Dernier vers, sonnet 4

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Ah longues nuicts d’hyver, de ma vie bourrelles,
Donnez moy patience, et me laissez dormir,
Vostre nom seulement et suer et fremir
Me fait par tout le corps, tant vous m’estes cruelles. 
 
Le sommeil tant soit peu n’esvente de ses ailes
Mes yeux tousjours ouvers, et ne puis affermir
Paupiere sur paupiere, et ne fais que gemir,
Souffrant comme Ixion des peines eternelles. 
 
Vielle umbre de la terre, ainçois l’umbre d’enfer,
Tu m’as ouvert les yeux d’une chaisne de fer,
Me consumant au lict, navré de mille pointes: 
 
Pour chasser mes douleurs ameine moy la mort.
Ha mort, le port commun, des hommes le confort,
Viens enterrer mes maux, je t’en prie à mains jointes.

 
 
 
 
 
                                                                           Oh the long nights of winter, executioners of my life!
                                                                           Give me patience and let me sleep;
                                                                           Your name alone makes my whole body
                                                                           Sweat and shiver, so cruel are you to me.
 
                                                                           Sleep, little as it is, cannot make my eyes
                                                                           Droop with his wings; they are always open, and I cannot close
                                                                           Eyelid on eyelid, can do nothing but groan,
                                                                           Suffering, like Ixion, eternal torments.
 
                                                                           Old ghost of the earth, and likewise ghost of hell,
                                                                           You have kept my eyes open with a fiery chain
                                                                           Wearing me out in my bed, deeply wounded by a thousand pricks:
 
                                                                           To chase away my pains, bring me death –
                                                                           Ah, death, the haven for us all, the comfort of men,
                                                                           Come and bury my ills, I beg you with clasped hands.
 
 
 

With the depths of winter upon us, perhaps we can all identify with at least the first two-thirds of the poem! Unsurprisingly, there are no later revisions by the poet…

 
 
 
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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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