Today, a ‘little ode’ Ronsard wrote, chiding his mistress, around 1555. Originally in the Meslanges, this was ‘retranchée’ to a Ronsardian appendix in later editions.
Je veux aymer ardentement : Aussi veus-je qu’egallement On m’ayme d’une amour ardente : Toute amitié froidement lente Qui peut dissimuler son bien Ou taire son mal, ne vaut rien, Car faire en amours bonne mine, De n’aymer point, c’est le vray sine. Les amants si frois en esté Admirateurs de chasteté, Et qui morfondus petrarquisent, Sont toujours sots, car ils ne prisent Amour qui de sa nature est Ardent et prompt, et à qui plest De faire qu’une amitié dure Quand elle tient de sa nature. I hope to love ardently ; And I hope too that equally She’ll love me with ardent love. Every affair which is cold and slow, Which can hide the good things Or be silent about the bad, is worth nothing; For putting on a good face in love Is the true sign of loving not at all. Those lovers, so cold in summer, Admirers of chastity, Who feeling dejected make Petrarchan rhymes, They’re always fools, for they do not prize Love, who by nature is Ardent and eager, and who is happy To make affairs long-lasting When they are of his kind. Ronsard invents the word (or re-uses his previously-invented word) ‘to Petrarch-ise’, implying of course inferior copyists rather than those who, like Ronsard, can imitate Petrarch’s quality as well as style! Blanchemain’s version has only one minor variant: “Ces” for “Les” at the start of the second stanza. Oddly, Blanchemain prints it among the “Oeuvres inédites” (unpublished works) with a footnote explaining it was published in the second (1555) edition of the ‘Meslanges’…?!Monthly Archives: September 2016
Interlude (3)
To conclude this brief series, a poem from book 2 of the Amours: no. 42. This first appeared as one of the ‘Sinope’ poems in 1559, but even with fewer years to work on it, Ronsard generated a multitude of versions. Here is emendation with a vengeance! There’s also an intriguing textual puzzle in the version Blanchemain offers, in which there are two variants I haven’t (yet) found in a Ronsard edition, and another which seems to have come from a very late text…
1559 Si j’estois Jupiter, Sinope, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, royne des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison la grand mer vous auriez : Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire sous vos mains, dame des terres rondes, Et de sur une coche en belles tresses blondes, Par le peuple en honneur deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne le suis pas, et puis vous ennuyez D’aymer les bonnets rons, gras troupeau de l’Eglise. Ah ! vous ne sçavez pas l’honneur que vous fuiez, Ny les biens qui cachez dedans ce bonnet sont. Si l’amour dans le monde a sa demeure prise, Il ne la prit jamais que dans un bonnet rond. | If I were Jupiter, Sinope, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your home the great sea ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power in your hands, lady, over the round world, And on a coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not that, and then you’re bored with loving the round-bonneted troop of Churchmen. Ah, you know not the honour you flee Nor the good things which are hidden inside this bonnet. If love had made his home in this world, He’d never have made it other than in a round bonnet. |
1560 Si j’estois Jupiter, Sinope, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, royne des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison la grand mer vous auriez : Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire sous vos mains, dame des terres rondes,, Et de sur une coche en belles tresses blondes, Par le peuple en honneur deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne le suis pas, et si ne le puis estre : Pour telles dignités le ciel ne m’a fait naistre ; Mais je voudrois avoir changé mon bonnet rond, Et vous avoir chez moi pour ma chère espousée ; Tout ainsi que la neige au chaut soleil se fond, Je me fondrois en vous d’une douce rousée. | If I were Jupiter, Sinope, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your home the great sea ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power in your hands, lady, over the round world, And on a coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not that, nor can I become that : For such honours heaven did not have me born. But I wish I could have exchanged my round bonnet And had you in my home as my dear wife ; Just as the snow melts in the hot sunshine, So I would melt into you like the soft dew. |
Belleau (ed Buon 1571) Si j’estois Jupiter, Sinope, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, royne des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison la grand mer vous auriez : Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire sous vos mains, dame des terres rondes,, Et dessus une coche en belles tresses blondes, Par le peuple en honneur deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas Dieu, et si ne le puis estre : Pour telles dignités le ciel ne m’a fait naistre ; Mais je voudrois avoir changé de bonnet rond, Et vous avoir chez moi pour ma chère espousée ; Tout ainsi que la neige au chaut soleil se fond, Je me fondrois en vous d’une douce rousée. | If I were Jupiter, Sinope, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your home the great sea ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power in your hands, lady, over the round world, And upon a coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not a god, nor can I become one : For such honours heaven did not have me born. But I wish I could have exchanged my round bonnet And had you in my home as my dear wife ; Just as the snow melts in the hot sunshine, So I would melt into you like the soft dew. |
