Sonnet 160

Or’ que Jupin espoint de sa semence,

Veut enfanter ses enfans bien-aimez,

Et que du chaud de ses reins allumez

L’humide sein de Junon ensemence :

 

Or’ que la mer, or’ que la vehemence

Des vents fait place aux grans vaisseaux armez,

Et que l’oiseau parmi les bois ramez,

Du Thracien les tançons recommence :

 

Or’ que les prez et ore que les fleurs

De mille et mille et de mille couleurs

Peignent le sein de la terre si gaye :

 

Seul et pensif aux rochers plus segrets

D’un cœur muet je conte mes regrets,

Et par les bois je vay celant ma playe.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                           When Jupiter, aching with his seed,

                                                                           Wishes to give birth to his well-loved children,

                                                                           And with the warmth of his heated hips

                                                                           Sows it in Juno’s moist body;

 

                                                                           When the sea and the violence

                                                                           Of the winds makes space for great armed vessels,

                                                                           And the bird amongst the branchy woods

                                                                           Begins again her dispute with the Thracian;

 

                                                                           When the meadows and when the flowers

                                                                           With thousands and thousands and thousands of colours

                                                                           Paint the earth’s breast so gaily;

 

                                                                           [Then,] alone and thoughtful among the most hidden rocks

                                                                           With silent heart I tell of my regrets,

                                                                           And within the woods I hide my wound.

 

 

There are two ways to look at the Thracian in line 8. Perhaps he is Orpheus, whose singing traditionally competes with that of birds.  Or, as Muret learnedly tells us, perhaps ‘the bird is Philomela, changed into a nightingale, who complains of the assault of Tereus, king of Thrace, her brother in law (in Ovid Metamorphoses book 6)‘. Ronsard’s opening quatrain is based on a Vergilian original (of which more in a moment), but is surprisingly ‘graphic’ in its imagery – I can’t immediately think of another poem in which he virtually describes sexual intercourse as opposed to alluding to it! Perhaps it’s OK because it’s a classical allusion … !  It’s interesting too that he personalises the image much more than Vergil; Jupiter and Juno (a married couple of course – nothing untoward here!) rather than Vergil’s Heaven and Earth – an image which goes back all the way to the Egyptians and beyond.

 

To put it in context, here’s Vergil’s original (Georgics 2, lines 323-8):

 

Ver adeo frondi nemorum, ver utile silvis ;

Vere tument terrae et genitalia semina poscunt.

Tum pater omnipotens fecundis imbribus Aether

Coniugis in gremium laetae descendit, et omnes

Magnus alit magno commixtus corpore fetus.

Avia tum resonant avibus virgulta canoris, …

 

 

                                                                           Spring is so desired by the leaves of the groves, by the woods;

                                                                           Indeed the earth heaves and demands the life-bearing seed.

                                                                           Then the Heaven, the all-powerful father, with his rich rains

                                                                           Descends into the lap of his joyful bride, and the mighty god

                                                                           Joined with her mighty body nourishes all her offspring.

                                                                           Then the pathless woods resound to birdsong …

 

 

For all that Vergil is more impersonal, or less explicit, about the sexual dimension, it’s worth noticing his vocabulary:  the earth’s ‘heaving’ is not far from the the English ‘tumescent’, the ‘lap’ is regularly used as a polite synonym in sexual allusions, ‘commixtus’ (compare ‘commingling’ in English is a standard poetic word for sex, and ‘genitalia’ and ‘semina’ (from ‘semen’) pretty obviously carry similar associations!  So Ronsard in some ways hasn’t stepped far beyond his model… (And, in this context, I find it amusing that poetic allusion requires Jupiter to seed Juno’s ‘breast’ or ‘bosom’ (“sein”) which is q word still further removed than the ‘lap’ that Vergil uses!)

 

What’s interesting is how far we are supposed to reflect on this opening, after the middle sections of the poem slide the focus slightly onto more general springtime events, when we reach the conclusion. The solitude and silence directly reflect the middle of the poem, rather than the lusty opening; but there is clearly a subtext that solitude is more than just the absence of the beloved, it’s the absence of a sexual partner.

