Amourette (2:67b)

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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!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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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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