Sonnet 32

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De vostre belle vive angelique lumiere,
Le beau logis d’Amour de douceur de rigueur,
S’eslance un doux regard, qui me navrant le cœur,
Desrobe loin de moy mon ame prisonniere.
 
Je ne sçay ny moyen remede ny maniere
De sortir de vos rets, où je vis en langueur :
Et si l’extreme ennuy traine plus en longueur,
Vous aurés de mon corps la despouille derniere.
 
Yeux qui m’avez blessé, yeux mon mal et mon bien,
Guarissez vostre playe : Achille le peut bien.
Vous estes tout-divins, il n’estoit que pur homme.
 
Voyez, parlant à vous, comme le cœur me faut !
Helas ! je ne me deuls du mal qui me consomme :
Le mal dont je me deuls c’est qu’il ne vous en chaut.
 
 
                                                                               From your fair, bright, angelic light,
                                                                               The fair home of Love, of sweetness, of severity,
                                                                               Flashes out a sweet glance which, piercing my heart,
                                                                               Ravishes away my soul, far from me, a prisoner.
 
                                                                               I know no means or way
                                                                               Of escaping your nets in which I live pining;
                                                                               And if my extreme pain drags on still longer
                                                                               You will have the last remains of my body.
 
                                                                               O eyes which have wounded me, eyes which are my good and my ill,
                                                                               Heal the wound you made! Achilles could do it.
                                                                               You are all-divine, he was just an ordinary mortal.
 
                                                                               See how, as I talk to you, my heart fails!
                                                                               Alas! I do not grieve at the ill which consumes me;
                                                                               The ill at which I grieve is that it doesn’t matter to you.
  
 
 
Another beautiful poem, and another in which Blachemain has no variant to offer.  The reference to Achilles is obscure, and of course a subtle sign of Renaissance learning, a code that only the well-read would be able to pick up. Fortunately, these days we have Wikipedia:  “When the Greeks left for the Trojan War, they accidentally stopped in Mysia, ruled by King Telephus. In the resulting battle, Achilles gave Telephus a wound that would not heal; Telephus consulted an oracle, who stated that ‘he that wounded shall heal’. Guided by the oracle, he arrived at Argos, where Achilles healed him in order that he might become their guide for the voyage to Troy.” The story was the subject of a lost play of Euripides, ‘Telephus’. I have no idea where Ronsard picked it up from!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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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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