes, whose rays I steal,

                                                                              A thief, to feed the sadness which rules over me,

                                                                              Why do you hide from me those eyes by which you please me?

 

                                                                              You have twice come to Paris, yet you pretend

                                                                              Never to come here, so that my suffering

                                                                              Is not lessened in seeing your eyes as I desire,

                                                                              Your eyes which feed me through the sting of their rays.

 

                                                                              You even go to Hercueil with your cousin

                                                                              To see the meadows, gardens and the spring next

                                                                              To the cave where I sang so many varying songs.

 

                                                                              You should have called for me, forgetful mistress;

                                                                              Carried in your coach I’d not have made much of a crowd

                                                                              For I am no longer anything but a ghost without a body.

  

 

 I like this poem: it’s very tightly-knit, and the last 2 lines (while still providing a sting in the tail) are so closely integrated. 

 

Nicolas Richelet comments (as transmitted by Blanchemain) that Hercueil is Arcueil, a village ‘near’ Paris – now a commune in the southern part of the city. He adds that ‘the cave’ is the grotto at Meudon (now in SW Paris) and the ‘varying songs’ Ronsard composed there are the Eclogues.

 

Blanchemain’s text varies only slightly from Marty-Laveaux’s; but 2 of the 3 lines with small changes he also prints in radically-different form in footnotes.  The minor variants are, in line 8, “par l’objet de ses rais” (‘through the property of their rays‘);  and in line 13 “Dans ton coche” (no change in meaning); the more radical changes are printed below in another full version of the poem which also includes his 3rd minor change, in the opening line.

 

 

 

Puis que tu sçais, hélas ! qu’affamé je me pais
Du regard de tes yeux, dont larron je retire
Des rayons, pour nourrir ma douleur qui s’empire,
Pourquoy me caches-tu l’œil par qui tu me plais ?

 

Tu es deux fois venue à Paris, et tu fais

Semblant de n’y venir, afin que mon martire

Ne s’allege en voyant ton œil que je desire,

Dont la vive vertu me norrit de ses rais.

 

Tu vas bien à Hercueil avecque ta cousine

Voir les prez les jardins et la source voisine

De l’Antre où j’ay chanté tant de divers accords.

 

Tu devois m’appeler, oublieuse Maistresse :

Ton coche n’eust courbé sous une masse espesse :

Car je ne suis plus rien qu’un fantôme sans corps.

 

 

 

                                                                             As you know, alas, that I hungrily feed

                                                                             On the glance of your eyes, whose rays I steal,

                                                                             A thief, to feed the sadness which rules over me,

                                                                             Why do you hide from me those eyes by which you please me?

 

                                                                             You have twice come to Paris, yet you pretend

                                                                             Never to come here, so that my suffering

                                                                             Is not lessened in seeing your eyes as I desire,

                                                                             Whose lively virtue feeds me with its rays.

 

                                                                             You even go to Hercueil with your cousin

                                                                             To see the meadows, gardens and the spring next

                                                                             To the cave where I sang so many varying songs.

 

                                                                             You should have called for me, forgetful mistress;

                                                                             Your coach would not have bent under an unusual weight

                                                                             For I am no longer anything but a ghost without a body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 39

Agathe, où du Soleil le signe est imprimé
(L’escrevice marchant, comme il fait en arriere)

Cher present que je donne à toy chere guerriere,
Mon don pour le Soleil est digne d’estre aimé.

 

Le Soleil va tousjours de flames allumé,
Je porte au cœur le feu de ta belle lumiere :
Il est l’ame du monde, et ma force premiere
Depend de ta vertu, dont je suis animé.

 

O douce belle vive angelique Sereine,
Ma toute Pasithee, essence sur-humaine,
Merveille de nature, exemple sans pareil,

 

D’honneur et de beauté l’ornement et le signe,
Puis que rien icy bas de ta vertu n’est digne,
Que te puis-je donner sinon que le Soleil ?

 

 

 

                                                                              The agate, in which the symbol of the sun is imprinted

                                                                              (Going like a crayfish, backwards)

                                                                              The dear present which I give to you, my dear warrior,

                                                                              My gift is worthy of being loved for the sun’s sake.

 

                                                                              The sun is always lit up with flames,

                                                                              And I carry in my heart the fire of your fair light;

                                                                              He is the soul of the world, and my essential strength

                                                                              Depends on your virtue, by which I am given life.

