La Quenoille – – (Amours 2.67c)

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Amours 2.56a)

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

… Ainsi ma teste à mes genoux

Me tombe, et mes genoux à terre.

Sur moy ne bat veine ny pouls,

Tant la douleur le cœur me serre :

Je ne puis parler, et mon ame

Engourdie en mon corps se pâme.

 

Lors ainsy pasmé je mourrois,

Si d’un seul baiser de ta bouche

Mon ame tu ne secourois,

Et mon corps froid comme une souche :

Me resoufflant en chaque veine

La vie par ta douce haleine,

 

Afin d’estre plus tourmenté

Et que plus souvent je remeure

Comme le cœur de Promethé,

Qui renaist cent fois en une heure,

Pour servir d’apast miserable

A son vautour insatiable.

 

 

                                                                              … Just so my head falls

                                                                              To my knees, and my knees to the ground.

                                                                              In me beats no vein or pulse,

                                                                              So much does sadness grip my heart ;

                                                                              I cannot speak, and my soul,

                                                                              Paralysed, faints in my body.

 

                                                                              And just so fainting I shall die,

                                                                              If with one single kiss from your mouth

                                                                              You will not rescue my soul

                                                                              And my body which is cold as a stump,

                                                                              Blowing life back into each vein

                                                                              With your sweet breath,

 

                                                                              So that I can be tortured more

                                                                              And more often return

                                                                              Like the heart of Prometheus

                                                                              Which is re-born a hundred times an hour,

                                                                              To serve as the wretched meal

                                                                              For his insatiable vulture.

 

 

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

 

Ignitos quoties tuos ocellos

In me, vita moves repente qualis

Cera defluit impotente flamma,

Aut nix vere novo calente sole,

Totis artubus effluo, nec ulla

Pars nostri subitis vacat favillis.

Tum qualis tenerum caput reflectens

Succumbit rosa verna, liliumve,

Quod dono cupidae datum puellae

Furtivis latuit diu papillis,

Ad terram genibus feror remissis

Nec mens est mihi, nec color superstes

Et iam nox oculis oberrat atra,

Donec vix gelida refectus unda

Ut quod vulturio iecur resurgit

Assuetis redeam ignibus cremandus.

 

 

                                                                              As often as you turn your burning eyes

                                                                              On me, my life suddenly like

                                                                              Wax melts under a weak flame

                                                                              Or the snow in the newly-burning sun;

                                                                              I melt in all my limbs, nor is any

                                                                              Part of me empty of the sudden flames.

                                                                              Then, as the fresh rose or lily bends down,

                                                                              Turning down its tender head

                                                                              Which, given as a gift to an eager girl,

                                                                              She long hid secretly at her breast,

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

                                                                              Nor does my mind work, nor my colour remain,

                                                                              And already dark night prowls around my eyes,

                                                                              Until, scarce-restored by icy water,

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amourette (2:67b)

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

Or’ que l’hyver roidist la glace épesse,

Réchaufons nous ma gentille maistresse,

Non acroupis pres le foyer cendreux,

Mais aux plaisirs des combats amoureux.

Assison-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus baisez-moy, tendez-moy vostre bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras despliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arrenger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez donc, tournez-moy vostre jouë.

Vous rougissez ? il faut que je me jouë.

Vous sou-riez : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vostre sein : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Ne fuyez pas sans parler : je voy bien

A vos regards que vous le voulez bien.

Je vous cognois en voyant vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous baisast bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Je veux user d’une douce main forte.

Hà vous tombez : vous faites ja la morte.

Hà quel plaisir dans le cœur je reçoy :

Sans vous baiser vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lit quand vous seriez seulette.

Or sus c’est fait ma gentille brunette :

Recommençon afin que nos beaux ans

Soyent reschauffez de combats si plaisans.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched near the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasures of love’s contests.

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me, offer me your lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your enlaced arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your cheek.

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

                                                                            You are smiling: have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your breast: will you allow me?

                                                                            Don’t run off without speaking; I clearly see

                                                                            From your looks that you really want it.

                                                                            I understand you from looking at your face.

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

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

                                                                            That someone could kiss you even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

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

                                                                            Ah, you fall, you are now silent.

                                                                            Ah, what pleasure I get in my heart!

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

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

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

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up by such pleasant contests!

 

 

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

 

Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien

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

 

                                                                            Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or else

                                                                            He was a great fool for loving without getting anything.

