Amours 1.223

Mets en oubly, Dieu des herbes puissant,

Le mauvais tour que non loin d’Hellesponte

Te fit m’amie, et vien d’une main pronte

Guarir son teint de fiévres pallissant.

 

Tourne en santé son beau corps perissant !

Ce te sera, Phebus, une grand’honte,

Si la langeur sans ton secours surmonte

L’œil, qui te tient si long temps languissant.

 

En ma faveur si tu as pitié d’elle,

Je chanteray comme l’errante Dele

S’enracina par ton commmandement :

 

Que Python fut ta premiere conqueste,

Et comme Dafne aux tresses de ta teste

Donna l’honneur du premier ornement.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Forget, God of powerful herbs,

                                                                            The wicked trick which, not far from the Hellespont,

                                                                            My beloved did you, and come with ready hand

                                                                            To cure her complexion, pallid with fever.

 

                                                                            Return to health her fair but perishing body !

                                                                            It would be great shame on you, Phoebus,

                                                                            If this weakness, without your help, overcame

                                                                            Those eyes which kept you for so long weak-kneed.

 

                                                                            If to please me you have pity on her

                                                                            I shall sing how the wandering Delos

                                                                            Rooted itself at your command ;

 

                                                                            That Python was your first conquest,

                                                                            And how Daphne gave to the tresses of your head

                                                                            The glory of their first ornament.

 

 

Plenty of mythological reference here, as Ronsard begs Apollo, god of healing (‘powerful herbs’), to cure his beloved.Cassandre’s Trojan namesake, the priestess, was originally ‘cursed’ with prophetic madness by Apollo after she refused his advances (or, worse, led him on and then tricked him). Python links to the oracular side of Apollo as well, being the dragon-deity associated with the oracle at Delphi, defeated by Apollo so that the Delphic oracle became his – and was served by a ‘Pythian’ priestess.According to Ronsard, Delos (the island) rooted itself at Apollo’s command: more generally, legend has it that the wandering island was eventually fixed in its position – equidistant from the mainland to north and west, the Greek islands on the coast of Turkey in the east, and Crete to the south – by Poseidon, and subsequently became Apollo’s birthplace. And Daphne picks up the theme of ‘becoming rooted’, as she was the nymph turned into a laurel tree to avoid Apollo’s advances. (Whence the laurel wreath as a symbol of victory in competition is associated with Apollo.)

Note that the two mythical girls in the poem are both failed conquests of Apollo, who received terrible punishments!

In lines 7-8 I have tried to find a parallel for “langueur … languissant” and settled on ‘weak’ words: I’m not sure Ronsard would approve of ‘weak at the knees’ though!

Blanchemain’s version has a variant in lines 11-12:

 

                         … comme l’errante Dele
S’enracina sous ta voix, et comment

Python sentit ta premiere conqueste
 

                                                                                       … how the wandering Delos

                                                                            Rooted itself at your call, and how

                                                                            Python felt your first conquest

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.207

Sœur de Pâris, la fille au Roy d’Asie,

A qui Phebus en doute fit avoir

Peu cautement l’aiguillon du sçavoir,

Dont sans profit ton ame fut saisie :

 

Tu variras vers moy de fantaisie,

Puis qu’il te plaist (bien que tard) de vouloir

Changer ton Loire au sejour de mon Loir,

Pour y fonder ta demeure choisie.

 

En ma faveur le Ciel te guide ici,

Pour te monstrer de plus pres le souci

Qui peint au vif de ses couleurs ma face.

 

Vien Nymphe vien, les rochers et les bois,

Qui de pitié s’enflamment sous ma voix,

Pleurant ma peine, eschaufferont ta glace.  

 

 

 

                                                                            Sister of Paris, daughter to the King of Asia,

                                                                            To whom Phoebus, doubting, gave

                                                                            Incautiously the goad of knowledge,

                                                                            By which your soul was without profit seized ;

 

                                                                            You will change your ideas towards me

                                                                            Since you choose (though late) to consider

                                                                            Exchanging your Loire to stay on my Loir

                                                                            And to found there your chosen home.