1578 Si j’estois Jupiter, Marie, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois Roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, Roine des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison les ondes vous auriez. Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire sous vos mains, dame des terres rondes, Et dessus un beau Coche en belles tresses blondes Par le peuple en honneur Deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas Dieu, et si ne le puis estre : Le ciel pour vous servir seulement m’a fait naistre, De vous seule je prens mon sort avantureux. Vous estes tout mon bien, mon mal, et ma fortune. S’il vous plaist de m’aimer, je deviendray Neptune, Tout Dieu, tout Jupiter, tout riche et tout heureux. | If I were Jupiter, Marie, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have the waves as your home ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power in your hands, lady, over the round world, And upon a beautiful coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not a god, nor can I become one : Heaven had me born only to serve you, From you alone I receive my venturesome fate. You are all my good, my ills, my fortune. If it pleases you to love me, I shall become Neptune, A god entire, Jupiter entire, entirely rich, and entirely happy. |
1584 Si j’estois Jupiter, Marie, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois Roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, Roine des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison les ondes vous auriez. Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire sous vos mains, dame des terres rondes, Et dessus un beau Coche en belles tresses blondes Par le peuple en honneur Deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas Dieu, et si ne le puis estre : Le ciel pour vous servir seulement m’a fait naistre, De vous seule je prens mon sort avantureux. Vous estes tout mon bien, mon mal, et ma fortune. S’il vous plaist de m’aimer, je deviendray Neptune, Tout Jupiter tout Roy tout riche et tout heureux. | If I were Jupiter, Marie, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your home the waves ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power in your hands, lady, over the round world, And upon a fine coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not a god, nor can I become one : Heaven had me born only to serve you, From you alone I receive my venturesome fate. You are all my good, my ills, my fortune. If it pleases you to love me, I shall become Neptune, Jupiter entire, King entire, entirely rich, and entirely happy. |
1587 Si j’estois Jupiter, Maistresse, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois Roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, Roine des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre palais les ondes vous auriez. Si le Monde estoit mien, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire de la terre aux mammelles fecondes, Et dessus un beau Coche en belles tresses blondes Par le peuple en honneur Deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas Dieu, et si ne le puis estre : Le ciel pour vous servir seulement m’a fait naistre, De vous seule je prens mon sort avantureux. Vous estes tout mon bien, mon mal, et ma fortune. S’il vous plaist de m’aimer, je deviendray Neptune, Tout Jupiter tout Roy tout riche et tout heureux. | If I were Jupiter, mistress, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your palace the waves ; If the world were mine, you would hold with me Power over the earth with its fertile breasts, And upon a fine coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not a god, nor can I become one : Heaven had me born only to serve you, From you alone I receive my venturesome fate. You are all my good, my ills, my fortune. If it pleases you to love me, I shall become Neptune, Jupiter entire, King entire, entirely rich, and entirely happy. |
Si j’estois Jupiter, Sinope, vous seriez Mon espouse Junon : si j’estois roy des ondes, Vous seriez ma Tethys, royne des eaux profondes, Et pour vostre maison l’Océan vous auriez : Si la terre estoit mienne, avec moy vous tiendriez L’empire de la terre aux mammelles fecondes, Et, dessus une coche en belles tresses blondes, Par le peuple en honneur deesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas Dieu, et si ne le puis estre : Pour telles dignités le ciel ne m’a fait naistre ; Mais je voudrois avoir changé mon bonnet rond, Et vous avoir chez moi pour ma chère espousée ; Tout ainsi que la neige au doux soleil se fond, Je me fondrois en vous d’une douce rousée. | If I were Jupiter, Sinope, you would be My wife Juno ; if I were king of the waves, You would be my Tethys, queen of the deep waters And would have as your home the Ocean ; If the earth were mine, you would hold with me Power over the earth with its fertile breasts, And upon a coach, with your beautiful blonde hair, You would go like a goddess, honoured by the people. But I am not a god, nor can I become one : For such honours heaven did not have me born. But I wish I could have exchanged my round priest’s hat And had you in my home as my dear wife ; Just as the snow melts in the soft sunshine, So I would melt into you like the soft dew. |
(The exploration of this poem was inspired by the work of R A Sayce in « Ronsard the Poet » ed Terence Cave.)