 

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

 

Or’ que l’hyver roidit la glace épesse,

Réchaufons-nous, ma gentille maistresse,

Non accroupis dans la fouyer cendreux,

Mais au plaisir des combats amoureux.

 

Assisons-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus, baisez-moy de vostre belle bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras deliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arranger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez-vous, tendez-moy vostre oreille :

Hà ! vous avez la couleur plus vermeille

Que par avant : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vos genoux : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Vous rougissez, maistresse: je voy bien

A vostre front que je vous fais grand bien.

 

Quoi ! vous faut-il cognoistre à vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous le fist bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Or je vay donc user d’une main forte

Pour vous avoir. Ha ! vous faites la morte !

Sus, endurez ce doux je ne sais quoy !

Car autrement vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lict quand vous seriez seulette.

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

Recommençons, a’ fin que nos beaux ans

Soyent réchauffez en combats si plaisants.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched in the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasure of love’s contests.

 

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me with your lovely lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your loosed arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your ear.

                                                                            Ah, your colour is more crimson

                                                                            Than before!  Have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your knee: will you allow me?

                                                                            You’re blushin, mistress; I clearly see

                                                                            In your face that I’m greatly pleasing you.

 

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

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

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

                                                                            That someone could do it even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

                                                                            So I’m going to use a strong hand

                                                                            To have you. Ah, you are now silent.

                                                                            Come on, enjoy this sweet something!

                                                                            For otherwise you would mock me

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

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

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up in such pleasant contests!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (2:64a)

Harsoir, Marie, en prenant maugré toy

Un doux baiser acoudé sur ta couche,

Sans y penser je laissay dans ta bouche

L’ame en baisant qui s’enfuit de moy.

 

Comme j’estois sur le poinct de mourir,

Et que mon ame amusée à te suivre,

Ne revenoit mon corps faire revivre,

Je renvoyay mon cœur pour la querir.

 

Mais mon cœur pris de ton œil blandissant

Aima trop mieux estre chez toy (Madame)

Que retourner, et non-plus qu’à mon ame

Ne luy chalut de mon corps perissant.

 

Lors si je n’eusse en te baisant ravy

De ton haleine une vapeur ardente,

Qui depuis seule (en lieu de l’ame absente

Et de mon cœur) de vie m’a servy :

 

Voulant harsoir mon tourment appaiser,

Par qui sans ame et sans cœur je demeure,

Je fusse mort entre tes bras à l’heure

Que maugré toy je te pris un baiser.

 

 

 

                                                                            Yestereve, Marie, in taking despite you

                                                                            A sweet kiss while leaning on your couch,

                                                                            Without thinking of it I left in your mouth

                                                                            My soul, which as we kissed ran away from me.

 

                                                                            As I was on the point of dying,

                                                                            And since my soul, amused to be following you,

                                                                            Would not return to make my body live again,

                                                                            I sent my heart off to seek it.

 

                                                                            But my heart, captured by your flattering eyes,

                                                                            Liked being with you too much, my lady,

                                                                            To return, and no more than my soul

                                                                            Did it care about my dying body.

 

                                                                            So – if I had not as I kissed you seized

                                                                            From your breath a burning vapour

                                                                            Which since then has alone, in place of my absent soul

                                                                            And my heart, served to keep me alive –

 

                                                                            Wishing yestereve to soften my torment,

                                                                            In which soul-less and heart-less I linger,

                                                                            I would have died in your arms at the moment

                                                                            When, despite you, I took from you a kiss.

 

 

 

One of those extended metaphors so beloved by love poets! In fact this one goes back directly to Marullus (see below), but you don’t need to know that to enjoy the poem. What you do need is the willingness to engage with the rather artificial extension of the metaphor! Given that, we can agree that Ronsard does the job very well.

 

Of course, this poem changed over time, though these are mostly ‘tweaks’ to address small poetic or grammatical points the later Ronsard was unhappy with.  The change that most surprises me is that in the later, not earlier, version Ronsard resorts to the ‘olde Frensche’ form (as we might say, though I’m sure his is genuine not faked) of “harsoir”. Normally, Ronsard tidies up such artificialities and makes sure he’s not being deliberately ‘poetical’ in this way; I suspect he might have been trying to avoid “que je pris”? Anyhow, I’ve used ‘yestereve’ above as a parallel ‘olde Englische’ form 🙂   Here’s Blanchemain’s text of the earlier version:

 

 

 

Hier au soir que je pris maugré toy

Un doux baiser, accoudé sur ta couche,

Sans y penser, je laissay dans ta bouche

Mon ame, hélas! qui s’enfuit de moy.

