Odelette à sa maitresse

Today, a ‘little ode’ Ronsard wrote, chiding his mistress, around 1555. Originally in the Meslanges, this was ‘retranchée’ to a Ronsardian appendix in later editions.

Je veux aymer ardentement :

Aussi veus-je qu’egallement

On m’ayme d’une amour ardente :

Toute amitié froidement lente

Qui peut dissimuler son bien

Ou taire son mal, ne vaut rien,

Car faire en amours bonne mine,

De n’aymer point, c’est le vray sine.

 

Les amants si frois en esté

Admirateurs de chasteté,

Et qui morfondus petrarquisent,

Sont toujours sots, car ils ne prisent

Amour qui de sa nature est

Ardent et prompt, et à qui plest

De faire qu’une amitié dure

Quand elle tient de sa nature.

 

 

                                                                             I hope to love ardently ;

                                                                            And I hope too that equally

                                                                            She’ll love me with ardent love.

                                                                            Every affair which is cold and slow,

                                                                            Which can hide the good things

                                                                            Or be silent about the bad, is worth nothing;

                                                                            For putting on a good face in love

                                                                            Is the true sign of loving not at all.

 

                                                                            Those lovers, so cold in summer,

                                                                            Admirers of chastity,

                                                                            Who feeling dejected make Petrarchan rhymes,

                                                                            They’re always fools, for they do not prize

                                                                            Love, who by nature is

                                                                            Ardent and eager, and who is happy

                                                                            To make affairs long-lasting

                                                                            When they are of his kind.

 

 

Ronsard invents the word (or re-uses his previously-invented word) ‘to Petrarch-ise’, implying of course inferior copyists rather than those who, like Ronsard, can imitate Petrarch’s quality as well as style!

 

Blanchemain’s version has only one minor variant: “Ces” for “Les” at the start of the second stanza. Oddly, Blanchemain prints it among the “Oeuvres inédites” (unpublished works) with a footnote explaining it was published in the second (1555) edition of the ‘Meslanges’…?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode retranch. 4

 

O Pucelle plus tendre Qu’un beau bouton vermeil Que le rosier engendre Au lever du soleil, D’une part verdissant De l’autre rougissant !   Plus fort que le lierre Qui se gripe à l’entour Du chesne aimé, qu’il serre Enlassé de maint tour, Courbant ses bras épars Sus luy de toutes parts,   Serrez mon col, maistresse, De vos deux bras pliez ; D’un neud qui tienne et presse Doucement me liez ; Un baiser mutuel Nous soit perpetuel.   Ny le temps, ny l’envie D’autre amour desirer Ne pourra point ma vie De vos lèvres tirer ; Ains serrez demourrons, Et baisant nous mourrons.   En mesme an et mesme heure, Et en mesme saison, Irons voir la demeure De la palle maison, Et les champs ordonnez Aux amans fortunez.   Amour par les fleurettes Du printemps eternel Voirra nos amourettes Sous le bois maternel ; Là nous sçaurons combien Les amans ont de bien.   Le long des belles plaines Et parmy les prez vers, Les rives sonnent pleines De maints accords divers ; L’un joue, et l’autre au son Danse d’une chanson.   Là le beau ciel décueuvre Tousjours un front benin, Sur les fleurs la couleuvre Ne vomit son venin, Et tousjours les oyseaux Chantent sur les rameaux ;   Tousjours les vens y sonnent Je ne sçay quoy de doux, Et les lauriers y donnent Tousjours ombrages moux ; Tousjours les belles fleurs Y gardent leurs couleurs.   Parmy le grand espace De ce verger heureux, Nous aurons tous deux place Entre les amoureux, Et comme eux sans soucy Nous aimerons aussi.   Nulle amie ancienne Ne se dépitera, Quand de la place sienne Pour nous deux s’ostera, Non celles dont les yeux Prirent le cœur des dieux.