 

                                                                            For my benefit is Heaven guiding you here

                                                                            To show you more closely the pain

                                                                            Which paints my face so vividly with its colours.

 

                                                                            Come, Nymph, come : the rocks and woods

                                                                            Which blaze up in pity at my voice,

                                                                            Weeping for my pain, will warm up your ice.

 

 

 

 

Classical allusiion to the fore again, though here Ronsard’s use of a roundabout way to identify Cassandre is fairly obvious – he rapidly gives us as much information as possible (sister of Paris, daughter of Priam, prophetic mouthpiece of Apollo … ah yes, that would be Cassandra!) In line 3 the “aiguillon” (goad, or prick, or sting, or really anything sharp and painful) perhaps calls to mind a more Christian image, that of St Paul “kicking against the pricks” as the King James version so wonderfully puts it. (Have you ever noticed how many of Jesus’s turns of phrase and stories are the language of a farmer in the fields, not that of a carpenter? If he did follow his father’s trade, he can only have done so part-time!)  Whether an intended reference or not, it is clearly the same metaphor: just as cattle were goaded with sharp sticks to keep them from wandering in the wrong direction, so here prophetic knowledge is both painful and also leaves no choice – Cassandra must prophesy, no matter that it hurts.

 

But then, in the rest of the poem, we abandon that image and the pains (or otherwise) of knowledge – because it becomes clear that was all just an elaborate way to say “Cassandre”. There is no real suggestion in the first tercet that Heaven’s guiding is in any way painful to Cassandre, as it was to her Trojan namesake; nor that the need to understand lies behind any decision to move closer to his home. And that is probably why I find this sonnet a bit irritating. There are thematic links between the opening and the rest, but those links seem accidental and un-purposed, which is un-satisfactory in a poet of Ronsard’s quality.

 

The earlier version printed by Blanchemain does not offer any substantive changes. In lines 7-8 he becomes slightly less certain of her intentions:

 

Changer ton Loire au rives de mon Loir,

Voire y fonder ta demeure choisie.

 

                                                                            Exchanging your Loire for the banks of my Loir,

                                                                            Maybe even founding there your chosen home. 

 

and in the final line becomes “De leurs soupirs eschauferont ta glace” (‘the rocks and woods … With their sighs will warm up your ice’)

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 2

A ton frere Pâris tu sembles en beauté,

A ta sœur Polyxene en chaste conscience,

A ton frere Helenin en prophete science,

A ton parjure ayeul en peu de loyauté,

 

A ton père Priam en brave Royauté,

Au viellard Antenor en mielleuse eloquence,

A ta tante Antigone en superbe arrogance,

A ton grand frere Hector en fiere cruauté.

 

Neptune n’assit onc une pierre si dure

Dedans le mur Troyen, que toy pour qui j’endure

Un million de morts, ny Ulysse vainqueur

 

N’emplit tant Ilion de feux, de cris, et d’armes,

De souspirs, et de pleurs, que tu combles mon cœur,

Sans l’avoir mérité, de sanglots, et de larmes

 

 

 

 

                                                                            You are like your brother Paris in beauty,

                                                                            Your sister Polyxena in chaste conscience,

                                                                            Your brother Helenus in prophetic skill,

                                                                            Your perjured grandfather [Laomedon] in faithlessness,

 

                                                                            Your father Priam in regal pride,

                                                                            Old Antenor in honeyed speech,

                                                                            Your aunt Antigone in magnificent arrogance,

                                                                            Your great brother Hector in proud cruelty.