 

Me voyant prest sur l’heure de mourir,

Et que mon ame, amusée à te suivre,

Ne revenoit mon corps faire revivre,

Je t’envoyay mon cœur pour la querir.

 

Mais mon cœur, pris de ton œil blandissant,

Aima trop mieux estre chez-toy, Madame,

Que retourner, et non plus qu’à mon ame

Ne luy chaloit de mon corps perissant.

 

Lors, si je n’eusse en te baisant ravy

De ton haleine une chaleur ardente,

Qui depuis seule (en lieu de l’ame absente

Et de mon cœur) de vie m’a servy,

 

Voulant hier mon tourment appaiser,

Par qui sans ame et sans cœur je demeure,

Je fusse mort entre tes bras à l’heure

Que maugré toy je te pris un baiser.

 

 

 

                                                                            Yesterday at evening when I took despite you

                                                                            A sweet kiss while leaning on your couch,

                                                                            Without thinking of it I left in your mouth

                                                                            My soul, alas, which ran away from me.

 

                                                                            Seeing me immediately dying,

                                                                            And that my soul, amused to be following you,

                                                                            Would not return to make my body live again,

                                                                            I will send you my heart to seek it.

 

                                                                            But my heart, captured by your flattering eyes,

                                                                            Liked being with you too much, my lady,

                                                                            To return, and no more than my soul

                                                                            Did it care about my dying body.

 

                                                                            So – if I had not as I kissed you seized

                                                                            From your breath a burning warmth

                                                                            Which since then has alone, in place of my absent soul

                                                                            And my heart, served to keep me alive –

 

                                                                            Wishing yesterday to soften my torment,

                                                                            In which soul-less and heart-less I linger,

                                                                            I would have died in your arms at the moment

                                                                            When, despite you, I took from you a kiss.

 

 

As I mentioned, this is based on one of the epigrams by Marullus. As a Latinist I have to register my excitement at seeing a bizarre word like “quantulacumque” – the sort of word you come across once or twice in a lifetime!! Note that the neat recapitulation of the beginning which Ronsard gives us ins itself a neat translation of the Marullan original.

 

 

Suaviolum invitae rapio dum, casta Neaera,

imprudens vestris liqui animam in labiis,

exanimusque diu, cum nec per se ipsa rediret

et mora letalis quantulacumque foret,

misi cor quaesitum animam ; sed cor quoque blandis

captum oculis nunquam deinde mihi rediit.

Quod nisi suaviolo flammam quoque, casta Neaera,

hausissem, quae me sustinet exanimum,

ille dies misero, mihi crede, supremus amanti

luxisset, rapui cum tibi suaviolum.

 

 

 

                                                                            When I stole a kiss from you, chaste Neaera, unwilling as you were,

                                                                            I foolishly left my soul on your lips;

                                                                            And soul-less for a while, since it would not return by itself

                                                                            And the delay, however small, would have been fatal,

                                                                            I sent out my heart to seek my soul; but my heart too, caught

                                                                            By your falttering eyes, never came back to me.

                                                                            If I had not drunk in with the kiss, chaste Neaera,

                                                                            A flame as well which supports me while I am soul-less,

                                                                            That day would have shone upon your wretched lover, believe me,

                                                                            As his very last, when I stole that kiss from you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (2:61b)

Je suis un demi-Dieu quand assis vis-à-vis

De toy mon cher souci j’escoute les devis,

Devis entre-rompus d’un gracieux sou-rire,

Sou-ris qui me retient le cœur emprisonnée :

En contemplant tes yeux je me pasme estonné,

Et de mes pauvres flancs un seul vent je ne tire.

 

Ma langue s’engourdist, un petit feu me court

Fretillant sous la peau : je suis muet et sourd,

Un voile sommeillant dessus mes yeux demeure :

Mon sang devient glacé, le courage me faut,

Mon esprit s’evapore, et alors peu s’en faut

Que sans ame à tes pieds estendu je ne meure.

 

 

                                                                            I am a demi-god when seated face to face

                                                                            With you, my dear love, I hear your gossip,

                                                                            Gossip mingled with that gracious smile,

                                                                            A smile which holds me with heart imprisoned;

                                                                            Contemplating your eyes, I faint away astonished

                                                                            And cannot heave a single breath from my poor breast.

