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.