Mascarades 12

This is another of Ronsard’s poems to be recited by two singers, alternately; or rather, as he specifies, two ‘players of the lyre’.

I Le Soleil et nostre Roy Sont semblables de puissance, L’un gouverne dessous soy Le Ciel et l’autre la France.   II L’un du Ciel tient le milieu, Des Astres clairté premiere ; Et l’autre comme un grand Dieu Aux terres donne lumiere.   I L’un n’est jamais offensé D’orages ny de tempeste : L’obscur est tousjours percé Des beaux rayons de sa teste.   II L’autre a tousjours combatu Les guerres et les envies Et fait sentir sa vertu Aux puissances ennemies.   I L’un est autheur de la paix Chassant le discord du monde, Illustrant de ses beaux rais La terre, le ciel et l’onde.   II Et l’autre ayant du discord La puissance rencontrée, A mis les guerres à mort, Et la paix en sa contrée.   I Tout Astre prend du Soleil Sa lumiere tant soit haute : Car c’est l’Astre nompareil Liberal sans avoir faute.   II Du Roy vient force et vigueur Honneur et grandeur royale, Et tout homme de bon cœur Cognoist sa main liberale.   I Le Soleil est couronné De feux qu’en terre il nous darde : Et tout Astre bien tourné Nostre bon Prince regarde   II  De nostre Roy la grandeur Pareil au Soleil ressemble, Qui jette plus de splendeur Que les estoiles ensemble.   I Bref le Soleil esclairant Par tout, qui point ne repose, De Charles n’est differant Seulement que d’une chose.   II C’est que le Soleil mourra Apres quelque temps d’espace, Et Charles au Ciel ira Du Soleil prendre la place.

The Sun and our King Are similar in power, The one governs beneath himself The Heavens, and the other France.     The one has the midst of heaven, The brightest of the stars, And the other like a great god Gives light to the earth.     The one is never struck By storms or tempests, The darkness is always pierced By the fair rays of his head;     The other has always fought War and Envy And made his virtue known To hostile powers.     The one is author of peace, Chasing discord from the world, Brightening with his fair rays Earth, heaven and sea;     And the other, having encountered The power of discord, Has put wars to death And peace in his country.     Every star takes from the Sun His light, however bright it is, For he is the unequalled Star, Liberal without fault;     From the King comes force and strength, Honour and royal grandeur, And every man with a good heart Knows his liberal hand.     The Sun is crowned With fires which he darts at us on earth, And every finely-turned Star Watches our good Prince;     The greatness of our King Seems equal to the Sun Who casts more splendour Than the stars together     In short, the Sun shining its light Everywhere, and never resting, Is no different from Charles Except only in one thing:     Which is, that the Sun will die After some time of space, And Charles will go to Heaven To take the Sun’s place.

 

Oddly, the sun dies ‘after some time of space’ rather than ‘after some space of time’ – for Ronsard, it’s driven by the scansion, but I’ve left the odd form in the English version as well; if French readers (perhaps) trip over their version, why shouldn’t English readers too? 🙂

 

Blanchemain’s version has some changes in the penultimate pair of stanzas:

 

 

I

… Et tout astre bien-tourné

Pour son guide le regarde

 

II

De notre Roy la bonté

Mille grand seigneurs assemble,

Qui jettent plus de clarté

Que les estoiles ensemble.

 

 

                                                              … And every finely-turned Star

                                                              Watches him as its guide;

 

 

                                                              The goodness of our King

                                                              Assembles a thousand great Lords

                                                              Who cast more light

                                                              Than the stars together.

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Amours 2:49b)

Je suis si ardent amoureux,

Que fol souvenir ne me puis,

Ny où je suis ne qui je suis,

Ny combien je suis malheureux.

 

J’ay pour mes hostes nuict et jour

En mon cœur la rage et l’esmoy

Qui vont pratiquant dessus moy

Toutes les cruautez d’Amour.

 

Et toutesfois je n’ose armer

Ma raison pour vaincre le tort :

Car plus on me donne la mort,

Et plus je suis content d’aimer.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am so ardently in love

                                                                            That, mad, I cannot remember

                                                                            Where I am, or who I am,

                                                                            Or how unhappy I am.

 

                                                                            I have as guest night and day

                                                                            In my heart rage and agitation

                                                                            Which practice on me

                                                                            All the cruelties of love.

 

                                                                            And yet all the time I dare not arm

                                                                            My reason to overcome wrong;

                                                                            For the more it pains me to death

                                                                            The more I’m happy to be in love.

