Amours 1.182

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Seul je me deuls, et nul ne peut sçavoir,
Si ce n’est moy, la peine que je porte :
Amour trop fin comme un larron emporte
Mon cœur d’emblée, et ne le puis r’avoir.
 
Je ne devois donner tant de pouvoir
A l’ennemy qui a la main si forte,
Mais au premier le retenir de sorte
Qu’à la raison obeist le devoir.
 
Or c’en est fait ! il a pris la carriere :
Plus je ne puis le tirer en arriere :
Opiniastre, il est maistre du frein.
 
Je cognois bien qu’il entraine ma vie :
Je voy ma faulte, et si ne m’en soucie,
« Tant le mourir est beau de vostre main !
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Alone I grieve, and none can know
                                                                            But I myself the pain I bear;
                                                                            Love, cunning like a thief, carried off
                                                                            My heart directly , and I cannot get it back.
 
                                                                            I ought not to give such great power
                                                                            To an enemy who has so strong a hand,
                                                                            But from the first to hold him back, so
                                                                            That duty obeys reason.
 
                                                                            But it is done! He has taken up his career;
                                                                            I can no longer keep him behind me;
                                                                            He is stubborn and controls the reins.
 
                                                                            I know well that he is leading my life,
                                                                            I see my fault, yet do not care,
                                                                            “So beautiful is dying at your hand!” 
 
 
Another poem built on a single image maintained throughout: I like this one. The conflict between love and reason is well-caught. Blanchemain offers us a few changes: in the opening line “Seul je m’avise, …” (‘Alone, I reflect, …’); and then in the final tercet
 
Je cognois bien qu’il entraine ma vie
Contre mon gré ; mais je ne m’en soucie …
 
 
                                                                            I know well that he is leading my life
                                                                            Against my will; but I do not care …
 
 
 
[ Here’s a piece of trivia: yesterday’s poem and today’s are the only two poems by Ronsard which I’ve blogged, beginning with a word starting ‘Se…’ (second, seul). How odd, when there are so many words to open a poem with… ]
 
 
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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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