Amours 2:68

En vain pour vous ce bouquet je compose,

En vain pour vous ma Deesse il est fait :

Vostre beauté est bouquet du bouquet,

La fleur des fleurs, la rose de la rose.

 

Vous et les fleurs differez d’une chose,

C’est que l’Hyver les fleurettes desfait,

Vostre Printemps en ses graces parfait,

Ne craint des ans nulle metamorphose.

 

Heureux bouquet, n’entre point au sejour

De ce beau sein, ce beau logis d’Amour,

Ne touche point ceste pomme jumelle :

 

Ton lustre gay d’ardeur se faniroit,

Et ta verdeur sans grace periroit,

Comme je suis fany pour l’amour d’elle.

 

 

 

                                                                            In vain for you do I put together this bouquet,

                                                                            In vain for you my goddess is it made :

                                                                            Your beauty is the bouquet among bouquets,

                                                                            The flower among flowers, the rose amongst roses.

 

                                                                            You and the flowers differ in one thing,

                                                                            Which is that winter destroys the flowers

                                                                            But your spring, perfect in its grace,

                                                                            Does not fear any change from the years.

 

                                                                            Fortunate bouquet, do not go to rest

                                                                            In that fair bosom, that fair home of Love,

                                                                            Do not touch those twin apples;

 

                                                                            Your lustre, gay and warm, will fade

                                                                            And your freshness will perish gracelessly,

                                                                            As I am faded for love of her.

 

 

 

A neatlt-tied bow to end the book: a bouquet of flowers which is really a bouquet of verse, a metaphor about flowers being outshone by Marie, which is really a self-deprecating remark that his own poetry cannot outshine her…

 

Blanchemain notes that Ronsard added this in 1578 – but includes it in his ‘1560’ edition, because it is after all a better envoi than the poems around it! He has a variant in line 3 – “Car vous serez le bouquet du bouquet” (‘For you will be the bouquet among bouquets’) – and a different ending. Here’s his final tercet, perhaps re-written through dissatisfaction with the repetitions of the last line, even though they reflect line 3:

 

 

Ton lustre gay se faniroit d’esmoy ;

Tu es, bouquet, digne de vivre, et moy

De mourir près des beautez de la belle.

 

                                                                            Your gay lustre will fade from irritation:

                                                                            You, my bouquet, are worthy of living, and I

                                                                            Of dying near my beauty’s beauties.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:66

Amour, voyant du Ciel un pescheur sur la mer,

Calla son aile bas sur le bord du navire :

Puis il dit au pescheur, Je te pri’ que je tire

Ton reth qu’au fond de l’eau le plomb fait abysmer.

 

Un Dauphin qui sçavoit le feu qui vient d’aimer,

Voyant Amour sur l’eau, à Tethys le va dire :

Tethys si quelque soin vous tient de nostre empire,

Secourez-le ou bien tost il s’en va consumer.

 

Tethys laissa de peur sa caverne profonde,

Haussa le chef sur l’eau et vit Amour sur l’onde.

Puis elle s’ecria : Mon mignon, mon nepveu,

 

Fuyez et ne bruslez mes ondes, je vous prie.

Ma tante, dit Amour, n’ayez peur de mon feu,

Je le perdis hier dans les yeux de Marie.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, seeing from heaven a fisherman on the sea,

                                                                            Folded his wings, settling low on the boat’s side,

                                                                            Then said to the fisherman, “Please may I take

                                                                            Your net which lead-weights make sink deep in the sea ?”

 

                                                                            A dolphin which understood the fire which comes from loving,

                                                                            Seeing Love on the sea, went to tell Tethys :

                                                                            “Tethys, if you have any care for our kingdom,

                                                                            Come to its aid or it will very soon be consumed.”

 

                                                                            Tethys left her deep cavern in fear,

                                                                            Raised her above the water and saw Love on the waves.

                                                                            Then she cried, “my darling, my nephew,

 

                                                                            Run away, don’t burn up my waves, I beg you.”

                                                                            “Aunt,” said Love, “have no fear of my fire,

                                                                            I lost it yesterday in the eyes of Marie.”

 

 

 

An odd poem really – the desire for a net (to capture more victims?) being unexplained, and the poem running off into an extended fire metaphor.

 

Blanchemain offers the usual minor minor variants. The end of the second stanza is “Secourez-le ou bien tout il est prest d’enflammer” (‘Come to its aid or he’s all set to burn it up’), and the end of the third is “Puis elle s’ecria : Las ! Amour, mon nepveu…” (‘Then she cried, “Oh, Love, my nephew’…). Finally, the last stanza begins “Ne bruslez de vos feux mes ondes…” (‘Don’t burn up my waves with your fires…’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La Quenoille – – (Amours 2.67c)

This poem is simply called “La Quenoille” (the distaff – the long tall bit on top of a spinning wheel on which the wool is wound as it’s spun); not a chanson officially, or an elegy, or anything else. Ronsard got quite annoyed when critics laughed at him for making so much of the gift of something so functional, a reaction which Belleau reflects in a footnote: ‘If all the ladies who laughed at the simple and inexpensive gift of the poet to a fair simple girl, wise and not lazy, were as skilled and useful as her, our age would have greater worth’. So there!  (Belleau uses, or invents, the word “prudfemme“, a match for “prudhomme“, which I’ve here rendered as ‘skilled and useful’.)  It’s relevant that the idea has classical roots, being from Theocritus,who gives a distaff as a present to the wife of Nicias, a doctor, his host and friend.

