Monthly Archives: May 2016

Le Voyage de Tours: ou, Les amoureux

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The next 120 lines of the Voyage …

Six ans sont ja passez, toutefois dans l’oreille
J’entens encor’ le son de ta voix nompareille,
Qui me gaigna le coeur, et me souvient encor
De ta vermeille bouche et de tes cheveux d’or,
De ta main, de tes yeux, et si le temps qui passe
A depuis desrobé quelque peu de leur grace,
Helas je ne suis moins de leurs graces ravy
Que je fus sur le Clain, le jour que je te vy
Surpasser en beauté toutes les pastourelles,
Que les jeunes pasteurs estimoient les plus belles.
Car je n’ay pas esgard à cela que tu es,
Mais à ce que tu fus, tant les amoureux traits
Te graverent en moy, voire de telle sorte
Que telle que tu fus telle au sang je te porte.
 
Dés l’heure que le cœur de l’œil tu me perças,
Pour en sçavoir la fin je fis tourner le Sas
Par une Janeton, qui au bourg de Crotelles
Soit du bien, soit du mal, disoit toutes nouvelles.
 
Apres qu’elle eut trois fois craché dedans son sein,
Trois fois esternué, elle prist du levain,
Le retaste en ses doigts, et en fist une image
Qui te sembloit de port de taille et de visage :
Puis tournoyant trois fois, et trois fois marmonnant,
De sa gertiere alla tout mon col entournant,
Et me dit, Je ne tiens si fort de ma gertiere
Ton col, que ta vie est de malheur heritiere,
Captive de Francine, et seulement la mort
Desnou’ra le lien qui te serre si fort :
Et n’espere jamais de vouloir entreprendre
D’eschauffer un glaçon qui te doit mettre en cendre.
 
Las! je ne la creu pas, et pour vouloir adonc
En estre plus certain, je fis couper le jonc
La veille de sainct Jean : mais je vy sur la place
Le mien, signe d’ Amour, croistre plus d’une brasse,
Le tien demeurer court, signe que tu n’avois
Soucy de ma langueur, et que tu ne m’aimois,
Et que ton amitié qui n’est point asseurée,
Ainsi que le jonc court, est courte demeurée.
 
Je mis pour t’essayer encores davant-hier
Dans le creux de ma main des fueilles de coudrier :
Mais en tappant dessus, nul son ne me rendirent,
Et flaques sans sonner sur la main me fanirent,
Vray signe que je suis en ton amour moqué,
Puis qu’en frapant dessus elles n’ont point craqué :
Pour monstrer par effet que ton cœur ne craquette
Ainsi que fait le mien d’une flame segrette.
 
O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere, et pourquoy
En dansant, de tes mains ne me prens-tu le doy ?
Pourquoy lasse du bal entre ces fleurs couchée,
N’ay-je sur ton giron ou la teste panchée,
Ou mes yeux sur les tiens, ou ma bouche dessus
Tes deux tetins de neige et d’yvoire conceus ?
Te semblay-je trop vieil ? encor la barbe tendre
Ne fait que commencer sur ma jouë à s’estendre,
Et ta bouche qui passe en beauté le coural,
S’elle veut me baiser, ne se fera point mal :
Mais ainsi qu’un Lezard se cache sous l’herbette,
Sous ma blonde toison cacheras ta languette :
Puis en la retirant, tu tireras à toy
Mon cœur, pour te baiser, qui sortira de moy.
 
Helas prens donc mon cœur, avecques ceste paire
De ramiers que je t’offre, ils sont venus de l’aire
De ce gentil ramier dont je t’avois parlé :
Margot m’en a tenu plus d’une heure acollé,
Les pensant emporter pour les mettre en sa cage.
Mais ce n’est pas pour elle : et demain davantage
Je t’en rapporteray, avecques un pinson
Qui desja sçait par coeur une belle chanson,
Que je fis l’autre jour dessous une aubespine,
Dont le commencement est Thoinet et Francine.
Hà, cruelle, demeure, et tes yeux amoureux
Ne destourne de moy : hà je suis malheureux !
Car je cognois mon mal, et si cognois encore
La puissance d’ Amour, qui le sang me devore.
Sa puissance est cruelle, et n’a point d’autre jeu,
Sinon de rebrusler nos cœurs à petit feu,
Ou de les englacer, comme ayant pris son estre
D’une glace ou d’un feu ou d’un rocher champestre.
Ha ! que ne suis-je abeille, ou papillon, j’irois
Maugré toy te baiser, et puis je m’assirois
Sur tes tetins, afin de succer de ma bouche
Ceste humeur qui te fait contre moy si farouche.
 