O maid more tender Than a fair crimson bud To which the rosebush gives birth At the rising of the sun, Partly growing fresh and youthful, Partly blushing redder!   Stronger than the ivy Which climbs around Its beloved oak, which it hugs Wound in many a twist, Curving its wide-spread arms Above it on all sides,   Embrace my neck, mistress, With your two bent arms; In a knot which holds and squeezes Sweetly bind me; May our shared kiss Be everlasting.   Neither time, nor the longing To enjoy some other love Can in any way pull my life Back from your lips; So let’s stay embracing And we’ll die kissing.   In the same year, the same hour, The same season, We’ll go and see the dwellings Of that pale house, And the fields ordained For happy lovers.   Love with the flowers Of eternal springtime Will see our love-dalliance In our maternal woods; There we shall discover how many Good things lovers enjoy.   Along the fair plains And among the green meadows, The rivers play their music, full Of many varied harmonies; One plays, and the other Dances to the sound of the song.   There the fair sky constantly Shows a mild brow; The grass-snake does not vomit His venom on the flowers; The birds are always Singing in the branches;   The winds there are always making Some sweet sound; The laurels there always give Their moist shade; The beautiful flowers there always Retain their colours.   Amid the great space Of this happy orchard We shall both take our place Among the lovers, And like them without a care We too shall make love.   No ancient lover Will be vexed When from her spot For us two she will remove herself, Not even those whose eyes Captured the hearts of the gods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Odelette (Odes retranch. 74)

Tay-toy, babillarde arondelle,

Ou bien je plumeray ton aile,

Si je t’empoigne, et d’un cousteau

Je te couperay ta languette,

Qui matin san repos caquette,

Et m’estourdit tout le cerveau.

 

Je te preste ma cheminée

Pour chanter, toute la journée,

De soir, de nuict, quand tu voudras ;

Mais au matin ne me resveille

Et ne m’oste, quand je sommeille,

Ma Cassandre d’entre les bras

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Hush, you chattering swallow,

                                                                            Or else I’ll pluck your wings

                                                                            If I can catch you, and with a knife

                                                                            I’ll cut out your little tongue

                                                                            Which every morning without a break cackles

                                                                            And stuns my brain completely.

 

                                                                            I’ll lend you my chimney

                                                                            To sing all day long,

                                                                            At eve, at night, whenever you want;

                                                                            But in the morning, don’t wake me

                                                                            And don’t, while I’m asleep, take

                                                                            My Cassandre from my arms.

 

 

 

 Ronsard can be at his best in his shorter poems – charming, light, breezy, humorous. Here’s a winner!

 

 

 

 

 

Odes retranch. 36

Venus est par cent mille noms,

Et par cent mille autres surnoms,

Des pauvres amans outragée :

L’un la dit plus dure que fer,

L’autre la surnomme un enfer

Et l’autre la nomme enragée ;

 

L’un appelle soucis et pleurs,

L’autre tristesses et douleurs,

Et l’autre la desesperée.

Mais moy, pour ce qu’elle a tousjours

Esté propice à mes amours,

Je la surnomme la sucrée.

 

 

 

                                                                        Venus is insulted by a hundred thousand names,

                                                                        And a hundred thousand other epithets

                                                                        By poor lovers:

                                                                        One says she is harder than iron,

                                                                        Another describes her as hell,

                                                                        Another calls her enraged.

 

                                                                        One calls her trouble and tears,

                                                                        Another sadness and pain,

                                                                        Another the despair-bringer.

                                                                        But I, since she has always

                                                                        Been favourable to my affairs,

                                                                        I call her the sugar-sweet.

 

 

 

Ode 58 – To his Muse

A SA MUSE

 

Grossi-toy, ma Muse Françoise,

Et enfante un vers resonant,

Qui bruye d’une telle noise

Qu’un fleuve debordé tonant,

 

Alors qu’il saccage et emmeine,

Pillant de son flot, sans mercy,

Le thresor de la riche plaine,

Le bœuf et le bouvier aussi.

 

Et fay voir aux yeux de la France

Un vers qui soit industrieux,

Foudroyant la vieille ignorance

De nos peres peu curieux.

 

Ne suy ny le sens, ny la rime,

Ny l’art du moderne ignorant,

Bien que le vulgaire l’estime,

Et en béant l’aille adorant.