 

 There’s not much variation in Blanchemain’s version: the opening quatrain goes as follows:

 

 

Or’ que Jupin, espoint de sa semence,

Hume à longs traits les feux accoustumez,

Et que le chaud de ses reins allumez

L’humide sein de Junon ensemence;

 

 

                                                                            When Jupiter, aching with his seed,

                                                                            Breathes in long breaths of the well-known fires,

                                                                            And when the warmth of his heated hips

                                                                            Seeds Juno’s moist body;

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 159

En ma douleur, malheureux, je me plais,

Soit quand la nuict les feux du Ciel augmente,

Ou quand l’Aurore en-jonche d’Amaranthe

Le jour meslé d’un long fleurage espais,

 

D’un joyeux dueil mon esprit je repais :

Et quelque part où seulet je m’absente,

Devant mes yeux je voy tousjours presente

Celle qui cause et ma guerre et ma paix.

 

Pour l’aimer trop également j’endure

Ore un plaisir, ore une peine dure,

Qui d’ordre egal viennent mon cœur saisir :

 

Brief, d’un tel miel mon absinthe est si pleine,

Qu’autant me plaist le plaisir que la peine,

La peine autant comme fait le plaisir.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            In my sadness, unfortunate, I am content,

                                                                            Whether at night when heaven’s lamps grow brighter,

                                                                            Or when Dawn carpets with purple

                                                                            The day, mingled with a long deep carpet of flowers,

 

                                                                            With joyful grief I feed my spirit;

                                                                            And wherever I go off alone

                                                                            Before my eyes I see always present

                                                                            Her who causes both my war and my peace.

 

                                                                            For loving her too much, equally I endure

                                                                            Now pleasure, now harsh pain,

                                                                            Which in constant succession come and seize my heart;

 

                                                                            In short, with such honey is my wormwood so full

                                                                            That pleasure pleases me as much as pain,

                                                                            Pain as much as does pleasure.

 

 

 

Blanchemain reprints a couple of Muret’s notes which are useful to me as translator if less so to you as readers!  He tells us that “en-jonche” means ‘to carpet [with rushes]’ – ‘the metaphor is taken from the rushes that one throws around the place to freshen up the summer’.  Also in line 3, where I have simply provided a colour-word (purple), Ronsard uses ‘Amaranthe’, a plant which carries the same name in English. To help his French readers connect this with the colour, Muret reminds them that it is what ‘the vulgar call “passevelours” (‘velvet’ being the key element of the name’); apparently amaranth is also called in English red-root, which might serve the same purpose!

 

Otherwise only a few minor variants in Blanchemain’s text – though one alters the opening line:

 

En ma douleur, las ! chétif, je me plais …

 

                                                                            In my sadness, wretched alas, I am content …

 

 

There is a tiny change in line 12, which begins “Et d’un tel miel …” (‘And with such honey…’), which is interesting for the rhythmically much more satisfying solution he replaced it with (above); and perhaps the ‘biggest’ change in the opening of the second quatrain (line 5) which becomes:

 

 D’un joyeux dueil sans fin je me repais …

 

                                                                            In my sadness, wretched alas, I am content …

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 158

En m’abusant je me trompe les yeux,

Aimant l’objet d’une figure vaine.

O nouveauté d’une cruelle peine !

O fier destin ! ô malice des Cieux !

 

Faut-il que moy de moy-mesme envieux,

Pour aimer trop les eaux d’une fonteine,

Que ma raison par les sens incertaine

Cuide en faillant son mal estre son mieux ?

 

Donques faut-il que le vain de ma face

De membre à membre aneantir me face,

Comme une cire aux raiz de la chaleur ?

 

Ainsi pleuroit l’amoureux Cephiside,

Quand il sentit dessus le bord humide

De son beau sang naistre une belle fleur.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                           In deceiving me my eyes are mistaken,

                                                                           Loving the substance of an empty image.

                                                                           O the novelty of this cruel pain!

                                                                           O proud destiny! O malevolence of heaven!

 

                                                                           Must it be, being in love with myself

                                                                           From loving too much the waters of a spring,

                                                                           That my reason, through my senses uncertain,

                                                                           Should believe wrongly that its own harm is what’s best for it?

 

                                                                           And so, must the empty nothing of my appearance

                                                                           Make me disappear completely, limb by limb,

                                                                           Like wax in the rays of the [sun’s] heat?

 

                                                                           Thus did Narcissus weep, in love,

                                                                           When he saw on the moist bank

                                                                           Created from his fair blood a beautiful flower.