O belle au doux regard, Francine au beau sourcy,
Baise-moy je te prie, et m’embrasses ainsy
Qu’un arbre est embrassé d’une vigne bien forte.
« Souvent un vain baiser quelque plaisir apporte. »
Je meurs ! tu me feras despecer ce bouquet,
Que j’ay cueilly pour joy, de Thym et de Muguet,
Et de la rouge-fleur qu’on nomme Cassandrette,
Et de la blanche-fleur qu’on appelle Olivette,
A qui Bellot donna et la vie et le nom,
Et de celle qui prend de ton nom son surnom.
 
Las ! où fuis tu de moy ? hà ma fiere ennemie,
Je m’en vois despouiller jaquette et souquenie,
Et m’en courray tout nud au haut de ce rocher,
Où tu vois ce garçon à la ligne pescher,
Afin de me lancer à corps perdu dans Loire,
Pour laver mon soucy, ou afin de tant boire
D’escumes et de flots, que la flamme d’aimer,
Par l’eau contraire au feu se puisse consumer.
 
Ainsi disoit Thoinet, qui se pasma sur l’herbe,
Presque transi de voir sa dame si superbe,
Qui rioit de son mal, sans daigner seulement
D’un seul petit clin d’œil appaiser son tourment.
 
J’ouvrois desja la lévre apres Thoinet pour dire
De combien Marion m’estoit encores pire,
Quand j’avise sa mere en haste gagner l’eau,
Et sa fille emmener avec elle au bateau,
Qui se joüant sur l’onde attendoit ceste charge,
Lié contre le tronc d’un saule au feste large.
 
Ja les rames tiroient le bateau bien pansu,
Et la voile en enflant son grand reply bossu
Emportoit le plaisir qui mon cœur tient en peine,
Quand je m’assis au bord de la premiere arene :
Et voyant le bateau qui s’enfuyoit de moy,
Parlant à Marion je chantay ce convoy:
Six years have already passed, and still in my ears
I hear the sound of your matchless voice
Which won my heart, and reminds me still
Of your crimson lips and golden hair,
Of your hand, your eyes, and if passing time
Has stolen away some part of their grace,
Ah, I am no less in love with their gracefulness,
Than I was on the Clain, the day I saw you
Surpass in beauty all the [ poems/shepherdesses ]
Which the young shepherds thought most beautiful.
For I pay no regard to what you are,
But to what you were, so deeply are your lovely features
Graven in me, in such a way
That that which you were, is what I carry in my blood.
 
Since the moment when you pierced my heart with your eye
To figure out the end of it, I had the riddle considered
By an old dame at the town of Crotelles, who
Might tell the whole story, whether good or bad.
 
After she’d hawked three times in her breast,
Three times spat, she took some dough,
Shaped it in her fingers and made from it an image
Which resembled you in its manner and looks,
Turning three times and thrice murmuring
Twining all around my neck with her garter
She said to me: “I do not hold your neck with my garter
As firmly as your life is the inheritor of ill-luck,
Francine’s prisoner, and only death
Will loose the bond which holds you so tight:
Never hope you’ll be able to undertake
To make that icicle warm, which should turn you to cinders.”
 
Alas, I didn’t believe her, and so wishing
To be more certain of it, I tried cutting of straws
On the eve of St John’s day ; but right then I saw
Mine, the sign of Love, grow more than arm’s length
While yours stayed short – a sign that you had
No care for my pain, and that you didn’t love me,
And that your love which is not at all fixed,
Like the short straw, has remained short.
 
Again the day before yesterday, to try you again, I put
In the hollow of my hand some hazel-leaves ;
But tapping on them, no sound did they give me,
And flopping soundlessly on my hand they withered,
A true sign that I am mocked in your love
Since in tapping on them they crackled not a bit:
Showing by this means that your heart does not crackle
As mine does with a secret flame.
 