 

                                                                            Neptune never placed a stone so hard

                                                                            In Troy’s walls as you, for whom I endure

                                                                            A million deaths, nor did conquering Ulysses

 

                                                                            Fill Ilium so full of fires, cries, arms,

                                                                            Sighs and laments, as you fill my heart –

                                                                            Which does not deserve it – with sobs and tears.

 

 

After that recent poem on reading Homer, another which demonstrates the effect of that reading! It’s possible that the family tree of the royal house of Troy may not be too familiar to you(!) so here’s a very useful quick summary:  several of the names above are highlighted to make navigation easy. The basic assumption is that ‘you’ (=Cassandre) are equivalent to the prophetess Cassandra of Troy.

 

Many of the references are not just to the characters but to the relevant myths:

 – Paris, so handsome that he was chosen to judge the goddesses’ beauty & gained Helen’s love;

 – Polyxena, whose calm wisdom encouraged Achilles (having captured her) to trust her with the information that led to his death, and who (in Euripides) nobly accepts her death as a sacrifice to Achilles’ ghost;

 – Helenus, Cassandra’s twin and also endowed with prophetic powers;

 – Laomedon, perjured because he persuaded Neptune to build Troy’s great walls (see line 9) but then refused to give the promised reward;

 – Priam, whose pride kept the war going (but who was capable of humbling himself before Achilles, to recover his son Hector’s body, in a truly noble/regal way);

 – Antenor, not a family member but Priam’s closest and wisest advisor (and an advocate for peace in the war);

 – Antigone, whose ‘arrogance’ is the centre of Sophocles’ play as her stubbornness leads to confrontation with the state and general tragedy;

 – Hector, generally considered a noble hero, but who of course has a long list of victims in the Iliad. Generally, Achilles not Hector is seen as the proudly cruel one!

 

Which leaves us only with the reference to Ulysses, who is responsible for the fall of Troy because he came up with the idea of the Trojan Horse.

 

Unusually for a poem that has been set aside, there is a variant in Blanchemain’s version at the beginning of the last line:

 

                          … que tu combles mon cœur,

De brasiers et de morts, de sanglots, et de larmes

 

                                                                                                    … as you fill my heart

                                                                            With fire and death, with sobs and tears.

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Am. 1:227d)

D’un gosier masche-laurier      J’oy crier Dans Lycofron ma Cassandre, Qui prophetize aux Troyens      Les moyens Qui les reduiront en cendre.   Mais ces pauvres obstinez      Destinez Pour ne croire à leur Sibylle, Virent, bien que tard, apres      Les feux Grecs Forcener parmy leur ville.   Ayant la mort dans le sein,      De la main Plomboient leur poitrine nue, Et tordant leurs cheveux gris,      De longs cris Pleuroient qu’ils ne l’avoient creuëe.   Mais leurs cris n’eurent pouvoir      D’esmouvoir Les Grecs si chargez de proye, Qu’ils ne laisserent sinon      Que le nom De ce qui fut jadis Troye.   Ainsi pour ne croire pas,      Quand tu m’as Predit ma peine future : Et que je n’aurois en don,      Pour guerdon De t’aimer, que la mort dure :   Un grand brasier sans repos,      Et mes os, Et mes nerfs, et mon cœur brûle : Et pour t’amour j’ay receu      Plus de feu, Que ne fit Troye incredule.

With her laurel-chewing throat      I hear calling In Lycophron my Cassandra, Prophesying to the Trojans      The way They’ll be reduced to ashes.   But those poor obstinate men,      Destined Not to believe their Sybil, Saw afterwards, though too late,      Greek fire Raging through their town.   With death in their hearts,      With their hands They sheathed their naked breasts in lead And tearing their grey hairs      With long cries They wept that they had not believed her.   But their cries had no power      To move The Greeks, so laden with loot That they left nothing      But the name Of what once was Troy.   So, for not believing      When you told me Of my future pain, And that I should gain only,      As trophy For loving you, the gift of harsh death,   A great fire ceaselessly      Burns My bones and nerves and heart, And for your love I’ve had      More fire Than made Troy astonished.