Quenoille, de Pallas la compagne et l’amie, Cher present que je porte à ma chere Marie, A fin de soulager l’ennuy qu’elle a de moy, Disant quelque chanson en filant dessur toy, Faisant piroüeter à son huis amusée Tout le jour son roüet et sa grosse fusée.   Quenouille, je te meine où je suis arresté : Je voudrois racheter par toy ma liberté. Tu ne viendras és mains d’une mignonne oisive, Qui ne fait qu’attifer sa perruque lascive, Et qui perd tout son temps à mirer et farder Sa face, à celle fin qu’on l’aille regarder : Mais bien entre les mains d’une disposte fille Qui devide qui coust, qui mesnage et qui file Avecques ses deux sœurs pour tromper ses ennuis, L’hyver devant le feu, l’esté devant son huis,   Aussi je ne voudrois que toy Quenouille faite En nostre Vandomois (où le peuple regrette Le jour qui passe en vain) allasses en Anjou Pour demeurer oisive et te roüiller au clou. Je te puis asseurer que sa main delicate Filera doucement quelque drap d’escarlate, Qui si fin et si souëf en sa laine sera, Que pour un jour de feste un Roy le vestira.   Suy-moy donc, tu seras la plus que bien venue, Quenouille, des deux bouts et greslette et menue, Un peu grosse au milieu où la filace tient Estreinte d’un riban qui de Montoire vient. Aime-laine, aime-fil, aime-estain, maisonniere, Longue, Palladienne, enflée, chansonniere, Suy-moy, laisse Cousture, et allon à Bourgueil, Où, Quenouille, on te doit recevoir d’un bon œil. « Car le petit present qu’un loyal ami donne « Passe des puissans Rois le sceptre et la couronne.

O distaff, companion and friend of Pallas, Dear gift which I being to my dear Marie To lessen the boredom she has of me, Singing some song as she spins on you, Amusedly making her wheel and big bobbin Spin all day at her door.   Distaff, I take you to where I was caught: I hope to buy back my freedom with you. You won’t come into the hands of an idle dainty Who does nothing but tweak her voluptuous hairdo, And who spends all her time admitting herself, painting Her face, with the aim that everyone should come and look at her; Rather, into the hands of a shapely girl Who knows what things cost, who manages, who spins With her two sisters to beguile boredom, In winter before the fire, in summer out of doors.   Also, I don’t want you, distaff made In our Vendôme, where the people regret Any day spent pointlessly, to go to Anjou And remain idle and whirl round on a nail. I can assure you that her delicate hand Will gently spin a scarlet cloth Which will be so fine and so soft in its threads That a king would wear it on a feast-day.   So follow me, you will be more than welcome, Distaff, with your two ends thin and slender, A little fatter in the middle where it holds the tow Gripped by a ribbon which comes from Montoire. Wool-lover, thread-lover, yarn-lover, home-keeper, Tall, Palladian, proud, song-maker, Follow me, leave Cousture, let’s go to Bourgueil Where, distaff, they should welcome you gladly, “For the little gift which a loyal friend gives Surpasses the sceptre and crown of powerful kings.”

 

 

Belleau offers us a profusion of footnotes, mostly on the 4th stanza:

 – Montoire, he tells us, is a town a short three leagues away, near the author’s place of birth;

 – in the following line, he tells us the three “aime-” compounds are “three words invented by the author. Estain is a kind of carded wool ready for spinning. Maisonniere, because the distaff does not leave its home;

 – then, in the next line, it is Palladian not for Palladio (the architectural reference comes later) but because “Pallas [Athene] invented the distaff” (see also line 1). (Note that, in the same line, “enflée” can mean both ‘proud’ and  ‘swollen’ or ‘fat’, as the distaff becomes when wool is wound onto it.)

 – Coustures is “a village in the Varemme at the bottom of Vendome, where the poet was born, at the foot of a south-facing crag in a place which is currently called La Poissoniere, the chateau belonging to the eldest of the house of Ronsard.” In his “Ronsard & the Pléiade” (1906), George Wyndham describes how he “visited his father’s castle, De la Poissonière, as a reverent pilgrim, some years ago. It stands beneath a low cliff of white rock overgrown with ivy, in the gentle scenery, elegiac rather than romantic, to which Ronsard’s verse ever returns. Above the low cliff are remnants of the Forêt de Gastine …”

 

There are, naturally, a few changes in the text as well: note how one of the changes Ronsard made was eliminating the imaginary infinitive “suivir” (not “suivre”) – a poetic licence he allowed himself in his early years but grew unhappy with in later life.

 

Quenoille, de Pallas la compagne et l’amie, Cher present que je porte à ma chere ennemie, Afin de soulager l’ennuy qu’elle a de moy, Disant quelque chanson en filant dessur toy, Faisant piroüeter à son huis amusée Tout le jour son roüet et sa grosse fusée.   Sus ! quenouille, suis moy, je te meine servir Celle que je ne puis m’engarder de suivir. Tu ne viendras és mains d’une pucelle oisive, Qui ne fait qu’attifer sa perruque lascive, Et qui perd tout le jour à mirer et farder Sa face, à celle fin qu’on l’aille regarder : Mais bien entre les mains d’une disposte fille Qui devide qui coust, qui mesnage et qui file Avecques ses deux sœurs pour tromper ses ennuis, L’hyver devant le feu, l’esté devant son huis,   Aussi je ne voudrois que toy, quenouille gente, Qui es de Vendomois (où le peuple se vante D’estre bon ménager), allasses en Anjou Pour demeurer oisive et te roüiller au clou. Je te puis asseurer que sa main delicate Filera dougément quelque drap d’escarlate, Qui si fin et si souëf en sa laine sera, Que pour un jour de feste un Roy le vestira.   Suy-moy donc, tu seras la plus que bien venue, Quenouille, des deux bouts et greslette et menue, Un peu grosse au milieu où la filace tient Estreinte d’un riban qui de Montoire vient. Aime-laine, aime-fil, aime-estain, maisonniere, Longue, Palladienne, enflée, chansonniere, Suy-moy, laisse Cousture, et va droit à Bourgueil, Où, Quenouille, on te doit recevoir d’un bon œil. « Car le petit present qu’un loyal ami donne « Passe des puissans Rois le sceptre et la couronne.