 

Sus donque l’Envie surmonte,

Coupe la teste à ce serpent,

Par tel chemin au ciel on monte,

Et le nom au monde s’épend.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                              TO HIS MUSE

 

                                                                             Grow great, my French Muse,

                                                                             And give birth to resounding poetry

                                                                             Which roars with rage like that

                                                                             Of a thunderous river overflowing its banks,

 

                                                                             As it ransacks and plunders,

                                                                             Mercilessly pillaging with its flood

                                                                             The treasure of the rich fields,

                                                                             The cow and the cowman too.

 

                                                                             And bring before the eyes of France

                                                                             A verse which can be useful,

                                                                             Shattering the old ignorance

                                                                             Of our fathers with their small curiosity.

 

                                                                             Do not aim at the sense or rhyme

                                                                             Or art of the ignorant moderns,

                                                                             Although the common folk value them,

                                                                             And open-mouthed give them their adoration.

 

                                                                             Up then and defeat Envy,

                                                                             Cut off that serpent’s head,

                                                                             That is the way to reach the heavens

                                                                             And make your name known in the world.

 

 

 

One minor variant in Marty-Laveaux’s edition, in line 3 where he has

 

Qui brusle d’une telle noise

 

                                                                             Which burns with rage like that

 

 

As my daughter has been translating Baudelaire, I dedicate the penultimate verse to her! Incidentally, only the second poem by Ronsard I’ve posted which begins with a ‘G’…!

 

 

 

Ode à Marguerite

This is no.2 in Blanchemain’s set of the “Odes retranchées”; it heads up Marty-Laveaux’s set as no.1.

Marguerite is both a lady’s name and the flower we know as daisy. So I have used Daisy as the name in the translation.

En mon coeur n’est ecrite La rose ny autre fleur ; C’est toy, blanche Marguerite, Par qui j’ay cette couleur.   N’es-tu celle dont les yeux     Ont surpris Par un regard gracieux     Mes espris ? Puis que ta sœur de haut pris, Ta sœur, pucelle d’elite, N’est cause de ma douleur, C’est donc par toy, Marguerite, Que j’ay pris ceste couleur.   Ma couleur palle nasquit,     Quand mon cœur Pour maistresse te requit :     Mais rigueur D’une amoureuse langueur Soudain paya mon merite, Me donnant ceste paleur Pour t’aimer trop, Marguerite, Et ta vermeille couleur.   Quel charme pourroit casser     Mon ennuy Et ma couleur effacer     Avec luy ? De l’amour que tant je suy La jouissance subite Seule osteroit le malheur Que me donna Marguerite, Par qui j’ay cette couleur.

In my heart is engraved No rose, nor other flower ; You, pale Daisy, are the one By whom I’ve got this colour.   Aren’t you she whose eyes     Surprised With a gracious glance     My heart? For your sister, highly-prized, Your sister, chosen maid, Is not the cause of my sadness, It’s because of you, Daisy, That I acquired this colour.   My pale colour began from     When my heart Begged you as mistress;     But severity With a lover’s carelessness Suddenly gave me my reward, Giving me this pallor From loving you too much, Daisy, And your rosy colour.   What charm could destroy      My pain And wipe away my colour      With it? The sudden joy Of the love which I pursue so hard Alone can remove the misfortune Which Daisy gives me, By whom I’ve got this colour.

 

 

Marty-Laveaux’s version contains a number of differences. As there are minor changes throughout, it’s perhaps easiest to print the whole poem again:

 

En mon coeur n’est point escrite La rose, ny autre fleur, C’est toy, belle Marguerite, Par qui j’ay cette couleur.   N’es-tu celle dont les yeux     Ont surpris Par un regard gracieux     Mes espris ? Puis que ta sœur de haut pris Ta sœur pucelle d’elite N’est cause de ma douleur, C’est donc pour toy, Marguerite, Que je pris ceste couleur.   Un soir ma fiévre nasquit,     Quand mon cœur Pour Maistresse te requit :     Mais rigueur D’une amoureuse langueur Soudain paya mon merite, Me donnant ceste paleur Pour t’aimer trop, Marguerite, Et ta vermeille couleur.   Hé ! quel charme pourroit bien     Consumer Le souci qui s’est fait mien     Pour aimer ? De mon tourment si amer La jouïssance subite Seule osteroit le malheur Que me donna Marguerite Par qui j’ay cette couleur.

