Amours 1:218

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Cet œil qui fait qu’au monde je me plais,
Qui fait rocher celuy qui s’en approuche,
Ore d’un ris, or’ d’un regard farouche
Nourrit mon cœur en querelle et en pais.
 
Par vous, bel œil, en souffrant je me tais :
Mais aussi tost que la douleur me touche,
Toy belle sainte et angelique bouche,
De tes douceurs re-vivre tu me fais.
 
Bouche, pourquoy me viens-tu secourir
De tes propos lors que je veux mourir ?
Pourquoy veux-tu que vif je redevienne ?
 
Fertile au soing je revis en langueur,
Un vray Prothee, afin que le soing vienne
Plus longuement se paistre de mon cœur.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Those eyes which make me pleased with the world,
                                                                            Which turn to stone whoever approaches them,
                                                                            Now with a smile, now with a wild glance,
                                                                            Feed my heart in argument or in peace.
 
                                                                            Through you, fair eyes, I remain silent though I suffer;
                                                                            But as soon as sadness affects me
                                                                            You, o fair, holy and angelic lips,
                                                                            With your sweetness you make me live again.
 
                                                                            O lips, why do you come to my aid
                                                                            With your advice just when I want to die?
                                                                            Why do you wish me to return to life?
 
                                                                            Rich in troubles I live again, but listlessly
                                                                            A true Proteus, whenever cares come,
                                                                            Can feed at more length on my heart.
 
 
 
You’ll remember Proteus from elsewhere – the shape-shifter, constantly changing colour and appearance. Blanchemain’s version offers a number of variants, including in the opening line which I imagine) was removed when Ronsard in his old age tidied up a lot of ‘lower class’ words and replaced them. ‘La goulue’ was famously the nickname of Yvette Guilbert in the bars of fin de siècle Paris, famous for being rather on the large side, as well as for her …
 
 
Cet œil besson dont goulu je me pais,
Qui fait rocher celuy qui s’en approuche,
Ore d’un ris, or’ d’un regard farouche
Nourrit mon cœur en querelle et en paix.
 
Par vous, bel œil, en souffrant je me tais ;
Mais, aussitost que la douleur me touche,
Toy, belle, saincte, et angelique bouche,
De tes douceurs re-vivre tu me fais.
 
Bouche, pourquoy me viens-tu secourir,
Quand ce bel œil me force de mourir ?
Pourquoy veux-tu que vif je redevienne ?
 
Las ! bouche, las ! je revis en langueur,
Pour plus de soin, afin que le soin vienne,
Plus longuement se paistre de mon cœur.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Those twin eyes on which, a glutton, I feast,
                                                                            Which turn to stone whoever approaches them,
                                                                            Now with a smile, now with a wild glance,
                                                                            Feed my heart in argument or in peace.
 
                                                                            Through you, fair eyes, I remain silent though I suffer;
                                                                            But as soon as sadness affects me
                                                                            You, o fair, holy and angelic lips,
                                                                            With your sweetness you make me live again.
 
                                                                            O lips, why do you come to my aid
                                                                            When those fair eyes are forcing me to die?
                                                                            Why do you wish me to return to life?
 
                                                                            Alas, lips, alas – I live again but listlessly
                                                                            So that more cares, whenever cares come,
                                                                            Can feed at more length on my heart.
 

 

 

 
 
 
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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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