O my fair Francine, my proud lass, why
As you dance, do you not take my hand in yours?
Why, tired from the dance, lying in these flowers,
Do I not have either my head laid in your lap,
Or my eyes on yours, or my lips upon
Your two breasts born of snow and ivory?
Do I look to you too old? My young beard has still
Only begun to spread across my cheek,
And your lips which surpass the coral’s beauty
Would suffer, if they chose to kiss me, no harm:
But just like a lizard hides itself beneath the grass
You will hide your tongue beneath my blond hair;
Then, withdrawing it, you will take to yourself
My heart, which will leave me to kiss you.
 
Ah, take then my heart along with this pair
Of wood-pigeons which I offer you; they came from a nest
In that noble tree of which I’ve spoken to you;
Margot hung around my neck for them for more than an hour,
Thinking to take them to put in her cage.
But they aren’t for her: and tomorrow
I will bring back more for you, with a finch
Which already has learned by heart a fair song
Which I made the other day under a pine-tree,
Whose beginning is “Tony and Francine”.
Oh cruel one, stay, and turn not your loving
Eyes from me: ah, I am unhappy
For I recognise my illness, even recognise
The power of Love who devours my blood.
His power is cruel and has no other pleasure
Than burning our hearts with his little fire
Or icing them over, as if taking his essence
From ice or fire or some rock in the countryside.
Ah, if I were a bee or a butterfly, I would try
Despite you to kiss you, and then would sit
On your breasts, to suck out with my mouth
That humour which makes you so savage towards me.
 
O fair lady with the sweet glance, Francine with the fair brow,
Kiss me I pray, and embrace me as
A tree is embraced by some strong vine.
“A meaningless kiss often brings pleasure.”
I’m dying! you’ll make me shred this bouquet
Which I picked for you, of thyme and lily-of-the-valley
And that red flower we call ‘little Cassandre’,
And the white flower we call ‘little Olive’
To which Bellot gave both life and name,
And that one which takes its name from yours.
 
Oh, where are you running? My proud enemy,
I see myself stripped of jacket and smock,
I’ll run naked to the top of that rock
Where you see that boy fishing with his line
So I can throw my lost body into the Loire
To wash away my pain, or to drink so much
Of the foam and waves that the flame of loving
May, with water opposed to fire, be consumed.
 
So said Tony, as he fainted on the grass
Almost overcome at seeing his lady so proud
Laughing at his pain, without deigning even
With just one wink of the eye to soften his torment.
 
I was just opening my lips after Tony to say
How much worse Marion was to me,
When I spotted her mother hastily getting into the water
And taking away her daughter with her in a boat
Which, bobbing on the waves, was waiting for this task
Tied to the trunk of a wide-crowned willow.
 
The oars were already drawing the wide-bellied boat,
And the sail, filling his great rounded folds
Was carrying off the pleasure which keeps my heart in pain,
As I sat down on the bank at the edge of the sand:
And seeing the boat running away from me
I sang this farewell-song to Marion:
 
Half-a-dozen lines in, Ronsard puns gently on “pastourelles”: the most beautiful of ‘shepherdesses’ of course, but in a poem, why should the lady not surpass all poetry in beauty too – or at least all pastoral poetry?
 
Once again Remy Belleau’s commentary offers helpful notes.  Crotelles is  a village near to Poictiers “where they make a thousand noble things, like painted distaffs, boxes & other similar things”.  In the section towards the end of Thoinet’s complaint, various flowers are listed, several (re-)named after various poetic loves: Belleau says “our author, to give his first mistress [Cassandre] immortal praise, named with her name a beautiful red flower which is generally called “bell-flower”. Du Bellay did something similar, naming a white flower which is usually called “Our Lady’s flower” [a white violet] and which blooms in February, an « olivette » from the name of his beloved Olive. He says he has thus named with Francine’s name a beautiful flower which is now called « francinette », previously called by its Greek name anemone or ground-cherry.”
 
Belleau also informs us that the second half of the complaint, beginning “O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere”, is imitated from Theocritus eclogue 3′ – though we now call them the Idylls of Theocritus.
 
Finally, ‘the eve of St John’s day’ is Midsummer Day, June 24th.
 
