Amours 1.175

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Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé
De voir vos sauts sous la tarde serée :
Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée,
Fille du pied du cheval emplumé.
 
De tes beaux rais vivement allumé,
Je fu Poëte : et si ma voix recrée,
Et si ma lyre en t’enchantant t’agrée,
Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé.
 
Certes le Ciel te devoit à la France,
Quand le Thuscan, et Sorgue, et sa Florence,
Et son Laurier engrava dans les cieux :
 
Ore trop tard, beauté plus que divine,
Tu vois nostre age, helas ! qui n’est pas digne
Tant seulement de parler de tes yeux.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            I am not at all accustomed, Muses,
                                                                            To watch you leaping in the late evening ;
                                                                            I have not drunk from the sacred waters,
                                                                            Springing from the foot of the winged horse.
 
                                                                            Excited and aroused by your fair eyes, [my love],
                                                                            I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains,
                                                                            And my lyre as it sings to you pleases you,
                                                                            Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise.
 
                                                                            Surely heaven owed France your presence,
                                                                            Since the Tuscan [Petrarch] had engraved in the heavens
                                                                            The Sorgue, his Florence, and his laurels.
 
                                                                            Yet too late, more-than-divine beauty,
                                                                            You see our age which, alas, is not worthy
                                                                            Even just to speak of your eyes.
 
 
 
Here Ronsard stakes his claim to be firmly in the line of the great poets: though typically he does it while undermining the traditional classical image and placing himself in the petrarchan line of love poets. So (first quatrain) he denies inspiration from the Muses – whose Hippocrene spring on Mount Helicon was created when Pegasus struck the ground with his hoof –  while (second quatrain) deriving it from his lady-love – or, as we might say in English, his ‘muse’… In English the transition from “vous / Muses” to “tu / Cassandre” is not obvious, so I have added a few words at the end of line 5 to make the translation clear. Parnassus, like Helicon, is home to the Muses.
 
In the sestet, the focus moves forward to the Italian renaissance, with Petrarch as the comparator. Though mostly associated with Florence, Petrarch lived for many years in Avignon (seat of the anti-Popes), and the Sorgue flows through Avignon. His ‘laurels’ are both the laurels won by the greatest poets (hence ‘poet laureate’), and a reference to Laura, his lady and ‘muse’. The final tercet point to the length of time between Petrarch and Ronsard – some two centuries – and another hint of a classical theme with the ‘golden age’ descending to a later ‘silver age’ and so forth, the later ages clearly not as great or as worthy as the former.
 
Blanchemain’s version offers variants in the octet:
 
 
Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé
Voir vostre bal sous la tarde serée ;
Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée,
Fille du pied du cheval emplumé.
 
De tes beaux rais chastement allumé,
Je fu poëte ; et si ma voix recrée,
Et si ma lyre aucunement agrée,
Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé
 
 
                                                                            I am not at all accustomed, Muses,
                                                                            To watch your dance in the late evening ;
                                                                            I have not drunk from the sacred waters,
                                                                            Springing from the foot of the winged horse.
 
                                                                            Chastely aroused by your fair eyes, [my love],
                                                                            I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains
                                                                            And my lyre pleases a little,
                                                                            Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise.
 
 
Worth noting that in line 7, “agrée” teeters between both ‘to please’ and ‘to harmonise’ – whereas in the revised version at the top of this post there is less room for ambiguity, though perhaps “harmonises with you” is just about implied…
 
 
 
 
 
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