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.

 

And Blanchemain’s version? He appears to use the 1571 (rather than 1560) text as his basis, but with a number of oddities:  “mon bonnet” in line 11 pre-dates the minor change in 1571, but line 6 is otherwise found only in the latest, posthumous text!  And I have not (yet) found “Ocean” (line 4) or “soft” (line 13) in any early edition.

 

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.

 

Ronsard rounds off his first book with poems to several friends; the last of them I’ve got to, but not the last int he book, is this one to Marc-Antoine Muret. It is of course Muret who provided the first commentary on book 1 – he is quite restrained in his comments about this poem’s dedication! Despite its learned references (below), this is a true ode to love in keeping with the book it rounds off. And as usual Ronsard is careful to be consistent : here it is Cupid, the ‘child of the Cytherian’ Venus, who is the villain both at the beginning and at the end of the poem.

 

Ronsard appeals to classical exempla, as so often: in this case, he focuses on Hercules, the hero whose great deeds are complemented, if not overshadowed, by the furious moments of madness associated with his various loves. First come the heroic deeds:

 – Hercules is introduced as “sky-bearer and giant-slayer” (both references return later): among his 12 Labours, he had to retrieve the Golden aApples of the Hesperides, which he did by holding up the sky while Atlas fetched the apples (see also the ‘variant’ Blanchemain prints further down the poem in the earlier version below); he also killed the three-headed Geryon in order to bring back his cattle, but I think ‘giant-slayer’ refers instead to his defeat of Antaeus, who was undefeatable so long as he was in contact with the earth and whom Hercules therefore had to lift off the ground to beat;

 – then we have a number of the other Labours:  the Erymanthean boar, the ‘children of the cloud’ which I assume to mean the Stymphalian birds, the Lernaean Hydra, the three-headed hell-dog Cerberus, the magical belt of Hippolyta (queen of the Amazons, who were supposed to live by the river Terme – the ‘Thermodontian waters’), the ‘maid of Phorcis’ (apparently a reference to the dragon guarding the golden apples of the Hesperides, Ladon, which was Phorcys’s child but which is usually male), and the Nemean lion;

 – intermixed with this list are Nessus the centaur, killed by Hercules after he stole away Deianeira, Hercules’ wife; the sea-monster which was threatening Hesione, the daughter of Laomedon of Troy (Laomedon had persuaded Apollo and Poseidon to build Troy’s walls, but then refused their reward; Poseidon sent the sea-monster to take revenge; Hercules later abducted Hesione when Laomedon also refused him his promised reward!); Achelous, whom Hercules defeated to claim Deianeira as his wife; and last Antaeus again, and the Pillars of Hercules.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.229

J‘alloy roulant ces larmes de mes yeux,

Or’ plein de doute ore plein d’esperance,

Lors que Henry loing des bornes de France

Vengeoit l’honneur de ses premiers ayeux :

 

Lors qu’il trenchoit d’un bras victorieux

Au bord du Rhin l’Espagnole vaillance,

Ja se traçant de l’aigu de sa lance

Un beau sentier pour s’en aller aux cieux.

 

Vous sainct troupeau, mon soustien et ma gloire,

Dont le beau vol m’a l’esprit enlevé,

Si autrefois m’avez permis de boire

 

Les eaux qui ont Hesiode abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I have been continually pouring these tears from my eyes,

                                                                            Now full of doubt, now of hope,

                                                                            While Henri, far from the bounds of France,

                                                                            Has avenged the honour of his first ancestors ;

 

                                                                            While he has broken with his victorious arm

                                                                            Spain’s valour, on the banks of the Rhine,

                                                                            Marking out with the point of his lance

                                                                            A fair path to raise himself to the heavens.

 

                                                                            Oh holy troop, my support and my glory,

                                                                            Whose lovely flight has lifted my spirits,

                                                                            If previously you have allowed me to drink

 

                                                                            The waters which generously you gave Hesiod,

                                                                            May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                            In the holiest place in Memory’s temple. 

 

 

Simplicity, as Ronsard closes his first book of sonnets. And also a glance at the ‘real world’ around him: for this was not a time of peace and love in European politics! The Italian wars were a major feature of Henri II’s reign, all the way through the 1550s, and early victories led ultimately to the embarrassing Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis… The Spanish on the Rhine are, incidentally, the Habsburgs – for that family controlled Austro-Germanic Europe as well as Iberian Europe.