 

 

‘Cephisides’ (line 12) is a classical form, ‘son of Cephisus’ – we’ve met Alcides, son of Alceus, elsewhere as a name for Hercules. The river-god Cephisus was father of Narcissus.

 

Whenever Ronsard resorts to two lines of pretty ordinary exclamations (line 3-4), there’s usually a problem or a lack of inspiration. And this is no different: I find it hard to get excited about this sonnet … However, though Ronsard re-worked the poem a fair bit, those two lines remained untouched!  Here is Blanchemain’s version complete:

 

 

 

Que lâchement vous me trompez, mes yeux,

Enamourés d’une figure vaine !

O nouveauté d’une cruelle peine !

O fier Destin ! ô malice des Cieux !

 

Faut-il que moy, de moy-mesme envieux,

Pour aimer trop les eaux d’une fontaine,

Je brûle après une image incertaine

Qui pour ma mort m’accompagne en tous lieux ;

 

Et quoi ! faut-il que le vain de ma face

De membre en membre aneantir me face,

Comme une cire aux raiz de la chaleur !

 

Ainsi pleuroit l’amoureux Cephiside,

Quand il sentit, dessus le bord humide,

De son beau sang naistre une belle fleur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            How despicably you deceive me, my eyes,

                                                                            Enamoured of an empty image!

                                                                            O the novelty of this cruel pain!

                                                                            O proud destiny! O malevolence of heaven!

 

                                                                            Must I, being in love with myself

                                                                            From loving too much the waters of a spring,

                                                                            I burn after a wavering image

                                                                            Which to cause my death accompanies me everywhere;

 

                                                                            What then? Must the empty nothing of my appearance

                                                                            Make me disappear completely, limb by limb,

                                                                            Like wax in the rays of the [sun’s] heat?

 

                                                                            Thus did Narcissus weep, in love,

                                                                            When he saw on the moist bank

                                                                            Created from his fair blood a beautiful flower.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 157

De la mielleuse et fielleuse pasture,

De qui le nom s’appelle trop aimer

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture.

 

Ce bel œil brun, qui force ma nature,

D’un jeusne tel me fait tant consumer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

Plus je la voy, moins saouler je m’en puis :

Un vray Narcisse en misere je suis.

Hé qu’Amour est une cruelle chose !

 

Je cognoy bien qu’il me fera mourir,

Et si ne puis ma douleur secourir,

Tant j’ay sa peste en mes veines enclose.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Of the honey-sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose name is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            That fair brown eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Feeds me so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

                                                                            The more I see it, the less I can be satisfied;

                                                                            A true Narcissus in my wretchedness I am.

                                                                            Ah, how cruel a thing is Love!

 

                                                                            I fully understand that it will kill me,

                                                                            And yet I cannot help my sadness,

                                                                            So much of its poison is locked up in my veins.

 

 

 

The reference to Narcissus is, in contrast with the learned references of the last poem, nice and straightforward – as Narcissus gazed at his own reflection, so Ronsard gazes at his lady’s portrait – and no doubt there is a hint that he is in some sense reflected in her…  Those who have aview on the Academy’s attempts to keep the French language pure will also have a view on Ronsard’s invention of the word ‘to un-hunger’!

 

Only minor differences in the earlier Blanchemain version, the initial quatrains becoming:

 

 

De la mielleuse et fielleuse pasture

Dont le surnom s’appelle trop aimer,

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture :

 

Car ce bel œil qui force ma nature

D’un tel jeuner m’a tant fait consumer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

 

 

                                                                            Of the honey-sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose surname is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            For that fair eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Has fed me so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

There is a further variant:

 

De cette douce et fielleuse pasture

Dont le surnom s’appelle trop aimer,

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture :

 

Car ce bel œil qui force ma nature

D’un si long jeun m’a tant fait épasmer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

Plus je la voy, moins saouler je m’en puis :

Un vray Narcisse en misere je suis.

Hé qu’Amour est une cruelle chose !

 

Je cognoy bien qu’il me fera mourir,

Et si ne puis a mon mal secourir,

Tant j’ay sa peste en mes veines enclose.

 

 

 

                                                                            Of that sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose surname is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            For that fair eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Has made me faint with so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

 

                                                                            The more I see it, the less I can be satisfied;

                                                                            A true Narcissus in my wretchedness I am.

                                                                            Ah, how cruel a thing is Love!