There are as usual several changes in this part of the poem, as Ronsard tidied up and improved his poem. I must say, though, that in at least one case I am astonished at the choice of replacement line: where first her eyes take their freezing or burning effect ‘from ice or fire that we will never comprehend’, the revised version has their freezing and burning coming ‘from ice or fire or some rock in the countryside‘?!?!  I’m also amused by how Ronsard’s later more prudish self removes the line about Thoinet having his hand under Francine’s skirt!
 
Six ans sont ja passez, et si dedans l’oreille
J’entens encor’ le son de ta voix nompareille,
Qui me gaigna le coeur, et me souvient encor
De ta vermeille bouche et de tes cheveux d’or,
De ta main, de tes yeux, et si le temps qui passe
A depuis desrobé quelque peu de leur grace,
Si est-ce que de toi je ne suis moins ravy
Que je fus sur le Clain, le jour que je te vy
Surpasser en beauté toutes les pastourelles,
Que les jeunes pasteurs estimoient les plus belles.
Car je n’ay pas esgard à cela que tu es,
Mais à ce que tu fus, tant les amoureux traits
Te graverent en moy, voire de telle sorte
Que telle que tu fus telle au cœur je te porte.
 
Dés l’heure que le cœur des yeux tu me perças,
Pour en sçavoir la fin je fis tourner le Sas
Par une Janeton, qui au bourg de Crotelles
Soit du bien, soit du mal, disoit toutes nouvelles.
 
Apres qu’elle eut trois fois craché dedans son sein,
Trois fois esternué, elle prist du levain,
Le retaste en ses doigts, et en fist une image
Qui te sembloit de port de taille et de visage :
Puis tournoyant trois fois, et trois fois marmonnant,
De sa gertiere alla tout mon col entournant,
Et me dit, Je ne tiens si fort de ma gertiere
Ton col, que ta vie est tenu prisonniere
Par les mains de Francine, et seulement la mort
Desnou’ra le lien qui te serre si fort :
Et n’espere jamais de vouloir entreprendre
D’eschauffer un glaçon qui te doit mettre en cendre.
 
Las! je ne la creu pas, et pour vouloir adonc
En estre plus certain, je fis couper le jonc
La veille de sainct Jean : mais je vy sur la place
Le mien, signe d’ Amour, croistre plus d’une brasse,
Le tien demeurer court, signe que tu n’avois
Soucy de ma langueur, et que tu ne m’aimois,
Et que ton amitié qui n’est point asseurée,
Ainsi que le jonc court, est courte demeurée.
 
Je mis pour t’essayer encores davant-hier
Dans le creux de ma main des fueilles de coudrier :
Mais en tappant dessus, nul son ne me rendirent,
Et, flasques, sans sonner sur la main me fanirent,
Vray signe que je suis en ton amour moqué,
Puis qu’en frapant dessus elles n’ont point craqué :
Pour monstrer par effet que ton cœur ne craquette
Ainsi que fait le mien d’une flame segrette.
 
O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere, et pourquoy
En dansant, de tes mains ne me prens-tu le doy ?
Pourquoy lasse du bal entre ces fleurs couchée,
N’ay-je sur ton giron ou la teste panchée,
Ou la main sous ta cotte, ou la levre dessus
Ton tetin, par lequel ton prisonnier je fus ?
Te semble-je trop vieil ? encor la barbe tendre
Ne fait que commencer sur ma jouë à s’estendre,
Et ta bouche qui passe en beauté le coural,
S’elle veut me baiser, ne se fera point mal :
Mais ainsi qu’un Lezard se cache sous l’herbette,
Sous ma blonde toison cacheras ta languette :
Puis en la retirant, tu tireras à toy
Mon cœur, pour te baiser, qui sortira de moy.
 
Helas prens donc mon cœur, avecques ceste paire
De ramiers que je t’offre, ils sont venus de l’aire
De ce gentil ramier dont je t’avois parlé :
Margot m’en a tenu plus d’une heure acollé,
Les pensant emporter pour les mettre en sa cage.
Mais ce n’est pas pour elle : et demain davantage
Je t’en rapporteray, avecques un pinson
Qui desja sçait par cœur une belle chanson,
Que je fis l’autre jour dessous une aubespine,
Dont le commencement est Thoinet et Francine.
Hà, cruelle, demeure, et tes yeux amoureux
Ne destourne de moy : hà je suis malheureux !
Car je cognois mon mal, et si ai cognoissance
D’Amour et de sa mere, et quelle est leur puissance.
Leur puissance est cruelle, et n’ont point d’autre jeu,
Sinon que de brusler nos cœurs à petit feu,
Ou de les englacer, comme ayant pris leur estre
D’une glace ou d’un feu qu’on ne sauroit cognoistre.
Ha ! que ne suis-je abeille, ou papillon, j’irois
Maugré toy te baiser, et puis je m’assirois
Sur tes tetins, afin de succer de ma bouche
Ceste humeur qui te fait contre moy si farouche.
 