In my heart is nowhere engraved The rose, nor other flower ; You, pale Daisy, are the one By whom I’ve got this colour.   Aren’t you she whose eyes Surprised With a gracious glance My heart? For your sister, highly-prized, Your sister, chosen maid, Is not the cause of my sadness, It’s for you, Daisy, That I acquire this colour.   One eve my fever began When my heart Begged you as mistress; But severity With a lover’s carelessness Suddenly gave me my reward, Giving me this paleness From loving you too much, Daisy, And your rosy colour.   Ah, what charm could indeed Consume The worry which has become mine Over love? From my bitter torment Sudden joy Alone can remove the misfortune Which Daisy gives me, By whom I’ve got this colour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode (1)

Je suis homme né pour mourir ;

Je suis bien seur que du trespas

Je ne me sçaurois secourir

Que poudre je n’aille là bas.

 

Je cognois bien les ans que j’ay,

Mais ceux qui me doivent venir,

Bons ou mauvais, je ne les sçay,

Ny quand mon âge doit finir.

 

Pour-ce fuyez-vous-en, esmoy,

Qui rongez mon cœur à tous coups,

Fuyez-vous-en bien loin de moy.

Je n’ay que faire avecque vous.

 

Au moins, avant que trespasser,

Que je paisse à mon aise un jour

Jouer, sauter, rire et dancer

Avecque Bacchus et Amour.

 

 

                                                           I am a man born to die;

                                                           I’m quite sure that from death

                                                           I cannot save myself

                                                           From going below as dust.

 

                                                           I know exactly how old I am,

                                                           But the years which should still come to me,

                                                           Good or bad,I know not,

                                                           Nor when my time will end.

 

                                                           Therefore begone, care,

                                                           You who gnaw my heart at every opportunity,

                                                           Begone far from me,

                                                           I have nothing to do with you.

 

                                                           At least before dying

                                                           Let me spend a day at my ease

                                                           Playing, leaping, laughing, dancing

                                                           With Bacchus and Love.

 

 

 

Blanchemain puts at the front of his edition of the ‘Odes retranchées’ this poem. It starts so strongly, and that opening line cries out to be quoted regularly and often! I wonder why Ronsard removed it from later editions?  Perhaps it is because the last stanza is relatively weak and unfocused – but only relatively.

 

 

 

 

Odelette (44)

Boivon, le jour n’est si long que le doy.

Je perds, amy, mes soucis quand je boy.

Donne-moy viste un jambon sous la treille,

      Et la bouteille

      Grosse à merveille

   Glougloute auprès de moy.

Avec la tasse et la rose vermeille

   Il faut chasser l’esmoy.

 

                                                           Let’s drink, day is not as long as a finger.

                                                           My friend, I lose my worries when I drink.

                                                           Give me quick some ham beneath the arbour

                                                                 And a bottle,

                                                                 Marvellously big,

                                                              Glugging beside me.

                                                           With a cup and a red rose

                                                              We must chase away care.

 

 

 

I thought I’d post this just because the first line mirrors one in the middle of the Ode to Simon Nicolas – and of course the sentiments too are mirrored!

 

 

Ode to Jacque Peletier

Apologies for the long time without a post: I’ve been too ill and tired to make any sensible translations!  But it did give me a chance to read a bit: while glancing through the works of Jacques Peletier du Mans [as one does…! 🙂 ], I found this ode which Ronsard dedicated to him. As it’s in a volume of Peletier’s works published in 1547, this is Ronsard’s first published work, as well as his first Ode.  It eventually ended up in the Pièces retranchées des Odes.