 

                                                                            I fully understand that it will kill me,

                                                                            And yet I cannot help my illness,

                                                                            So much of its poison is locked up in my veins.

 

Sonnet 155

Comme le chaud au feste d’Erymanthe,

Ou sus Rhodope, ou sur quelque autre mont

Sur le printemps la froide neige fond

En eau qui fuit par les rochers coulante :

 

Ainsi tes yeux (soleil qui me tourmente)

Qui cire et neige à leur regard me font,

Frappant les miens, ja distillez les ont

En un ruisseau qui de mes pleurs s’augmente.

 

Herbes ne fleurs ne sejournent aupres,

Ains des Soucis, des Ifs et des Cypres :

Ny de crystal sa rive ne court pleine.

 

Les autres eaux par les prez vont roulant,

Mais ceste-ci par mon sein va coulant,

Qui sans tarir s’enfante de ma peine.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            As the heat at the summit of Erymanthus

                                                                            Or on Rhodope, or some other mountain

                                                                            In springtime melts the cold snow

                                                                            Into water which runs off through the rocks;

 

                                                                            So your eyes, the sun which torments me,

                                                                            Which melt me like wax and snow at their glance,

                                                                            Striking my own have already melted them

                                                                            Into a river which grows bigger with my tears.

 

                                                                            Plants and flowers do not live there,

                                                                            Except marigolds, yews and cypresses;

                                                                            Nor does their stream flow full of crystal water.

 

                                                                            Other streams roll through the meadows,

                                                                            But this one flows down my breast

                                                                            And without slowing is born of my pain.

 

 

Line 10 perhaps needs a word of explanation: marigolds are there because the word “souci” (marigold) also means ‘care’ or ‘worry’; yews and cypresses are associated with mourning. In the opening lines, Rhodope is just one of many classically Greek mountains snow-capped in winter, though in modern terms it is a Bulgarian mountain (still called Rhodope).

 

In the opening line the “feste d’Erymanthe” is the ‘summit of Erymanthus’. But it could just be the ‘festival of Erymanthus ‘ – perhaps the Adonia, centred in the Peloponnese and celebrated in the hot Greek late spring or summer? (Although the link between Erymanthus and the Adonia is tenuous: Erymanthus was Apollo’s son, and was blinded by Venus for spying on her love-making with the fair Adonis.) This, however, is far-fetched.

 

If we were in doubt, the earlier version of the poem more clearly presents the image of hot weather melting snow on a mountian; Erymanthus is the geographical location, in the mountains just south of Patras in the northern Peloponnese. Here’s Blanchemain’s text:

 

 

Comme le chaud, ou dedans Erymanthe,

Ou sus Rhodope, ou sur un autre mont,

En beau cristal le blanc des neiges fond

Par sa tiedeur lentement vehemente,

 

Ainsi tes yeux (éclair qui me tourmente)

Qui cire et neige à leur regard me font,

Touchant les miens, ja distillez les ont

En un ruisseau qui de mes pleurs s’augmente.

 

Herbes ne fleurs ne sejournent auprés,

Ains des soucis, des ifs et des cyprés,

Ny d’un vert gai sa rive n’est point pleine.

 

Les autres eaux par les prez vont roulant,

Mais ceste-cy par mon sein va coulant,

Qui nuit et jour s’enfle et bruit de ma peine.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            As the heat within Erymanthus

                                                                            Or on Rhodope, or on another mountain

                                                                            Into fair crystal [streams] melts the white of the snow

                                                                            With its slow but insistent warmth,

 

                                                                            So your eyes, whose sparkle torments me,

                                                                            Which melt me like wax and snow at their glance,

                                                                            Touching my own have already melted them

                                                                            Into a river which grows bigger with my tears.

 

                                                                            Plants and flowers do not live there,

                                                                            But rather marigolds, yews and cypresses;

                                                                            Nor is the bank filled with gay greenery.