O belle au doux regard, Francine au beau sourcy,
Baise-moy je te prie, et m’embrasses ainsy
Qu’un arbre est embrassé d’une vigne bien forte.
« Souvent un vain baiser quelque plaisir apporte. »
Je meurs ! tu me feras despecer ce bouquet,
Que j’ay cueilly pour joy, de Thym et de Muguet,
Et de la rouge-fleur qu’on nomme Cassandrette,
Et de la blanche-fleur qu’on appelle Olivette,
A qui Bellot donna et la vie et le nom,
Et de celle qui prend de ton nom son surnom.
 
Las ! où fuis tu de moy ? hà ma fiere ennemie,
Je m’en vais despouiller jaquette et souquenie,
Et m’en courray tout nud au haut de ce rocher,
Où tu vois ce garçon à la ligne pescher,
Afin de me lancer à corps perdu dans Loire,
Pour laver mon soucy, ou afin de tant boire
D’escumes et de flots, que la flamme d’aimer,
Par l’eau contraire au feu se puisse consumer.
 
Ainsi disoit Thoinet, qui se pasma sur l’herbe,
Presque transi de voir sa dame si superbe,
Qui rioit de son mal, sans daigner seulement
D’un seul petit clin d’œil appaiser son tourment.
 
J’ouvrois desja la lévre apres Thoinet pour dire
De combien Marion m’estoit encores pire,
Quand j’avise sa mere en haste gagner l’eau,
Et sa fille emmener avec elle au bateau,
Qui se joüant sur l’onde attendoit ceste charge,
Lié contre le tronc d’un saule au feste large.
 
Ja les rames tiroient le bateau bien pansu,
Et la voile en enflant son grand reply bossu
Emportoit le plaisir qui mon cœur tient en peine,
Quand je m’assis au bord de la premiere arene :
Et voyant le bateau qui s’enfuyoit de moy,
Parlant à Marion je chantay ce convoy:
Six years have already passed, and still within my ears
I hear the sound of your matchless voice
Which won my heart, and reminds me still
Of your crimson lips and golden hair,
Of your hand, your eyes, and if passing time
Has stolen away some part of their grace,
Still am I no less in love with you,
Than I was on the Clain, the day I saw you
Surpass in beauty all the [ poems/shepherdesses ]
Which the young shepherds thought most beautiful.
For I pay no regard to what you are,
But to what you were, so deeply are your lovely features
Graven in me, in such a way
That that which you were, is what I carry in my heart.
 
Since the moment when you pierced my heart with your eyes
To figure out the end of it, I had the riddle considered
By an old dame at the town of Crotelles, who
Might tell the whole story, whether good or bad.
 
After she’d hawked three times in her breast,
Three times spat, she took some dough,
Shaped it in her fingers and made from it an image
Which resembled you in its manner and looks,
Turning three times and thrice murmuring
Twining all around my neck with her garter
She said to me: “I do not hold your neck with my garter
As firmly as your life is held prisoner
By the hands of Francine, and only death
Will loose the bond which holds you so tight:
Never hope you’ll be able to undertake
To make that icicle warm, which should turn you to cinders.
 
Alas, I didn’t believe her, and so wishing
To be more certain of it, I tried cutting of straws
On the eve of St John’s day ; but right then I saw
Mine, the sign of Love, grow more than arm’s length
While yours stayed short – a sign that you had
No care for my pain, and that you didn’t love me,
And that your love which is not at all fixed,
Like the short straw, has remained short.
 
Again the day before yesterday, to try you again, I put
In the hollow of my hand some hazel-leaves ;
But tapping on them, no sound did they give me,
And flopping soundlessly on my hand they withered,
A true sign that I am mocked in your love
Since in tapping on them they crackled not a bit:
Showing by this means that your heart does not crackle
As mine does with a secret flame.
 