Interlude (2)
Continuing the brief series of multi-variant poems, let’s look at no.2 in the 1st book of Amours…. Here there are fewer variant versions, and it’s noticeable that the poem had a 25-year run before Ronsard began adjusting! Quite what made him begin then is – well, your theory is as good as mine. Note that he reversed some of the 1578 changes in 1584 (marked in blue). Again, there are some ‘posthumous’ variants from the edition Ronsard was working on when he died.
1552 Nature ornant la dame qui devoyt De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles, Luy fit present des beautez les plus belles, Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt. Tout ce qu’Amour avarement couvoyt, De beau, de chaste, et d’honneur soubz ses ailles, Emmiella les graces immortelles De son bel oeil qui les dieux emouvoyt. Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue, Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue En devint folle: et d’un si poignant trait, Le fier destin l’engrava dans mon ame, Que vif ne mort, jamais d’une aultre dame Empraint au cuoeur je n’auray le portraict. | Nature, adorning the lady who ought By her sweetness to compel the most mutinous, Made her a gift of the most lovely of beautiful features Which she had been keeping in her closet for a thousand years. Everything which Cupid avariciously brewed Of beauty, chastity and honour beneath his wings Sweetened the immortal grace Of her beautiful eyes, which moved the gods themselves. Scarcely had she come down from heaven When I saw her, when my desperate soul Became crazy for her: and with such a sharp wound Did proud Fate engrave her on my soul That living or dead, I shall never have the portrait Of any other lady imprinted on my heart. |
1578 Nature ornant Cassandre, qui devoyt De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles, Luy fit present des beautez les plus belles, Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt De tous les biens qu’Amour-oiseau couvoyt, Au plus beau Ciel cherement sous ses ailles, Il enrichit les graces immortelles De l’œil son Nyc [=nid], qui les dieux emouvoyt. Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue, Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue Perdit raison, et d’un si poignant trait, Le fier destin la poussa dans mes veines, Qu’autres plaisirs je ne sens que mes peines, Ny autre bien qu’adorer son portrait. | Nature, adorning Cassandre who ought By her sweetness to compel the most mutinous, Made her a gift of the most lovely of beautiful features Which she had been keeping in her closet for a thousand years. With all the good things which the Love-bird brewed, So dear to him, under his wings in beautiful Heaven He enriched the immortal grace Of his nest, her eyes, which moved the gods themselves. Scarcely had she come down from heaven When I saw her, when my desperate soul Lost its reason: and with such a sharp blow Did proud Fate drive her into my veins That other pleasures than my pains I feel not, Nor any good but worshipping her portrait. |
1584 Nature ornant Cassandre, qui devoyt De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles, La composa de cent beautez nouvelles, Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt De tous les biens qu’Amour-oiseau couvoyt, Au plus beau Ciel cherement sous ses ailles, Elle enrichit les graces immortelles De son bel oeil qui les dieux emouvoyt. Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue, Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue En devint folle: et d’un si poignant trait, Amour coula ses beautez en mes veines, Qu’autres plaisirs je ne sens que mes peines, Ny autre bien qu’adorer son portrait. | Nature, adorning Cassandre who ought By her sweetness to compel the most mutinous, Composed her of a hundred novel beauties Which she had been keeping in her closet for a thousand years. With all the good things which the Love-bird brewed, So dear to him, under his wings in beautiful Heaven She enriched the immortal grace Of her fair eyes, which moved the gods themselves. Scarcely had she come down from heaven When I saw her, when my desperate soul Became crazy for her: and with such a sharp blow Did Love pour her beauties into my veins That other pleasures than my pains I feel not, Nor any good but worshipping her portrait. |