 

                                                                            Other streams roll through the meadows,

                                                                            But this one flows down my breast

                                                                            Which night and day swells and murmurs with my pain.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 156

De soins mordans et de soucis divers

Soit sans repos ta paupiere esveillée,

Ta lévre soit de noir venin moüillée,

Tes cheveux soyent de viperes couvers :

 

Du sang infet de ces gros lezars vers

Soit ta poitrine et ta gorge soüillée,

Et d’une œillade obliquement rouillée,

Tant que voudras guigne moy de travers,

 

Tousjours au Ciel je leveray la teste,

Et d’un escrit qui bruit comme tempeste,

Je foudroiray de tes monstres l’effort :

 

Autant de fois que tu seras leur guide

Pour m’assaillir, ou pour sapper mon Fort

Autant de fois me sentiras Alcide.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            With biting cares and varied worries

                                                                            May your eyelids, without rest, be wakeful;

                                                                            May your lips be soaked in black poison,

                                                                            Your hair covered with vipers;

 

                                                                            With blood infected by those overweight leprous verses

                                                                            May your breast and throat be defiled,

                                                                            And with a crooked and blighted eye

                                                                            May you, as much as you please, look at me crossways;

 

                                                                            I shall always raise my head to heaven

                                                                            And with my writing which thunders like the tempest

                                                                            I shall overwhelm your monstrous attempts;

 

                                                                            As often as you are their leader

                                                                            In attacking me, or undermining my fortress,

                                                                            So often will you find I am an Alcides [Hercules].

 

 

 

What is this sonnet doing in the middle of the Amours?! Muret tells us ‘this sonnet was written against some minor secretaries, dandies and darlings of the court, who, having too feeble a mind to understand the author’s writings, tried to criticise and scorn that which they did not understand’. That still doesn’t explain why it’s here!

 

In line 5 I have assumed in line 5 that “lezars” is related to “lazars” (lepers/leprous) though that is my intuition rather than something I have found confirmed in a dictionary!

 

Minor differences in Blanchemain: in line 7 “d’une œillade envieuse et rouillée” (‘with an envious, blighted eye’); and line 13 becomes “Pour m’assaillir dans le cœur de mon fort” (‘In attacking me within the heart of my fortress’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 154

Puis que cest œil, dont l’influence baille

Ses loix aux miens, sur les miens plus ne luit,

L’obscur m’est jour, le jour m’est une nuit,

Tant son absence asprement me travaille.

 

Le lict me semble un dur champ de bataille,

Rien ne me plaist, toute chose me nuit,

Et ce penser qui me suit et resuit,

Presse mon cœur plus fort qu’une tenaille.

 

Ja pres du Loir entre cent mille fleurs,

Soulé d’ennuis de regrets et de pleurs,

J ‘eusse mis fin à mon angoisse forte,

 

Sans quelque Dieu qui mon œil va tournant

Vers le païs où tu es sejournant,

Dont le seul air sans plus me reconforte.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Since that eye, whose influence subjects

                                                                            My own to its laws, no longer shines on mine,

                                                                            Darkness is day for me, and day is night,

                                                                            So bitterly does its absence torment me.

 

                                                                            My bed seems to me a hard field of battle,

                                                                            Nothing pleases me, everything does me harm,

                                                                            And that thought which pursues me again and again

                                                                            Assails my heart harder than pincers.

 

                                                                            Now near the Loir, among hundreds of thousands of flowers,

                                                                            Surfeited with troubles, regrets, tears,

                                                                            I would have made an end to my deep anguish,

 

                                                                            Unless some god had turned my eyes

                                                                            Towards the country where you are staying,

                                                                            Whose air alone, without anything more, comforts me.

 

 

 

 

 This is apparently an imitation of Petrarch, though I don’t know Petrarch well enough to have located the ‘original’. And yet, doesn’t it seem as if it were simply created freely, rather than within a framework already set, so totally within Ronsard’s idiom is it.

 

Blanchemain provides a couple of minor variants, in the opening and the closing lines(!):   at the beginning, “Puis que cest œil qui fidelement baille…” (‘Since that eye which consistently subjects…’); and at the end, “… où tu es sejournant, / Avec mon cœur, dont l’air me reconforte” (which contorts the grammar so much the whole tercet needs to be re-organised in English – it would become ‘Unless some god had turned my eyes, together with my heart, towards the country where you are staying, whose air comforts me.’)

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 153

Une diverse amoureuse langueur,

Sans se meurir en mon ame verdoye :

Dedans mes yeux une fontaine ondoye,

Un Mongibel fait son feu de mon cueur.

 

L’un de son chaud l’autre de sa liqueur

Ore me gele et ore me foudroye :

Et l’un et l’autre à son tour me guerroye,

Sans que l’un soit dessus l’autre veinqueur.