O my fair Francine, my proud lass, why
As you dance, do you not take my hand in yours?
Why, tired from the dance, lying in these flowers,
Do I not have either my head laid in your lap,
Or my hand beneath your skirt, or my lips upon
Your breast, which made me your prisoner?
Do I look to you too old? My young beard has still
Only begun to spread across my cheek,
And your lips which surpass the coral’s beauty
Would suffer, if they chose to kiss me, no harm:
But just like a lizard hides itself beneath the grass
You will hide your tongue beneath my blond hair;
Then, withdrawing it, you will take to yourself
My heart, which will leave me to kiss you.
 
Ah, take then my heart along with this pair
Of wood-pigeons which I offer you; they came from a nest
In that noble tree of which I’ve spoken to you;
Margot hung around my neck for them for more than an hour,
Thinking to take them to put in her cage.
But they aren’t for her: and tomorrow
I will bring back more for you, with a finch
Which already has learned by heart a fair song
Which I made the other day under a pine-tree,
Whose beginning is “Tony and Francine”.
Oh cruel one, stay, and turn not your loving
Eyes from me: ah, I am unhappy
For I recognise my illness, even have understanding
Of Love and his mother, and what their power is.
Their power is cruel, and they have no other pleasure
Except to burn our hearts with their little fire
Or to ice them over, as if taking their essence
From ice or fire that we will never comprehend.
Ah, if I were a bee or a butterfly, I would try
Despite you to kiss you, and then would sit
On your breasts, to suck out with my mouth
That humour which makes you so savage towards me.
 
O fair lady with the sweet glance, Francine with the fair brow,
Kiss me I pray, and embrace me as
A tree is embraced by some strong vine.
“A meaningless kiss often brings pleasure.”
I’m dying! you’ll make me shred this bouquet
Which I picked for you, of thyme and lily-of-the-valley
And that red flower we call ‘little Cassandre’,
And the white flower we call ‘little Olive’
To which Bellot gave both life and name,
And that one which takes its name from yours.
 
Oh, where are you running? My proud enemy,
I’m going to strip myself of jacket and smock,
I’ll run naked to the top of that rock
Where you see that boy fishing with his line
So I can throw my lost body into the Loire
To wash away my pain, or to drink so much
Of the foam and waves that the flame of loving
May, with water opposed to fire, be consumed.
 
So said Tony, as he fainted on the grass
Almost overcome at seeing his lady so proud
Laughing at his pain, without deigning even
With just one wink of the eye to soften his torment.
 
I was just opening my lips after Tony to say
How much worse Marion was to me,
When I spotted her mother hastily getting into the water
And taking away her daughter with her in a
Which, bobbing on the waves, was waiting for this task
Tied to the trunk of a wide-crowned willow.
 
The oars were already drawing the wide-bellied boat,
And the sail, filling his great rounded folds
Was carrying off the pleasure which keeps my heart in pain,
As I sat down on the bank at the edge of the sand:
And seeing the boat running away from me
I sang this farewell-song to Marion:
 
 
For the enthusiast, here is the Theocritus poem Ronsard adapted: you’ll certainly recognise some considerable overlaps. The translation is by Charles Stuart Calverley (1908).
Κωμάσδω ποτὶ τὰν ᾿Αμαρυλλίδα, ταὶ δέ μοι αἶγες
βόσκονται κατ᾽ ὄρος, καὶ ὁ Τίτυρος αὐτὰς ἐλαύνει.
Τίτυρ᾽ ἐμὶν τὸ καλὸν πεφιλαμένε, βόσκε τὰς αἶγας,
καὶ ποτὶ τὰν κράναν ἄγε Τίτυρε, καὶ τὸν ἐνόρχαν
τὸν Λιβυκὸν κνάκωνα φυλάσσεο, μή τι κορύψῃ.
̂̓Ω χαρίεσσ᾽ ᾿Αμαρυλλί, τί μ᾽ οὐκέτι τοῦτο κατ᾽ ἄντρον
παρκύπτοισα καλεῖς τὸν ἐρωτύλον; ἦ ῥά με μισεῖς;
ἦ ῥά γέ τοι σιμὸς καταφαίνομαι ἐγγύθεν ἦμεν,
νύμφα, καὶ προγένειος; ἀπάγξασθαί με ποησεῖς.
 