 

 

 

A lovely, neatly-wrought poem. Who’d have thought it had been so revised?!  Here’s Blancheamin’s earlier version, sharing just over half its text with the later one!

 

Je suis tellement amoureux,

Qu’au vray raconter je ne puis,

Ny où je suis, ne qui je suis,

Ny combien je suis malheureux. 

 

J’ay pour mon hoste nuict et jour

Comme un tigre, un cruel esmoy

Qui va pratiquant dessus moy

Toutes les cruautez d’Amour. 

 

Et si mon cœur ne peut s’armer

Contre l’œil qui le navre à tort :

Car, plus il me donne la mort,

Plus je suis contraint de l’aimer.

 

 

 

                                                                            I am so in love

                                                                           That truly I cannot tell

                                                                           Where I am, or who I am,

                                                                           Or how unhappy I am. 

 

                                                                           I have as guest night and day

                                                                           Like a tiger a cruel agitation

                                                                           Which practices on me

                                                                           All the cruelties of love. 

 

                                                                           And yet my heart cannot arm itself

                                                                           Against the eyes which wrongly rend it;

                                                                           For the more they pain me to death

                                                                           The more I’m forced to love them.

 

 

 

The poem is another of Ronsard’s responses to Marullus, this time an epigram “De suo amore” (‘On his love’):

 

Jactor, dispereo, crucior, trahor huc miser atque huc,

ipse ego jam quis sim nescio aut ubi sim :

tot simul insidiis premor undique : proh dolor !  In me

saevitiae Cypris dat documenta suae.

Saevitiae documenta suae dat, ego hanc tamen unam

depereo, utque nocet, sic libet usque sequi.

Qua siquis miserum solam me liberet horam,

Hic mihi sit Phoebo doctior et melior.

 

 

                                                 I am cast down, I despair, I’m tortured, I drag myself here and there wretchedly,

                                                 I don’t now know who I am, or where I am;

                                                 I am caught in so many plots, at the same time, on all sides; o wretchedness, against me

                                                 Cypris [Venus] has given evidence of her savagery.

                                                 She has given evidence of her savagery, but I perish

                                                 For this one lady, and as she harms me so I am pleased to follow her further.

                                                 If anyone could free me in my wretchedness from her for just one hour,

                                                 He would be to me wiser and better than Apollo.

 

 

 

 

To Cassandre – Ode 2:5

La Lune est coustumiere Renaistre tous les mois ; Mais, quand nostre lumiere Sera morte une fois, Longtemps sans réveiller Nous faudra sommeiller.   Tandis que vivons ores, Un baiser donne moy ; Donne-m’en mille encores : Amour n’a point de loy ; A sa grand’ deité Convient l’infinité.   Ah ! vous m’avez, maistresse De la dent entamé La langue chanteresse De vostre nom aimé. Quoi ! est-ce là le prix Du labeur qu’elle a pris,   Elle qui voz louanges Dessus le luth vantoit, Et aux peuples estranges Vos mérites chantoit, Ne faisant l’air si non Bruire de votre nom.   De vos tetins d’yvoire (Joyaux de l’Orient) Elle chantoit la gloire, Et de votre œil friant, Pour la récompenser La faut-il offenser ?   Las ! de petite chose Je me plains durement : La playe en l’ame enclose Me cuit bien autrement, Que ton œil m’y laissa Le jour qu’il me blessa.

The moon is accustomed To being reborn every month; But when our light Is once dead, For long without waking We’ll have to sleep.   While we live, though, Give me a kiss, Give me a thousand more; Love has no rules, Infinity suits His great godhood.   Ah, mistress, you have Injured with your teeth, The tongue which sings Of your beloved name; So what? That is the price Of the task it undertook,   [The tongue] which extolled Your praises on the lute, And sang to unknown peoples Your merits Making the air Resound with your name.   It sang of the glory Of your ivory breasts, The jewels of the Orient, And of your dainty eyes; To repay [my tongue] for this, Must you hurt it?   Alas, of little things I complain harshly; The wound hidden in my soul Burns me very differently From when your eyes left me it On the day when they wounded me.

Who is the ‘she’ of the middle of the poem? Dominique (see comment below) has corrected my bad translation — I must have been having a bad day at the ‘office’! — and so I have fixed the translation above. Thank you, Dominique!