Ode de Pierre de Ronsart a Jacques Peletier, Des beautez qu’il voudroit en s’Amie. – Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir Maistresse selon mon desir, Saiz tu quelle je la prendroye, Et a qui suget me rendroye, Pour la servir, constant, a son plaisir ?   L’age non meur, mais verdelet encore : C’est celuy seul qui me devore Le cueur d’impatience atteint : Noir je veux l’œil, et brun le teint, Bien que l’œil verd le François tant adore.   J’aime la bouche imitante la rose Au lent Soleil de May desclose : Un petit Tetin nouvelet, Qui se fait desja rondelet, Et s’eslever dessus l’Albastre s’ose.   La taille droitte, a la beauté pareille, Et dessouz la coeffe une oreille Qui toute se monstre dehors : En cent façons les cheveux tors : La joue egalle a l’Aurore vermeille.   L’estomac plain, la jambe longue et grelle, D’autant que moins sembleroit elle A celles qui l’ont volontiers Plus grosse qu’il ne faut d’un tiers : Le flanc haussé, la cuisse ronde et belle. La dent d’ivoire, odorante l’aleine, A qui s’egalleroient a peine Toutes les fleurs de la Sabee, Ou toute l’odeur desrobee Que l’Inde riche heureusement ameine.   L’esprit naif, et naive la grace : La main lascive, ou qu’elle embrasse L’amy en son giron couché, Ou que son Luc en soit touché, Et une voix qui mesme son Luc passe.   Qu’el’ seust par cueur tout cela qu’a chanté Petrarque en Amours tant venté, Ou la Rose par Meun decritte : Et contre les femmes despite Avecques qui jeune j’auroy’ hanté.   Quand au maintien, inconstant et volage, Follatre, et digne de tel age : Le regard errant ça et la, Et une dousseur sus cela Qui plus cent fois que la beauté soulage. Je ne voudroye avoir en ma puissance A tous coups d’elle jouissance : Souvent le nier un petit En amour donne l’appetit, Et donne encor’ la longue obeissance.   Quand est de moy, je ne voudroy’ changer Femme telle a l’or estranger, Ny a tout cela qui arrive De l’Orient en nostre rive, Ny a la Lote heureux fruit a manger.   Lors que sa bouche a me baiser tendroit, Ou que tendre ne la voudroit, Feignant la cruelle faschee : Ou quand en quelque coing cachee, A l’impourveu accoller me viendroit.

Ode of Pierre de Ronsard to Jacques Peletier, On the beauties he would wish for in a lover – When I’m fortunate enough to choose A mistress according to my wishes, Do you know whom I shall take And to whom I shall make myself subject To serve constantly, at her pleasure?   Not too mature in years, but still in fresh youth: That alone gnaws at my heart, Wounded with impatience; I want her eyes to be black, her skin tanned, Even though the French love green eyes so much.   I love a mouth which imitates the rose Blooming in the lazy sunshine in May; A small budding breast, Just rounding out, And daring to lift itself above the alabaster [of her skin]   A fine figure, equal to her beauty, And beneath her hair, ears Which show themselves entire beyond it; Her hair curled a hundred ways; Her cheek crimson to equal the Dawn.   A rounded stomach, a long and slender leg, In which respect she should resemble as little as possible Those who choose to have legs A third thicker than necessary; A high waist, a round and pretty thigh.   Teeth of ivory, sweet-smelling breath Scarcely to be equalled by All the flowers of Sheba, Or all the secret perfumes Which the rich Indies happily bring us.   A simple spirit, and simple charm; A naughty hand, whether she’s embracing A lover lying in her lap Or whether she’s playing her lute with it, And a voice which surpasses even her lute.   She should know by heart all that Petrarch sang in his so-well-known Love poems, Or the Rose described by [Jean de] Meun; And she should vex those women With whom I might have spent time when young.   As for how she behaves herself – inconstant, fickle, Flighty, just as she should be at that age; Her glance should wander here and there, And a sweetness over all Which comforts a hundred times more than her beauty.   I wouldn’t want to have in my power Happiness from her, not at any price; Denying your man a little thing often Increases desire in love, And also makes for long-lasting obedience.   As for me, I would not want to change Such a lady for foreign gold, Nor for everything which arrives On our shores from the Orient, Nor for Lotus, that fruit so enjoyable to eat:   Whether her lips reached to kiss me, Or whether she didn’t want to, tenderly Feigning cruel anger; Or whether hidden in some corner She came unexpectedly to embrace me.

