Sonnet 62

Je ne veux point la mort de celle qui arreste
Mon cœur en sa prison : mais, Amour, pour venger
Mes larmes de six ans, fay ses cheveux changer,
Et seme bien espais des neiges sur sa teste.Si tu veux, la vengeance est desja toute preste :
Tu accourcis les ans, tu les peux allonger :
Ne souffres en ton camp ton soudart outrager :
Que vieille elle devienne, ottroyant ma requeste.

Elle se glorifie en ses cheveux frisez,
En sa verde jeunesse, en ses yeux aiguisez,
Qui tirent dans les cœurs mille pointes encloses.

Pourquoy te braves-tu de cela qui n’est rien ?
La beauté n’est que vent, la beauté n’est pas bien :
Les beautez en un jour s’en-vont comme les Roses.

                                                                              I don’t at all want the death of her who holds
                                                                              My heart in her prison : but, Love, to avenge
                                                                              My six years of tears, make her hair change colour,
                                                                              And thickly sow her head with your snows.
                                                                              If you are willing, revenge is already at hand ;
                                                                              You hasten the years on, you can lengthen them too ;
                                                                              Do not allow her to insult your trooper in your camp ;
                                                                              Grant my request : let her become old.
                                                                              She glories in her hair, her ringlets,
                                                                              In the green of her youth, in her sharp eyes,
                                                                              Which lodge in men’s hearts a thousand darts.
                                                                              Why do you boast of that which is nothing ?
                                                                              Beauty is like the wind, beauty is not good ;
                                                                              Beauty disappears in a day like the roses.


There is one tiny change from Blanchemain’s earlier version:  perhaps not even that.  In line 7, Blanchemain has “soldat” for “soudard”.  Both are variants of the same word, but in modern terms “soudard” means a boor – you might ‘swear like a trooper’ (“soudard”) but you don’t ‘swear like a soldier’ (“soldat”).  In the translation I’ve used ‘trooper’ (above) to try to capture this slight difference – Blanchemain’s line would then obviously be ‘Do not allow her to insult your soldier in your camp’.

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')

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s