ἠνίδε τοι δέκα μᾶλα φέρω: τηνῶθε καθεῖλον,
ὧ μ᾽ ἐκέλευ καθελεῖν τύ: καὶ αὔριον ἄλλά τοι οἰσῶ.
θᾶσαι μὰν θυμαλγὲς ἐμὸν ἄχος: αἴθε γενοίμαν
ἁ βομβεῦσα μέλισσα καὶ ἐς τεὸν ἄντρον ἱκοίμαν
τὸν κισσὸν διαδὺς καὶ τὰν πτέριν, ᾇ τὺ πυκάσδῃ.
νῦν ἔγνων τὸν ῎Ερωτα: βαρὺς θεός: ἦ ῥα λεαίνας
μαζὸν ἐθήλαζε, δρυμῷ τέ νιν ἔτρεφε μάτηρ,
ὅς με κατασμύχων καὶ ἐς ὀστίον ἄχρις ἰάπτει.
ὦ τὸ καλὸν ποθορεῦσα, τὸ πᾶν λίθος: ὦ κυάνοφρυ
νύμφα, πρόσπτυξαί με τὸν αἰπόλον, ὥς τυ φιλάσω.
ἔστι καὶ ἐν κενεοῖσι φιλάμασιν ἁδέα τέρψις.
τὸν στέφανον τῖλαί με κατ᾽ αὐτίκα λεπτὰ ποησεῖς,
τόν τοι ἐγὼν ᾿Αμαρυλλὶ φίλα κισσοῖο φυλάσσω
ἀμπλέξας καλύκεσσι καὶ εὐόδμοισι σελίνοις.–
῎Ωμοι ἐγώ, τί πάθω; τί ὁ δύσσοος; οὐχ ὑπακούεις;–
 
τὰν βαίταν ἀποδὺς ἐς κύματα τηνῶ ἁλεῦμαι,
ὧπερ τὼς θύννως σκοπιάζεται ῎Ολπις ὁ γριπεύς:
καἴκα δἠποθάνω, τό γε μὰν τεὸν ἁδὺ τέτυκται.
ἔγνων πρᾶν, ὅκα μευ μεμναμένω, εἰ φιλέεις με,
οὐδὲ τὸ τηλέφιλον ποτεμάξατο, τὸ πλατάγημα,
ἀλλ᾽ αὔτως ἁπαλῷ ποτὶ πάχεος ἐξεμαράνθη.
εἶπε καὶ ἀγροιῶτις ἀλαθέα κοσκινόμαντις,
ἁ πρᾶν ποιολογεῦσα Παραιβάτις, οὕνεκ᾽ ἐγὼ μὲν
τὶν ὅλος ἔγκειμαι, τὺ δέ μευ λόγον οὐδένα ποιῇ.
ἦ μάν τοι λευκὰν διδυματόκον αἶγα φυλάσσω,
τάν με καὶ ἁ Μέρμνωνος ἐριθακὶς ἁ μελανόχρως
αἰτεῖ, καὶ δωσῶ οἱ, ἐπεὶ τύ μοι ἐνδιαθρύπτῃ.
῞Αλλεται ὀφθαλμός μευ ὁ δεξιός: ἦ ῥά γ᾽ ἰδησῶ
αὐτάν; ᾀσεῦμαι ποτὶ τὰν πίτυν ὧδ᾽ ἀποκλινθείς,
καί κέ μ᾽ ἴσως ποτίδοι, ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἀδαμαντίνα ἐστίν.
 