O distaff, companion and friend of Pallas, Dear gift which I being to my dear enemy To lessen the boredom she has of me, Singing some song as she spins on you, Amusedly making her wheel and big bobbin Spin all day at her door.   Up, distaff, and follow me, I lead you to serve Her whom I cannot keep myself from pursuing. You won’t come into the hands of an idle lass Who does nothing but tweak her voluptuous hairdo, And who spends all day admitting herself, painting Her face, with the aim that everyone should come and look at her; Rather, into the hands of a shapely girl Who knows what things cost, who manages, who spins With her two sisters to beguile boredom, In winter before the fire, in summer out of doors.   Also, I don’t want you, gentle distaff Who are from Vendôme, where the people boast Of being good housekeepers, to go to Anjou And remain idle and whirl round on a nail. I can assure you that her delicate hand Will finely spin a scarlet cloth Which will be so fine and so soft in its threads That a king would wear it on a feast-day.   So follow me, you will be more than welcome, Distaff, with your two ends thin and slender, A little fatter in the middle where it holds the tow Gripped by a ribbon which comes from Montoire. Wool-lover, thread-lover, yarn-lover, home-keeper, Tall, Palladian, proud, song-maker, Follow me, leave Cousture, and go straight to Bourgueil Where, distaff, they should welcome you gladly, “For the little gift which a loyal friend gives Surpasses the sceptre and crown of powerful kings.”

 

Note in the 3rd stanza the word “dougément”: Belleau explains that this means “subtly, with thin fine threads. Dougé is a word from Anjou and the Vendome, used by spinners who spin the thread thin and slender with their spindles. It appears from this that Marie was not from a grand or rich family – as we’ve said, for she was a hostelry-girl.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:65

Bien que ton œil me face une dure ecarmouche,

Moy veincu de sa flame et luy tousjours veinqueur :

Bien que depuis trois ans sa cruelle rigueur

Me tienne prisonnier de ta beauté farouche :

 

Bien que son traict meurtrier jusqu’à l’ame me touche,

Si ne veux-je eschapper de si douce langueur,

Ne vivre sans avoir ton image en mon cœur,

Tes mains dedans ma playe, et ton nom en ma bouche.

 

Ce m’est extreme honneur de trespasser pour toy,

Qui passes de beauté la beauté la plus belle.

Un soudart pour garder son enseigne et sa foy,

 

Meurt bien sur le rempart d’une forte Rochelle.

Je mourray bien-heureux s’il te souvient de moy.

« La mort n’est pas grand mal, c’est chose naturelle.

 

 

 

                                                                            Although your eyes gave me a tough fight,

                                                                            And I am conquered by their flame, and they always the conqueror ;

                                                                            Although for three years their cruel severity

                                                                            Has held me prisoner of their wild beauty ;

 

                                                                            Although their murderous wound has reached into my soul ;

                                                                            Yet I have no wish to escape such sweet pining,

                                                                            Nor to live without having your image in my heart,

                                                                            Your hands within my wound, your name on my lips.

 

                                                                            It is for me the greatest honour to die for you

                                                                            Who surpass in beauty the beauty of the most fair.

                                                                            A soldier, to preserve his standard and his trust,

 

                                                                            Dies well on the ramparts of strong La Rochelle ;

                                                                            I shall die happy if you remember me.

                                                                            “Death is no great ill, it is a natural thing.”

 

 

 

I think that the siege of La Rochelle is probably as well-known in England as France, and almost certainly was better-known by far in Ronsard’s time. Still, Belelau felt it necessary to footnote the reference, saying “he means the siege of La Rochelle which Henri, Duke of Anjou and later third King of that name, made against those of the pretended faith, 1572“. No prizes for guessing which side Belleau, like Ronsard, took in the religious debates of the day! Note, however, that despite his catholic sympathies it is the Protestant defender of the city who dies well, defending his standard on the walls. It would be unfair to put Ronsard down as an unthinking factionary; if anything, his discussions of the religious question see the other side as misguided and his aim is unity. It is only when he is attacked unthinkingly and maliciously that he replies scathingly.

 

Blanchemain offers a completely different sestet (and some other variants). It is, I think, obvious that the later La Rochelle version is a far better piece of work than the rather self-pitying and accusatory earlier version. Is it unreasonable, though, to admit that I always love the sound & shape of the word ‘incessament’?!

 

 

Bien que ton œil me face une dure écarmouche,

Moy restant le vaincu et luy tousjours veinqueur :

Bien que depuis trois ans sa cruelle rigueur

Me tienne prisonnier de ta beauté farouche :

 

Bien qu’Amour de son traict incessament me touche,

Si ne veux-je eschapper de si douce langueur,

Ne vivre sans avoir ton image en mon cœur,

Tes mains dedans ma playe, et ton nom en ma bouche.

 

Si tu veux me tuer, tû-moi, je le veux bien :

Ma mort te sera perte et à moy très grand bien,

Et l’œuvre qu’à ton los je veux mettre en lumière

 

Finira par ma mort, finissant mon emoi ;

Ainsi mort, je serai libre de peine, et toi,

Cruelle, de ton nom tu seras la meurdriére.

 

 

 

                                                                            Although your eyes gave me a tough fight,

                                                                            Me remaining the conquered, and they always the conqueror ;

                                                                            Although for three years their cruel severity

                                                                            Has held me prisoner of their wild beauty ;

 

                                                                            Although Love with his arrows incessantly stabs me,

                                                                            Yet I have no wish to escape such sweet pining,

                                                                            Nor to live without having your image in my heart,

                                                                            Your hands within my wound, your name on my lips.

