Helen 2:21

Amour, tu es trop fort, trop foible est ma raison

Pour soustenir le camp d’un si rude adversaire.

Trop tost, sotte Raison, tu te laisses desfaire :

Dés le premier assaut on te meine en prison.

 

Je veux, pour secourir mon chef demi-grison,

Non la Philosophie ou les Loix : au contraire

Je veux ce deux-fois nay, ce Thebain, ce Bonpere,

Lequel me servira d’une contrepoison.

 

Il ne faut qu’un mortel un immortel assaille.

Mais si je prens un jour cest Indien pour moy,

Amour, tant sois tu fort, tu perdras la bataille,

 

Ayant ensemble un homme et un Dieu contre toy.

La Raison contre Amour ne peut chose qui vaille :

Il faut contre un grand Prince opposer un grand Roy.

 

 

 

                                                                           Love you are too strong, too weak is my Reason

                                                                           To sustain the attack of so aggressive an opponent.

                                                                           Too soon, foolish Reason, have you let yourself be undone;

                                                                           After the first assault they’ve taken you to prison.

 

                                                                           I need, to save my half-grey head,

                                                                           Neither philosophy nor laws; instead

                                                                           I need that twice-born Theban, that good father,

                                                                           Who will serve against the poison.

 

                                                                           A mortal should not attack a god.

                                                                           But if I take this Indian to myself one day,

                                                                           Love, you will lose the battle however strong you are,

 

                                                                           With a god and a man together against you.

                                                                           Reason can do nothing worthwhile against Love;

                                                                           Against a great Prince, one must set a great King.

 

 

 

 

 

A fairly straightforward poem, apart from the obscure mythological references! Who is the “twice-born Theban”, the “good father”, the “Indian”? It is Bacchus (or Dionysus). But where do the epithets come from?

 

Bacchus is “twice-born” because he was the child of Zeus and Semele. Because Semele insisted on looking upon Zeus in all his glory, which killed her, Zeus took the unborn child and sewed him into his thigh, from which he was later (at term) born. Although most tales have this happening in Thrace, Semele was a princess of Thebes, so some versions have a birth in Thebes – hence “Theban”. For instance, the Greek historian Diodorus Siculus separates out two versions of Dionysus, an Egyptian god and a Greek one, and calls the latter ‘Theban’. It’s worth noting that the story of Euripides ‘Bacchae’, including the death of Pentheus, is set in Thebes and in this version (I think – though I shall have to go and re-read it!) Thebes is his birthplace.

 

So why “Indian”? There are versions of the story of Dionysus where he is said to have conquered the Indies – hence “Indian”. Wikipedia tells us:

 

“According to a legend, when Alexander the Great reached a city called Nysa near the Indus river, the locals said that their city was founded by Dionysus in the distant past and their city was dedicated to the god Dionysus. These travels took something of the form of military conquests; according to Diodorus Siculus he conquered the whole world except for Britain and Ethiopia.

 

The Alexander story comes from Arrian’s Anabasis [one of my favourites], though it is worth noting perhaps – given Ronsard’s depth of learning – that Diodorus Siculus attributes this Eastern conquest to the Egyptian god not the Greek one. Apparently Hermippus’s comedies also back up the story of Dionysus conquering much of the known world.

 

So what does all this mean for the poem? Basically, we end up with “Love is too strong for Reason; so the only option is to turn to drink, because Alcohol can conquer Love”!

 

—

 

One final note, on Blanchemain’s text. There is a small variant in line 3, which becomes “Va, badine Raison, tu te laisses desfaire” (“Go, playful Reason, you have let yourself be undone”); but more significantly he shows us that this poem and the next 16 in Helen 2 – i.e. numbers 21-37 – were all part of the ‘Amours diverses’ before being imported wholesale into Helen 2 when Ronsard compiled these volumes.

 

 

 

Amours 1.190

Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Menades,

Ne deçoit pas leurs cerveaux estonnez :

Tousjours au son des cornets entonnez

Les monts Troyens ne foulent de gambades.

 

Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades

N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,

Et quelquefois leurs esprits forcenez

Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.