῾Ιππομένης ὅκα δὴ τὰν παρθένον ἤθελε γᾶμαι,
μᾶλ᾽ ἐν χερσὶν ἑλὼν δρόμον ἄνυεν: ἁ δ᾽ ᾿Αταλάντα
ὡς ἴδεν, ὡς ἐμάνη, ὡς ἐς βαθὺν ἅλατ᾽ ἔρωτα.
τὰν ἀγέλαν χὡ μάντις ἀπ᾽ ῎Οθρυος ἆγε Μελάμπους
ἐς Πύλον: ἁ δὲ Βίαντος ἐν ἀγκοίναισιν ἐκλίνθη,
μάτηρ ἁ χαρίεσσα περίφρονος ᾿Αλφεσιβοίης.
τὰν δὲ καλὰν Κυθέρειαν ἐν ὤρεσι μᾶλα νομεύων
οὐχ οὑτῶς ὥδωνις ἐπὶ πλέον ἄγαγε λύσσας,
ὥστ᾽ οὐδὲ φθίμενόν νιν ἄτερ μαζοῖο τίθητι;
ζαλωτὸς μὲν ἐμὶν ὁ τὸν ἄτροπον ὕπνον ἰαύων
᾿Ενδυμίων, ζαλῶ δὲ φίλα γύναι ᾿Ιασίωνα,
ὃς τοσσῆν᾽ ἐκύρησεν, ὅσ᾽ οὐ πευσεῖσθε βέβαλοι.
᾿Αλγέω τὰν κεφαλάν, τὶν δ᾽ οὐ μέλει. οὐκέτ᾽ ἀείδω,
κεισεῦμαι δὲ πεσών, καὶ τοὶ λύκοι ὧδέ μ᾽ ἔδονται.
ὡς μέλι τοι γλυκὺ τοῦτο κατὰ βρόχθοιο γένοιτο.
 
I pipe to Amaryllis; while my goats,
Tityrus their guardian, browse along the fell.
O Tityrus, as I love thee, feed my goats:
And lead them to the spring, and Tityrus, ’ware
The lifted crest of yon gray Libyan ram.
 
Ah winsome Amaryllis! Why no more
Greet’st thou thy darling, from the caverned rock
Peeping all coyly? Think’st thou scorn of him?
Hath a near view revealed him satyr-shaped
Of chin and nostril? I shall hang me soon.
See here ten apples: from thy favourite tree
1 plucked them: I shall bring ten more anon.
Ah witness my heart-anguish! Oh were I
A booming bee, to waft me to thy lair,
Threading the fern and ivy in whose depths
Thou nestlest! I have learned what Love is now:
Fell god, he drank the lioness’s milk,
In the wild woods his mother cradled him,
Whose fire slow-burns me, smiting to the bone.
O thou whose glance is beauty and whose heart
All marble: O dark-eyebrowed maiden mine!
Cling to thy goatherd, let him kiss thy lips,
For there is sweetness in an empty kiss.
Thou wilt not? Piecemeal I will rend the crown,
The ivy-crown which, dear, I guard for thee,
Inwov’n with scented parsley and with flowers:
Oh I am desperate — what betides me, what? —
Still art thou deaf? I’ll doff my coat of skins
And leap into yon waves, where on the watch
For mackerel Olpis sits: tho’ I ‘scape death,
That I have all but died will pleasure thee.
That learned I when (I murmuring “loves she me?”)
The Love-in-absence, crushed, returned no sound,
But shrank and shrivelled on my smooth young wrist.
I learned it of the sieve-divining crone
Who gleaned behind the reapers yesterday:
“Thou’rt wrapt up all,” Agraia said, “in her;
She makes of none account her worshipper.”
 
Lo! a white goat, and twins, I keep for thee:
Mermnon’s lass covets them: dark she is of skin:
But yet hers be they; thou but foolest me.
 
She cometh, by the quivering of mine eye.
I’ll lean against the pine-tree here and sing.
She may look round: she is not adamant.
 
[he sings] Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed,
Took apples in his hand and on he sped.
Famed Atalanta’s heart was won by this;
She marked, and maddening sank in Love’s abyss.
 
Prom Othrys did the seer Melampus stray
To Pylos with his herd: and lo there lay
In a swain’s arms a maid of beauty rare;
Alphesiboea, wise of heart, she bare.
 
Did not Adonis rouse to such excess
Of frenzy her whose name is Loveliness,
(He a mere lad whose wethers grazed the hill)
That, dead, he’s pillowed on her bosom still?
 
Endymion sleeps the sleep that changeth not:
And, maiden mine, I envy him his lot!
Envy Iasion’s: his it was to gain
Bliss that I dare not breathe in ears profane.
 
My head aches. What reck’st thou? I sing no more:
E’en where I fell I’ll lie, until the wolves
Rend me — may that be honey in thy mouth!
 
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