 

Blanchemain offers us also a variant text, replacing stanza 4 (‘which extolled your praises on the lute’) with two stanzas as follows:

 

 

Elle par qui vous estes

Déesse entre les dieux,

Qui vos beautez parfaites

Celebroit jusqu’aux cieux,

Ne faisant l’air sinon

Bruire de vostre nom,

 

De vostre belle face,

Le beau logis d’amour,

Où Venus et la Grace

Ont choisi leur sejour,

Et de vostre œil, qui fait

Le soleil moins parfait.

 

 

                                                                 [The tongue] by which you are

                                                                 A goddess among the gods,

                                                                 Who laud your perfect

                                                                 Beauty to the skies,

                                                                 Making the air simply

                                                                 Resound with your name,

 

                                                                 With your fair face:

                                                                 The fair home of love,

                                                                 Where Venus and Grace

                                                                 Have chosen to stay,

                                                                 And with your eyes, which make

                                                                 The sun less perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 20

Las ! pour vous trop aymer je ne vous puis aimer :

Car il faut en aimant avoir discretion,

Helas ! je ne l’ay pas : car trop d’affection

Me vient trop follement tout le cœur enflammer.

 

D’un feu desesperé vous faites consommer

Mon cœur que vous bruslez sans intermission,

Et si bien la fureur nourrit ma passion

Que la raison me faut, dont je me deusse armer.

 

Ah ! guarissez-moy donc de ma fureur extreme,

Afin qu’avec raison honorer je vous puisse,

Ou pardonnez au moins mes fautes à vous-mesme,

 

Et le peché commis en tastant vostre cuisse :

Car je n’eusse touché en lieu si deffendu,

Si pour trop vous aimer mon sens ne fust perdu.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Alas, I cannot love you for loving you too much

                                                                            For in love we must be discreet,

                                                                            But alas, I’m not, for too much affection

                                                                            Comes and inflames my heart too foolishly.

 

                                                                            You make a desperate flame consume

                                                                            My heart, which you burn without pause

                                                                            And so much does madness feed my passion

                                                                            That reason fails me, which ought to arm me.

 

                                                                            Ah cure me then of my utter madness

                                                                            So that I can honour you with reason;

                                                                            Or at least pardon my faults towards you

 

                                                                            And the sin committed by touching your thigh;

                                                                            For I’d not have touched a place so well-defended,

                                                                            If my mind had not been lost for loving you too much.

 

 

 

A fairly straightforward love lyric, though Ronsard clearly had fun with the opening stanzas multiple self-contradictions!  A modern reader (and no doubt Ronsard’s contemporaries) will surely see Ronsard mis-directing us slightly in line 12; his touch was perhaps a little more intimate?  No text variants to report;  though I particularly like the opening line’s lack of concern for standardised spelling!

 

 

 

Helen 2: 13

Quand je pense à ce jour, où pres d’une fonteine

Dans le jardin royal ravy de ta douceur,

Amour te descouvrit les secrets de mon cœur,

Et de combien de maux j’avois mon ame pleine :

 

Je me pasme de joye, et sens de veine en veine

Couler ce souvenir, qui me donne vigueur,

M’aguise le penser, me chasse la langueur,

Pour esperer un jour une fin à ma peine.

 

Mes sens de toutes parts se trouverent contens,

Mes yeux en regardant la fleur de ton Printemps,

L’oreille en t’escoutant : et sans ceste compagne,

 

Qui tousjours nos propos tranchoit par le milieu,

D’aise au Ciel je volois, et me faisois un Dieu :

Mais tousjours le plaisir de douleur s’accompagne.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            When I think of that day, when near a fountain

                                                                            In the royal garden, enamoured with your sweetness,

                                                                            Love disclosed to you the secrets of my heart

                                                                            And how many ills filled my soul;

 

                                                                            Then I swoon with joy, and feel this memory

                                                                            Running from vein to vein, giving me strength,

                                                                            Sharpening my thinking, chasing away my indolence,

                                                                            In hoping one day for an end to my troubles.

 

                                                                            My senses are content in every way,

                                                                            My eyes in looking at the flower of your Springtime,

                                                                            And my ears in hearing you; and without this company

 

                                                                            Which always breaks off our conversation right in the middle,

                                                                            Happily I would fly to heaven and make myself a god;

                                                                            But my pleasure is always accompanied by pain.