 

Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,

Et le Curet sous les armes dispos,

Ne sent tousjours le Tan de sa Deesse :

 

Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint,

En patience une heure ne me laisse,

Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me poind.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray

                                                                            Deceive their stunned brains;

                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets

                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;

 

                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades

                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,

                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied minds

                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.

 

                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,

                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,

                                                                            Does not always feel the mark of her goddess;

 

                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,

                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me. 

 

 

Ronsard’s “tousjours” I have translated as ‘always’ – but there is a subsidiary meaning in the French which only gets eliminated towards the end, which is ‘still’ – ‘the Maenads are not still running around the hills of Troy, the Thyades are no longer maddened…’ But with the sestet it becomes clear that he is not contrasting ‘then’ and ‘now’, but ‘not always’ and ‘always’. (Incidentally, while “tousjours … ne” works in French, ‘always doesn’t’ seems to me to mean something slightly different from ‘doesn’t always’ in English!)

 

What of all these names? The Maenads are famous from Euripides’ play of the same name: followers of Dionysus/Bacchus, as were the ‘wine-soaked Thyades’. Maenads (=’maddened ones’) certainly came from or worshipped in the hills, but not specifically Trojan hills. Both were known for the frenzy of their celebrations, ecstatic dancing leading to trance and the loss of inhibition – often leading to violent excess. Corybants were followers of Cybele (another Asian goddess – the Greeks always viewed Asia with suspicion), and Curetes of Rhea – who is often in turn associated with Cybele. They too were known for their ecstatic rites, or as Muret footnotes it ‘when they sacrificed they were seized by a madness which made them run, shout & jump as if out of their minds’.

 

Minor variants in Blanchemain: here’s the whole poem again to avoid a string of picky amendments. Note how in lines 2 and 7 this earlier version had in-line alliteration which Ronsard later chose to make much more subtle by simply switching the words.

 

 

Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Ménades

Ne deçoit pas leurs esprits estonnez ;

Toujours au son des cornets entonnez

Les monts troyens ne foulent de gambades.

 

Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades

N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,

Et quelquefois leurs cerveaux forcenez

Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.

 

Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,

Et le Curet, sous les armes dispos,

Sent par saisons le tan de sa déesse ;

 

Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint

En patience une heure ne me laisse,

Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me point.

 

 

                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray

                                                                            Deceive their stunned minds;

                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets

                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;

 

                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades

                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,

                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied brains

                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.

 

                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,

                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,

                                                                            From time to time feels the mark of her goddess;

 

                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,

                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me.

 

 

 Blanchemain also offers us a variant of the final tercet:

 

Mais la beauté qui me pousse en erreur

En patience une heure ne me laisse :

« Le sang qui boust est toujours en fureur. »

 

                                                                            But the beauty which drives me to errors

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace:

                                                                            “The blood which boils is always maddened.” 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (3)

Quel son masle et hardy, quelle bouche héroique,

Et quel superbe vers enten-je icy sonner ?

Le lierre est trop bas pour ton front couronner,

Et le bouc est trop peu pour ta Muse tragique.

 

Si Bacchus retournoit au manoir Plutonique,

Il ne voudroit Eschyle au monde redonner,

Il te choisiroit seul, qui seul peux estonner

Le theatre François de ton cothurne antique.

 

Les premiers trahissoient l’infortune des Rois,

Redoublant leur malheur d’une trop basse voix :

La tienne comme foudre en la France s’écarte.

 

Heureux en bons esprits ce siecle plantureux :

Auprés toy, mon Garnier, je me sens bien-heureux,

De quoy mon petit Loir est voisin de ta Sarte.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            What sound, manly and bold, what heroic voice,

                                                                            And what proud verse do I hear ringing out here?

                                                                            The ivy is too poor to crown your brow,

                                                                            And the ram too little for your tragic Muse.

 

                                                                            If Bacchus returned to Pluto’s domain

                                                                            He would not want to give Aeschylus back to the world,

                                                                            He would choose only you, who alone can astonish

                                                                            French theatre with your antique buskin.

