Amours 1.210

Avec les fleurs et les boutons esclos
Le beau Printemps fait printaner ma peine,
En chaque nerf, en chaque artere et veine
Soufflant un feu qui m’ard jusques à l’os.
Le marinier ne conte tant de flos,
Quand plus Borée horrible son haleine,
Ny de sablons l’Afrique n’est si pleine,
Que de tourmens dans mon cueur sont enclos.
J’ay tant de mal, qu’il me prendroit envie
Cent fois le jour de me trancher la vie,
Minant le Fort où loge ma langueur :
Si ce n’estoit que je tremble de creinte,
Qu’apres la mort ne fust la playe esteinte
Du coup mortel qui m’est si doux au cueur.  
                                                                            With the flowers and buds blossoming
                                                                            Spring makes my pain spring anew
                                                                            Into every nerve, into every artery and vein
                                                                            Blowing a fire which burns me to the very bone.
                                                                            The sailor does not count so many waves
                                                                            When Boreas makes his breath more horrid,
                                                                            Nor is Africa so full of sands
                                                                            As there are torments shut up in my heart.
                                                                            I have so much trouble, that the desire takes me
                                                                            A hundred times a day to cut off my life,
                                                                            Undermining the fort in which my pining lives :
                                                                            If it were not that I tremble with fear,
                                                                            That after death the wound would not be wiped out
                                                                            By the mortal blow which is so sweet to my heart.
In the second quatrain, Africa is (in classical & Ronsardian terms) essentially desertified north Africa.  Boreas, the north wind, of course brings storms when he blow: note that Ronsard converts the adjective ‘horrible’ into a verb ‘[make] horrible’ – literally, ‘when Boreas horribles his breath more’.
In the earlier version Blanchemain offers some minor variants: line 3 is “Dans chaque nerf et dedans chaque veine” (‘In every nerve and within every vein’), a repetitive form he improved considerably in the later version; and in the penultimate line he has “apres ma mort” (‘after my death’) – later exchanging the alliteration of “ma mort” for (in my view) the less attractive, though also less insistent, alliteration of ‘la … la’.

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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