To his mistress (Odes 2:7)

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Cassandre ne donne pas
Des baisers, mais des appas
Qui seuls nourrissent mon ame,
Les biens dont les dieux sont fous,
Du nectar, du sucre dous,
De la cannelle et du bâme,
 
Du thym, du lis, de la rose
Parmy ses lévres desclose,
Fleurante en totes saisons,
Et du miel tel qu’en Hymette
La desrobe-fleur avette
Remplit ses douces maisons.
 
O dieux ! que j’ay de plaisir
Quand je sen mon col saisir
De ses bras en mainte sorte !
Sur moy se laissant courber,
Peu à peu la voy tomber
Dans mon sain à demi-morte ;
 
Puis, mettant la bouche sienne
Tout à plat dessus la mienne,
Me mord, et je la remors.
Je luy darde, elle me darde
Sa languette fretillarde ;
Puis en ses bras je m’endors.
 
D’un baiser doucement long,
Ell’ me suce l’ame adonc,
Puis en souflant la repousse,
La ressuce encore un coup,
La ressouffle tout à coup
Avec son haleine douce.
 
Tout ainsi les colombelles,
Tremoussant un peu des ailes,
Havement se vont baisant,
Après que l’oiseuse glace
A quitté la froide place
Au printemps doux et plaisant.
 
Helas ! mais tempere un peu
Les biens dont je suis repeu,
Tempere un peu ma liesse ;
Tu me ferois immortel.
Hé ! je ne veux estre tel
Si tu n’es aussi déesse.
Cassandre does not give
Kisses, but charms
Which alone nourish my soul –
The good things for which the gods are mad,
Nectar, sweet sugar,
Cinnamon and balm,
 
Thyme, lily, rose
Blooming on her lips,
Flowering in all seasons,
And honey like that with which on Hymettus
The flower-thieves, the bees,
Fills their sweet homes.
 
O gods ! what pleasure I get
When I feel my neck seized
By her arms so very often!
Letting herself curve on me
Little by little I see her fall
On my breast half-dead.
 
Then, placing her mouth
Flat on mine,
She bites me, and I bite back,
I nibble her and she my
Frisky tongue;
Then in her arms I fall asleep.
 
With a sweet long kiss
She sucks out my soul thus,
Then breathing out she pushes it back,
Sucks it out once again,
Breathes it back all at once
With her sweet breath.
 
Just so doves,
Fidgeting their wings a little,
Careworn, go on kissing
After the lazy ice
Has left its cold place
In sweet and pleasant spring.
 
Oh, moderate a little
The good things with which I am fed,
Moderate my happiness a little!
You will make me immortal –
But I don’t want to be
Unless you are also a goddess.

 

 

 
 
 
 
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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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