 

                                                                            Earlier writers betrayed the misfortune of kings,

                                                                            Redoubling their misfortunes with too poor a voice:

                                                                            Yours, like thunder, rolls forth across France.

 

                                                                            Blessed with great spirits is this bounteous age;

                                                                            Beside you, my Garnier, I feel myself fortunate

                                                                            That my little Loir neighbours your Sarte.

 

 

 

As with the previous poem, Ronsard writes here in his usual Alexandrines. They seem appropriate for a poem proclaiming the voice of thunder with which Garnier speaks, and for comparing him with Aeschylus, perhaps the most noble and high-flown of the three great Greek tragedians and the most natural compaarator (in my view) for the French grand style. (By contrast, Shakespeare is comfortable in Sophoclean or Euripidean style, though he can rise to Aeschylean heights when he wants to:  French tragedy cannot descend to the commonplace of Euripides, and rarely to the middle ground of Sophocles!)  Incidentally this is the first time one of the ancient Greek tragedians has been mentioned in a poem (as opposed to a footnote) on this blog.

 

Having said which, it is pretty obvious that the compliment is over-blown… and Ronsard’s self-deprecation in the final line doesn’t of course stop him making sure we know exactly who has written this encomium!  I imagine Ronsard with his tongue in his cheek; and I have to say I like his style here!

 

In the first stanza the ivy wreath or laurel wreath is an ancient tragic prize; the ram is a sacrifice appropriate to the gods of ancient Greece, but as Ronsard says here too small to say thank you for so great a talent as Garnier…

 

 

 

 

Ode 4: 32

Verson ces roses en ce vin, En ce bon vin versons ces roses, Et boivon l’un à l’autre, afin Qu’au cœur nos tristesses encloses Prennent en boivant quelque fin.   La belle rose du printemps, Aubert, admoneste les hommes Passer joyeusement le temps, Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes, Esbattre la fleur de nos ans.   Car ainsi qu’elle défleurit A bas en une matinée, Ainsi nostre âge se flestrit, Las ! et en moins d’une journée Le printemps d’un homme perit.   Ne veis-tu pas hier Brinon Parlant et faisant bonne chere, Lequel aujourd’hui n’est sinon Qu’un peu de poudre en une bière, Qui de luy n’a rien que le nom ?   Nul ne desrobe son trespas, Caron serre tout en sa nasse, Roys et pauvres tombent là bas ; Mais ce-pendant le temps se passe, Rose, et je ne te chante pas.   La rose est l’honneur d’un pourpris, La rose est des fleurs la plus belle, Et dessus toutes a le pris : C’est pour cela que je l’appelle La violette de Cypris.   Le rose est le bouquet d’amour, La rose est le jeu des Charites, La rose blanchit tout autour Au matin de perles petites Qu’elle emprunte du poinct du jour.   La rose est le parfum des dieux, La rose est l’honneur des pucelles, Qui leur sein beaucoup aiment mieux Enrichir de roses nouvelles, Que d’un or tant soit precieux.   Est-il rien sans elle de beau ? La rose embellit toutes choses, Venus de roses a la peau, Et l’Aurore a les doigts de roses, Et le front le Soleil nouveau.   Les nymphes de rose ont le sein, Les coudes, les flancs et les hanches ; Hebé de roses a la main, Et les Charites, tant soient blanches, Ont le front de roses tout plein.   Que le mien en soit couronné, Ce m’est un laurier de victoire : Sus, appelon le deux-fois-né, Le bon pere, et le faisons boire, De cent roses environné.   Bacchus, espris de la beauté Des roses aux fueilles vermeilles, Sans elles n’a jamais esté, Quand en chemise sous les treilles Il boit au plus chaud de l’esté.

