Amours 1.179

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En me bruslant il faut que je me taise :
Car d’autant plus qu’esteindre je me veux,
Plus le desir me r’allume les feux
Qui languissoient sous une morte braise.
 
Si suis-je heureux (et cela me r’apaise)
De plus souffrir que souffrir je ne peux,
Et d’endurer le mal dont je me deulx.
Je me deulx ? non, mais dont je suis bien aise.
 
Par ce doux mal j’adoroy la beauté
Qui me liant d’une humble cruauté,
Me desnoüa les liens d’ignorance.
 
Par luy j’appris les mysteres d’Amour,
Par luy j’appris que pouvoit l’esperance,
Par luy mon ame au ciel fit son retour.
 
 
 
                                                                            As I burn I must be silent ;
                                                                            For as much as I want to extinguish them
                                                                            So much more desire re-lights those fires
                                                                            Which lie beneath a dying flame.
 
                                                                            So happy am I (and that soothes me)
                                                                            To suffer more than I can suffer
                                                                            And to endure the pain which grieves me;
                                                                            Grieves? No: which pleases me.
 
                                                                            Through this sweet pain I adore the beauty
                                                                            Who, binding me with meek cruelty,
                                                                            Looses me from the bonds of ignorance.
 
                                                                            Through her I learn the mysteries of love,
                                                                            Through her I learn what hope can do,
                                                                            Through her my soul returns to heaven.
 
 
 
What a lovely poem: a simple, single image, and a fantastic last tercet.  (I think I need to have another go at lines 3-4 sometime: not sure this translation really holds together as an image!) Blanchemain’s version has a number of differences, including the end! The later version is so much better…
 
 
Las ! force m’est qu’en bruslant je me taise,
Car d’autant plus qu’esteindre je me veux,
Plus le desir me r’allume les feux
Qui languissoient sous la morte braise.
 
Si suis-je heureux (et cela me r’appaise)
De plus souffrir que souffrir je ne peux,
Et d’endurer le mal dont je me deulx ;
Je me deulx, non, mais dont je suis bien aise.
 
Par ce doux mal j’adoroy la beauté
Qui, me liant d’une humble cruauté,
Me desnoua les liens d’ignorance.
 
Par luy me vint ce vertueux penser
Qui jusqu’au ciel fit mon cœur elancer,
Ailé de foy, d’amour et d’esperance.
 
 
                                                                            Alas, I am forced as I burn to be silent
                                                                            For the more I try to extinguish them
                                                                            The more desire re-lights those fires
                                                                            Which lie beneath the dying flame.
 
                                                                            So happy am I (and that soothes me)
                                                                            To suffer more than I can suffer
                                                                            And to endure the pain which grieves me;
                                                                            Grieves? No: which pleases me.
 
                                                                            Through this sweet pain I adore the beauty
                                                                            Who, binding me with meek cruelty,
                                                                            Looses me from the bonds of ignorance.
 
                                                                            Through her comes to me that virtuous thought
                                                                            Which makes my heart leap to heaven,
                                                                            Winged with faith, love and hope. 
 
 
 
 
 
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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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