Sonnet 128

Ny ce coral qui double se compasse,
Sur meinte perle, un thresor d’Orient,
Ny ces beaux lis, qu’Amour en suppliant
Ose baiser, et jamais ne s’en lasse :
Ny ce bel or qui frisé s’entrelasse
En mille nouds crespez folastrement,
Ny ces œillets égalez proprement
Au blanc des liz encharnez dans sa face :
Ny de ce front le beau ciel esclarcy,
Ny le double arc de ce double sourcy,
N’ont à la mort ma vie condemnée :
Seuls les beaux yeux (où le certain Archer
Pour me tuer sa fleche vint cacher)
Devant le soir finissent ma journée.
                                                                            Not this coral which in double-row is set
                                                                            On many a pearl, a treasure of the East;
                                                                            Not these fair lilies which Love, pleading,
                                                                            Dares to kiss and never tires of;
                                                                            Not this fine gold which, curling, ties itself
                                                                            In a thousand knots, twisting and frisking;
                                                                            Not these pinks, neatly matched
                                                                            On the white of the lilies embodied in her cheeks;
                                                                            Not the fine clear sky of her face,
                                                                            Not the double bow of these double brows –
                                                                            These have not condemned my life to death;
                                                                            Solely the fair eyes, in which that sure Archer
                                                                            Had hidden his dart to kill me,
                                                                            Before evening have drawn my day to its close.





A lovely little poem – no commentary required!  (This one is not printed in Blanchemain’s edition of the first book.)



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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