Pour these roses into the wine, Into this fine wine pour these roses, And drink one to another, that Those sad things we keep in our hearts May meet in drinking some kind of end.   The fair rose of spring, Aubert, admonishes men To spend their time joyously And, while we’re young, To frolic away the flower of our years.   For just as her petals fall Down in a morning, So our age is blighted: Alas, in less than a day A man’s springtime perishes.   Didn’t you see Brinon yesterday Chattering and making good cheer, Who is nothing today but A little powder in a beer Which has nothing of him but his name?   None can avoid his death, Charon closes his net on us all, Kings and paupers fall down below; But – time is passing, O Rose, and I am not singing of you!   The Rose is the most distinguished of crimsons, The Rose is of flowers most beautiful, And above all others takes the prize: That’s why I call it The violet of Cypris (=Venus).   Rose is the scent of love The Rose is the plaything of the Graces, The Rose makes all around it fade, In the morning, with tiny pearls She borrows from the dawn.   The Rose is the perfume of the gods, The Rose is the symbol of virgins, Who love far more to enrich Their breast with fresh roses Than with gold however precious.   Is there anything beautiful without her? The Rose enhances all things, Venus has skin like roses, And Dawn is rosy-fingered And the morning Sun is rose-pink.   The nymphs have rosy breasts, Arms, bodies, legs; Hebe has a rosy hand, And the Graces, though fair-skinned, Have all-rosy brows.   Would that mine was so crowned, That would be for me a laurel of victory; Up then, call the twice-born, The good father, and let’s make him drink, Encircled by a hundred roses.   Bacchus, enamoured of the beauty Of roses with their crimson petals, Has never been without them When in shirt-sleeves he drinks Beneath the arbour in the hottest days of summer.

 

 In the 5th stanza, Charon is the boatman who ferries dead souls across the river Styx; I can’t recall anywhere else where the image is of him fishing them up in his net!  In the 9th stanza, ‘rosy-fingered Dawn’ is how Homer always terms her.  In the penultimate stanza the ‘twice-born’ is Dionysus, or Bacchus as in the final stanza. Why twice-born? Well, Bacchus was the child of Jupiter and Semele; those who know the Handel opera will know Semele died as a result of seeing Jupiter in all his glory – before giving birth. Jupiter then took her unborn child (a ‘six-month child’ according to some Greek writers) and sewed it into his thigh to complete its growth until ready to be born. Hence ‘twice-born’, once from Semele’s womb, once from Jupiter’s thigh.

 

Aubert in the 2nd stanza is Guillaume Aubert, friend of du Bellay & posthumous editor of his works.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Odes 5, 15

Nous ne tenons en notre main

Le temps futur du lendemain;

La vie n’a point d’asseurance,

Et, pendant que nous desirons

La faveur des roys, nous mourons

Au milieu de notre esperance.

 

L’homme, après son dernier trespas ,

Plus ne boit ne mange là bas,

Et sa grange, qu’il a laissée

Pleine de blé devant sa fin,

Et sa cave pleine de vin

Ne luy viennent plus en pensée.

 

Hé ! quel gain apporte l’esmoy?

Va, Corydon, appreste-moy

Un lict de roses espanchées.

Il me plaist, pour me défascher,

A la renverse me coucher

Entre les pots et les jonchées.

 

Fay-moy venir Daurat icy ;

Fais-y venir Jodelle aussi,

Et toute la musine troupe;

Depuis le soir jusqu’au matin,

Je veux leur donner un festin

Et cent fois leur pendre la coupe.

 

Verse donc et reverse encor

Dedans ceste grand’ coupe d’or :

Je vay boire à Henry Estienne,

Qui des enfers nous a rendu

Du vieil Anacreon perdu

La douce lyre teïenne.

 

A toy, gentil Anacreon,

Doit son plaisir le biberon,

Et Bacchus te doit ses bouteilles ;

Amour son compagnon te doit

Venus, et Silène, qui boit

L’esté dessous l’ombre des treilles.

 

 

 

                                                                                               We do not hold in our hands

                                                                                               What the future is for tomorrow;

                                                                                               Life gives us no assurances

                                                                                               And while we seek

                                                                                               The favour of kings, we die

                                                                                               In the midst of our hopes.

 

                                                                                               Man after his eventual death

                                                                                               No longer drinks or eats in the Beyond,

                                                                                               And his barn which he left

                                                                                               Full of corn before his end

                                                                                               And his cellar full of wine

                                                                                               No longer come to his mind.

 

                                                                                               Ah, what gain does worry bring?

                                                                                               Go, Corydon, prepare me

                                                                                               A bed strewn with roses.