 

So, Ronsard acknowledges that love poetry may not seem the right thing at this time, while gently swinging the balance back towards the pre-eminence of poetry at the end. (Hesiod claimed inspiration from drinking at the fountain of the ‘holy troop’ of Muses on Mt Helicon.)

 

Blanchemain’s version shows considerable variation in the sestet: the opening octet was not changed.

 

 

Vous sainct troupeau qui desus Pinde errez,

Et qui de grâce ouvrez et desserrez

Vos doctes eaux à ceux qui les vont boire

 

Si quelquefois vous m’avez abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire

 

 

                                                                                        Oh holy troop who wander upon Pindus

                                                                                       And who by grace open and release

                                                                                       Your learned waters to those who come to drink them,

 

                                                                                       If sometimes you have given me to drink

                                                                                       May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                                       In the holiest place in Memory’s temple.

 

 

 

  Note how in this earlier version Ronsard does not refer back to Hesiod, but simply offers his own name as proof enough of the Muses’ generosity! There remains one other variant of the later version at the top of the page: in line 12, where yet another great poet enters: “L’eau dont amour a Petrarque abreuvé…” (‘The waters which love generously gave to Petrarch…’)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.225

Si hors du cep où je suis arresté,

Cep où l’Amour de ses fleches m’enclouë,

J’eschappe franc, et du reth qui me nouë,

En libre col je me voy dé-rheté :

 

Au cœur d’un pré loing des gens escarté,

Qu’à bras fourchus l’eau du Loir entrenoüe,

De gazons d’herbe un temple je te voüe,

Heureuse saincte et alme Liberté.

 

Là je veux pendre au plus haut chœur du temple

Un sainct tableau, qui servira d’exemple

A tous amans, qu’ils ne m’aillent suyvant.

 

Et pour garder que plus je n’y retombe,

Je veux tuer aux Dieux une Hecatombe.

« Belle fin fait qui s’amende en vivant.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If out of the vine in which I was caught,

                                                                            The vine in which Love with his arrows bound me,

                                                                            I can clean escape, and from the net which twists around me

                                                                            I can see myself un-netted, my neck freed:

 

                                                                            Then, in the heart of a meadow far remote from people

                                                                            Which the forked arms of the Loir’s waters twist around,

                                                                            On grassy lawns I shall dedicate a temple to you,

                                                                            Happy, holy, divine Liberty.

 

                                                                            There I intend to hang in the highest choirs of the temple

                                                                            A holy image, which will serve as an example

                                                                            To all lovers not to follow me.

 

                                                                            And to make sure I do not fall back,

                                                                            I intend to sacrifice to the gods a hecatomb:

                                                                            “A fine end makes he who mends his ways while alive.”

 

 

 

Some fine neologisms from Ronsard, neatly placed by Ronsard so their meaning is inescapable: I love “dé-rheté” in line 4, half a line after the noun appeared. Muret still felt the need to expound its meaning in his notes, though… (Muret also felt the need to explain that ‘vine’ in line 1 is intended as a synonym for ‘bond’.) This poem is also one of Ronsard’s lovely joinings of the classical and the contemporary – here, he’s offering Greek sacrifices (‘hecatomb’ is direct from Homer) in a temple of Liberty, right beside the Loir in France. He also reflects Horace, who memorably wrote of hanging up his lover’s weeds and making way for a more fortunate lover. It’s not obvious that any o the poems around this one – though it comes near the end of the book – mark an end to his love, or liberty from it. But that doesn’t stop it being a fine poem, carefully placed as a fitting classicising farewell to this book of the non-classical sonnets Ronsard had taken up instead of classical odes simply because they were more popular!

 

The second half was radically different in the earlier version, not least becasue it does NOT celebrate freedome, but the ‘liberty’ of Love’s chains:

 

 

Si hors du cep où je suis arresté,

Cep où l’Amour de ses fleches m’enclouë,

J’eschappe franc, et du reth qui me nouë,

En libre col je me voy dé-rheté :

 

Au cœur d’un pré loing des gens escarté,

Qu’à bras fourchus l’eau du Loir entrenoüe,

De gazons verts un temple je te voüe,

Heureuse saincte et alme Liberté.

 

Là j’apprendrai le soin et les ennuis,

Les faux plaisirs, les mensonges des nuits,

Le vain espoir, les soupirs et l’envie ;

 

Là, tous les ans, je te paîrai mes vœux,

Et sous tes pieds j’immolerai cent bœufs,

Pour le bienfait d’avoir sauvé ma vie. 