 

 In stanza 8, “the Rose” is a reference to the famous ‘Roman de la Rose’ (Romance of the Rose), completed by Jean de Meun.  In the penultimate stanza the Lotus refers to the food of the  Lotus-Eaters in Homer’s Odyssey IX – see also Tennyson’s ‘Lotus Eaters’. The lotus was a narcotic; though it is also sometimes identified with the persimmon! The version above is taken from the 1547 edition of Peletier, where it is accompanied by Peletier’s Ode in response, using the same stanza-form and the same number of stanzas, which I may put up soon!

 

I mention this because Blanchemain’s version has an extra stanza; but as Peletier’s poem has the same number of stanzas as the above, the revised version printed by Blanchemain would not fit the context of the paired Odes in Peletier’s book.

 

Blanchemain’s version also has little changes throughout, so as usual it is easiest to print his version as well, entire, with changes marked. As usual also, I’m far from convinced that the majority of these changes improve the poem; though some undoubtedly improve obscurities in the original version

 

Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir Maistresse selon mon desir, Mon Peletier, je te veux dire Laquelle je voudrois eslire Pour la servir, constant, a son plaisir.    L’age non meur, mais verdelet encore : Est l’age seul qui me devore Le cueur d’impatience atteint : Noir je veux l’œil, et brun le teint, Bien que l’œil verd toute la France adore.   J’aime la bouche imitante la rose Au lent Soleil de May desclose : Un petit Tetin nouvelet, Qui se fait desja rondelet, Et sur l’yvoire eslevé se repose.   La taille droitte, a la beauté pareille, Et dessouz la coeffe une oreille Qui toute se monstre dehors : En cent façons les cheveux tors : La joue egalle a l’Aurore vermeille.   L’estomac plain, la jambe de bon tour, Pleine de chair tout à l’entour, Que par souhait on tasteroit, Un sein qui les Dieux tenteroit Le flanc haussé, la cuisse faite au tour.   La dent d’ivoire, odorante l’aleine, A qui s’egalleroient a peine Les doux parfums de la Sabee, Ou toute l’odeur desrobee Que l’Arabie heureusement ameine.   L’esprit naif, et naive la grace : La main lascive, ou qu’elle embrasse L’amy en son giron couché, Ou que son luth en soit touché, Et une voix qui mesme son luth passe.   Le pied petit, la main longuette et belle, Dontant tout cueur dur et rebelle, Et un ris qui en descouvrant Maint diamant, allast ouvrant Le beau sejour d’une grace nouvelle ;   Qu’el’ seust par cueur tout cela qu’a chanté Petrarque en Amours tant venté, Ou la Rose si bien escrite : Et contre les femmes despite Par qui je fus des enfance enchanté ;   Quand au maintien, inconstant et volage, Follatre, et digne de tel age : Le regard errant ça et la, Un naturel avec cela Qui plus que l’art miserable soulage.   Je ne voudroye avoir en ma puissance A tous coups d’elle jouissance : Souvent le nier un petit En amour donne l’appetit, Et fait durer la longue obeissance.   D’elle le temps ne pourroit m’estranger, N’autre amour, ne l’or estranger, Ny a tout le bien qui arrive De l’Orient à nostre rive, Je ne voudrois ma brunette changer,   Lors que sa bouche a me baiser tendroit, Ou qu’approcher ne la voudroit, Feignant la cruelle faschee : Ou quand en quelque coing cachee, Sans l’aviser pendre au col me viendroit.