 

                                                                            If you wish to kill me, kill me! I’m content with that.

                                                                            My death will be a loss to you, but a great gain to me,

                                                                            And the work which to your loss I plan to bring to light

 

                                                                            Will end with my death, ending my griefs;

                                                                            Dead like this, i shall be free of pain, and you,

                                                                            Cruel one, will be the murderer of your own name.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:67

Je mourrois de plaisir voyant par ces bocages

Les arbres enlacez de lierres espars,

Et la verde lambrunche errante en mille pars

Sur l’aubespin fleury pres des roses sauvages.

 

Je mourrois de plaisir oyant les doux ramages

Des Hupes, des Coqus, et des Ramiers rouhars

Dessur un arbre verd bec en bec fretillars,

Et des Tourtres aux bois voyant les mariages.

 

Je mourrois de plaisir voyant en ces beaux mois

Debusquer au matin le Chevreuil hors du bois,

Et de voir fretiller dans le Ciel l’Aloüette :

 

Je mourrois de plaisir où je languis transi

Absent de la beauté qu’en ce pré je souhaite.

« Un demy jour d’absence est un an de souci.

 

 

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, seeing in these groves

                                                                            The trees wrapped in thick ivy,

                                                                            And the green creepers wandering a thousand ways

                                                                            On the flowering pine near the wild roses.

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, hearing the sweet song

                                                                            Of hoopoes,cuckoos and cooing pigeons

                                                                            Fluttering beak to beak upon a green tree,

                                                                            And watching the marriages of the turtle-doves in the trees.

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, seeing in those fair months

                                                                            A deer being flushed out of the woods in the morning,

                                                                            And seeing the lark fluttering in the sky;

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure where I languish, numb,

                                                                            Away from the beauty which I seek in this meadow.

                                                                            “One half-day of absence is a year of cares.”

 

 

 

You might like to input “rouhars” (line 6) into a search engine: virtually all the hits are this line of Ronsard. My trusty Larousse dictionary explains why: Ronsard invented the word! These days the French use the verb ‘roucouler’ to describe onomatopoeically the cooing of doves; Ronsard invented the adjective ‘rouhar(d)’.

 

It’s good to be reminded sometimes that, among all the love-faints, poetic miseries etc, there is never any question of Ronsard’s absolutely real love of nature. And here, it is nature which threatens to make him die of pleasure, not Marie – indeed her absence gives him worries and cares, but he doesn’t quite say that her presence would make him die of pleasure! In fact this ending is a bit of a mess …

 

Blanchemain offers minor variants and a different ending: hard to see why in line 11 the grammatically-parallel “voyant … voyant” was changed to the rather awkward grammar of Marty-Laveaux’s version, but harder to see why the slightly awkward grammar of Blanchemain’s effective ending was swapped for a grammatically-straightforward ending which lacks punch and clarity in the later version!

 

 

Je mourrois de plaisir voyant par ces bocages

Les arbres enlacez de lierres espars,

Et la verde lambrunche errante en mille pars

Es aubespins fleuris, pres des roses sauvages.

 

Je mourrois de plaisir oyant les doux ramages

Des Hupes, des Coqus, et des Ramiers rouhars

Dessur un arbre verd bec en bec fretillars,

Et des Tourtres aux bois voyant les mariages.

 

Je mourrois de plaisir voyant en ces beaux mois

Débusquer un matin le chevreuil hors du bois

Et voyant fretiller dans le ciel l’alouette ;

 

Je mourrois de Plaisir, où je meurs de soucy,

Ne voyant point les yeux d’une que je souhaite

Seule une heure en mes bras en ce bocage ici.

 

 

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, seeing in these groves

                                                                            The trees wrapped in thick ivy,

                                                                            And the green creepers wandering a thousand ways

                                                                            Onto the flowering pines near the wild roses.

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, hearing the sweet song

                                                                            Of hoopoes,cuckoos and cooing pigeons

                                                                            Fluttering beak to beak upon a green tree,

                                                                            And watching the marriages of the turtle-doves in the trees.

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure, seeing in those fair months

                                                                            A deer being flushed out of the woods one morning,

                                                                            And seeing the lark fluttering in the sky;

 

                                                                            I shall die of pleasure where I am dying of care,

                                                                            Seeing nothing of the eyes of her whom I wish for

                                                                            Just an hour in my arms here in this wood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Calisto’ again

For interest’s sake, and because the poems are a closely-linked pair, here are the poems by Baif and Calisto I mentioned here. Some sources say Baif’s came first, but the 1555 edition of “Francine” puts Baif’s poem as a response to Calisto’s (though printing Calisto’s as an appendix) – which makes sense to me, and that’s the order they are in here.

 

Calisto’s poem to Baif:

 

Je ne sçay si l’Amour, mon Baïf, te tourmente,

Au tant comme en tes vers tu te fais douloureux,

Pour te voir tant au vif peindre l’heur malheureux

Et l’heureux mal qu’on a d’une ardeur vehemente :

 

Je ne sçay si l’amour ta fureur douce augmente,

Dont tu ecris si bien tout le faict amoureux

Que le docte s’y plaist : et l’amant langoureux

En charme sa douleur, ou avec toy lamente.

 

Mais si l’amour tu sens n’estant que demy-tien,

Comme sont tous amans, et tu nous peins si bien

Les passions d’un cueur alaicté d’esperance :

 

Tu nous fais esperer, rapellant celle part

Que ton ame esgarée à Francine depart,

De te voir desvancer les premiers de la France.