 

 

 

                                                                            If out of the vine in which I was caught,

                                                                            The vine in which Love with his arrows bound me,

                                                                            I can clean escape, and from the net which twists around me

                                                                            I can see myself un-netted, my neck freed:

 

                                                                            Then, in the heart of a meadow far remote from people

                                                                            Which the forked arms of the Loir’s waters twist around,

                                                                            On green lawns I shall dedicate a temple to you,

                                                                            Happy, holy, divine Liberty.

 

                                                                            There I shall learn of care and troubles,

                                                                            False pleasures, night’s deceptions,

                                                                            Empty hope, sighs and longing;

 

                                                                            There every year I shall pay my vows to you

                                                                            And beneath your feet massacre a hundred bulls

                                                                            For the kindness of having saved my life.

 

 

 Blanchemain also prints the later sestet, though with the dramatic (and classicising) word “macter” (‘slaughter’) for the rather tamer “tuer” in line 13.

 

 

 

Elégie à Janet, Peintre du Roy – Elegy, to Janet the King’s artist (Am. 1:228b)

Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Serrez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est l’eau de la marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! Janet, helas je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : L’un soit piteux et larmoyant à voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Pres de la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc ny court, ny aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main egale à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’u, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si lon peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, entre-ouvert et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font qu’à l’heure à se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet favoris du Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour A pleine chair, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Tied up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the waters of the sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, Janet, ah ! I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Let one be pitiful to see, in tears, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears beside the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, not short nor aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his verse could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands equal to the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, half-uncovered, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder by the moment at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, the Sun’s favourite.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Full-fleshed, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

We’ve met the painter Janet – a.k.a. François Clouet, known as Janet (‘Johnny’) as his father had been – before.

 

At the end of book 1, in two long Elegies, Ronsard puts on a firework display of classical names and references. But the two are done very differently: the Elegy to Muret (learned classicist and poet) is full of very obscure and learned references to Achilles; this poem (to Clouet) is full of readily-accessible classical references which point to well-known representations in art and (sometimes) literature, appropriate to a non-specialist like Clouet – and us! Let’s skim through them:

 – Zephyrs, that is to say just ‘gentle breezes’

 – Apelles is the ‘type’ of a great painter

 – Mars and Venus simply personify war and love

 – Ariadne & Theseus on Dia, another well-known image of the lady abandoned as her lover sails into the rising sun

 – Penelope and her husband Odysseus, famously separated for 20 years by his involvement in the Trojan War (Iliad) and then his adventures on the way home (Odyssey)

 – Homer, the ‘type’ of a great poet for his Iliad and Odyssey

 – the Graces, simply personifying ‘grace’ here

 – Juno and Minerva, ‘types’ for beauty because of their competition with Venus for the title of most beautiful in the ‘Judgement of Paris’

 – Dawn’s hands, because Homer always refers to ‘rosy-fingered Dawn’

 – Venus was born (and sometimes lived in) Cythera, with her son Cupid or Love; his brother is usually Anteros, the go of requited (as opposed to unrequited) love – not a god of games or jokes, as Ronsard seems to imply here. But clearly games and happiness in love are what is really going on here

 – the ‘maids of Laconia’ are those hardy Spartan lasses who used to do fighting and hunting like the Spartan boys. The city of Amyclae and the river Eurotas are in Sparta (the Peloponnese)

 – Thetis, a sea-goddess, leading Nereid and mother of Achilles, was surnamed ‘Silver-footed’ in classical times, and her feet are regularly used as a ‘type’ of beauty.

 

Overall, a lovely easy-going poem: Ronsard of course uses the form of the body to create expectation through the poem – we know he’s leading up to the breasts, and later the ‘part he dares not mention’, and that in itself gives the poem a certain sense of rise and fall.

 

The earlier version of course differs in detail, but also includes a whole extra ‘paragraph’ early in the description, later removed:

 

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Nouez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   [Fais-lui le front en bosse revoûté, Sur lequel soient d’un et d’autre côté Peints gravement, sur trois sièges d’ivoire A majesté, la vergogne at la gloire.]   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est la calme marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : Ou que l’un soit pitoyable a le voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Voyant la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc gresle, long, aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main pareille à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’eu, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si l’on peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, profond et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font alors que se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet entr’ouvert au Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour En grelissant, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Knotted up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   [Make her brow projecting in an arc On which should be, on each side, Painted gravely modesty and glory In majesty on three ivory thrones.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the calm sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, my God, my God, I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Or, let one be pitiful to see, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears watching the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, slender, long, aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his vere could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands like the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, deep, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, half-open to the Sun.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Becoming slenderer, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.224

Bien que ton trait, Amour, soit rigoureux,

Et toy remply de fraude et de malice,

Assez, Amour, en te faisant service,

Suyvant ton camp, j’ay vescu bien-heureux.