When I’m fortunate enough to choose A mistress according to my wishes, My Peletier, I’d like to tell you Which I’d choose To serve constantly, at her pleasure?    Not too mature in years, but still in fresh youth: That’s the only age which gnaws at My heart, wounded with impatience; I want her eyes to be black, her skin tanned, Even though all France loves green eyes.   I love a mouth which imitates the rose Blooming in the lazy sunshine in May; A small budding breast, Just rounding out, Which lies raised up on the ivory [of her skin]   A fine figure, equal to her beauty, And beneath her hair, ears Which show themselves entire beyond it; Her hair curled a hundred ways; Her cheek crimson to equal the Dawn.   A rounded stomach, a well-rounded leg, Plenty of flesh all around it, Which you’d want to touch, A breast which would tempt the Gods, A high waist, a rounded thigh.   Teeth of ivory, sweet-smelling breath Scarcely to be equalled by The sweet perfumes of Sheba, Or all the secret perfumes Which Arabia happily brings us.   A simple spirit, and simple charm; A naughty hand, whether she’s embracing A lover lying in her lap Or whether she’s playing her lute with it, And a voice which surpasses even her lute.   A little foot, a hand, quite long and beautiful, Overcoming every hard, rebellious heart, And a smile which, displaying Many a diamond, indicates the beginning Of the fair visit of a new Grace;   She should know by heart all that Petrarch sang in his so-well-known love poems, Or the Rose so well written; And she should vex those women By whom I’d been enchanted since youth.   As for how she behaves herself – inconstant, fickle, Flighty, just as she should be at that age; Her glance should wander here and there, A naturalness with her Which comforts more than wretched art.   I wouldn’t want to have in my power Happiness from her, not at any price; Denying your man a little thing often Increases desire in love, And makes obedience long-lasting.   From her time could not part me, Nor other love, nor foreign gold, Nor for all the goods which arrive On our shores from the Orient, Would I want to exchange my brown-haired lass:   Whether her lips reached to kiss me, Or whether she didn’t want to come close, Feigning cruel anger; Or whether hidden in some corner She came without warning to hang on my neck.

 I also have another version, similar to Blanchemain’s but with further changes.  The opening of stanza 1 becomes

 

Quand je seroy si heureux de choisir

Une maistresse à mon desir

                                                                                When I’m fortunate enough to choose

                                                                                A mistress at my wish …

 

Then in that additional (8th) stanza,

 

Maint diamant, allast ouvrant

Le beau vermeil d’une lèvre jumelle

                                                                                Many a diamond, begins by opening

                                                                                The fair crimson of her twin lips.

 

and the last line of the next stanza becomes

 

Dont je serois comme d’elle enchanté

                                                                                Of whom I’d be enchanted as with her

 

In the next stanza, “avec” becomes “outre” – ‘A naturalness beyond that which comforts…”.   And finally in the last stanza the middle line changes:

 

Comme feignant d’estre faschee 

                                                                               As one feigning to be angry…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contre un qui luy desroba son Horace

As it’s my birthday I feel I should allow myself the luxury of putting up a poem just because it amuses me…

The title means: “Against someone who stole his Horace” – clearly losing your source-book of Classical poetry was a serious matter in Ronsard’s time!  I might add, this poem feels as if it should translate nimbly into rhyming English verse – but having struggled with it for a while I haven’t been able to manage it!  Help welcome!

 

Quiconques ait mon livre pris,

D’oresnavant soit-il épris

D’une fureur, tant qu’il luy semble

Voir au ciel deux soleils ensemble,

     Comme Penthée!

 

Au dos, pour sa punition,

Pende sans intermission

Une furie qui le suive!

Sa coulpe luy soit tant qu’il vive

     Representée.

 

 

                                                                    Whoever took my book,

                                                                    Henceforth let him be seized

                                                                    By madness, such that he thinks

                                                                    He sees two suns together in the sky

                                                                           Like Pentheus!

 

                                                                    On his back, for his punishment,

                                                                    May a Fury cling to pursue

                                                                    Him without a break!

                                                                    May his guilt be before his eyes

                                                                          As long as he lives.

 

 

 The reference to Pentheus is from Euripides’ “Bacchae” (line 918), where Pentheus “seems to see two suns”, under an enchantment from Dionysus which will lead to his gory death…  An appropriate punishment for a book-stealer, obviously.