 

 

As often in Helen, no Blanchemain variants; though he helpfully adds a footnote to tell us the ‘royal gardens’ are the Tuileries…

 

 

 

Chanson (Amours 2:49a)

Quand je te veux raconter mes douleurs,

Et de quel mal en te servant je meurs,

Et quelle fiebvre ard toute ma mouelle,

Ma voix tremblote, et ma langue chancelle,

Mon cœur se pasme, et le sang me tre-saut :

En mesme instant j’endure froid et chaut,

Sur mes genoux descend une gelee,

Jusqu’aux talons une sueur salée

De tout mon corps comme un fleuve se suit,

Et sur mes yeux nage une obscure nuit :

Tant seulement mes larmes abondantes

Sont les tesmoings de mes flames ardantes,

De mes souspirs et de mon long soucy,

Qui sans parler te demandent mercy.

 

 

 

 

                                                                         When I wish to tell you of my sadness,

                                                                         And the ills of which I am dying, serving you,

                                                                         And the fever which burns all my marrow,

                                                                         My voice trembles and my tongue staggers,

                                                                         My heart faints, and my blood leaps;

                                                                         At the same moment I endure both hot and cold,

                                                                         On my knees descends an icy-cold,

                                                                         A salty sweat flows all the way to my heels

                                                                         From my whole body like a river,

                                                                         And over my eyes swims a dark night;

                                                                         So that only my plentiful tears

                                                                         Are the witnesses of my passionate flame,

                                                                         My sighs and my long troubles,

                                                                         Which without speaking beg you for pity.

 

 

 

 

Here’s a novelty – a 14-line poem, but not a sonnet. Being in couplets, it doesn’t follow Ronsard’s ‘rules’ for a sonnet’s rhyme-scheme – but it is noteable that he still alternates couplets with masculine and feminine endings to ensure variety. Blanchemain’s version has only two variants: line 3 becomes “Et quel venin dessèche ma mouelle” (‘And the poison which dries up my marrow’); and in line 7, the icy cold “se fond” (‘melts’) over his knees.

 

No doubt one reason for this being cast in the form of a chanson, is that Ronsard is again developing his ideas from a Latin poem by Marullus, another of his epigrams (2.40) ‘to Neaera’:

 

 

Vesanos quotiens tibi furores

atque ignes paro, quos moves, referre

et quantus deus ossibus pererret,

qui me nocte die necat, Neaera,

et vox et sonus et parata verba

desunt tum mihi linguaque ipsa torpet

et vix sustineor genu labante :

maerent pectora perque membra passim

perque artus fluor it repente salsus

et diem subitae occupant tenebrae,

nec quicquam nisi lacrimae supersunt,

quae mutae quoque opem precantur unae.

 

 

 

                                                                         Whenever I am ready to tell you of the insane

                                                                         Passions and fires which you set in motion,

                                                                         And how great a god courses in my bones

                                                                         Killing me night and day, Neaera;

                                                                         Then, my voice, its sound, the words I prepared

                                                                         They all disappear, and my tongue grows numb

                                                                         And I can scarcely stand on my shaking knees;

                                                                         My breast grieves, and all through my limbs

                                                                         And veins the salty wetness unexpectedly rushes

                                                                         And sudden darkness fills the day;

                                                                         And nothing but tears remain

                                                                         Which mutely too beg for aid from my one lady.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 10

Vous ne le voulez pas? et bien, j’en suis content,

Contre vostre rigueur Dieu me doint patience,

Devant qu’il soit vingt ans j’en auray la vengeance,

Voyant ternir vos yeux qui me travaillent tant.

 

On ne voit amoureux au monde si constant

Qui ne perdist le cœur, perdant sa recompence :

Quant à moy, si ne fust la longue experience

Que j’ay de ma douleur, je mourrois à l’instant.

 

Toutesfois quand je pense un peu en mon courage

Que je ne suis tout seul des femmes abusé,

Et que de plus accorts en ont reçeu dommage ;

 

Je pardonne à moy-mesme, et m’ay pour excusé :

Puis vous qui me trompez, en estes coustumiere

Et qui pis est sur toute en beauté la premiere.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            You don’t want to? Well, I’m content.

                                                                            May God give me patience in the face of your harshness;

                                                                            Before twenty years are up I shall have my revenge

                                                                            Seeing your eyes, which now torment me so, become dull. 

 

                                                                            You won’t see so constant a lover in the world

                                                                            Who doesn’t lose heart, in losing his reward:

                                                                            As for me, if it weren’t for the long experience

                                                                            Which I have of suffering, I would die on the spot. 

 

                                                                            However, when I think a little for my encouragement

                                                                            That I’m not the only one abused by women

                                                                            And that more attractive men have been hurt by them, 

 

                                                                            I pardon myself, I hold myself excused;

                                                                            For you who disappoint me are accustomed to it

                                                                            And, what’s worse, above all others the first in beauty.