1587 Nature ornant Cassandre, qui devoyt De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles, La composa de cent beautez nouvelles, Que des mille ans en espargne elle avoyt De tous les biens qu’Amour au Ciel couvoyt, Comme un tresor cherement sous ses ailles, Elle enrichit les graces immortelles De son bel oeil qui les dieux emouvoyt. Du ciel à peine elle estoyt descendue, Quand je la vi, quand mon ame ésperdue En devint folle: et d’un si poignant trait, Amour coula ses beautez en mes veines, Qu’autres plaisirs je ne sens que mes peines, Ny autre bien qu’adorer son portrait. | Nature, adorning Cassandre who ought By her sweetness to compel the most mutinous, Composed her of a hundred novel beauties Which she had been keeping in her closet for a thousand years. With all the good things which Love in heaven brewed, So dear to him, under his wings like a treasure, She enriched the immortal grace Of her fair eyes, which moved the gods themselves. Scarcely had she come down from heaven When I saw her, when my desperate soul Became crazy for her: and with such a sharp blow Did Love pour her beauties into my veins That other pleasures than my pains I feel not, Nor any good but worshipping her portrait. |
(These explorations of poems 1 & 2 were inspired by the work of Louis Terreaux, in « Ronsard Correcteur de Ses Œuvres » (1968).)
Interlude – Ronsard as emender
I thought it might be illuminating to look at the way Ronsard adjusted his poems through the various editions in his lifetime. It will already be obvious that there are sometimes quite substantial variants between the two editions (broadly, early & late) that I’ve been using. Here I’m filling in some extra detail!
We’ll look at 3 poems: chosen mainly because someone else pointed them out as good examples! First, the opening poem of the 1st book of Amours.
Note the arrival then departure of the dying swan motif: Ronsard’s friends and editors thought he remnoved it because editors pointed out that dying swans don’t sing, they just moan! No further commentary though: scholars and poets are thoroughly divided on whether Ronsard improved or damaged his poems by continually fiddling with them, and to me the best approach is simply to admit this is a subjective judgement – and consequently one each reader will make for him- or herself.
I’ve included the 1587 posthumous edition, for it’s one-word variation (!)
1552 Qui voudra voir comme un dieu me surmonte, Comme il m’assaut, comme il se fait vainqueur, Comme il renflamme et renglace mon coeur, Comme il se fait un honneur de ma honte, Qui voudra voir une jeunesse prompte A suivre en vain l’objet de son malheur, Me vienne voir: il verra ma douleur Et la rigueur de l’archer qui me dompte. Il cognoistra combien la raison peut, Contre son arc, quand une fois il veut Que nostre cueur son esclave demeure, Et si verra que je suis trop heureux D’avoir au flanc l’aiguillon amoureux, Plein du venin dont il faut que je meure. | Whoever wants to see how a god is overcoming me, How he is assaulting me, how he is making himself conqueror, How he is burning then freezing my heart, How he is gaining glory for himself from my shame; Whoever wants to see youth quick To pursue in vain the object of its misfortune, Let him come and see me: he will see my misfortune, And the harshness of the archer who overwhelms me. He will understand how much reason can do Against his bow, when once he wishes Our hearts to remain his slaves, And, too, will see that I am too happy To have love’s spur in my side, Full of the poison which must kill me. |
1567 Qui voudra voir comme un dieu me surmonte, Comme il m’assaut, comme il se fait vainqueur, Comme il renflamme et renglace mon coeur, Comme il se fait un honneur de ma honte, Qui voudra voir une jeunesse prompte A suivre en vain l’objet de son malheur, Me vienne voir: il verra ma douleur Et la rigueur de l’archer qui me dompte. Il cognoistra combien peut la raison, Contre son trait, quand sa douce poison Tourmente un cueur que la jeunesse enchante; Et cognoistra que je suis trop heureux D’estre, en mourant, nouveau cygne amoureux, Qui plus languit, et plus doucement chante. | Whoever wants to see how a god is overcoming me, How he is assaulting me, how he is making himself conqueror, How he is burning then freezing my heart, How he is gaining glory for himself from my shame; Whoever wants to see youth quick To pursue in vain the object of its misfortune, Let him come and see me: he will see my misfortune, And the harshness of the archer who overwhelms me. He will understand how much reason can do Against his blow, when its sweet poison Torments a heart which youth enchants; And he will know that I am too happy To be, as I die, another swan in love Who, as he fades, sings sweeter still. |