 

Fais, Amour, fais qu’un seul gaigne la place,

Ou bien le feu ou bien la froide glace,

Et par l’un d’eux mets fin à ce debat :

 

Helas ! Amour, j’ay de mourir envie,

Mais deux venins n’estouffent point la vie,

Tandis que l’un à l’autre se combat.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            All kinds of listlessness from love

                                                                            Grow fresh in my soul without ripening;

                                                                            Within my eyes a fountain flows,

                                                                            An Etna makes its fire from my heart.

 

                                                                            One with its heat, the other with its moisture

                                                                            Now freezes me and now overwhelms me;

                                                                            Both one and the other in their turn make war on me,

                                                                            Without one being victor over the other.

 

                                                                            Let one, Love, let one only win first place,

                                                                            Whether it’s the fire or whether the icy cold,

                                                                            And through one of them make an end of this argument;

 

                                                                            Alas, Love, I am eager to die

                                                                            But twin poisons cannot extinguish life

                                                                            As long as one is fighting the other.

 

 

 

Though we have returned to classical names for many classical features, other names grew up in the middle ages & replaced them. So, the Greco-Roman Mount Etna became Mont Gibel – only to become Etna again more recently.

 

Muret tells us that “almost all this sonnet is like one by an Italian named Antonio Francesco Rinieri” – who was also imitated by du Bellay. Though intrigued I’ve been unable to find any of Rinieri’s poetry online so cannot offer a judgement as to whether Muret is accurate in his statement or not; but Ronsard certainly did do some very close imitations of Italian (neo-Petrarchan) sonnets.

 

Blanchemain offers a version (the one Muret is discussing) with minor changes throughout:

 

 

Une diverse amoureuse langueur

Sans se meurir dans mon ame verdoye,

Dedans mes yeux une fontaine ondoye,

Un Montgibel s’enflamme dans mon cœur.

 

L’un de son feu, l’autre de sa liqueur,

Ore me gele et ore me foudroye ;

Et l’un et l’autre à son tour me guerroye,

Sans que l’un soit dessus l’autre vainqueur.

 

Fais, Amour, fais qu’un des deux ait la place,

Ou le seul feu ou bien la seule glace,

Et par l’un d’eux mets fin à ce debat.

 

O fier Amour, j’ay de mourir envie,

Mais deux venins n’estouffent point la vie,

Tandis que l’un à l’autre se combat.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            All kinds of listlessness from love

                                                                            Grow fresh in my soul without ripening;

                                                                            Within my eyes a fountain flows,

                                                                            An Etna flames in my heart.

 

                                                                            One with its fire, the other with its moisture

                                                                            Now freezes me and now overwhelms me;

                                                                            Both one and the other in their turn make war on me,

                                                                            Without one being victor over the other.

 

                                                                            Give one, Love, give one of the two first place,

                                                                            Either the fire alone or indeed the ice alone,

                                                                            And through one of them make an end of this argument;

 

                                                                            O proud Love, I am eager to die

                                                                            But twin poisons cannot extinguish life

                                                                            As long as one is fighting the other.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 152

Lune à l’œil brun, Deesse aux noirs chevaux,

Qui çà qui là qui haut qui bas te tournent,

Et de retours qui jamais ne sejournent,

Trainent ton char eternel en travaux :

 

A tes desirs les miens ne sont egaux,

Car les amours qui ton ame epoinçonnent,

Et les ardeurs qui la mienne eguillonnent

Divers souhaits desirent à leurs maux.

 

Toy mignottant ton dormeur de Latmie,

Voudrois tousjours qu’une course endormie

Retint le train de ton char qui s’enfuit :

 

Mais moy qu’Amour toute la nuict devore,

Depuis le soir je souhaite l’Aurore,

Pour voir le jour, que me celoit ta nuit.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            O moon of the brown eyes, o goddess of the dark horses

                                                                            Which turn one way and another, up and down,

                                                                            Yet never journey back where they have been,

                                                                            But draw your eternal chariot as their labour;

 

                                                                            With your desires mine are not equal,

                                                                            For the love which pierces your soul

                                                                            And the passions which sting my own

                                                                            Desire different wishes for their ills.

 

                                                                            As you pet your sleeper in Latmos

                                                                            You wish always that a sleeper’s journey

                                                                            Would restrain the pace of your chariot as it runs away;

 

                                                                            But I [wish] that Love would consume the whole night;

                                                                            From evening onwards I wait for the Dawn

                                                                            That I may see day which your night conceals from me.