 

 

 

Another lovely poem, banished to the ‘forgotten works’ …

 

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 9

Je vous envoye un bouquet que ma main

Vient de trier de ces fleurs épanies :

Qui ne les eust à ce vespre cueillies,

Cheutes à terre elles fussent demain.

 

Cela vous soit un exemple certain

Que vos beautez, bien qu’elles soient fleuries,

En peu de temps cherront toutes flaitries,

Et comme fleurs, periront tout soudain.

 

Le temps s’en va, le temps s’en va, ma Dame,

Las ! le temps non, mais nous nous en-allons,

Et tost serons estendus sous la lame:

 

Et des amours, desquelles nous parlons

Quand serons morts, n’en sera plus nouvelle :

Pour ce aymez-moy, ce pendant qu’estes belle.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I send you a bouquet which my own hand

                                                                            Has just selected from those open blooms

                                                                            Which, had it not cut them this evening,

                                                                            Would have fallen to earth tomorrow.

 

                                                                            Let that be a clear example to you

                                                                            That your beauty, though in its flower now,

                                                                            In a short while will fall, withered,

                                                                            And like the flowers will perish all of a sudden.

 

                                                                            Time runs away, time runs away my Lady –

                                                                            Alas, not time but we ourselves run away

                                                                            And soon we’ll be stretched under a tombstone ;

 

                                                                            And of this love of which we are speaking

                                                                            When we are dead there will be no more telling.

                                                                            So, love me, while you are still beautiful.

 

 

 

There’s a bit of multiple-choice here, in line 11:  “des amours … n’en sera plus nouvelle” carries a range of possible meanings, most directly “it’ll be no longer new”, but that seems a bit obvious also. I also discarded ‘there’ll be no more news’ which is stretching it a bit. The version above is not quite what Ronsard says but perhaps nearer to what he means?

 

Blanchemain’s version has only on variant: in line 7 the much flatter “En peu de temps seront toutes flaitries” (‘ … will be withered’).

 

EDIT: A note from Steven Schwartzman leads me to modify the last line: “I checked Le Petit Robert, which at almost 3000 pages isn’t so petit, and found that the first definition for cependant is just ‘pendant’. Another definition is ‘tandis que’. Based on those two definitions, I would replace the “even though” of the English ranslation with ‘while’. It’s true that cependant went on to add a contradictory sense of ‘however’, but at the time Ronsard was writing, the original sense of the word would have predominated. It also better fits Ronsard’s carpe diem theme.”

Sonnets diverses 1 – to King Henri II

Au Roy Henry II de ce nom    (To King Henry, second of that name)

 

Je vous donne le Ciel pour vos estrenes, SIRE.

Je ferois à la France, et à vous un grand tort,

A vous, sain et dispos, jeune, gaillard et fort ;

A la France qui seul pour son Roy vous desire ;

 

De vous donner la Mer : que vous vaudroit l’Empire

Des vagues et des vents ? De vous donner le sort

Qui survint à Pluton, que vous vaudroit le port

De l’Enfer odieux, des trois Mondes le pire ?

 

La France vous suffit, vous estes estrené :

Vos fils puisnez sont Ducs, Roy vostre fils aisné :

Et vos filles bien tost vous feront le grand-père

 

D’enfans, qui porteront le Sceptre en divers lieux,

Ainsi doresnavant vous serez dit le Père

Des Rois dont la grandeur vaut bien celle des Dieux

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If I give you the heavens as your new-year’s gift, Sire,

                                                                            I would do France and you a great wrong:

                                                                            You, as you are healthy and fit, young, merry and strong;

                                                                            France, as it wants you alone for its King.

 

                                                                            If I gave you the sea, what use to you would be the rule

                                                                            Of its waves and winds? If I gave you the lot

                                                                            Which fell to Pluto, what use to you would be the harbour

                                                                            Of hateful Hell, the worst of the three worlds?

 

                                                                            France is enough for you; there, that is your gift:

                                                                            Your younger children are Dukes, your eldest a King;

                                                                            And your daughters will soon make you the grandfather

 

                                                                            Of children who will bear the Sceptre in various places;

                                                                            And hereafter you will be called the Father

                                                                            Of Kings, whose greatness is like that of the gods.