 

                                                                            My tongue is numbed, a little fire runs

                                                                            Frisking under my skin, I am dumb and deaf,

                                                                            A veil rests sleeping over my eyes,

                                                                            My blood runs cold, courage fails me,

                                                                            My spirit dissolves, and I am oh so close

                                                                            To lying senseless, stretched out at your feet, and dying.

 

 

 

A lovely little chanson – and how modest of Ronsard to feel himself only a demi-god…!  Blanchemain’s earlier version has a small variant in the first verse (“Car, en voyant tes yeux … ” in line 6 – ‘For, seeing your eyes …’), and more substantial alterations in the second: although in the last two lines it is mainly adjustment of the word-order to avoid some of the (relative) clumsiness of the version below (the adjacent rhyming “pieds es…” and the run of short syllables at the end).

 

 

Ma langue s’engourdist, un petit feu me court

Fretillant sous la peau : je suis muet et sourd,

Et une obscure nuit dessus mes yeux demeure :

Mon sang devient glacé, l’esprit fuit de mon corps,

Je tremble tout de crainte, et peu s’en faut alors

Qu’à tes pieds estendu sans ame je ne meure.

 

 

                                                                            My tongue is numbed, a little fire runs

                                                                            Frisking under my skin, I am dumb and deaf,

                                                                            Dark night rests over my eyes,

                                                                            My blood runs cold, my spirit flees my body,

                                                                            I tremble all over in fear, and oh I am so close

                                                                            To lying stretched out at your feet senseless, and dying.

 

Belleau’s commentary tells us that this is a translation of one of Sappho’s odes, also imitated by Catullus. The Catullus version (perhaps more likely to be Ronsard’s immediate model?) is below:

 

 

Ille mi par esse deo videtur,

ille, si fas est, superare divos,

qui sedens adversus identidem te

    spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes

eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,

Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi

    < —- (missing line?) —->

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus

flamma demanat, sonitu suopte

tintinant aures, gemina teguntur

    lumina nocte.

otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:

otio exsultas nimiumque gestis:

otium et reges prius et beatas

    perdidit urbes.

 

 

                                                                            He seems to me to be the equal of a god,

                                                                            He seems, if it is no blasphemy, to be greater than the gods

                                                                            Who, sitting opposite you again and again

                                                                                Watches and hears you

                                                                            Laughing sweetly, which snatches away from me

                                                                            Wretched as I am, all my senses: for immediately I

                                                                            Saw you, Lesbia, there was nothing else for me.

                                                                                < ———- >

                                                                             My tongue grew slow, a weak flame

                                                                            Ran down my limbs, my ears rang

                                                                            With their own sound, my twin eyes

                                                                                Were enclosed in night.

                                                                            Free-time is a problem for you, Catullus,

                                                                            You frolic around in free-time, and enjoy it too much.

                                                                            Free-time has destroyed kings before

                                                                                And fair cities.

 

 

Sappho’s incomplete poem ends inconclusively: is this a poem of jealousy or not? Scholars argue about it (though the fact that Catullus obviously based his own poem on it might lead one to suspect it ended similarly, there is always the possibility that Catullus subverted expectation!)  I’ve been lazy here and borrowed the translation from Lauren Hunter.

 

 

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν

ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι

ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-

σας ὐπακούει

 

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν

καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν,

ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤς με φώνας

οὔδεν ἔτ’ εἴκει,

 

ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶσσα +ἔαγε, λέπτον

δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,

ὀππάτεσσι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ-

βεισι δ’ ἄκουαι,

 

κὰδ’ δέ ἴδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ

παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας

ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ‘πιδεύης

φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔτᾳ.

 

ἀλλὰ πᾶν τόλματον, ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα …

 

 

                                                                            to me he seems to be equal to the gods,

                                                                            that man who sits near you, facing you

                                                                            and hears you

                                                                            speaking sweetly

 

                                                                            laughing delightfully, and this actually

                                                                            makes my heart tremble within my breast;

                                                                            for whenever I look at you – even a glance! –

                                                                            no words come to me,

 

                                                                            but my tongue is snapped

                                                                            and fine flames run through my body instantly

                                                                            and I see nothing with my eyes

                                                                            and my ears ring

 

                                                                            and sweat pours down me,

                                                                            and all of me is trembling,

                                                                            and I am paler green than grass

                                                                            and I seem to lack but little of dying.