 

                                                                              O sweet, fair, lively, angelic Calm,

                                                                              My Pasithea in every way, super-human essence,

                                                                              Wonder of nature, peerless example,

 

                                                                              The ornament and symbol of honour and beauty:

                                                                              Since nothing here below is worthy of your virtue

                                                                              What can I give you except the sun?

  

 

 

 Another poem unchanged from its earlier version.  Pasithea is one of the Graces, married to Somnus god of sleep, and a symbol of relaxation and calm. Why ‘the symbol of the sun is imprinted going like a crayfish, backward” in an agate I am not sure: perhaps because the agate is dark in the middle and brightens as you move outwards?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 38

D’autre torche mon coeur ne pouvoit s’allumer
Sinon de tes beaux yeux, où l’amour me convie :
J’avois desja passé le meilleur de ma vie,
Tout franc de passion, fuyant le nom d’aimer.

 

Je soulois maintenant ceste dame estimer,
Et maintenant ceste autre où me portoit l’envie,
Sans rendre ma franchise à quelqu’une asservie :
Rusé je ne voulois dans les rets m’enfermer.

 

Maintenant je suis pris, et si je prens à gloire
D’avoir perdu le camp, frustré de la victoire :
Ton œil vaut un combat de dix ans d’Ilion.

 

Amour comme estant Dieu n’aime pas les superbes :
Sois douce à qui te prie, imitant le Lion.
La foudre abat les monts, non les petites herbes.

 

 

                                                                              With no other torch could my heart have been lit

                                                                              Than with your fair eyes, in which love invited me;

                                                                              I’d already passed the best part of my life

                                                                              Entirely free from passion, avoiding the very word ‘love’.

 

                                                                              At one time I was intoxicated with admiring this lady,

                                                                              And at another time this other one for whom desire had seized me,

                                                                              Without giving up my freedom as anyone’s servant;

                                                                              Craftily, I didn’t wish to shut myself up in their nets.

 

                                                                              But now I am caught, and yet I consider it glorious

                                                                              To have lost my camp, deprived of victory;

                                                                              Your eyes are worth ten years’ war at Troy.

 

                                                                              Love, being a god, does not like the proud;

                                                                              Be sweet to him who begs you, imitating the lion.

                                                                              Thunder flattens mountains, not small plants.

  

 

 A rather lovely poem, I think!  The ‘ten tears war’ is of course the Trojan War of the Iliad etc.  In the previous line note that ROnsard has not just lost the battle, even his camp has been overrun – a very thorough defeat.

 

(There are no variants in Blanchemain’s earlier version.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 37

Voicy le mois d’Avril, où nasquit la merveille,
Qui fait en terre foy de la beauté des cieux,
Le mirouer de vertu, le Soleil de mes yeux,
Seule Phenix d’honneur, qui les ames resveille.

 

Les Oeillets et les Liz et la Rose vermeille
Servirent de berceau : la Nature et les Dieux
La regarderent naistre, et d’un soin curieux

Amour enfant comme elle alaicta sa pareille.

 

Les Muses, Apollon et les Graces estoient

Tout à l’entour du lict, qui à l’envy jettoient

Des fleurs sur l’Angelette. Ah ! ce mois me convie

 

D’eslever un autel, et suppliant Amour

Sanctifier d’Avril le neufiesme jour,

Qui m’est cent fois plus cher que celuy de ma vie.

 

 

                                                                              This is the month of April, in which was born that marvel

                                                                              Who creates on earth faith in the beauty of the heavens,

                                                                              The mirror of virtue, the sun to my eyes,

                                                                              The only Phoenix in honour, who awakens souls.

 

                                                                              Pinks and lilies and the crimson rose

                                                                              Acted as her cradle; Nature and the gods

                                                                              Watched her being born, and with quaint care

                                                                              Love, a child like her, fed her milk as his equal.

 

                                                                              The Muses, Apollo and the Graces stood

                                                                              All around her bed, and in emulation they threw

                                                                              Flowers upon the little Angel. Ah, this month urges me

 

                                                                              To raise an altar and, as Love’s suppliant,

                                                                              To sanctify the ninth day of April

                                                                              Which is to me a hundred times dearer than that of my own birth.

  

 

Line 4 is problematical (to me at least): ‘the only Phoenix in honour’? The phoenix is associated with renewal rather than honour; I assume that here Ronsard alludes to its continuing youthfulness (via renewal in fire), and also to the continually-renewed ‘honour’ of Helen seen in all her actions continuously.