1578 Qui voudra voir comme un dieu me surmonte, Comme il m’assaut, comme il se fait vainqueur, Comme il renflamme et renglace mon coeur, Comme il se fait un honneur de ma honte, Qui voudra voir une jeunesse prompte Qui voudra voir un sujet de malheur, Me vienne lire: il lira ma douleur Dont ma Maistresse et Amour font conte. Il cognoistra que foible est la raison, Contre son trait, quand sa douce poison Corrompt le sang, tant le mal nous enchante; Et cognoistra que je suis trop heureux D’estre, en mourant, nouveau cygne amoureux, Qui son obseque à soy-mesme se chante. | Whoever wants to see how a god is overcoming me, How he is assaulting me, how he is making himself conqueror, How he is burning then freezing my heart, How he is gaining glory for himself from my shame; Whoever wants to see excited youth, Whoever wants to see an object of misfortune, Let him come and read me: he will read of my misfortune, Of which my Mistress and Love tell stories. He will understand that reason is feeble Against his blow, when its sweet poison Corrupts the blood, so much does evil enchant us; And he will know that I am too happy To be, as I die, another swan in love Who, as he fades, sings sweeter still. |
1584 Qui voudra voir comme Amour me surmonte, Comme il m’assaut, comme il se fait vainqueur, Comme il renflamme et renglace mon coeur, Comme il se fait un honneur de ma honte, Qui voudra voir une jeunesse prompte A suivre en vain l’objet de son malheur, Me vienne lire: il verra ma douleur Dont ma déesse et mon dieu ne font conte. Il cognoistra qu’Amour est sans raison, Un doux abus, une belle prison, Un vain espoir qui de vent nous vient paistre. Et cognoistra que l’homme se décoit Quand plein d’erreur un aveugle il reçoit Pour sa conduite, un enfant pour son maistre. | Whoever wants to see how Love is overcoming me, How he is assaulting me, how he is making himself conqueror, How he is burning then freezing my heart, How he is gaining glory for himself from my shame; Whoever wants to see excited youth, Whoever wants to see an object of misfortune, Let him come and read me: he will see my misfortune, Of which my goddess and my god tell stories. He will understand that Love is without reason a sweet illusion, a good-looking prison, an empty hope which tries to feed us with a breeze. And he will understand that man deceives himself when utterly mistakenly he takes blind Love as his guide, the child Cupid as his master. |
1587 Qui voudra voir comme Amour me surmonte, Comme il m’assaut, comme il se fait vainqueur, Comme il renflamme et renglace mon coeur, Comme il se fait un honneur de ma honte, Qui voudra voir une jeunesse prompte A suivre en vain l’objet de son malheur, Me vienne lire: il verra ma douleur Dont ma déesse et mon dieu ne font conte. Il cognoistra qu’Amour est sans raison, Un doux abus, une belle prison, Un vain espoir qui de vent nous vient paistre. Il cognoistra que l’homme se décoit Quand plein d’erreur un aveugle il reçoit Pour sa conduite, un enfant pour son maistre. | Whoever wants to see how Love is overcoming me, How he is assaulting me, how he is making himself conqueror, How he is burning then freezing my heart, How he is gaining glory for himself from my shame; Whoever wants to see excited youth, Whoever wants to see an object of misfortune, Let him come and read me: he will see my misfortune, Of which my goddess and my god tell stories. He will understand that Love is without reason a sweet illusion, a good-looking prison, an empty hope which tries to feed us with a breeze. He will understand that man deceives himself when utterly mistakenly he takes blind Love as his guide, the child Cupid as his master. |
Amours 1: “Vow”
The second of the two dedicatory sonnets included at the front of book 1. In the last line, Ronsard clearly imagines this poem appearing opposite the picture engraved at the front of the book, showing Cassandre (see top of my Amours 1 page.)
Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal, Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal M’avez d’enfance instruit en vos escoles : Si tout ravy des saults de vos caroles, D’un pied nombreux j’ay guidé vostre bal : Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal, Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles : RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR DE TEMPS EN TEMPS SE PUISSE SOUVENIR QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE : DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL, SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. . Divine sisters, who on the soft streams . Of Castalia, and on your native mount . And on the banks of the equine waters . Have taught me since childhood in your school ; . If, swept away by leaping in your round-dances . I have led your dances with many a step ; . [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal . Engrave these words within your temple : . Ronsard, so that future ages . May from time to time recall . That his youth paid homage to Love, . With his right hand places on your altar . The humble gift of his immortal book, . With the other his heart at the feet of this image. An appeal to the Muses (and their Castalian spring), as so often in the poems in the book. We’ve already noted elsewhere that the spring is also associated with Pegasus, whose (equine) hoof stamping the ground caused it to flow. There’s also a reminiscence of Horace and his odes specifying dedications in temples. Note that, even at the start of his career, Ronsard is already sure his book will be ‘immortal’ – even while it is ‘humble’! Blanchemain’s version is nearer in time to the beginning of the career, of course: Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles Du fleuve Eurote et sur le mont natal Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal M’avez nourri maître de vos escoles : Si mille fois en vos douces carolles, Le guide-danse, ay conduit vostre bal : Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal, En vostre Temple engravez ces paroles : Ronsard, afin que le siecle à venir De père en fils se puisse souvenir D’une beauté qui sagement affole, De la main dextre append à nostre autel L’humble discours de son livre immortel, Son cœur de l’autre aux pieds de ceste idole. . Divine sisters, who on the soft streams . Of river the river Eurotas, and on your native mount . And on the banks of the equine waters . Have brought me up as a master in your lessons ; . If a thousand times in your sweet round-dances . I have steered your balls as leader of the dance ; . [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal . Engrave these words in your temple : . Ronsard, so that the age to come . May recall from father to son . A beauty who wisely made men mad, . With his right hand places on our altar . The humble words of his immortal book, . With the other his heart at the feet of this idol. Here the Muses are located by the river Eurotas – whose spring is in (the real, southern Greek) Arcadia. Note too that Ronsard is not just participating in, but leading, the Muses’ dances! Devotees of Ronsard’s variants may also enjoy this version which Blanchemain footnotes, again showing the (lesser) variants from the late Marty-Laveaux version: Divin troupeau, qui sur les rives molles De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal, Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal Assis, tenez vos plus saintes escoles Si quelquefois, aux sauts de vos carolles, M’avez receu par un astre fatal : Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal, Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles : RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR MAUGRE LE TEMPS, SE PUISSE SOUVENIR QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE : DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL, SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. . Divine company, who on the soft streams . Of Castalia, and on your native mount . And seated on the banks of the equine waters . Hold your most holy lessons . If sometimes in the leaps of your round-dances . You have accepted me by some fateful star, . [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal . Engrave these words within your temple : . Ronsard, so that future ages . Despite time’s [passing], may recall . That his youth paid homage to Love, . With his right hand places on your altar . The humble gift of his immortal book, . With the other his heart at the feet of this image. **EDIT** complete Cassndre poems (Amours 1) now available as a pdf here.
Amours 1: “To his book”
It would be silly to leave the 1st book of Amours without including the 2 dedicatory sonnets Ronsard included at the front of the book. The first of these is his “Sonnet to his book” (in Blanchemain’s edition headed “The Author to his Book”).