 

                                                                            but all should be risked! since even a poor person –

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Am 2:59a)

Voulant, ô ma douce moitié

T’asseurer que mon amitié

Ne se voirra jamais finie :

Je fis pour t’en asseurer mieux,

Un serment juré par mes yeux

Et par mon cœur et par ma vie.

 

Tu jures ce qui n’est à toy,

Ton cœur et tes yeux sont à moy

D’une promesse irrevocable,

Ce me dis-tu : helas au moins

Reçoy mes larmes pour tesmoins

Que ma parolle est veritable.

 

Alors belle tu me baisas

Et doucement des-attizas

Mon feu d’un gracieux visage :

Puis tu fis signe de ton œil,

Que tu recevois bien mon dueil

Et mes larmes pour tesmoignage.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            “Wanting, my sweet other half,

                                                                            To assure you that my love

                                                                            Would never come to an end,

                                                                            I made to better assure you of it

                                                                            A vow sworn on my eyes

                                                                            And my heart and my life.”

 

                                                                            “But you swore by what you don’t have :

                                                                            Your heart and eyes are mine

                                                                            By an irrevocable promise,

                                                                            You told me.” “Alas, then at least

                                                                            Accept my tears as witness

                                                                            That my word is truthful.”

 

                                                                            Then, my fair one, you kissed me

                                                                            And sweetly un-kindled

                                                                            My fire with your gracious face;

                                                                            And then you made me a sign with your eye

                                                                            That you indeed accepted my grief

                                                                            And my tears as a witness. 

 

 

 

A charming little song, beautifully-balanced in those 3 stanzas. Belleau tells us this poem is “taken from” Marullus, but as you can see Ronsard took the idea alone from Marullus: the balance and shape are all his own.

 

(Marullus : Epigram 1.58)

 

Juravi fore me tuum perenne,

per me, per caput hoc, per hos ocellos,

qui te disperiere contuendo,

per quod plurima cor tulit dolenda.

“Haec”, inquis, “mea sunt, tua ista sunto ! “

At certe lacrimae meae, Neaera,

quas juro fore me tuum perenne.

 

                                                                            I have sworn I will be yours forever –

                                                                            By myself, by this head, byu these eyes

                                                                            Which have perished from looking on you,

                                                                            By this heart which has borne so many grievous things.

                                                                            “These things,” you say, “are mine: let them be yours!”

                                                                            These are certainly my tears, Neaera,

                                                                            By which I swear I will be yours forever

 

 Blanchemain’s version of the poem offers a few variants:

 

Voulant, ô ma douce moitié

T’asseurer que mon amitié

Jamais ne se verra faillie,

Je te fis pour t’asseurer mieux,

Un serment juré par mes yeux

Et par mon cœur et par ma vie.

 

Tu jures ce qui n’est à toy,

Ton cœur et tes yeux sont à moy

D’une promesse irrevocable,

Ce me dis-tu : Las ! pour le moins

Reçoy mes larmes pour tesmoins

Que ma parolle est veritable.

 

Alors belle tu me baisas

Et doucement des-attisas

Le feu qui brusle mon courage :

Puis tu fis signe de ton œil,

Que tu recevois bien mon dueil

Et mes larmes pour tesmoignage.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            “Wanting, my sweet other half,

                                                                            To assure you that my love

                                                                            Would never fail,

                                                                            I made to better assure you

                                                                            A vow sworn on my eyes

                                                                            And my heart and my life.”

 

                                                                            “But you swore by what you don’t have :

                                                                            Your heart and eyes are mine

                                                                            By an irrevocable promise,

                                                                            You told me.” “Alas, then at the least

                                                                            Accept my tears as witness

                                                                            That my word is truthful.”

 

                                                                            Then, my fair one, you kissed me

                                                                            And sweetly un-kindled

                                                                            The fire which burns up my courage;

                                                                            And then you made me a sign with your eye

                                                                            That you indeed accepted my grief

                                                                            And my tears as a witness. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Am. 2.61a)

Si je t’assauls, Amour, Dieu qui m’es trop cognu,

Pour neant en ton camp je feray des allarmes :

Tu es un vieil routier et bien appris aux armes,

Et moy jeune guerrier mal appris et tout nu.