 

I’m uncomfortable with the opening line: Ronsard’s “masche-laurier” is hard to capture I feel  (EDIT – see below & Patrice’s useful clarification in the comments). But it would be a pity not to attempt the poem: it’s a marvellous one, I think, with the balance between 4 stanzas of Troy and two of Cassandre (or 2+2+2 if you prefer) and the clear link between the ‘ancient’ Cassandra and the ‘modern’, and the literal burning and the metaphorical.  Most of this is a straightforward and familiar recital of the Trojan legend, but Muret helps us with the odd reference to Lycophron:  ‘Lycophron, a native of Chalcis, was one of the seven poets who flourished in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, and who were called the Pleiade. This Lycophron wrote a poem called Cassandra, which alone has survived to this day, in which he depicts her predicting the evils which are to come to the town of Troy’.  Thus we see Ronsard managing to refer back to the original Pleaid of Alexandrian poets in the Hellenistic period of Greece, which gave its name to the ‘modern’ Pleiade of Ronsard, Baif and the others.

 

No variants to report from Blanchemain’s earlier version (!)

 

======

 

More on the opening line:  following Patrice’s hint, I have gone and looked up Lycophron. As often with Ronsard, the learned reference isn’t as difficult to locate as you might think: in fact, it’s in the 6th line of the 1500 line poem… The opening, in a Victorian translation I’ve borrowed from www.theoi.com, goes: “All will I tell truly that thou askest from the utter beginning, and if the tale be prolonged, forgive me, master. For not quietly as of old did the maiden loose the varied voice of her oracles, but poured forth a weird confused cry, and uttered wild words from her bay-chewing mouth, imitating the speech of the dark Sphinx.”  The Greek word is “Daphne-phagon” – laurel- or bay-eating – at the beginning of line 6 below

 

Further edit:  Ronsard also used this concept in Odes 1.11, strophe 5, where he writes of Phoebus (Apollo):

 

Lequel m’encharge de chanter

Son Du-Bellay, pour le vanter

Sur tous ses enfans qui ont bien

Masché du Laurier Delphien.

 

                                                           He who charged me to sing

                                                           Of his Du Bellay, to praise him

                                                           Above all those of his children who have

                                                           Well-chewed the Delphic laurel.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 105

Apres ton cours je ne haste mes pas

Pour te souiller d’une amour deshonneste :

Demeure donq, le Locrois m’admonneste

Aux bors Gyrez de ne te forcer pas.

 

Neptune oyant ses blasphemes d’abas,

Luy accabla son impudique teste

D’un grand rocher au fort de la tempeste :

« Le meschant court luy mesme à son trespas. »

 

Il te voulut le meschant violer,

Lors que la peur te faisoit accoler

Les pieds vangeurs de la Greque Minerve :

 

Et je ne veux qu’à ton autel offrir

Mon chaste cœur, s’il te plaist de souffrir

Qu’en l’immolant de victime il te serve.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I do not hurry behind you

                                                                            To soil you with a dishonourable love;

                                                                            Stay then, the Locrian warns me

                                                                            At the borders of Gyrea not to compel you.

 

                                                                            Neptune hearing his swearing from down in the deeps

                                                                            Heaped on his shameless head

                                                                            A great rock in a powerful tempest;

                                                                            “The wicked man rushes to his own death.”

 

                                                                            He wanted – that wicked man – to rape you

                                                                            When fear made you embrace

                                                                            The avenging feet of Grecian Minerva;

 

                                                                            Yet I wish only to offer at your altar

                                                                            My chaste heart, if it will please you to allow

                                                                            It, sacrificed as victim, to serve you.