Va Livre, va, desboucle la barriere, Lasche la bride, et asseure ta peur, Ne doute point par un chemin si seur D’un pied venteux em-poudrer la carriere : Vole bien tost, j’entens desja derriere De mes suivans l’envieuse roideur Opiniastre à devancer l’ardeur Qui me poussoit en ma course premiere. Mais non, arreste, et demeure en ton rang, Bien que mon cœur bouillonne d’un beau sang, Fort de genoux, d’haleine encore bonne : Livre cesson d’acquerir plus de bien, Sans nous fascher si la belle couronne Du Laurier serre autre front que le mien. . Go, my book, unlock the gate, . Loose the reins, calm your fears, . Don’t be concerned, on so safe a road, . To make your journey dusty with wind-like feet ; . Fly quickly, I hear already behind us . The envious persistence of my pursuers, . Eager to outstrip the ardour . Which urged me first on this course. . But no – stop, stay in your place, . Though my heart seethes and my blood is up, . My knees are strong, my wind still good ; . My book, let’s not gather any more honours, . And stop worrying whether the fair crown . Of laurel will press upon brows other than mine. Typically honest, bold, proud – and at the same time disarmingly charming – Ronsard points out that he already has plenty of fame & awards: so, no need to worry whether this book will gather more, just let it go and let others judge… (The laurel crown is of course the traditional classical prize for a victor; I was delighted to find recently that students in Italy still get a laurel crown to wear at their graduation!!) Also typically, Blanchemain’s version is considerably different: Ronsard re-worked his dedicatory epistles as much as any other verse he wrote. Va Livre, va, desboucle la carrière,
Lasche la bride, et asseure ta peur ;
En cependant que le chemin est seur,
D’un pied venteux empoudre la carriere : Vole bien tost, j’entens desja derriere
De mes suivans l’envieuse roideur
Opiniastre à devancer l’ardeur
Qui m’esperonne en ma course premiere. Mais non, demeure, et n’avance en ton rang,
Bien que je sois eschauffé d’un beau sang,
Fort de genoux, d’haleine encore bonne : Livre cessons d’acquerir plus de bien,
Sans nous fascher si la belle couronne
De Laurier serre autre front que le mien. . Go, my book, off on your journey,
. Loose the reins, calm your fears,
. And while the road is safe,
. Make your journey dusty with wind-like feet ; . Fly quickly, I hear already behind us
. The envious persistence of my pursuers,
. Eager to outstrip the ardour
. Which spurred me first on this course. . But no – stay, don’t march forward,
. Though I am on fire with my blood up,
. My knees are strong, my wind still good ; . My book, let’s not gather any more honours,
. And stop worrying whether the fair crown
. Of laurel will press upon brows other than mine.
Élégie à Muret (Amours 1:227c)
Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer. Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sangler estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Prit le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Qui deux piliers pour ses marques planta. Bref, cest Herôs correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit ce Dieu, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui purgea l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole. Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux. Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur. D’autre que d’elle en son ame ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre amoureuse allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson. Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit. Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô bastarde vergongne, O vilain blasme, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté) Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle. Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie. Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprinse douteuse : Mais lent et vain anonchalant son cœur, Qui des Tyrans l’avoit rendu veinqueur, Terreur du monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’esguille, et tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce joliere, Qui le tenoit en ses fers plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré. Grande Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir sa vie en paresse changee, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee. Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave. Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignée, Impuniment les Monstres ont loisir D’assujettir la terre à leur plaisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant. Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider. Mais si l’amour de son traict indomtable A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor l’aire de nostre front, Et que la neige en vieillesse venue Encor ne fait nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : il n’est pas mal-seant, Mais grand honneur au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire. | No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters. Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, Who planted two pillars as his mark. In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt that God, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who had cleaned up the world, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him. Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules. He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart. He thought of no other than her in his soul; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now love’s fever, aflame, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love. Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters. Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o impure shame, O sordid blame, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world) Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden. See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness. That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly making listless his heart Which had made him conqueror of tyrants, The terror of the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle and twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her chains Than a prisoner chained in the stocks. Great Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life changed to laziness, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus. What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master. And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had leisure with immunity To subject the earth at their pleasure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived. So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses. But love with his unbeatable wound Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make Our brows look furrowed, And the snow which comes with age Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: it is not improper But a great honour for us simple folk To copy the example of great lords. |
Then we move on to the lover’s madness: Ronsard focuses on his love for Iole (though, as we have seen, he had other wives too!), which was more powerful than the commands of King Eurystheus (the ‘king and commander’ for whom Hercules undertook the Labours, and also his cousin – not ‘brother’ as Ronsard terms him). Juno appears, because in her jealousy she had driven Hercules (or ‘Alcides’) mad so that he killed his earlier wife Megara: it was to atone for this that he was tasked with the Twelve Labours. Ronsard however melds the story of Iole with that of Omphale, for it was her he served (as yet another penance) dressed as woman, while she wore his lion-skin. ======== As usual the earlier version, printed by Blanchemain, has plenty of minor variants; but there’s nothing substantial. So, as usual, the best way to show them is to re-print the full text, rather than scatter dozens of line references here. They are mostly ‘corrections’ for euphony – e.g. in the 3rd stanza where “ce heros” is replaced by “cest heros” (which runs on more easily) – though “Sentit ce dieu” (in place of “Sentit Amour” – removing the ‘t’ sound) raplces it with a rather insistent ‘s’ repetition instead.
Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer. Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sanglier estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Print le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Et qui deux mons pour ses marques planta. Bref, ce héros correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit Amour, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui dompta l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole. Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux. Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur. D’autre que d’elle en son cœur il ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre ardamment allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson. Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit. Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô honteuse vergongne, O deshonneur, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté) [var : Après avoir le ciel courbe porté.] Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle. Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie. Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprise douteuse : Mais lent et vain abatardant son cœur, Et son esprit, qui l’avoit fait vainqueur De tout le monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’aiguille ou tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce geolière, Qui le tenoit en ses lacs plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré. Vraiment, Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir ainsi sa vie estre changée, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee. Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave. Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignee, Impuniment les Monstres ont plaisir D’assujettir la terre à leur loisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant. Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider. Mais si l’Amour, las ! las ! trop misérable ! A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor le champ de nostre front, Et que la neige avant l’age venue Ne fait encor nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : car il n’est mal-seant, Pour quelquefois, au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire. | No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters. Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, And who planted two mounds as his mark. In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt Love, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who conquered everything, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him. Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules. He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart. He thought of no other than her in his heart; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now a fever, fiercely flaming, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love. Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters. Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o shameful immodesty, O dishonour, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world) [var: After bearing the curved skies] Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden. See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness. That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly bastardising his heart And spirit, which had made him a conqueror Of all the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle or twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her snares Than a prisoner chained in the stocks. Truly, Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life so changed, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus. What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master. And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had pleasure with immunity To subject the earth at their leisure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived. So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses. But love – alas, alas, how wretched! – Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make The plains of our forehea furrowed, And the snow arriving before its time Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: for it is not improper For us simple folk sometimes To copy the example of great lords. |
Castro – Que dois-je faire?
Title
Que dois-je faire? amour me fait errer
Composer
Jean de Castro
Source
Livre de Chansons à 5 parties … , Phalèse 1586
(text not yet on Lieder.net site)
(blog entry here)
(recorded extract unavailable)
I’d meant this next post to be a poem; but instead a minor coup. This song by Castro has not generally been recognised as a Ronsard setting – though Jeanice Brooks spotted it in her edition of Castro, it was missed by Thibaut and by the Ricercar online “Catalogue de la chanson de la Renaissance 1480-1600“. As you can see from the link to the blog post above, it is indeed the closing sestet of one of the earlier (and more famous) sonnets.
Castro is also a new composer to this blog, so a few words are in order. I consider Castro to be one of the most unjustly-neglected composers of his generation: though not as versatile or as great as Lassus, he is equal or better than far more well-known composers like de Monte, Giaches de Wert or Arcadelt, and stands head-and-shoulders above most of his contemporaries, like Goudimel, Costeley or Certon. 400+ of his compositions survive in a wide range of genres and for from 2 to 8 voices; and in his lifetime was considered (at least in Antwerp, where he worked!) second only to Lassus. This is from one of his many ‘solo’ publications:
Castro has been better-served by the recording industry than some of his contemporaries, but there is still far too little of his music available. Perhaps because unrecognised as a Ronsard setting, this song has not been recorded yet.
Yet this setting is typically excellent. There is a marvellous contrasting section in bars 40ff, where the three middle voices chatter along while the top voice holds long notes; there is a marvellous variety of movement throughout, and the only weak point (if it is one) I can suggest is the way the bassus simply outlines D and A for much of the time.
I don’t think we’ve had a song from the press of Pierre Phalèse in Antwerp (Anvers) yet, so here is a picture (from the Contra partbook) to show the founts he used in printing his music:
Thanks to the Bavarian State Library for its excellent digital selection, from which I ‘borrowed’ the picture above & which I used to transcribe the song.