No variants, no commentary, just a lovely poem!
Today, the oddest of Ronsard’s sonnets (as far as I know!) – one in which he wrote only one quatrain, but then simply repeated it to complete the sonnet scheme … I don’t think there’s a ‘rule-book’ for sonnets which outlaws such an approach, but it is distinctly unusual!
« La Trophée d’Amour », the Trophy (or monument) of Love, is dedicated “à la Comedie de Fontaine-bleau” (‘to the Comedy [Theatre] at Fontainebleau’). It’s a light-hearted portrait of Cupid.
Je suis Amour le grand maistre des Dieux, Je suis celuy qui fait mouvoir les Cieux, Je suis celuy qui gouverne le monde, Qui le premier hors de la masse esclos Donnay lumiere et fendis le Chaos Dont fut basti ceste machine ronde. Rien ne sçauroit à mon arc resister, Rien ne pourroit mes fleches eviter, Et enfant nud je fais toujours la guerre : Tout m’obeyst, les oiseaux esmaillez, Et de la mer les poissons escaillez, Et les mortels heritiers sur la terre. La paix, la tréve, et la guerre me plaist, Du sang humain mon appetit se paist, Et volontiers je m’abreuve de larmes : Les plus hautains sont pris à mon lien, Le corselet au soldart ne sert rien Et le harnois ne defend les gend’armes. Je tourne et change et renverse et desfais Ce que je veux, et puis je le refais, Et de mon feu toute ame est eschaufée : Je suis de tous le Seigneur et le Roy : Rois et Seigneurs vont captifs devant moy, Et de leurs cœurs j’enrichis mon trofée. De Jupiter le Sçeptre j’ay donté, Jusqu’aux enfers j’ai Pluton surmonté, Et de Neptune ay blessé la poitrine : De rien ne sert aux ondes la froideur, Que les Tritons ne sentent mon ardeur, Et que mon feu n’embrase la marine. La Volupté, la Jeunesse me suit, L’oisiveté en pompe me conduit, Je suis aveugle, et si ay bonne veuë, Je suis enfant et suis pere des Dieux, Foible, puissant, superbe, gracieux, Et sans viser je frappe à l’imporveüe. L’homme est de plomb, de rocher et de bois Qui n’a senti les traits de mon carquois : Seul je le fais et courtois et adestre : Les cœurs sans moi languissent refroidis, Je les rends chauds, animez et hardis, Et bref je suis de toute chose maistre. Qui ne me voit, au monde ne voit rien : Je suis du mondeet le mal et le bien, Je suis le doux et l’amer tout ensemble, Je n’ay patron ny exemple que moy, Je suis mon tout, ma puissance et ma loy, Et seulement à moi seul je ressemble. | I am Love, great master of the gods, I am he who makes the heavens move, I am he who rules the world, Who first, blossoming from the masses, Gave light and split Chaos apart, By whom this round engine [the world] was built. None can resist my bow, None can avoid my arrows, And always as a naked child I make war; Everyone obeys me – the glittering birds, The scaly fish in the sea, And the mortals who’ve inherited the earth. Peace, truce and war please me, With human blood is my appetite satisfied, And I happily drink my fill of tears; The haughtiest are caught in my bonds, A breastplate is no use to the soldier Nor can armour defend the man-at-arms. I twist and change, reverse and undo Whatever I want, and then re-do it; With my fire every soul is warmed. I am the lord and king of all men, Kings and lords go captive before me And with their hearts I enrich my monument. I have subdued Jupiter’s sceptre, I’ve overcome Pluto in Hades, I’ve wounded Neptune’s breast, The cold of the waves is no use To keep the Tritons from feeling my warmth, And my fire from burning the sea. Pleasure and Youth follow me; Idleness escorts me in procession; I am blind yet I see well, I am a child yet I am the father of the gods, Weak and powerful, proud and gracious, Without aiming I strike unexpectedly The man is made of lead, stone, or wood Who has not felt wounds from my quiver, I alone make them, both courteous and skilful; Without me, hearts languish, frozen; I make them hot, excited and bold, And in brief I am master of all. He who cannot see me in the world, sees nothing; I am the good and bad in the world, The sweet and the bitter together; I have no boss, no example but myself; I am all I need, my own power and my own law, And I resemble only myself. |
and a couple of stanzas from the end he has the line “Foible et puissant, superbe et gracieux”, which has a subtly different weight.