 

 

 

Briefly, Ronsard says “You, Selene, goddess of the moon, may want long nights so you can stay with your lover Endymion on Mt. Latmos; I however want no nights at all since only in daytime do I get to see my beloved.” One of his longer classical allusions, and unusual in that he only develops the one image instead of using several classical allusions.

 

Blanchemain’s version has a couple of differences: in line 7 it’s “les amours qui mon cœur aiguillonnent” (‘the love which stings my heart’); and in line 11 he hopes sleep would “Emblât le train …” (‘Steal away’ the chariot’s running).

 

 

 

Sonnet 151

Que toute chose en ce monde se muë,

Soit desormais Amour soulé de pleurs,

Des chesnes durs puissent naistre les fleurs,

Au choc des vents l’eau ne soit plus émuë :

 

Le miel d’un roc contre nature suë,

Soyent du printemps semblables les couleurs,

L’esté soit froid, l’hyver plein de chaleurs,

Pleine de vents ne s’enfle plus la nuë :

 

Tout soit changé, puis que le nœud si fort

Qui m’estraignoit, et que la seule mort

Devoit trancher, elle a voulu desfaire.

 

Pourquoy d’Amour mesprises-tu la loy ?

Pourquoy fais-tu ce qui ne se peut faire ?

Pourquoy romps-tu si faussement ta foy ?

 

 

 

                                                                            Oh, that everything in this world could change,

                                                                            That Love could from now on be satisfied with tears,

                                                                            Hard oaks could put forth flowers,

                                                                            And the sea no longer driven by the winds’ impulse;

 

                                                                            Honey – against nature – be exuded by a rock,

                                                                            All the colours of spring be the same,

                                                                            The summer cold, the winter full of warmth,

                                                                            Clouds filled by winds no longer swell up;

 

                                                                            That all could be different, since that strong knot

                                                                            Which chokes me and which death alone

                                                                            Should cut, she tried to undo.

 

                                                                            Why do you scorn Love’s law?

                                                                            Why are you doing that which cannot be done?

                                                                            Why are you so falsely breaking your word?

 

 

 

Is it just me, or is there a sense of a new beginning here? Maybe I’m influenced by having paused at the ‘magic number’ 150 – nothing like that would have been in Ronsard’s mind as the structure & contents of the book shifted over time…

 

The earlier Blanchemain version differs in detail:  line 5 is “Du cœur des rocs le ciel degoutte et sue” (‘Heaven drop and be exuded from the heart of rocks’); and line 11 ends “… ma dame veut desfaire” (‘… my lady tries to undo’).

 

For those interested in sources, this poem closely mirrors one of Pietro Bembo’s – that’s Cardinal Pietro Bembo, though he was a humanist scholar first…!  His sonnet 39 goes as follows (my ‘translation’ is more like an ‘approximation’ since I’ve never studied Italian and cannot guarantee the detail!):

 

 

Correte fiumi a le vostre alte fonti,

Onde al soffiar de’ venti or vi fermate,

Abeti e faggi il mar profondo amate,

Umidi pesce e voi gli alpestri monti.

 

Nè si porti dipinta ne le fronti

Alma pensieri e voglie innamorate :

Ardendo ‘l verno agghiacci omai la state,

E’l Sol là oltre, ond’ alza, chini e smonti.

 

Cosa non vada più come solea :

Poi che quel nodo è sciolto, ond’ io fui preso ;

Ch’ altro che morte scioglier non devea.

 

Dolce mio stato chi mi t’ ha conteso ?

Com’ esser può quel, ch’ esser non potea ?

O cielo, o terra : e so ch’ io sono inteso.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Run, streams, back to your original springs;

                                                                            Waves, stand still at the blowing of the winds;

                                                                            Firs and beeches, love the deep sea;

                                                                            And you, wet fish, [love] the alpine mountains.

 

                                                                            Do not carry pictured on your brows

                                                                            Dear thoughts and wishes of love;

                                                                            Burning winter, now stand frozen

                                                                            And Sun, sink and dismount there where you rise.

 

                                                                            Things no longer go as they used to,

                                                                            Now that this knot is loosed, in which I was caught,

                                                                            Which nothing other than death should break.

 

                                                                            My sweet being, who has put us in conflict?

                                                                            How can that be, which could not be?

                                                                            O heaven, o earth! I know I am understood.