 

 

A couple of notes:  Pluto was alloted Hades, while Jupiter got the heavens and Neptune the seas to rule.  Ronsard alludes to all three in the opening stanzas. In line 10, the ‘eldest child’ is Francis, later Francis II of France briefly, who at the time was King Consort of Scotland through his marriage to Mary, Queen of Scots (there is a beautiful double-portrait in Catherine de Medici’s book of hours.) . His death at the end of 1560 left her (briefly Queen Consort of France) a widow still in her teens, and free to pursue the chaotic course of her Scottish career with Darnley and Bothwell.

 

There is one small but significant difference in Blanchemain’s version, at the very beginning:  “De vous donner le ciel …”. He obviously changed it to avoid beginning the 2 quatrains with the same words. But the change was not a great one otherwise: while the original opening (“De vous donner le ciel …”) clearly means ‘If I gave you the heavens…’, I have been a little naughty in translating the revised version (“Je vous donne…”) the same way. In fact, it seems to me that grammatically the new version should be saying something like:  ‘I give you the heavens, Sire. I would be doing you & France wrong to give you the sea.’ But that upsets the balance of the quatrains as well as making lines 5-6 mostly repetition. So I think we have to read Ronsard’s new version as saying ‘I give you the heavens. (But no – ) I would be doing you & France a great wrong…”

 

I have put this in the Sonnets diverses – which is where Blanchemain prints it – though Marty-Laveaux includes it among the various “sonnets retranchées” in his final volume.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode retranch. 4

 

O Pucelle plus tendre Qu’un beau bouton vermeil Que le rosier engendre Au lever du soleil, D’une part verdissant De l’autre rougissant !   Plus fort que le lierre Qui se gripe à l’entour Du chesne aimé, qu’il serre Enlassé de maint tour, Courbant ses bras épars Sus luy de toutes parts,   Serrez mon col, maistresse, De vos deux bras pliez ; D’un neud qui tienne et presse Doucement me liez ; Un baiser mutuel Nous soit perpetuel.   Ny le temps, ny l’envie D’autre amour desirer Ne pourra point ma vie De vos lèvres tirer ; Ains serrez demourrons, Et baisant nous mourrons.   En mesme an et mesme heure, Et en mesme saison, Irons voir la demeure De la palle maison, Et les champs ordonnez Aux amans fortunez.   Amour par les fleurettes Du printemps eternel Voirra nos amourettes Sous le bois maternel ; Là nous sçaurons combien Les amans ont de bien.   Le long des belles plaines Et parmy les prez vers, Les rives sonnent pleines De maints accords divers ; L’un joue, et l’autre au son Danse d’une chanson.   Là le beau ciel décueuvre Tousjours un front benin, Sur les fleurs la couleuvre Ne vomit son venin, Et tousjours les oyseaux Chantent sur les rameaux ;   Tousjours les vens y sonnent Je ne sçay quoy de doux, Et les lauriers y donnent Tousjours ombrages moux ; Tousjours les belles fleurs Y gardent leurs couleurs.   Parmy le grand espace De ce verger heureux, Nous aurons tous deux place Entre les amoureux, Et comme eux sans soucy Nous aimerons aussi.   Nulle amie ancienne Ne se dépitera, Quand de la place sienne Pour nous deux s’ostera, Non celles dont les yeux Prirent le cœur des dieux.

O maid more tender Than a fair crimson bud To which the rosebush gives birth At the rising of the sun, Partly growing fresh and youthful, Partly blushing redder!   Stronger than the ivy Which climbs around Its beloved oak, which it hugs Wound in many a twist, Curving its wide-spread arms Above it on all sides,   Embrace my neck, mistress, With your two bent arms; In a knot which holds and squeezes Sweetly bind me; May our shared kiss Be everlasting.   Neither time, nor the longing To enjoy some other love Can in any way pull my life Back from your lips; So let’s stay embracing And we’ll die kissing.   In the same year, the same hour, The same season, We’ll go and see the dwellings Of that pale house, And the fields ordained For happy lovers.   Love with the flowers Of eternal springtime Will see our love-dalliance In our maternal woods; There we shall discover how many Good things lovers enjoy.   Along the fair plains And among the green meadows, The rivers play their music, full Of many varied harmonies; One plays, and the other Dances to the sound of the song.   There the fair sky constantly Shows a mild brow; The grass-snake does not vomit His venom on the flowers; The birds are always Singing in the branches;   The winds there are always making Some sweet sound; The laurels there always give Their moist shade; The beautiful flowers there always Retain their colours.   Amid the great space Of this happy orchard We shall both take our place Among the lovers, And like them without a care We too shall make love.   No ancient lover Will be vexed When from her spot For us two she will remove herself, Not even those whose eyes Captured the hearts of the gods.