 

Si je fuy devant toy, je ne sçaurois aller

En lieu que je ne sois devancé de ton aile :

Si je veux me cacher, l’amoureuse etincelle

Qui reluist en mon cœur me viendra deceler.

 

Si je veux m’embarquer tu es fils de la mer,

Si je men-vole au Ciel ton pouvoir y commande,

Si je tombe aux enfers ta puissance y est grande :

Ainsi maistre de tout, force m’est de t’aimer.

 

Or je t’aimeray donq, bien qu’envis de mon cœur,

Si c’est quelque amitié que d’aimer par contrainte :

« Toutefois (comme on dit) on voit souvent la crainte

« S’accompagner d’amour et l’amour de la peur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If I assault you, o god of Love so well-known to me,

                                                                            To no purpose shall I raise alarms in your camp :

                                                                            You are a real veteran, well-used to alarms,

                                                                            And I’m a young warrior, poorly-taught and completely unarmed.

 

                                                                            If I flee before you, I won’t be able to go

                                                                            Anywhere your wings won’t reach first;

                                                                            If I try to hide myself, the spark of love

                                                                            Which shines in my heart will expose me.

 

                                                                            If I decide to take ship, you are the son of the sea;

                                                                            If I fly to heaven, your power rules there;

                                                                            If I fall into hell, your might is great there:

                                                                            As you are master of all, I must love you.

 

                                                                            So, I shall love you, though against my heart’s desire,

                                                                            If it is a form of love to be forced to love:

                                                                            “You often,” as they say, “see anxiety

                                                                            Accompanied by love, and love by fear.”

 

 

 

Here is a chanson built on 4 quatrains – not quite a madrigal, but the differences are slight 🙂  Structurally, though, we have a three-part design (1-8, 9-12. 13-16), hence a more significant contrast with the sonnet-form Ronsard uses.

 

The version printed by Blanchemain only differs slightly: line 2 reads “En vain je te feray dans ton camp des allarmes“, word order rather than meaning changing; and in line 10, “Si je m’enleve au Ciel …” (‘If I lift myself to heaven…’).

  

 

 

 

Chanson

 

A ce malheur qui jour et nuit me poingt Et qui ravit ma jeune liberté, Dois-je tousjours obeïr en ce poinct, Ne recevant que toute cruauté ?     Fidellement         Aimant,        Je sens        Mes sens        Troubler,     Et mon mal redoubler.   Cest or frizé, et le lys de son teint, Sous un Soleil doublement esclaircy, Ont tellement mes moüelles attaint, Que je me voy déja presque transi.     Son œil ardant,        Dardant        En moy        L’esmoy        Du feu,     Me brusle peu à peu.       Je cognois bien, mais helas ! c’est trop tard, Que le meurtrier de ma franche raison, S’est escoulé par l’huys de mon regard, Pour me brasser ceste amere poison :     Je n’eus qu’ennuis        Depuis        Le jour        Qu’Amour        Au cœur     M’inspira sa rigueur.   Et nonobstant (cruelle) que je meurs, En observant une saincte amitié, Il ne te chaut de toutes mes clameurs, Qui te devroient inciter à pitié.     Vien donc, Archer        Tres-cher,        Volant,        Doublant        Le pas,     Me guider au trespas !   Ny mes esprits honteusement discrets, Ny le travail que j’ay pour t’adorer, Larmes, souspirs et mes aspres regrets Ne te sçauroient, (Dame) trop inspirer,     Si quelquefois,        Tu vois        A l’œil        Le dueil        Que j’ay,     Pour l’amoureux essay.   Quelqu’un sera de la proye preneur, Que j’ay long-temps par cy-devant chassé, Sans meriter joüira de cet heur, Qui a si fort mon esprit harassé.     C’est trop servy,        Ravy        Du mal        Fatal,        Je veux     Concevoir autres vœux.   Quelque lourdaut, ou quelque gros valet, Seul à l’escart de mon heur joüissant, Luy tastera son ventre rondelet, Et de son sein le pourpre rougissant.     De nuict, de jour,        L’amour        Me fait        Ce fait        Penser,     Et me sert d’un Enfer.   Or je voy bien qu’il me convient mourir Sans esperer aucun allegement, Puis qu’à ma mort tu prens si grand plaisir, Ce m’est grand heur et grand contentement,     Me submettant,        Pourtant        Qu’à tort        La Mort        L’esprit     Me ravit par despit.

