Sonnet 58

Standard
Je sens une douceur à conter impossible,
Dont ravy je jouïs par le bien du penser,
Qu’homme ne peut escrire ou langue prononcer,
Quand je baise ta main en amour invincible.

Contemplant tes beaux yeux ma pauvre ame passible
En se pasmant se perd, lors je sens amasser
Un sang froid sur mon cœur, qui garde de passer
Mes esprits, et je reste une image insensible.

Voila que peut ta main et ton œil, où les trais
D’Amour sont si ferrez, si chauds et si espais
Au regard Medusin qui en rocher me mue.

Mais bien que mon malheur procede de les voir,
Je voudrois et mille yeux et mille mains avoir,
Pour voir et pour toucher leur beauté qui me tue.

 
 
 
                                                                              I feel a sweetness impossible to relate
                                                                              Ravished by which I rejoice in the happiness of thoughts
                                                                              Which man cannot write or tongue pronounce
                                                                              Whenever, invincible in love, I kiss your hand.
 
                                                                              Contemplating your fair eyes my poor guilty soul
                                                                              Is lost, fainting, as I feel a coldness in my blood
                                                                              Piling up on my heart, which prevents my spirit
                                                                              From getting through, and I remain an insensible statue.
 
                                                                              That is what your hand and eye can do, when the blows
                                                                              Of Love are so steely, so hot, so thickly-falling
                                                                              In that Medusa-like look which turns me to stone.
 
                                                                              But though my troubles spring from seeing them,
                                                                              I’d like a thousand eyes and a thousand hands
                                                                              To see and touch that beauty of theirs which is killing me.

 

  
 
 
Blanchemain has minor variants, one of which looks to me like a printer’s attempt to ‘correct’ a mis-spelling. After all, written with a long s, there’s little to choose between ‘ferrez’ and ‘ſerrez’ in line 12.  Yet “serrez” (‘so tightly-packed’) is no better in meaning than “ferrez”, but is almost duplicated by “epais” and clutters up the line with rather too much assonance. It may be a less unusual word, but I still think “ferrez” is the better reading.
 
 
Je sens une douceur à conter impossible,
Dont ravy je jouïs par le bien du penser,
Qu’homme ne peut escrire ou langue prononcer,
Quand je baise ta main contre amour invincible.

Contemplant tes beaux yeux ma pauvre ame passible
En se pasmant se perd, lors je sens amasser
Un sang froid sur mon cœur, qui garde de passer
Mes esprits, et je reste une image insensible.

Voila que peut ta main et ton œil, où les trais
D’Amour sont si serrez, si chauds et si espais
Au regard Medusin qui en rocher me mue.

Mais bien que mon malheur procede de les voir,
Je voudrois mille mains, et autant d’yeux avoir,
Pour voir et pour toucher leur beauté qui me tue.

 
 
 

                                                                              I feel a sweetness impossible to relate
                                                                              Ravished by which I rejoice in the happiness of thoughts
                                                                              Which man cannot write or tongue pronounce
                                                                              Whenever I kiss your hand, in the face of invincible love.
 
                                                                              Contemplating your fair eyes my poor guilty soul
                                                                              Is lost, fainting, as I feel a coldness in my blood
                                                                              Piling up on my heart, which prevents my spirit
                                                                              From getting through, and I remain an insensible statue.
 
                                                                              That is what your hand and eye can do, when the blows
                                                                              Of Love are so tightly-packed, so hot, so thickly-falling
                                                                              In that Medusa-like look which turns me to stone.
 
                                                                              But though my troubles spring from seeing them,
                                                                              I’d like to have a thousand hands and as many eyes
                                                                              To see and touch that beauty of theirs which is killing me.
 
 
 
 
 
 
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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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