                                                                                               It pleases me to relax

                                                                                               To lie down on my back

                                                                                               Among the strewings and chaff.

 

                                                                                               Send Daurat to me here

                                                                                               And send Jodelle too

                                                                                               And the whole troop of the Muses’ followers;

                                                                                               From evening through till morning

                                                                                               I’d like to give them a feast

                                                                                               And offer them the cup a hundred times.

 

                                                                                               Pour then, and pour again

                                                                                               Within this great cup of gold

                                                                                               I shall drink to Henry Estienne

                                                                                               Who has returned to us from Hades

                                                                                               The sweet lyre of Teos

                                                                                               Lost by old Anacreon.

 

                                                                                               To you, noble Anacreon,

                                                                                               The drinker owes his pleasure

                                                                                               And Bacchus owes you his bottles;

                                                                                               Venus owes you Love, her companion,

                                                                                               And Silenus who drinks

                                                                                               All summer under the shade of the vine-arbour.

 

 

 

 

Although he doesn’t say so, Ronsard is here celebrating the publication of (pseudo-) Anacreon by Henri Estienne in 1554. It was a book which had a profound impact on Ronsard’s poetry.

 

As well as the usual classical references, here Ronsard refers to his own contemporaries and friends, other poets in the group which called itself “La Pléïade” (after the cluster of stars, and a famous group of Alexandrian poets: a bold move, particularly as the Alexandrian Pleiad included the enormously influential poets Callimachus and Theocritus, as well as Lycophron and Apollonius of Rhodes!).  Jean Daurat (or Dorat) and Étienne Jodelle were among its minor members;  “the whole troop of the Muses’ followers” is of course the Pléïade.

 

An earlier version of the poem featured, instead of Jodelle, the ubiquitous Pierre de Paschal: the second line of stanza 4 reading “Paschal et mon Pangeas aussi”. 

 

Anacreon was a Greek lyric poet, born in Teos, whose style Ronsard set out to imitate, and whose content he sometimes adapted too: see, for instance, Ode 20 in book 4.

 

Last, but not least, Henry Estienne was a publisher and scholar, who edited and issued many Greek texts in print for the first time. The 1554 Anacreon was his first. But what he is most important for, and why he has endeared himself to me, is his Greek dictionary. Nowadays English learners of classical Greek rely on Liddell & Scott’s Victorian lexicon; but if you are working with later Greek writers – like the early Church Fathers – Liddell & Scott’s brand of Greek is a little too pure, and Henri Estienne’s 1570s ‘Thesaurus Graecae Linguae’ is still the best to work with. And in this wonderful age of Google books, you can find it online quite easily. An obscure detail for enthusiasts: his editions of Plato in the 1570s & 1580s are still the reference-point for page numbering in modern editions, the so-called ‘Stephanus pagination’ (Henricus Stephanus being the Latinised version of his name).

 

 

 

Odes 4, 20 – to Remy Belleau

Du grand Turc je n’ay souci,

Ny du grand soldan aussi;

L’or ne maistrise ma vie,

Aux roys je ne porte envie;

 

J’ay souci tant seulement

De parfumer cointement

Ma barbe, et qu’une couronne

De fleurs le chef m’environne.

Le soin de ce jour me point,

Du demain je n’en ai point.

Qui, bons Dieux! sçauroit cognoistre

Si un lendemain doit estre.

 

Vulcan, en faveur de moy,

Je te pri’, despeche-toy

De me tourner une tasse,

Qui de profondeur surpasse

Celle du vieillard Nestor;

Je ne veux qu’elle soit d’or,

Sans plus fay-la-moi de chesne,

Ou de lierre, ou de fresne.

 

Et ne m’engrave dedans

Ces grands panaches pendans,

Plastrons, morions, ny armes:

Qu’ai-je soucy des allarmes,

Des assauts ni des combas?

Aussi ne m’y grave pas

Ny le soleil ny la Lune,

Ny le jour ny la nuict brune,

Ny les astres radieux :

Eh ! quel soin ai-je des cieux,

De leurs Ours, de leur Charrette,

D’Orion ou de Boète?

