A ce malheur qui jour et nuit me poingt
Et qui ravit ma jeune liberté,
Dois-je tousjours obeïr en ce poinct,
Ne recevant que toute cruauté ?
       Je sens
       Mes sens
    Et mon mal redoubler.
Cest or frizé, et le lys de son teint,
Sous un Soleil doublement esclaircy,
Ont tellement mes moüelles attaint,
Que je me voy déja presque transi.
    Son œil ardant,
       En moy
       Du feu,
    Me brusle peu à peu.
Je cognois bien, mais helas ! c’est trop tard,
Que le meurtrier de ma franche raison,
S’est escoulé par l’huys de mon regard,
Pour me brasser ceste amere poison :
    Je n’eus qu’ennuis
       Le jour
       Au cœur
    M’inspira sa rigueur.
Et nonobstant (cruelle) que je meurs,
En observant une saincte amitié,
Il ne te chaut de toutes mes clameurs,
Qui te devroient inciter à pitié.
    Vien donc, Archer
       Le pas,
    Me guider au trespas !
Ny mes esprits honteusement discrets,
Ny le travail que j’ay pour t’adorer,
Larmes, souspirs et mes aspres regrets
Ne te sçauroient, (Dame) trop inspirer,
    Si quelquefois,
       Tu vois
       A l’œil
       Le dueil
       Que j’ay,
    Pour l’amoureux essay.
Quelqu’un sera de la proye preneur,
Que j’ay long-temps par cy-devant chassé,
Sans meriter joüira de cet heur,
Qui a si fort mon esprit harassé.
    C’est trop servy,
       Du mal
       Je veux
    Concevoir autres vœux.
Quelque lourdaut, ou quelque gros valet,
Seul à l’escart de mon heur joüissant,
Luy tastera son ventre rondelet,
Et de son sein le pourpre rougissant.
    De nuict, de jour,
       Me fait
       Ce fait
    Et me sert d’un Enfer.
Or je voy bien qu’il me convient mourir
Sans esperer aucun allegement,
Puis qu’à ma mort tu prens si grand plaisir,
Ce m’est grand heur et grand contentement,
    Me submettant,
       Qu’à tort
       La Mort
    Me ravit par despit.
This pain which stabs me day and night
And which steals away the freedom of my youth,
Must I always obey it on this point
Though receiving only cruelty?
       I sense
       My senses
    And my pain redoubled.
These golden curls, and the lilies of her complexion,
Beneath a sun shining doubly-clear
Have struck me to the core so far
That I feel myself almost dead.
    Her burning eye,
       At me
       The pain
       Of fire
    Burns me little by little.
I realise, but oh too late,
That the murderer of my cool reason
Has escaped through the portal of my eyes
To brew for me this bitter poison.
    I have had only worries
       The day
       Into my heart
    Breathed her harshness.
And though I may die, cruel one,
Preserving this holy friendship
All my cries will not bother you
Though they should move you to pity.
    Come then, Archer-god
       So dear to me,
       Your speed,
    To guide me to death.
Neither my shy and modest spirits,
Nor the trouble it causes me to love you,
Not tears, sighs and bitter regrets –
None of these, my lady, will be able to move you as much
    As if sometimes
       You see
       In my eyes
       The pain
       Which I gain
    Through love’s trial.
Some other hunter it will be who takes
The prey that I’ve been coursing up to now;
Without deserving, he’ll enjoy that pleasure
Which has so fiercely tortured my soul.
    It’s no use;
       By fatal
       I will
    Pursue other vows of love.
Some dolt or gross servant
Alone, apart, mocking my fortune,
Will caress her rounded belly
And the blushing crimson of her breast.
    By night and day
       Makes me
       This truth
    And makes my life a hell.
I clearly see that I ought to die
Without a hope of lessened pain;
Since my death gives you such great pleasure,
Then it will be a great happiness and great pleasure
    Submitting myself,
       In spite
    Steals my spirit.
Appended by Marty-Laveaux to what he calls an “Autre recueil de sonnets” (‘Another collection of sonnets’), although as you may note it is not a sonnet, this is yet another piece culled from the main texts by Ronsard.  Blanchemain’s text is identical. This was another poem which inspired contemporary composers.

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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