This pain which stabs me day and night And which steals away the freedom of my youth, Must I always obey it on this point Though receiving only cruelty?     Loyally        Loving        I sense        My senses        Troubled     And my pain redoubled.   These golden curls, and the lilies of her complexion, Beneath a sun shining doubly-clear Have struck me to the core so far That I feel myself almost dead.     Her burning eye,        Darting        At me        The pain        Of fire     Burns me little by little.   I realise, but oh too late, That the murderer of my cool reason Has escaped through the portal of my eyes To brew for me this bitter poison.     I have had only worries        Since        The day        Love        Into my heart     Breathed her harshness.   And though I may die, cruel one, Preserving this holy friendship All my cries will not bother you Though they should move you to pity.     Come then, Archer-god        So dear to me,        Flying,        Doubling        Your speed,     To guide me to death.   Neither my shy and modest spirits, Nor the trouble it causes me to love you, Not tears, sighs and bitter regrets – None of these, my lady, will be able to move you as much     As if sometimes        You see        In my eyes        The pain        Which I gain     Through love’s trial.   Some other hunter it will be who takes The prey that I’ve been coursing up to now; Without deserving, he’ll enjoy that pleasure Which has so fiercely tortured my soul.     It’s no use;        Seized        By fatal        Illness,        I will     Pursue other vows of love.   Some dolt or gross servant Alone, apart, mocking my fortune, Will caress her rounded belly And the blushing crimson of her breast.     By night and day        Love        Makes me        This truth        Consider,     And makes my life a hell.   I clearly see that I ought to die Without a hope of lessened pain; Since my death gives you such great pleasure, Then it will be a great happiness and great pleasure     Submitting myself,        However        Wrongly        Death        In spite     Steals my spirit.

 

Appended by Marty-Laveaux to what he calls an “Autre recueil de sonnets” (‘Another collection of sonnets’), although as you may note it is not a sonnet, this is yet another piece culled from the main texts by Ronsard.  Blanchemain’s text is identical. This was another poem which inspired contemporary composers.

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 50

 

L’amour oyseau   Un enfant dedans un bocage Tendoit finement ses gluaux, A fin de prendre des oyseaux Pour les emprisonner en cage.   Quand il veit, par cas d’aventure, Sur un arbre Amour emplumé, Qui voloit par le bois ramé Sur l’une et sur l’autre verdure.   L’enfant qui ne cognoissoit pas Cet oyseau, fut si plein de joye Que pour prendre une si grand’ proye Tendit sur l’arbre tous ses las.   Mais quand il vit qu’il ne pouvoit (Pour quelques gluaux qu’il peust tendre) Ce cauteleux oyseau surprendre, Qui voletant le decevoit,   Il se print à se mutiner Et jettant sa glus de colere, Vint trouver une vieille mere Qui se mesloit de deviner.   Il luy va le fait avoüer, Et sur le haut d’un buys luy monstre L’oyseau de mauvaise rencontre, Qui ne faisoit que se joüer.   La vieille en branlant ses cheveux Qui ja grisonnoient de vieillesse, Luy dit : Cesse mon enfant, cesse, Si bien tost mourir tu ne veux,   De prendre ce fier animal. Cet oyseau, c’est Amour qui vole, Qui tousjours les hommes affole Et jamais ne fait que du mal.   O que tu seras bien heureux Si tu le fuis toute ta vie, Et si jamais tu n’as envie D’estre au rolle des amoureux!   Mais j’ay grand doute qu’à l’instant Que d’homme parfait auras l’âge, Ce mal-heureux oyseau volage, Qui par ces arbres te fuit tant,   Sans y penser te surprendra, Comme une jeune et tendre queste, Et foullant de ses pieds ta teste, Que c’est que d’aimer t’apprendra.

Love as a bird   A child in a bush Was setting his limed twigs cunningly In order to catch birds And imprison them in a cage,   When he saw, just by chance, Winged Love on a tree, Who was flying through the branchy wood To one green spot after another.   The child, who did not recognise This bird, was so full of joy That to catch so fine a prey He set all his traps on the tree.   But when he saw that he could not, However many limed twigs he set, Catch unawares this cunning bird Who kept flying around and disappointing him,   He gave up angrily And throwing away his glue in anger Went to find an old dame Who was mixed up in fortune-telling.   He swore the truth of his story And on the top of a bush showed her The bird he’d had the trouble with Who was just mocking him.   The old lady, shaking her hair Which was already greying with age, Said to him: “Stop, my child, stop, Unless you want to die right soon,   Trying to catch that proud beast. That bird is Love, who flies about Bewildering men always And never doing anything but harm.   O how lucky you will be If you escape him all your life And if you never wish To be on the list of lovers!   But I very much fear that the very moment You have reached the age of manhood, This inconstant bird of bad luck, Which now flies away from you among these trees,   Will surprise you unthinking Like a young and tender victim, And trampling your head under his feet Will teach you just what it is to love!”