 

Mais pein-moi, je te suppli,

D’une treille le repli

Non encore vendangée ;

Peins une vigne chargée

De grapes et de raisins,

Peins-y des fouleurs de vins.

[Peins-y Vénus et Cassandre,

Laisse de Bacchus espandre

Le lierre tout autour ;

Peins-y la Grâce et l’Amour,]

Le nez et la rouge trongne

D’un Silene et d’un yvrongne.

 

 

 

                                                                                                I don’t care about the Grand Turk

                                                                                                Nor the Great Sudan

                                                                                                Gold is not master in my life

                                                                                                I have no envy of kings.

 

                                                                                                In fact my only care is

                                                                                                To calmly perfume 

                                                                                                My beard, and put a crown

                                                                                                Of flowers around my head.

                                                                                                Today’s care is enough for today

                                                                                                For tomorrow I don’t care at all.

                                                                                                Who, by the gods, could even be sure

                                                                                                That tomorrow will really come?

 

                                                                                                Vulcan, while you favour me

                                                                                                I beg you hurry

                                                                                                To make me a cup

                                                                                                Which in its volume surpasses

                                                                                                That of old Nestor.

                                                                                                I want only that it be of gold

                                                                                                Without any fiddly fittings of oak

                                                                                                Or ivy or ash

 

                                                                                                Don’t engrave me within it any of

                                                                                                Those great swinging plumes,

                                                                                                Breastplates, helmets or weapons:

                                                                                                What do I care about battle’s alarms

                                                                                                Or assaults or fighting?

                                                                                                Also don’t engrave on it for me

                                                                                                Sun or Moon

                                                                                                Day or dark night

                                                                                                Nor radiant stars:

                                                                                                What do I care for the heavens

                                                                                                The Great Bear, Auriga,

                                                                                                Orion or Boötes?

 

                                                                                                Instead, paint me I beg

                                                                                                The meanders of a climbing vine

                                                                                                Not yet harvested;

                                                                                                Paint a vine heavy

                                                                                                With bunches of grapes,

                                                                                                Paint there the treading of the grapes.

                                                                                                [Paint there Venus and Cassandra,

                                                                                                Let Bacchus’s ivy spread

                                                                                                All around;

                                                                                                Paint there Grace and Love,

                                                                                                The nose and the red face

                                                                                                Of a Silenus and a drunkard.

 

 

Ronsard plays with the Homeric set-piece of describing some great object made for a hero by a god; in Homer it’s Achilles’ shield – here, it’s a large wine-cup…  Nestor’s proverbially huge cup is described in the Iliad:

 

     When that cup was full,

     another man could hardly lift it from the table

 

(translation by Ian Johnston, mala.bc.ca).    Ronsard’s poem is the immediate source of the poem ‘Upon his drinking cup’ by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (though his last line unsurprisingly goes for the crude shock word; very unlike Ronsard!).

 

                       Vulcan contrive me such a Cup,

                      As Nestor us’d of old;

                      Shew all thy skill to trim it up,

                      Damask it round with Gold.

 

                      Make it so large, that fill’d with

                      Sack, Up to the swelling brim,

                      Vast Toasts, on the delicious Lake,

                      Like Ships at Sea may swim.

 

                      Engrave no Battail on his Cheek,

                      With War, I’ve nought to do;

                      I’m none of those that took Mastrich,

                      Nor Yarmouth Leager knew.

 

                      Let it no name of Planets tell,

                      Fixt Stars, or Constellations;

                      For I am no Sir Sydrophell,

                      Nor none of his Relations.

 

                      But carve thereon a spreading Vine,

                      Then add Two lovely Boys;

                      Their Limbs in Amorous folds intwine,

                      The Type of future joys.

 

                      Cupid, and Bacchus, my Saints are,

                      May drink, and Love, still reign,

                      With Wine, I wash away my cares,

                      And then to C*** again.                                                           (text sourced from recmusic.org/lieder)

 

 

Both Ronsard and Rochester go back ultimately to Greek originals by Anacreon: Odes 17 & 18 in older editions, more recently relegated to the ‘Anacreonta’ (nos. 4-5) i.e. pseudonymous works in the style of Anacreon. Ode 17 is a far better work than ode 18; though the latter contributes a few ideas, the bulk of Ronsard & Wilmot’s ideas can be traced to ode 17.