 

 

 

Some commentary first:  ‘the Locrian’ in line 3 is Ajax the Lesser (of Locris), one of the warriors who conquered Troy. In so doing he raped Cassandra – the Trojan one – before the altar in a temple, and so outraged the gods. Variants of his death exist, but one of them has him shipwrecked and cast onto a sharp rock, then buried by Neptune under a mountain or rocks. Muret, in his footnote (quoted by Blanchemain) refers to this version of the story: ‘Ajax, son of Oileus, for having tried to rape Cassandra who had hidden in the temple of Minerva, was on his return to Greece struck down by the goddess and crushed beneath a part of some rocks which were called the ‘Gyrez’ rocks.’  After much searching I’ve been unable to locate any ‘Gyrean’ rocks. The place where Ajax was wrecked is generally said to be cape Capharea (modern: Cafirias) at the southern end of the island of Euboea (Evia), and I think it’s safe to assume this is what Ronsard is thinking of. (As an aside, ‘gyrez’ to modern Greeks is likely to call to mind ‘gyros’ which are the vertical spits on which kebabs rotate and cook, and by extension the meal-in-a-pitta-bread snacks that are served by those kebab bars!)

 

Personally I find it slightly surprising that Ronsard feels ‘safe’ contrasting himself and Cassandre so bluntly with Cassandre’s namesake & her rapist! But the rhetoric of the poem is beautifully balanced, to refer so bluntly to the rape and dwell on the violence associated with it, then swing back via the fear of Cassandra to the harmlessness of the present-day situation.

 

I may be wrong in detecting a fleeting reference to one of Horace’s most famous Odes in the final lines: in Odes 1.5, Horace imagines (in a tightly-structured poem not unlike a sonnet) his ‘ex’ enjoying herself with a younger lover, and ends with a metaphor for his retreat from the energetic passions of her love, in which he imagines an old sailor hanging up a sacrificial offering in Neptune’s temple to thank him for safe return from the seas. With Neptune appearing a little earlier in Ronsard’s sonnet, I wonder if he is hinting at the exhaustingly-passionate love he would like to share with Cassandre?!

 

What of Blanchemain’s earlier version? Happily, Ronsard  didn’t feel the need for major change in this poem, for it is a fine poem. His changes are designed to improve the poetry, rather than change the sense (and in my view do just that). In line 8 there is a different version of the homily: “Le Ciel conduit le meschant au trespas” (‘Heaven brings the wicked man to his death’). In line 4 there are “rocz Gyrez” (‘Gyrean rocks’) instead of “bors Gyrez”. And in the last tercet some minor textuakl variants only:  “Moi, je ne veux qu’à ta grandeur offrir / Ce chaste cœur…” (‘I myself wish only to offer to your greatness / This chaste heart…’)

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 36

Pour la douleur qu’Amour veut que je sente,

Ainsi que moy Phebus tu lamentois,

Quand amoureux et banny tu chantois

Pres d’Ilion sur les rives de Xante.

 

Pinçant en vain ta lyre blandissante,

Fleuves et fleurs et bois tu enchantois,

Non la beauté qu’en l’ame tu sentois,

Qui te navroit d’une playe aigrissante.

 

Là de ton teint tu pallissois les fleurs,

Là les ruisseaux s’augmentoyent de tes pleurs,

Là tu vivois d’une esperance vaine.

 

Pour mesme nom Amour me fait douloir

Pres de Vandôme au rivage du Loir,

Comme un Phenis renaissant de ma peine.

 

 

 

                                                                      With the sadness which Love wants me to feel

                                                                      You too, Phoebus, just like me lamented

                                                                      When, a banished lover, you sang

                                                                      By Ilium on the banks of the Xanthe.

 

                                                                      Vainly gripping your beguiling lyre

                                                                      You enchanted rivers, flowers, woods,

                                                                      But not the beauty whom your soul desired

                                                                      Who hurt you with a bitter wound.

 

                                                                      There, you made the flowers pale with your hue;

                                                                      There, the rivers grew deeper with your tears;

                                                                      There, you lived in empty hope.