 

 

 

                                                                            I know not if Love torments you, my Baif,

                                                                            As much as, in your verse, you present yourself as miserable,

                                                                            So that we see you, as if in real life, picturing the unfortunate fortune

                                                                            And fortunate misfortune which people in ardent love show:

 

                                                                            I know not if love increases your sweet madness,

                                                                            With which you write so well all the facts of love

                                                                            That learned men can be pleased with it, and the pining lover

                                                                            Charm away his sadness with it, or else lament with you.

 

                                                                            But if the love you feel is only half yours,

                                                                            Like all lovers are, you too paint for us so well

                                                                            The passions of a heart nourished on hope;

 

                                                                            You make us hope, recalling that place

                                                                            Where your soul, straying to Francine, has gone,

                                                                            That we’ll see you outstripping the foremost in France.

 

 

I think we can say that Calisto, whoever he was, was a more-than-competent amateur poet; though his poetry does involve some small torturing of French grammar and construction !

 

Here’s Baif’s response, reflecting back much of the phraseology of the original (but avoiding torturing the language):

 

Calliste, croy pour vray que l’Amour me tourmente,

Bien plus que je ne suis en ces vers douloureux.

Sans rien feindre au plus pres je pein l’heur malheureux

Avec l’heureux malheur d’une ardeur vehemente.

 

Croy pour vray que l’amour ma fureur folle augmente,

Qui me fait degorger ces soupirs amoureux,

Que le sage reprend, où l’amant langoureux

Rengrege sa douleur, et la mienne lamente,

 

Amour ne me permet non d’estre demi-mien,

Moins qu’à nul autre amant : et m’empesche si bien,

Que de me ravoir plus je per toute esperance.

 

Or puis que j’ay perdu celle meilleure part,

Que mon ame égaree à Francine depart,

Je me voy le dernier des derniers de la France.

 

 

 

                                                                            Callisto, believe it true that Love torments me,

                                                                            Much more sad than I seem in these verses.

                                                                            Feigning nothing, I paint my unfortunate fortune as closely as I can

                                                                            With the fortunate misfortune of my passionate ardour.

 

                                                                            Believe it true that love increases my foolish madness,

                                                                            Which makes me dig up these sighs of love

                                                                            That wise men can pick up, with which the pining lover

                                                                            Aggravates his sadness, and laments mine.

 

                                                                            But if the love you feel is only half yours,

                                                                            No less than any other lover; and so completely impedes me

                                                                            That I lose all hope of having myself back again.

 

                                                                            Since I have lost that better part

                                                                            As my soul, straying to Francine, has gone,

                                                                            I see myselfas the hindmost of the hindmost in France.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:63

Calliste, pour aimer je pense que je me meurs,

Je sens dedans mon sang la fiévre continue,

Qui de chaud qui de froid jamais ne diminue,

Ainçois de pis en pis rengrege mes douleurs.

 

Plus je vueil refroidir mes boüillantes chaleurs,

Plus Amour les r’allume : et plus je m’esvertue

De rechaufer mon froid, plus la froideur me tue,

Pour languir au meilleu de deux divers malheurs.

 

Un ardent appetit de jouyr de l’aimée

Tient tellement mon ame en pensers allumée,

Et ces pensers févreux me font resver si fort,

 

Que diete ne jus ny section de veine

Ne me sçauroyent guarir : car de la seule mort

Depend, et non d’ailleurs le secours de ma peine.

 

 

 

                                                                            Callisto, I think I am dying for love,

                                                                            I feel within my blood a continuous fever

                                                                            Which never lessens its heat and its cold,

                                                                            Even as my pain goes from worse to worse.

 

                                                                            The more I try to cool down my boiling fires,

                                                                            The more Love re-lights them; the more I strive

                                                                            To warm up my coldness, the more the cold kills me:

                                                                            I am fading away between two opposite troubles.

 

                                                                            A burning desire to enjoy my beloved

                                                                            Keeps my soul burning with such thoughts,

                                                                            And these feverish thoughts make me dream so strongly

 

                                                                            That neither diet nor drink nor cutting veins

                                                                            Can cure me: for on death alone

                                                                            And nothing else depends the relief for my pain.

 

 

After the last long note about dedicatees, you’ll be pleased to know there’s a lot less to say about ‘Callisto’. 🙂  In fact, almost nothing. Callisto is a nymph in Greek mythology (changed into the Great Bear, Ursa Major); but in French poetic circles, things are less clear. A short footnote by Belleau imparts the information, first, that we are talking about a man, not a woman: so let’s call him ‘Calisto’ (using Blanchemain’s spelling – below). Calisto was ‘very learned, well born and well-versed in several languages, (and) was killed in Paris in 1562.”  Beyond this, we have no biographical information at all: not even a reason why he died (though “fut tué” seems to make it clear that it was not a natural death). 

 

The only other contemporary references are in a pair of poems in Baif’s “Francine” (book 2), one to and one from ‘Calisto’, which tell us that Calisto was a poet – but not much more.  [More famously, Malherbe named the vicomtesse d’Auchy ‘Caliste’ and addressed poems to her, but she was not born till 1570 … ]

 

The poem itself is an attractive example of the usual poetic distresses of love! Blanchemain  has a few minor text variants in the first half, the first of them eliminating a clatter of ‘c’ sounds in the opening line, the others some of his ‘grammatical’ updates eliminating antique phraseology: I might particularly note line 2 where he eliminates a ‘poetic’ inversion of the word order.

 

 

Caliste, pour aimer je crois que je me meurs ;
Je sens de trop aimer la fiévre continue,
Qui de chaud qui de froid jamais ne diminue,
Ainçois de pis en pis rengrege mes douleurs.

 

Plus je veux refroidir mes boüillantes chaleurs, …

 

 

 

                                                                            Callisto, I believe I am dying for love,

                                                                            I feel from loving too much a continuous fever

                                                                            Which never lessens its heat and its cold,

                                                                            Even as my pain goes from worse to worse.