Douce Maistresse touche Pour soulager mon mal, Ma bouche de ta bouche Plus rouge que Coral : Que mon col soit pressé De ton bras enlassé. Puis face dessus face Regarde moy les yeux, Afin que ton trait passe En mon cœur soucieux, Cœur qui ne vit sinon D’Amour et de ton nom. Je l’ay veu fier et brave, Avant que ta beauté Pour estre son esclave Du sein me l’eust osté : Mais son mal lui plaist bien, Pourveu qu’il meure tien. Belle, par qui je donne A mes yeux tant d’esmoy, Baise moy ma mignonne, Cent fois rebaise moy : Et quoy ? faut-il en vain Languir dessus ton sein ? Maistresse je n’ay garde De vouloir t’esveiller. Heureux quand je regarde Tes beaux yeux sommeiller : Heureux quand je les voy Endormis dessus moy. Veux-tu que je les baise Afin de les ouvrir ? Hà, tu fais la mauvaise Pour me faire mourir : Je meurs entre tes bras, Et s’il ne t’en chaut pas ! Hà ! ma chere ennemie, Si tu veux m’appaiser, Redonne moy la vie Par l’esprit d’un baiser. Hà ! j’en sens la douceur Couler jusques au cœur. J’aime la douce rage D’amour continuel, Quand d’un mesme courage Le soing est mutuel. Heureux sera le jour Que je mourray d’amour. | Sweet mistress, touch – To soothe my ills – My mouth with your mouth, Redder than coral; That my neck might be held Within your twined arms. Then, your face pressed to mine, Look into my eyes That the wound you gave me might pass Into my careworn heart, A heart which lives only On love and on your name. I saw it proud and brave Before your beauty Took it from my breast To be your slave, But its pain makes it very happy As long as it dies your own. Fair one through whom I give My eyes such trouble, Kiss me, my darling, Kiss me again a hundred times; What? Must I lie in vain Upon your breast? Mistress, I have no charge To seek to wake you, Happy when I watch Your fair eyes sleeping, And happy when I see them Asleep beneath me. Would you like me to kiss them To open them? Ah, you are being mischievous To make me die; I am dying in your arms And yet you do not care! Ah, my dear enemy, If you want to calm me Give me back my life Through the spirit of a kiss. Oh, I feel its sweetness Flow right to my heart. I love the sweet madness Of continual love, When with shared courage Our pain is shared. Happy will be the day When I shall die of love! |
Douce maîtresse, touche, Pour soulager mon mal, Mes levres de ta bouche Plus rouge que coral ; Que mon col soit pressé De ton bras enlassé. Puis, face dessus face, Regarde-moy les yeux, Afin que ton trait passe En mon cœur soucieux, Cœur qui ne vit sinon D’amour et de ton nom. Je l’ay veu fier et brave, Avant que ta beauté Pour estre son esclave Doucement l’eust domté ; Mais son mal lui plait bien Pourveu qu’il meure tien. Belle par qui je donne A mes yeux tant d’esmoy, Baise-moy, ma mignonne, Cent fois rebaise-moy : Et quoy ! faut-il en vain Languir dessus ton sein. Maistresse, je n’ay garde De vouloir t’éveiller, Heureux quand je regarde Tes beaux yeux sommeiller, Heureux quand je les voy Endormis dessous moy. Veux-tu que je les baise Afin de les ouvrir ? Ha ! tu fais la mauvaise Pour me faire mourir. Je meurs entre tes bras Et s’il ne t’en chaut pas ! Hà ! ma chere ennemie, Si tu veux m’appaiser, Redonne-moy la vie Par l’esprit d’un baiser. Hà ! j’en ay la douceur Senti jusques au cœur. C’est une douce rage Qui nous poinct doucement Quand d’un mesme courage On s’aime incessament. Heureux sera le jour Que je mourray d’amour. | Sweet mistress, touch – To soothe my ills – My lips with your mouth, Redder than coral; That my neck might be held Within your twined arms. Then, your face pressed to mine, Look into my eyes That the wound you gave me might pass Into my careworn heart, A heart which lives only On love and on your name. I saw it proud and b rave Before your beauty Sweetly conquered it To be your slave, But its pain makes it very happy As long as it dies your own. Fair one through whom I give My eyes such trouble, Kiss me, my darling, Kiss me again a hundred times; What? Must I lie in vain Upon your breast? Mistress, I have no charge To seek to wake you, Happy when I watch Your fair eyes sleeping, And happy when I see them Asleep beneath me. Would you like me to kiss them To open them? Ah, you are being mischievous To make me die; I am dying in your arms And yet you do not care! Ah, my dear enemy, If you want to calm me Give me back my life Through the spirit of a kiss. Oh, I have felt its sweetness Right in my heart. It’s a sweet madness Which sweetly stabs us, When with shared courage We make love continuously; Happy will be the day When I shall die of love! |
This one comes with variant subtitles: in Marty-Laveaux it is simply “pour un banquet” (‘for a banquet’); but the Blanchemain version is helpfully headed “Stances promptement faites pour jouer sur la lyre, un joueur respondant à l’autre, au baptesme du fils de Monsieur de Villeroy, en faveur de Monsieur de l’Aubespine à présent” (‘Stanzas written to be played on the lyre, one player responding to the other, at the baptism of the son of M. de Villeroy …’). Here then is a prime example of Ronsard’s concern to make his poetry adaptable to music. Many of his ‘withdrawn’ items were withdrawn simply because their rhyme-schemes no longer fitted the more advanced ideas he developed – principally, about metrical regularity in the use of masculine & feminine endings (broadly, alternating 10-syllable and 11-syllable lines, which clearly has an impact on the way a composer sets the text).
