Amours 2:61

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Marie tout ainsi que vous m’avez tourné
Ma raison qui de libre est maintenant servile,
Ainsi m’avez tourné mon grave premier stile,
Qui pour chanter si bas n’estoit point ordonné.
 
Aumoins si vous m’aviez pour ma perte donné
Congé de manier vostre cuisse gentile,
Ou bien si vous estiez à mes desirs facile,
Je n’eusse regretté mon stile abandonné.
 
Las ! ce qui plus me deult c’est que n’estes contanté
De voir que ma Muse est si basse et si rampante,
Qui souloit apporter aux François un effroy :
 
Mais vostre peu d’amour ma loyauté tourmente,
Et sans aucun espoir d’une meilleure attente
Tousjours vous me liez et triomphez de moy.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Marie, just as you’ve transformed
                                                                            My reason, which once free is now servile,
                                                                            So you’ve transformed my earlier, grave style
                                                                            Which was not designed for singing such ordinary themes.
 
                                                                            At least if you’d given me, in exchange for my loss,
                                                                            Leave to touch your noble thigh,
                                                                            Or even if you responded easily to my wishes,
                                                                            I’d not have regretted the style I abandoned.
 
                                                                            Alas, what makes me saddest is that you are not contented
                                                                            With seeing that my Muse is so ordinary, and creeps so,
                                                                            Who was before used to bringing dread to the French;
 
                                                                            But your tiny love torments my faithfulness
                                                                            And with no hope of better expectation
                                                                            You keep me always bound and triumph over me.
 
 
After yesterday’s post, here is Ronsard once again claiming to be writing in such a simple, ‘creeping’ style – so different from his previous thyundering, which brought ‘dread to the French’. Well, you can draw your own conclusions! 
 
Blanchemain’s earlier version has a rather different version of the sestet, but the same sentiment:
 
Las ! ce qui plus me deult c’est que vous n’estes pas
Contente de me voir ainsy parler si bas,
Qui soulois m’eslever d’une muse hautaine :
 
Mais, me rendant à vous, vous me manquez de foy,
Et si me traitez mal, et, sans m’oster de peine,
Tousjours vous me liez et triomphez de moy.
 
 
                                                                            Alas, what makes me saddest is that you are not
                                                                            Content to see me speaking thus in so low a style,
                                                                            I who was used to raise myself up with a haughty Muse;
 
                                                                            But, though I’ve given myself to you, you lack faith in me
                                                                            And so you treat me badly and, without reducing my pains,
                                                                            You keep me always bound and triumph over me.
  
 
 
Blanchemain also offers a rather different version of lines 6-8 in a footnote: again, different words but the same sentiment.
 
Aumoins si vous m’aviez pour ma perte donné
Non un empire enflé de mainte riche ville,
Mais un petit baiser, recompense facile
Je n’eusse regretté mon style abandonné …
 
 
                                                                            At least if you’d given me, in exchange for my loss,
                                                                            Not an empire swollen with many a rich town,
                                                                            But just a little kiss, an easy reward,
                                                                            I’d not have regretted the style I abandoned …
                                                                           

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
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About fattoxxon

Who am I? Lover of all sorts of music - classical, medieval, world (anything from Africa), world-classical (Uzbek & Iraqi magam for instance), and virtually anything that won't be on the music charts... Lover of Ronsard's poetry (obviously) and of sonnets in general. Reader of English, French, Latin & other literature. And who is Fattoxxon? An allusion to an Uzbek singer - pronounce it Patahan, with a very plosive 'P' and a throaty 'h', as in 'khan')

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