 

While rambling around the back end of the Amours retranchées, let’s have another of the concluding group of songs. A relatively light-weight song, but lovingly written an maintaining its charm throughout: and with a sting in the tail!

 

Again, a piece that was extracted and then not subjected to later revision. Blanchemain’s version is identical.

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 49 – A Song for Cassandre

 

Il me semble que la journée Dure plus longue qu’une année, Quand par malheur je n’ay ce bien De voir la grand’ beauté de celle Qui tient mon cœur, et sans laquelle Vissé-je tout, je ne voy rien.   Quiconques fut jadis le Sage Qui dit que l’amoureux courage Vit de ce qu’il ayme, il dit vray ; Ailleurs vivant il ne peut estre, Ny d’autre viande se paistre : J’en suis seur, j’en ay fait l’essay.   Tousjours l’amant vit en l’aimée : Pour cela mon ame affamée Ne se veut souler que d’amour, De l’amour elle est si friande, Que sans plus de telle viande Se veut repaistre nuit et jour.   Si quelqu’un dit que je m’abuse, Voye luy-mesme la Meduse Qui d’un rocher m’a fait le cœur ; Et l’ayant veuë je m’asseure Qu’il sera fait sur la mesme heure Le compagnon de mon malheur.   Car est-il homme que n’enchante La voix d’une Dame sçavante, Et fust-il Scythe en cruauté ? Il n’est point de plus grand’ magie Que la docte voix d’une amie, Quand elle est jointe à la beauté.   Or j’aime bien, je le confesse, Et plus j’iray vers la vieillesse, Et plus constant j’aimeray mieux : Je n’oubliray, fussé-je en cendre, La douce amour de ma Cassandre, Qui loge mon cœur dans ses yeux.   Adieu liberté ancienne, Comme chose qui n’est plus mienne, Adieu ma chere vie, adieu : Ta fuite ne me peut desplaire, Puis que ma perte volontaire Se retreuve en un si beau lieu.   Chanson, va-t’en où je t’adresse Dans la chambre de ma Maistresse, Dy-luy, baisant sa blanche main, Que pour en santé me remettre, Il ne luy faut sinon permettre Que tu te caches dans son sein.

It seems to me that a day Lasts longer than a year When by mischance I do not have the benefit Of seeing the great beauty of her Who holds my heart, and without whom Even if I see everything I see nothing.   Whoever was in olden days the wise man Who said that a lover’s courage Lives on the one he loves, spoke truly; He could not live in any other way, Nor feed on any other food. I’m sure of it: I’ve tried it.   The lover lives all the time in the beloved; For that reason my famished soul Wishes to drink deeply of Love alone; It is so partial to love That on such food and nothing more It wishes to dine both night and day.   If anyone wants to claim I’m deceiving myself, Let him look upon the Medusa Who has made my heart into a rock; Having seen her, I am sure That he will be made that same moment A fellow in my troubles.   For is there a man whom the voice Of a wise woman cannot enchant, Even if he were like a Scythian in cruelty? There is no greater magic Than the cunning voice of your beloved When it is joined with beauty.   Still, I love it, I confess, And the further I go towards old age The more, and the more constantly, I shall love it. I will not forget, even were I mere dust, The sweet love of my Cassandre Who keeps me heart in her eyes.   Farewell my old freedom, Like something no longer mine, Farewell my dear life, farewell: Your loss cannot displease me Since my own voluntary ruin Has landed me in so fair a place.   Away, my song, go where I send you Into the chamber of my mistress, And tell her, kissing her white hand, That to return me to health She need only allow You to hide in her breast.

 

The heading, “Chanson pour Cassandre”, is pretty self-explanatory; and there’s little in the poem which needs commentary. Medusa (4th stanza) of course turned everything she set eyes on into stone; Scythians (next stanza) were famously barbaric and therefore cruel. The last stanza is reminiscent of several other poems we’ve seen in which a bird is sent to Cassandre.