I Joueur Autant qu’au Ciel on voit de flames Dorer la nuict de leur clartez, Autant voit-on icy de Dames Orner ce soir de leurs beautez. II Joueur Autant que l’on voit une prée Fleurir en jeunes nouveautez Autant ceste troupe sacrée S’enrichit de mille beautez. I La Cyprine et les Graces nuës, Se desrobant de leur sejour, Sont au festin icy venuës, Pour de la nuict faire un beau jour. II Ce ne sont pas femmes mortelles Qui vous esclairent de leurs yeux, Ce sont Déesses eternelles, Qui pour un soir quittent les Cieux. I Quand Amour perdroit ses flaméches Et ses dards trempez de soucy, Il trouveroit assez de fléches Aux yeux de ces Dames icy. II Amour qui cause nos detresses Par la cruauté de ses dards, Fait son arc de leurs blondes tresses, Et ses fléches de leurs regards. I Il ne faut point que l’on desire Qu’autre saison puisse arriver, Voicy un Printemps qui souspire Ses fleurs au milieu de l’Hyver. II Ce mois de Janvier qui surmonte Avril par la vertu des yeux De ces Damoiselles, fait honte Au Printemps le plus gracieux. I Ce grand Dieu, Prince du tonnerre, Puisse sans moi l’air habiter, Il me plaist bien de voir en terre Ce qui peut blesser Jupiter. II Les Dieux épris comme nous sommes, Pour l’amour quittent leur sejour : Mais je ne voy point que les hommes Aillent là-haut faire l’amour. I A la couleur des fleurs écloses Ces Dames ont le teint pareil, Aux blancs Lys, aux vermeilles roses Qui naissent comme le Soleil. II Leur blanche main est un yvoire, De leurs yeux les astres se font : Amour a planté sa victoire Sus la Majesté de leur front. I Las ! que ne suis-je en ceste trope Un Dieu caché sous un Toreau ? Je ravirois encore Europe Au beau milieu de ce tropeau. II Que n’ay-je d’un Cygne la plume, Pour joüir encore à plaisir De ceste beauté qui m’allume Le cœur de crainte et de desir ? I Amour qui tout void et dispense, Ces Dames vueille contenter : Et si la rigueur les offense, Nouvel amy leur presenter. II Afin qu’au changer de l’année, Et au retour des jeunes fleurs, Une meilleure destinée Puisse commander à leurs cœurs. | Just as we see the lights in heaven Gild the night with their brightness, So we see here ladies Adorn the evenings with their beauty. Just as we see a meadow Flower with fresh newness, So this holy band Enriches itself with a thousand beauties. The Cyprian goddess [Venus] and the naked Graces, Abandoning their homes, Have come here to the feast To make night into fair day. These are not mortal women Who light you with their eyes, These are eternal goddesses Who have, for an evening, have left the heavens. When love loses his fiery bolts And his darts drenched in pain, He will find enough arrows In the eyes of these ladies here. Love who causes our distress Through the cruelty of his darts Makes his bow from their blond tresses And his arrows from their glances. We need not wish That another season might arrive, Here is spring, breathing out Its flowers in the midst of winter. This month of January, which is better Than April because of the power in the eyes Of these maidens, makes ashamed Even the most graceful spring. That great god, prince of thunder, Can live in the sky without me; I am quite happy seeing on earth That beauty which can wound Jupiter. The gods, smitten as we are, Leave their dwelling for love; But I never see men Going up there to make love! Like the colour of blossoming flowers Is the hue these Ladies have, Like white lilies, like crimson roses, Which grow as the sun. Their white hands are ivory, Of their eyes are the stars made; Love has founded his victory On the majesty of their brows. Alas, why can’t I be among this troop A god hidden beneath [the likeness of] a bull? I would again steal away Europa From the fair midst of this troop. Why can’t I have the feathers of a swan, To play again at my pleasure With this beauty which fires my Heart with fear and longing? Love, who sees all and grants all, Wishes to please these Ladies; And if my strictness injures them He will present them a new lover. If only, at the turn of the year And when the young flowers come back, A better fate Might control their hearts. |
When I started posting poems, I liked the idea of a blog because I could post in any order, and use the tabs at the top to organise the poems into sets. It’s about time I got back to that ideal of posting random poems I like, and then worrying about the gaps later. So here’s the first of a series of random poems!