 

Blanchemain helps me here by offering a simpler variant of that line, which clearly focuses on the continued youthfulness of the phoenix!  He also adjusts the end of the second quatrain.  So here are the first 8 lines complete in his version:

 

 

Voicy le mois d’Avril, où nasquit la merveille,
Qui fait en terre foy de la beauté des cieux,
Le mirouer de vertu, le Soleil de mes yeux,
Qui vit comme un Phenix, au monde sans pareille.

 

Les Oeillets et les Liz et la Rose vermeille
Servirent de berceau : la Nature et les Dieux
La regarderent naistre en ce mois gracieux :
Puis Amour la nourrit des douceurs d’une Abeille.

 

 

                                                                              This is the month of April, in which was born that marvel

                                                                              Who creates on earth faith in the beauty of the heavens,

                                                                              The mirror of virtue, the sun to my eyes,

                                                                              Who lives like a Phoenix, without equal in the world.

 

                                                                              Pinks and lilies and the crimson rose

                                                                              Acted as her cradle; Nature and the gods

                                                                              Watched her being born in this graceful month;

                                                                              Then Love fed her with the sweetness of the bees.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 36

Vous me distes, Maistresse, estant à la fenestre,
Regardant vers Mont-martre et les champs d’alentour :
La solitaire vie, et le desert sejour
Valent mieux que la Cour, je voudrois bien y estre.

A l’heure mon esprit de mes sens seroit maistre,
En jeusne et oraison je passerois le jour,
Je desfirois les traicts et les flames d’Amour :
Ce cruel de mon sang ne pourroit se repaistre.

Quand je vous respondy, Vous trompez de penser
Qu’un feu ne soit pas feu pour se couvrir de cendre :
Sur les cloistres sacrez la flame on voit passer :

Amour dans les deserts comme aux villes s’engendre.
Contre un Dieu si puissant, qui les Dieux peut forcer,
Jeusnes ny oraisons ne se peuvent defendre.

 

 

 

                                                                              You said to me, my mistress, standing by the window,

                                                                              Looking toward Montmartre and the fields around it:

                                                                              “The solitary life, and a deserted place,

                                                                              Are worth more than the Court; I wish I were there.

 

                                                                              Then my spirit would be master of my senses,

                                                                              I would spend the day in fasting and prayer,

                                                                              I would defy the blows and flames of love:

                                                                              That cruel monster would not be able to eat his fill of my blood.”

 

                                                                              At that I replied: “You are wrong to think

                                                                              That a fire is no longer fire for being covered in ashes:

                                                                              The flame [of love] can be seen to pass over holy cloisters,

 

                                                                              Love breeds in deserts as in towns.

                                                                              Against so powerful a god who can compel the gods,

                                                                              Fasting and prayers cannot provide a defence.

 

  

 

Is Helene actually falling in love?!  It seems, halfway through the first book, as if she might actually be feeling the flames of passion herself…  After the previous 35 complaints about being maltreated or ignored by her, this poem coming on us suddenly looks rather strange; but there will be more about their mutual love – as well as more complaints – later in the book.

 

Blanchemain’s earlier version differs in only 2 minor respects:  in line 6 he has “oraisons” instead of “oraison” (‘prayers’ for ‘prayer’); and in line 11, “Sus les cloistres sacrez” instead of “Sur…” (‘pass above’ instead of ‘pass over’). Although his meaning in this line should be that love reaches even into monasteries/nunneries, “passer sur” can also mean ‘to overlook’: I’ve used ‘pass over’ as it has something of the same duality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 35

Tousjours pour mon sujet il faut que je vous aye :
Je meurs sans regarder vos deux Astres jumeaux,
Vos yeux, mes deux Soleils, qui m’esclairent si beaux,
Qu’à trouver autre jour autre part je n’essaye.

 

Le chant du Rossignol m’est le chant d’une Orfraye,
Roses me sont Chardons, torrens me sont ruisseaux,
La Vigne mariee à l’entour des Ormeaux,
Et le Printemps au cœur me rengrege la playe.

 

Mon plaisir en ce mois c’est de voir les Coloms
S’emboucher bec à bec de baisers doux et longs,
Dés l’aube jusqu’au soir que le Soleil se plonge.

 

O bienheureux Pigeons, vray germe Cyprien,
Vous avez par nature et par effect le bien
Que je n’ose esperer tant seulement en songe !