 

                                                                      Now, Love makes me weep for the same name

                                                                      Near Vendôme on the banks of the Loir,

                                                                      Like a phoenix reborn from my pain.

 

 

 

Another mythological sequence: Ronsard once again creates a parallel between ‘his’ Cassandre and her Trojan namesake.  Phoebus (Apollo) was believed to have fallen in love with Cassandra of Troy (Ilium) but been rejected by her. The river Xanthe is one of the Trojan plain’s rivers.  The phoenix is the legendary bird reborn through fire – so that Ronsard evokes the burning pain he feels without actually having to use that phrase.  Note that the Loir is not the Loire – it’s further north in Eure-et-Loir.

 

I’ve translated line 7 rather loosely: strictly, it’s “But not the beauty whom you feel [or, ‘which you feel’] in your soul“; beauty may be the abstract or it may mean ‘her beauty’ or it may just mean Cassandra!  But I think Apollo is meant to feel the desire (or the wound), rather than just ‘sense her beauty’; so I’ve tried to convey that intent rather than translate the words directly.

 

Blanchemain’s version has (in my view) some improvements on this one – and some awkwardnesses missing here! In line 3 he has “Quand, amoureux, loin du ciel, tu chantois” (‘When, in love but far from heaven, you sang’); but the major differences, for better and worse, are in the final sestet. Here it is in his version:

 

 

Là de ton teint se pallissoient les fleurs,

Et l’eau, croissant du dégout de tes pleurs,

Portoit tes cris, dont elle rouloit pleine.

 

Pour mesme nom les fleurettes du Loir,

Pres de Vendôme, ont daigné me douloir,

Et l’eau se plaindre aux souspirs de ma peine.

 

 

                                                                     There, the flowers grew pale with your hue,

                                                                     And the waters, growing deeper as they tasted your tears,

                                                                     Carried your cries, as they flowed filled with them.

 

                                                                     Now, for the same name, the little flowers of the Loir

                                                                     Near Vendôme have seen fit to grieve with me,

                                                                     And the waters to weep at my pain’s sighs.

 

 For better, Ronsard avoids the slightly approximate rhyme of ‘vaine – peine’ and uses a stricter rhyme instead; and he mirrors the flowers and waters of the first tercet in the second. But for worse, he loses the linking theme of Love’s intent, and the image of the phoenix. 

 

 

You can read Tony Kline’s version in verse here

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 33

Je ne serois d’un abusé la fable,

Fable future au peuple survivant,

Si ma raison alloit bien ensuivant

L’arrest fatal de ta voix veritable,

 

Chaste prophete, et vrayment pitoyable,

Pour m’advertir tu me predis souvent,

Que je mourray, Cassandre, en te servant :

Mais le malheur ne te rend point croyable.

 

Le fier destin qui trompe mon trespas,

Et qui me force à ne te croire pas,

Pour me piper tes oracles n’accorde.

 

Puis je voy bien, veu l’estat où je suis,

Que tu dis vray :  toutesfois je ne puis

D’autour du col me detacher la corde.

 

 

 

                                                                      I would not be the tale of a misused man,

                                                                      A future tale for the people living after us,

                                                                      If my mind were well, following

                                                                      Its fateful capture by your truthful voice,

 

                                                                      Chaste prophetess, and truly to be pitied.

                                                                      To warn me you often give me the prediction

                                                                      That I will die, Cassandre, serving you;

                                                                      But my misfortune does not make you at all believable.

 

                                                                      The proud destiny which denies me my death,

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                      Does not grant that your oracles should snare me.

 

                                                                      But then I see clearly, given the position I’m in,

                                                                      That you speak the truth:  anyway, I cannot

                                                                      Remove the rope from round my neck.

 

 

 

Let me admit this up front:  the fluidity of Ronsard’s thought in this sonnet leaves me very uncertain that I’ve translated it correctly. I’m not quite sure I follow all his twists and turns.  Anyway, the translation is what it is: if you can offer improvements let me know!!

