Chanson (Amours 2:49b)

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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.

 

 
 
 
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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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