 

Ceste beauté qui me fait langoureux,

Non, mais qui veut qu’en vain je ne languisse,

En la baisant me dit que je tondisse

De son poil d’or un lien amoureux.

 

J’euz tant d’honneur, que de son ciseau mesme

Je le tranchay. Voyez l’amour extresme,

Voyez, Amans, la grandeur de mon bien.

 

Jamais ne soit, qu’en mes vers je n’honore

Et le ciseau, et les cheveux encore,

L’un mon ministre, et l’autre mon lien.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Though your wound, Love, is harsh

                                                                            And you are full of trickery and malice,

                                                                            I have lived happily enough, Love, in doing you

                                                                            Service and following your train.

 

                                                                            That beauty who makes me pine –

                                                                            Or rather wishes me to pine in vain –

                                                                            As I kissed her told me I could clip

                                                                            From her golden locks a lover’s band.

 

                                                                            I cut it off with her own scissors –

                                                                            So honoured was I. See this extreme love,

                                                                            See, lovers, her great goodness.

 

                                                                            May I never forget to honour in my verse

                                                                            Both the scissors and the hair also,

                                                                            One my helper, the other my bond.

 

 

Simplicity rather than complexity from Ronsard here. Yet the poem is the result of considerable work and re-working. Indeed some of that re-working has obscured the flow of thought: in this late version, there is a sort of disjuncture between the opening and the remainder – somehow, the second quatrain does not seem to link obviously with the first. We must, I think, take it as saying “I’ve lived happily enough for a  long time … For instance, just now something good happened”?  The earlier version, below, joins the quatrains together simply with ‘because’ (“I’ve lived happily enough for a  long time – because just now something good happened”) but that really doesn’t make too much sense. Furthermore, the timeline reads oddly in this version too, precisely because it doesn’t say ‘just now something good happened’ – rather it says “I’ve lived happily enough for a  long time … [For instance], [at some unspecified point] one good thing happened”; this at least is a loss compared with the earlier version which places the event firmly in time (“last night”).

 

Overall, it’s just a slightly weaker connection than usual in Ronsard’s poetic thought.  That said, of course, the overall effect of the poem remains striking, partly because of its apparent simplicity and apparent artlessness.

 

Blanchemain’s version has minor variants throughout, occasionally better than the later adjustments:

 

 

Bien que ton trait, Amour, soit rigoureux,

Et toy remply de fraude et de malice,

Assez, Amour, en te faisant service,

Plus qu’on ne croit j’ay vescu bien-heureux :

 

Car la beauté qui me fait langoureux,

Non, mais qui veut qu’en vain je ne languisse,

Hier au soir me dit que je tondisse

De son poil d’or un lien amoureux.

 

J’eu tant d’honneur, que de son ciseau mesme

Je le tranchay. Voyez l’amour extresme,

Voyez, Amans, la grandeur de mon bien !

 

Jamais ne soit, qu’en mes vers je n’honore

Ce doux ciseau, et ce beau poil encore,

Qui mon cœur presse en un si doux lien !

 

 

                                                                                       Though your wound, Love, is harsh

                                                                                       And you are full of trickery and malice,

                                                                                       I have lived happily enough, Love, in doing you

                                                                                       Service, more than anyone might believe.

 

                                                                                       For the beauty who makes me pine –

                                                                                       Or rather wishes me to pine in vain –

                                                                                       Last evening told me I could clip

                                                                                       From her golden locks a lover’s band.

 

                                                                                       I cut it off with her own scissors –

                                                                                       So honoured was I. See this extreme love,

                                                                                       See, lovers, her great goodness.

 

                                                                                       May I never forget to honour in my verse

                                                                                       Those sweet scissors and those fair locks also,

                                                                                       Which hold my heart in so sweet a bond.

  

 

I’ve already mentioned the changes in the second quatrain, one an improvement, the other less so. I suspect ‘hier soir’ disappeared because the older Ronsard found it too colloquial! The ending also shows the older Ronsard setting up his paired image over two lines – which, though longer, is in some ways less insistent than the repetition in the older line 13, and at the same time tidies up the rather odd thought that scissors might create, rather than dissolve, a bond.