 

In the middle, Ronsard is clearly once again aligning his Cassandre with Cassandra of Troy, the ‘chaste prophetess’.  Assuming that I recall correctly it was her who lost her voice (see Sonnet 27), then ‘l’arrest … de ta voix’ may have a double meaning: for Trojan Cassandra, ‘the stoppage of your voice’, while for modern Cassandre, ‘my capture by your voice’. I say ‘may have’ – I may have misunderstood what’s going on here!

 

One difficulty is the punctuation in the first octet. Marty-Laveaux has this all as one sentence, which leaves me confused!  I have split the sentence at the end of line 5 – which is probably not what Ronsard would want, as he generally keeps his thought-units aligned with the sections of the sonnet. Blanchemain (for that reason?) makes each of the quatrains a complete sentence in itself.

 

And what of Blanchemain’s text? Well, he presents a different arrangement of the first line: “D’un abusé je ne serois la fable”, which does not affect the meaning; but he offers not one but two different versions of the final sestet.

 

Car ton destin qui cèle mon trespas,

Et qui me force à ne te croire pas,

D’un faux espoir tes oracles me cache.

 

Et si voy bien, veu l’estat où je suis,

Que tu dis vray ;  toutesfois je ne puis

D’autour du col me denouer l’attache.

 

 

                                                                      For your fate which conceals my death (from me),

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                       Hides your oracles in a false hope.

 

                                                                      And if I see clearly, given the position I’m in,

                                                                      That you speak the truth, anyway, I cannot

                                                                      Un-knot the cord from round my neck.

 

 The version above, you may note, makes the fate definitely hers; my translation implicitly assumed the fate or destiny was his. Blanchemain’s second version is as above except that he goes back to the same last line as Marty-Laveaux, above, but has a different line 11 rhyming with it. If anything, the new line 11 increases my uncertainty even more – see the tentative translation of the first sestet below!

 

(l. 11) Nulle créance à tes propos n’accorde …

(l. 14) D’autour du col me detacher la corde.

 

                                                                      For your destiny which conceals my death (from me),

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                      Does not accept any claim from your suggestions.

 

 

 

Sonnet 27

Bien mille fois et mille j’ay tenté

De fredonner sur les nerfs de ma Lyre,

Et mille fois en cent papiers escrire

Le nom qu’Amour dans le cœur m’a planté.

 

Mais tout soudain je suis espouvanté :

Car son beau nom qui l’esprit me martyre

Hors de moymesme estonné me retire,

De cent fureurs brusquement tourmenté.

 

Je suis semblable à la Prestresse folle,

Qui bègue perd la voix et la parolle,

Dessous le Dieu qui luy brouille le sain.

 

Ainsi troublé de l’amour qui me touche,

Fol et béant je n’ouvre que la bouche,

Et sans parler ma voix se perd en vain.

 

 

 

 

                                                                       Oh, a thousand and a thousand times I’ve tried

                                                                      To play on the strings of my lyre,

                                                                      And a thousand times on a hundred sheets write

                                                                      The name which Love has planted in my heart.

 

                                                                      But suddenly I’m stunned:

                                                                      For her fair name which tortures my soul

                                                                      Draws me out of myself, astounded,

                                                                      Roughly tormented by a hundred frenzies.

 

                                                                      I am like that maddened priestess

                                                                      Who, stammering, lost her voice and speech

                                                                      Under the power of that god who messed up her health.

 

                                                                      So, troubled by the love which grips me,

                                                                      Mad and gaping, I can only open my mouth

                                                                      And without speaking my voice disappears in emptiness.

 

 

 

The “maddened priestess who … lost her voice” was, I think, Cassandra of Troy.  If that is right, then there is a lovely irony in Ronsard saying that Cassandra’s name renders him speechless like (the other) Cassandra! 