 

 

ΕΙΣ  ΠΟΤΗΡΙΟΝ  ΑΡΓΥΡΟΥΝ

 

Τὁν ἄργυρον τορεὐσας,

Ἥφαιστέ, μοι ποιήσον,

Πανοπλίαν μὲν οὐχί ·

Τί γὰρ μάχαισι κᾀμοί ;

Ποτήριον δὲ κοίλον,

Ὅσον δύνῃ,  βάϑυνον.

Ποίει δέ μοι, κατ΄ αὐτὸ,

Μήτ̕ ἄστρα, μήϑʹ ἁμάξας͵

Μὴ στυγνὸν Ὠρίωνα·

Τί Πλειάδεσσι κᾀμοί ;

Τί δ΄ ἄστρασιν Βοὠτεω ;

Ποίησον ἀμπέλους μοι,

Καὶ  βότρυας κατ΄ αὐτὸ,

Καὶ χρυσέους πατοῦντας,

Ὁμοῦ καλῷ Λυαίῳ,

Ἔρωτα καὶ Βάϑυλλον.

 

 

                                                                                               ON A SILVER CUP

 

                                                                                              After carving the silver,

                                                                                               O Hephaestus [Vulcan], make for me

                                                                                               No suit of armour;

                                                                                               For what have I to do with battles?

                                                                                               But rather [make] a hollow bowl

                                                                                               As deep as you can.

                                                                                               And make for me , on it,

                                                                                               Not stars, not the Wagon [=Plough],

                                                                                               Not hateful Orion;

                                                                                               For what have I to do with the Pleaides?

                                                                                               Or with the stars of Boötes?

                                                                                               Make for me vines

                                                                                               And clusters of grapes on it,

                                                                                               And, treading the grapes, golden

                                                                                               Love and Bathyllus [a beautiful boy],

                                                                                               Together with fair Lyaeus [Bacchus].

 

 

Here is Ode 18, which has the same title.

 

Καλλίτεχνά, μοι τόρευσον

Ἔαρος κύπελλον ἡδύ.

Τὰ πρῶτα, τερπνὸν ἡμῖν,

Ῥόδον φέρουςαν ὥρην.

Τὸν ἄργυρον δ΄ ἁπλώσας,

Πότον ποίει μοι τερπνόν.

Τῶν τελετῶν, παραινῶ,

Μή μοι ξένον τορεύσῃς,

Μὴ φευκτὸν ἱστὀρημα.

Μᾶλλον ποίει Διὸς γόνον,

Βάκχον Εὔϊον ἡμῖν,

Μύστην νάματος· ἢ Κύπριν

Ὑμεναίοις κρατοῦσαν.

Χάρασσ’ Ἔρωτ’ ἄνοπλον,

Καὶ χαρίτας γελώσας

Ὑπ’ ἄμπελον εὐπέταλον,

Εὐβότρυον, κομῶσαν,

Σύναπτε κούρους εὐπρεπεῖς,

Ἂν μὴ Φοῖβος ἀϑύρῃ.

 

 

                                                                                               O gifted craftsman, carve for me

                                                                                               The sweet cup of Spring.

                                                                                               First, the season which brings

                                                                                               The rose, delightful to us.

                                                                                               Shaping the silver,

                                                                                               Make me a delightful drinking-cup.

                                                                                               Do not carve for me a strange

                                                                                               And shocking tale

                                                                                               Of sacrifices, please.

                                                                                               Rather, make for us the son of Zeus,

                                                                                               Bacchus Euios,

                                                                                               The priest of running wine; or Venus

                                                                                               Who has charge of weddings.

                                                                                               Engrave Cupid unarmed,

                                                                                               And the laughing Graces

                                                                                               Under a leafy vine,

                                                                                               Heavy with fine grapes;

                                                                                               And add some handsome boys,

                                                                                               If Phoebus [Apollo] is not playing there.