Sonnet 36


As I’m still putting together the texts for my assault on book 1, let’s continue the random selection of poems from elsewhere in Ronsard’s output 🙂 A couple of sonnets  removed from later editions first:

Rossignol mon mignon, qui dans cette saulaye
Vas seul de branche en branche à ton gré voletant,
Degoisant à l’envy de moi, qui vois chantant
Celle qui faut tousjours que dans la bouche j’aie,
Nous soupirons tous deux, ta douce vois s’essaie
De flechir celle-là, qui te va tourmentant,
Et moi, je suis aussi cette-là regrettant,
Qui m’a fait dans le coeur une si aigre plaie.
Toutesfois, Rossignol, nous differons d’un point.
C’est que tu es aimé, et je ne le suis point,
Bien que tous deux aions les musiques pareilles,
Car tu flechis t’amie au dous bruit de tes sons,
Mais la mienne, qui prent à dépit mes chansons,
Pour ne les escouter se bouche les oreilles.
                                                                              My sweet nightingale, who in this willow
                                                                              Keep fluttering alone from branch to branch freely,
                                                                              Rattling on, as is my impulse, I who keep singing
                                                                              Of her whose name must always be on my lips;
                                                                              We are both sighing, your sweet voice seeks
                                                                              To move that female who keeps tormenting you,
                                                                              And I too follow, missing her
                                                                              Who has made such a bitter wound in my heart.
                                                                              Yet, o nightingale, we differ in one point:
                                                                              You are beloved, I am not at all,
                                                                              Though we both sing a similar music.
                                                                              For you move your beloved with the soft sounds you make,
                                                                              But mine, who resents my songs,
                                                                              To avoid hearing them stops up her ears!
 No variants here in Blanchemain’s text. Not one of Ronsard’s finest poems, perhaps deservedly set aside…

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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