 

 

 

 

                                                                               I must always have you for my subject ;

                                                                               I will die if I cannot see those twin stars of yours,

                                                                               Your eyes, my two suns, which shine on me so beautifully

                                                                               That I make no effort to find other light in another place.

 

                                                                               The song of the nightingale is to me that of an osprey,

                                                                               Roses are thistles to me, torrents calm streams;

                                                                               The vine wedded around the elms

                                                                               And the Spring aggravates the wound in my heart.

 

                                                                               My pleasure in this month is to watch the doves

                                                                               Mouths touching beak to beak with long, sweet kisses

                                                                               From dawn to evening, when the sun sinks.

 

                                                                               O happy pigeons, true seed of Cyprus,

                                                                               You have by nature and feeling that good

                                                                               Which I dare not hope for, even in dreams!

 

  

 

 

The ‘seed of Cyprus’ or ‘offspring of Venus’ in line 12 is of course a reference to Venus’s birth on the island. 

 

Blanchemain offers us a couple of variants in the first half of the poem:

 

 

Tousjours pour mon sujet il faut que je vous aye :
En peinture, pour voir vos deux Astres jumeaux,
Vos yeux, mes deux Soleils, qui m’esclairent si beaux,
Qu’à trouver autre jour autre part je n’essaye.

 

Le chant du Rossignol m’est le chant d’une Orfraye,
Roses me sont Chardons, torrens me sont ruisseaux,
La Vigne mariee à l’entour de Ormeaux,
Et le Printemps sans vous m’est une dure playe.

 

 

                                                                              I must always have you for my subject ;

                                                                              In a painting, that I may see those twin stars of yours,

                                                                              Your eyes, my two suns, which shine on me so beautifully

                                                                              That I make no effort to find other light in any other place.

 

                                                                              The song of the nightingale is to me that of an osprey,

                                                                              Roses are thistles to me, torrents calm streams;

                                                                              The vine wedded around the elms

                                                                              And the Spring without you are for me a terrible wound.

 

 

I can’t say this is an occasion when I’d go back to the earlier version in preference to the last thoughts in Marty-Laveaux!  I assume the strange ‘de’ in line 7 of Blanchemain’s version is a typo, since I can think of no sensible grammatical reason for the hiatus in the line, and the hiatus doesn’t make it sound better as poetry…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 34

Cent et cent fois le jour l’Orange je rebaise,
Et le palle Citron derobé de ta main,
Doux present amoureux, que je loge en mon sein
Pour leur faire sentir combien je sens de braise.

Quand ils sont demy-cuits, leur chaleur je r’appaise,
Versant des pleurs dessus, dont triste je suis plein :
Et de ta nonchalance avec eux je me plain,
Qui cruelle te ris de me voir à mal-aise.

Oranges et Citrons sont symboles d’Amour :
Ce sont signes muets, que je puis quelque jour
T’arrester, comme fit Hippomene Atalante.

Mais je ne le puis croire : Amour ne le veut pas,
Qui m’attache du plomb pour retarder mes pas,
Et te donne à fuir des ailes à la plante.

 

 

 

                                                                              Hundreds and hundreds of times a day I kiss the orange

                                                                              And the pale lemon stolen from your hand,

                                                                              A sweet love-gift, which I keep at my breast

                                                                              To make them feel how burning-hot I feel.

 

                                                                              When they are half-cooked I shall calm their heat again

                                                                              By pouring on them the tears which fill me, sad as I am;

                                                                              And I shall moan of your uncaring with them,

                                                                              Since you cruelly laugh seeing my discomfort.

 

                                                                              Oranges and lemons are symbols of Love;

                                                                              They are mute signs with which some day I may

                                                                              Stop you, as Hippomenes did Atalanta.

 

                                                                              But I cannot believe it; Love does not want it:

                                                                              He ties leaden weights to me to slow my steps

                                                                              But gives you wings on your feet to flee with.

 

  

 

 Atalanta famously said she would only marry the man who could beat her at running. Hippomenes obtained 3 golden apples from Venus (goddess of love!) and dropped one in front of Atalanta every time she looked like beating him – so that she would stop, allowing him to win the race and her hand in marriage.

 

Here Blanchemain offers only one minor variant in his earlier text: in line 8 Helen laughs “de me voir en mal-aise” (no substantive impact on the translation). However, he also footnotes a completely different & rather weaker line 2, “Et le citron qui part de vostre belle main” (‘And the lemon which came from your fair hand’).