 

                                                                            The more I try to cool down my boiling fires, …

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:60

A Phebus, Patoillet, tu es du tout semblable

De face et de cheveux et d’art et de sçavoir :

A tous deux dans le cœur Amour a fait avoir

Pour une belle Dame une playe incurable.

 

Ny herbe ny onguent contre Amour n’est valable :

« Car rien ne peut forcer de Venus le pouvoir :

Seulement tu peux bien par tes vers recevoir

A ta playe amoureuse un secours allegeable.

 

En chantant, Patoillet, on charme le soucy :

Le Cyclope Ætnean se guarissoit ainsi,

Chantant sur son flageol sa belle Galatée.

 

La peine descouverte adoucit nostre ardeur :

« Ainsi moindre devient la plaisante langueur

« Qui vient de trop aimer quand elle est bien chantée.

 

 

 

                                                                            Patoillet, you are just like Phoebus

                                                                            In face and hair and art and knowledge ;

                                                                            Love has given both of you in your heart

                                                                            An incurable wound for a fair lady.

 

                                                                            No herb or unguent has any worth against Love,

                                                                            “For nothing can force Venus’s power”.

                                                                            Only you can obtain through your verse

                                                                            Some aid to lighten your lover’s wound.

 

                                                                            By singing, Patoillet, we can charm care :

                                                                            The cyclops of Etna cured himself that way

                                                                            Singing with his flute about his fair Galatea.

 

                                                                            Pain revealed reduces our passion:

                                                                            “And so becomes less the pleasant pining

                                                                            Which comes from loving too much, when it is well-sung.”

 

 

 

I’m not sure I can think of another poem we’ve looked at in which he compares one of his (male) friends to a god! His mistresses, yes, it’s virtually a given in love poetry; but to compare his friend to Apollo, not just for his situation but for his appearance and his art? Impressive. So who was this Patoillet? Belleau’s commentary tells us:  “Jean Patoillet, one of our best and loyalest friends, (was) a man of great judgement, great reading, and best-versed in the knowledge of languages, history and other good learning.” To this we can add that he was a native of Dijon, eldest of seven children, never married (though left one illegitimate child, later legitimated by royal order), and died in 1585. He was a protonotary apostolic (a very high papal official), and as a local notable was also the dedicatee of a contemporary history of Dijon. His epitaph recorded that he could recite from memory large chunks of the major classical authors; and he was supposed to have worked on a History though nothing seems to have survived. In other words, a good solid Renaissance man!

 

Ironically, however, the poem was originally addressed to someone else: Jacques Grévin, playwright and poet, and a member of Ronsard’s circle until they fell out. Like so many others, he wrote a book of sonnets (L’Olimpe, addressed to his fiancée, though they subsequently parted), and it was as an introductory sonnet for that volume that the first version (below) of this poem appeared. Grévin is better remembered for his plays, however; his first major success, on Julius Caesar, was imitated from a Latin play by Muret, showing once again how much this circle of poets borrowed and adapted from each other.

 

Younger, a poet, and more showy than Patoillet, the opening comparison with Apollo fits Grévin rather better! So why did his name disappear? Although Belleau simply says that Ronsard was ‘angry’ with him, in fact they fell out over religion, taking different sides in the struggles between the Catholics and Huguenots (Protestants) in the Wars of Religion.

 

The classical reference, to Polyphemus the cyclops and Galatea, is perhaps best known to us these days through Handel’s “Acis and Galatea”. Polyphemus is Aetnean (‘of Etna’) because he and the Cyclopes lived on Sicily, at least according to Callimachus and Virgil, in whose poetry they appear as Vulcan’s assistants under Mt Etna (from where the myth has them throwing the giant rocks lifted by volcanic eruptions). As an aside, it’s worth noting that Theocritus, Callimachus and Propertius all tell the story of Polyphemus and Galatea; it’s not until Ovid that Acis is introduced, and through his version and Handel’s adaptation that has therefore become the variant most well-known today.

 

The early version of the sonnet has a few minor text variants beyond the change of name:

 

 

A Phebus, mon Grevin, tu es du tout semblable

De face et de cheveux et d’art et de sçavoir :

A tous deux dans le cœur Amour a fait avoir

Pour une belle Dame une playe incurable.

 

Ny herbe ny onguent ne t’est point secourable,

Car rien ne peut forcer de Venus le pouvoir :

Seulement tu peux bien par tes vers recevoir

A ta playe amoureuse un secours profitable.

 

En chantant, mon Grevin, on charme le soucy :

Le Cyclope Ætnean se guarissoit ainsi,

Chantant sur son flageol sa belle Galatée.

 

La peine descouverte allege nostre cœur:

Ainsi moindre devient la plaisante langueur

Qui vient de trop aimer quand elle est bien chantée.

 

 

 

                                                                            My Grévin, you are just like Phoebus

                                                                            In face and hair and art and knowledge ;

                                                                            Love has given both of you in your heart

                                                                            An incurable wound for a fair lady.

 

                                                                            No herb or unguent is any help to you,

                                                                            “For nothing can force Venus’s power”.

                                                                            Only you can obtain through your verse

                                                                            Some gainful aid for your lover’s wound.

 

                                                                            By singing, my Grévin, we can charm care :

                                                                            The cyclops of Etna cured himself that way

                                                                            Singing with his flute about his fair Galatea.