How about starting with Ronsard’s epitaph for himself. This comes from the collection published as Ronsard’s ‘last verses’. Note: I am not claiming that ‘Ronsard rests here’ on this blog 🙂
Ronsard repose icy qui hardy dés enfance Détourna d’Helicon les Muses en la France, Suivant le son du Luth et les traits d’Apollon : Mais peu valut sa Muse encontre l’eguillon De la mort, qui cruelle en ce tombeau l’enserre, Son ame soit à Dieu, son corps soit à la terre. Ronsard lies here, who, bold from childhood Turned the Muses aside from Helicon and towards France, Following the sound of the lute and Apollo’s darts: But little worth was his muse against the prick Of death, who cruelly sealed him in this tomb: May his soul belong to God, his body to the earth.
The references in the first quatrain are, of course, to the tale of the Minotaur: imprisoned in a labyrinth, designed by Daedalus to be so complex it was inescapable, the Minotaur was killed by Theseus who unravelled a ball of string as he went in, given him by Ariadne, and then followed the thread back again to find his way out. The striking image of the see-through heart is not Ronsard’s own: it comes from Bembo, whose sonnet 7 has a similar second quatrain: avess’ io almen d’un bel cristallo il core, che, quel ch’ i’ taccio e Madonna non vede de l’interno mio mal, senz altra fede a’ suoi begli occhi tralucesse fore … I wish I had at least a heart made of fine crystal, Which, when I am silent and my Lady does not see Within me my ills, without any other proof of loyalty Would shine through clearly to her fair eyes … Blanchemain’s earlier version is virtually unchanged; only line 7 begins differently, “Lors tu serois dedans …” (‘Then you could read within …’).
Lines 9-11 refer to the ‘lotus-eaters’ section of the Odyssey: as Muret explains in a lengthy footnote, the lotus is ‘a tree in Africa, bearing so sweet a fruit that the people of the country are called Lotophages, which is to say Lotus-eaters. As Ulysses passed through, his own people who tasted this fruit no longer wished to return to their country. See Odyssey 9.‘ Although Ronsard rewrote quite a lot of this poem, he did not this time modify the ‘content’ , only the verse. Blanchemain’s version is below: Quel bien auray-je apres avoir esté Si longuement privé des yeux de celle, Qui le Soleil de leur vive estincelle Rendroit honteux au plus beau jour d’esté ? Et quel plaisir, voyant le Ciel voûté De ce beau front qui les beautez recelle, Et ce col blanc qui de blancheur excelle Un mont de laict sus le jonc cailloté ? Comme du Grec la troupe errante et sote, Affriandée aux douceurs de la lote, Sans plus partir vouloit là sejourner, Ainsi j’ay peur que ma trop friande âme, Raffriandée aux douceurs de ma dame, Ne veuille plus dedans moi retourner. What good will I gain from being So long deprived of her eyes, She who with their lively sparkle would make The Sun ashamed on the finest day of summer? And what pleasure, seeing the heavenly arc Of her fair brow which contains all beauties, And her white neck which in whiteness surpasses A mound of clotted cream on rushes? As the Greek’s wandering, drunken troop, Enjoying the sweetness of the lotus Wished to remain there without again departing, So I’m afraid that my soul, enjoying too much The sweet love of my lady, May no longer wish to return within me.
[Edit: I have returned to line 8 after reading Louise Rogers Lalaurie’s discussion paper on translation. She points out that ‘laits caillotés’ were like little blancmanges, we might say ‘set’ rather than ‘clotted’. So it might be clearer to translate as something like ‘A pale blancmange mound upon rushes’? ]