Ode 2: 10 – Du retour de Maclou de la Haie

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DU RETOUR DE MACLOU DE LA HAIE
 
A SON PAGE
 
Fay refraischir le vin de sorte
Qu’il passe en froideur un glaçon,
Page, et que Marguerite apporte
Son luth pour dire une chanson :
Nous ballerons tous trois au son ;
Et dy à Jane qu’elle vienne
Les cheveux tors à la façon
D’une folastre Italienne.
 
Ne sens-tu que le jour se passe ?
Et tu ne te vas point hastant !
Qu’on verse du vin dans ma tasse !
A qui le boirai-je d’autant ?
Pour ce jourd’hui je suis content
Qu’un autre plus fol ne se treuve
Revoyant mon Maclou, que tant
J’ai connu seur ami d’épreuve.
 
 
 
 
                                                                              ON THE RETURN OF MACLOU DE LA HAYE
 
                                                                              [SPOKEN] TO HIS PAGE
 
                                                                              Bring new wine, the kind
                                                                              That surpasses ice in its coldness,
                                                                              My page, and have Margaret bring
                                                                              Her lute and sing a song;
                                                                              We’ll all three dance to the sound;
                                                                              And tell Jeanne to come
                                                                              With her hair twisted up in the style
                                                                              Of a frisky Italian.
 
                                                                              Don’t you feel the light is going?
                                                                              And yet you aren’t hurrying!
                                                                              If only someone would pour wine in my cup!
                                                                              To whom shall I drink hugely ?
                                                                              For today, I’m happy
                                                                              That there’ll be no-one more crazy
                                                                              Meeting my Maclou, whom I’ve so often
                                                                              Known by trial to be a sure friend.
 
 
 
 For today, an Ode.  We’ve met Marguerite and Janne, Ronsard’s servants, before. Maclou we haven’t: he was one of the King’s ‘valets de chambre’, and himself published poetry including ‘sonetz d’amour’.  Blanchemain offers us an entirely new second stanza in a footnote: in its 6th line, I wonder if he means ‘medecines’ rather than ‘doctors’ (distinguished by gender & spelling in modern French, likely to have been less so at his time?).
 
 
Ne vois-tu que le jour se passé?
Je ne vy point au lendemain.
Page, reverse dans ma tasse,
Que ce grand verre soit tout plein.
Maudit soit qui languit en vain !
Ces vieux medecins je n’appreuve :
Mon cerveau n’est jamais bien sain
Si beaucoup de vin ne l’abreuve.
 
 
 
                                                                              Don’t you see the light is going?
                                                                              I’m not living for tomorrow.
                                                                              Page, pour again in my cup,
                                                                              Let this big glass be filled.
                                                                              Cursed he who languishes empty!
                                                                              Those old doctors [medicines] I don’t accept:
                                                                              My head is never really well
                                                                              Unless lots of wine plentifully waters it.

 

 
 
 
 
 
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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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