 

                                                                            Pain revealed lightens our heart:

                                                                            “And so becomes less the pleasant pining

                                                                            Which comes from loving too much, when it is well-sung.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Amours 2.56a)

 

Comme la cire peu à peu, Quand pres de la flame on l’approche, Se fond à la chaleur du feu : Ou comme au feste d’une roche La neige encores non foulée Au Soleil se perd escoulée :   Quand tu tournes tes yeux ardans Sur moy d’une œillade gentille, Je sens tout mon cœur au-dedans Qui se consomme et se distille, Et ma pauvre ame n’a partie Qui ne soit en feu convertie.   Comme une rose qu’un amant Cache au sein de quelque pucelle Qu’elle enferme bien cherement Pres de son tetin qui pommelle, Puis chet fanie sur la place Au soir quand elle se delace :   Et comme un lis par trop lavé De quelque pluye printaniere, Panche à bas son chef aggravé Dessus la terre nourriciere, Sans que jamais il se releve, Tant l’humeur pesante le gréve :   Ainsi ma teste à tous les coups Se panche de tristesse à terre. Sur moy ne bat veine ny pouls, Tant la douleur le cœur me serre : Je ne puis parler, et mon ame Engourdie en mon corps se pâme.   Adonques pasmé je mourrois, Si d’un seul baiser de ta bouche Mon ame tu ne secourois, Et mon corps froid comme une souche : Me resoufflant en chaque veine La vie par ta douce haleine.   Mais c’est pour estre tourmenté De plus longue peine ordinaire, Comme le cœur de Promethé, Qui se renaist à sa misere, Eternel repas miserable De son vautour insatiable.

Like wax little by little When you bring it near to the flame Melts in the heat of the fire; Or like on the summit of a rock The snow still untrodden Disappears flowing away in the sun;   So, when you turn your burning eyes On me with a gentle glance, I feel my heart within me Entirely consumed and evaporated And my poor soul has no part Which is not converted into fire.   Like a rose which a lover Hides in the breast of some girl Which she keeps very dearly Near her rounded breast, Then falls faded on the spot In the evening when she undresses ;   And like a lily, too much watered By some springtime rain, Bends its overweighted head down Over the ground which nourishes it, And never lifts it back up So much does the heavy liquid weigh it down ;   Just so my head constantly Bends with sadness towards the ground. In me beats no vein or pulse, So much does sadness grip my heart ; I cannot speak, and my soul, Paralysed, faints in my body.   Fainting thus I shall die, If with one single kiss from your mouth You will not rescue my soul And my body which is cold as a stump, Blowing life back into each vein With your sweet breath.   But this, so that it can be tortured By a longer, ordinary pain Like the heart of Prometheus Which is re-born to his sorrow, An eternal, wretched meal For his insatiable vulture.

 

 

This is a wonderful poem: a real favourite. I love the extended metaphor of drooping, dying, over-weighted flowers in the middle, such a graphic and immediate image as well as showing Ronsard’s close connection with the natural world.  And the opening stanzas with their images of melting are no less immediate and visual. Unlike his immediate inspiration, Marullus (below), Ronsard does us the favour of including the name of Prometheus in his poem rather than just the allusion to his post-mortem torture in Hades: although, as in the Latin of Marullus, it’s usually his liver that is torn, in the context of a love-poem substituting the heart makes yet another immediate, direct and effective link.

 

There are minor variants in the second half of the poem (below), but also in line 2 of the second stanza Marie glances with “une œillade subtile” (‘a subtle glance’ rather than a gentle one). Here the physical image of Ronsard collapsing is that much stronger, but perhaps he didn’t like the repetition of ‘knees’; likewise, but with a clearer gain, the repeat of “ainsi” to start consecutive stanzas disappears. In this version, more significantly, there is a touch of malice attributed to Marie’s bringing him back to life, which disappears in the reformulation above.

 

 

… Ainsi ma teste à mes genoux

Me tombe, et mes genoux à terre.

Sur moy ne bat veine ny pouls,

Tant la douleur le cœur me serre :

Je ne puis parler, et mon ame

Engourdie en mon corps se pâme.

 

Lors ainsy pasmé je mourrois,

Si d’un seul baiser de ta bouche

Mon ame tu ne secourois,

Et mon corps froid comme une souche :

Me resoufflant en chaque veine

La vie par ta douce haleine,

 

Afin d’estre plus tourmenté

Et que plus souvent je remeure

Comme le cœur de Promethé,

Qui renaist cent fois en une heure,

Pour servir d’apast miserable

A son vautour insatiable.

 

 

                                                                              … Just so my head falls

                                                                              To my knees, and my knees to the ground.

                                                                              In me beats no vein or pulse,

                                                                              So much does sadness grip my heart ;

                                                                              I cannot speak, and my soul,

                                                                              Paralysed, faints in my body.

 

                                                                              And just so fainting I shall die,

                                                                              If with one single kiss from your mouth

                                                                              You will not rescue my soul

                                                                              And my body which is cold as a stump,

                                                                              Blowing life back into each vein

                                                                              With your sweet breath,

 

                                                                              So that I can be tortured more

                                                                              And more often return

                                                                              Like the heart of Prometheus

                                                                              Which is re-born a hundred times an hour,

                                                                              To serve as the wretched meal

                                                                              For his insatiable vulture.

 

 

As I said above, Ronsard’s immediate inspiration was the following Epigram of Marullus (book 2, no. 2):  Note that in the editions likely to have been used by Ronsard there are some typos which don’t make a lot of sense in lines 2 & 3. I have made some amendments (and was very pleased to find, on checking, that they were the same as the modern editor’s conclusions!). As you can see, the images are the same (if less-developed, as you’d expect in an epigrammatic poem) and the poem falls into the same three sections. Which is not to take anything away from Ronsard; it is one of those perfect ‘translations’ where the poem is re-presented in a different language as a different, but linked, poem.

 

Ignitos quoties tuos ocellos

In me, vita moves repente qualis

Cera defluit impotente flamma,

Aut nix vere novo calente sole,

Totis artubus effluo, nec ulla

Pars nostri subitis vacat favillis.

Tum qualis tenerum caput reflectens

Succumbit rosa verna, liliumve,

Quod dono cupidae datum puellae

Furtivis latuit diu papillis,

Ad terram genibus feror remissis

Nec mens est mihi, nec color superstes

Et iam nox oculis oberrat atra,

Donec vix gelida refectus unda

Ut quod vulturio iecur resurgit

Assuetis redeam ignibus cremandus.

 

 

                                                                              As often as you turn your burning eyes

                                                                              On me, my life suddenly like

                                                                              Wax melts under a weak flame

                                                                              Or the snow in the newly-burning sun;

                                                                              I melt in all my limbs, nor is any

                                                                              Part of me empty of the sudden flames.

                                                                              Then, as the fresh rose or lily bends down,

                                                                              Turning down its tender head

                                                                              Which, given as a gift to an eager girl,

                                                                              She long hid secretly at her breast,

                                                                              So I am borne down to the earth as my knees give way,

                                                                              Nor does my mind work, nor my colour remain,

                                                                              And already dark night prowls around my eyes,

                                                                              Until, scarce-restored by icy water,

                                                                              As that liver [of Prometheus] grew back for the vulture

                                                                              I shall return to be burnt again by the flames I’m used to. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amourette (2:67b)

I guess “amourette” is best translated, ‘a little love-song’…

Or’ que l’hyver roidist la glace épesse,

Réchaufons nous ma gentille maistresse,

Non acroupis pres le foyer cendreux,

Mais aux plaisirs des combats amoureux.

Assison-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus baisez-moy, tendez-moy vostre bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras despliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arrenger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez donc, tournez-moy vostre jouë.

Vous rougissez ? il faut que je me jouë.

Vous sou-riez : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vostre sein : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Ne fuyez pas sans parler : je voy bien

A vos regards que vous le voulez bien.

Je vous cognois en voyant vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous baisast bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Je veux user d’une douce main forte.

Hà vous tombez : vous faites ja la morte.

Hà quel plaisir dans le cœur je reçoy :

Sans vous baiser vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lit quand vous seriez seulette.

Or sus c’est fait ma gentille brunette :

Recommençon afin que nos beaux ans

Soyent reschauffez de combats si plaisans.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched near the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasures of love’s contests.

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me, offer me your lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your enlaced arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your cheek.

                                                                            You’re blushing? But I must play with it.

                                                                            You are smiling: have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your breast: will you allow me?

                                                                            Don’t run off without speaking; I clearly see

                                                                            From your looks that you really want it.

                                                                            I understand you from looking at your face.

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

                                                                            That even if you died, you would not say with your mouth

                                                                            That someone could kiss you even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

                                                                            I want to use a hand that’s soft but strong.

                                                                            Ah, you fall, you are now silent.

                                                                            Ah, what pleasure I get in my heart!

                                                                            If I didn’t kiss you, you would mock me

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

                                                                            Up then, it’s done, my gentle brunette;

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up by such pleasant contests!

 

 

One of the rare poems in which Ronsard approaches the physicality of love-making – though even here he leaves unspoken how far his love-making goes. Perhaps we should think of the “Elegy to his Book” with which Ronsard begins this second set of Amours: there, Ronsard says Petrarch would have been a fool for continuing to write love-poems without having ‘enjoyed’ his Laura…

 

Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien

Il estoit un grand fat d’aimer sans avoir rien.

 

                                                                            Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or else

                                                                            He was a great fool for loving without getting anything.

 

There are a few clumsinesses in here I’m surprised survived to the end of Ronsard’s life – “bien” as the rhyme word in 2 consecutive lines, with no grammatical difference to excuse it (as in “jouë…jouë” or “mettre…permettre”); or “ravit” followed by “ravie” 2 lines later (both prominent as rhyme words). And one of them (“bien..bien”) was even added in the course of re-writing! It’s nice to see, though, the older Ronsard more daringly putting his hand on her breast rather than her knee…  Note also that Blanchemain’s version, unlike the later one, is ‘edited’ into 2 homogeneous groupings: 4+4+4; 8+8+8.  Here’s the substantially-varying early version:

 

Or’ que l’hyver roidit la glace épesse,

Réchaufons-nous, ma gentille maistresse,

Non accroupis dans la fouyer cendreux,

Mais au plaisir des combats amoureux.

 

Assisons-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus, baisez-moy de vostre belle bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras deliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arranger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez-vous, tendez-moy vostre oreille :

Hà ! vous avez la couleur plus vermeille

Que par avant : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vos genoux : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Vous rougissez, maistresse: je voy bien

A vostre front que je vous fais grand bien.

 

Quoi ! vous faut-il cognoistre à vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous le fist bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Or je vay donc user d’une main forte

Pour vous avoir. Ha ! vous faites la morte !

Sus, endurez ce doux je ne sais quoy !

Car autrement vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lict quand vous seriez seulette.

Or sus, c’est fait, ma gentille brunette :

Recommençons, a’ fin que nos beaux ans

Soyent réchauffez en combats si plaisants.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched in the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasure of love’s contests.

 

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me with your lovely lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your loosed arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your ear.

                                                                            Ah, your colour is more crimson

                                                                            Than before!  Have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your knee: will you allow me?

                                                                            You’re blushin, mistress; I clearly see

                                                                            In your face that I’m greatly pleasing you.

 

                                                                            Oh yes, I have to understand you by your face.

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

                                                                            That even if you died, you would not say with your mouth

                                                                            That someone could do it even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

                                                                            So I’m going to use a strong hand

                                                                            To have you. Ah, you are now silent.

                                                                            Come on, enjoy this sweet something!

                                                                            For otherwise you would mock me

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

                                                                            Up then, it’s done, my gentle brunette;

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up in such pleasant contests!