 

Here again Ronsard made a number of changes throughout the poem over his lifetime. Blanchemain’s version is given below in full for comparison:

 

 

Bien mille fois et mille j’ay tenté

De fredonner sur le nerf de ma Lyre,

Et sur le plan de cent papiers escrire

Le nom qu’Amour dans le cœur m’a planté.

 

Mais tout soudain je suis espouvanté :

Car sa grandeur, qui l’esprit me martyre

Sans la chanter arrière me retire,

De cent fureurs brusquement tourmenté.

 

Je suis semblable à la Prestresse folle,

Qui bègue perd la voix et la parolle,

Dessous le Dieu qu’elle fuit pour néant.

 

Ainsi piqué de l’amour qui me touche,

Si fort au cœur, la voix fraude m bouche,

Et, voulant dire, en vain je suis béant.

 

 

 

                                                                      Oh, a thousand and a thousand times I’ve tried

                                                                      To strum on the string of my lyre,

                                                                      And upon a hundred sheets write

                                                                      The name which Love has planted in my heart.

 

                                                                      But suddenly I’m terrified:

                                                                      For her grandeur, which tortures my soul

                                                                      Pulls me back without singing a word,

                                                                      Roughly tormented by a hundred frenzies.

 

                                                                      I am like that maddened priestess

                                                                      Who, stammering, lost her voice and speech

                                                                      Under the power of that god whom fruitlessly she fled.

 

                                                                      So, stung by the love which grips me

                                                                      So hard in my heart, my voice cheats my mouth

                                                                      And, though I try to speak, in vain I’m left gaping.

 

 

 

Sonnet 24

Tes yeux courtois me promettent le don

Qu’à demander je n’eusse pris l’audace :

Mais j’ay grand peur qu’ils tiennent de la race

De ton ayeul le roy Laomedon.

 

Au flamboyer de leur double brandon

Par le penser l’esperance m’embrasse,

Ja prevoyant abusé de leur grace,

Que mon service aura quelque guerdon.

 

Ta bouche seule en parlant m’espouvante,

Bouche prophete, et qui vraye me chante

Tout le rebours de tes yeux amoureux.

 

Ainsi je vis, ainsi je meurs en doute,

L’un me rappelle et l’autre me reboute,

D’un seul objet heureux et malheureux.

 

 

 

                                                                       Your courteous eyes promise me the gift

                                                                       For which I have not found the daring to ask:

                                                                       But I am so afraid that they retain [the broken promises of] the race

                                                                       Of your ancestor, King Laomedon.

 

                                                                       At the flaming of their double torch,

                                                                       Through my thoughts hope embraces me,

                                                                       Already anticipating, misled by their graciousness,

                                                                       That my service shall have some reward.

 

                                                                       Your mouth alone astonishes me as you speak,

                                                                       Prophetic mouth which truly sings to me

                                                                       The very opposite of the love in your eyes.

 

                                                                       So I live, so I die: in doubt,

                                                                       While one calls me back and the other rejects me,

                                                                       Made both fortunate and unfortunate by one and the same object.

 

 

 The reference to Laomedon in the first quatrain is a play on Cassandre’s name – the same as a prophetess of Troy. Blanchemain’s footnote to this line says: “That is to say, ‘I am afraid they will not keep their promise’ – he speaks to Cassandre as if she were the daughter of king Priam and grand-daughter of Laomedon, a man who perjured himself and who kept faith extremely badly.”

 

Of Laomedon’s bad faith, Wikipedia says: “Poseidon and Apollo, having offended Zeus, were sent to serve King Laomedon. He had them build huge walls around the city and promised to reward them well, a promise he then refused to fulfil. In vengeance, before the Trojan War, Poseidon sent a sea monster to attack Troy and Apollo sent a pestilence. Laomedon planned on sacrificing his daughter Hesione to Poseidon in the hope of appeasing him. Heracles (along with Oicles and Telamon) rescued her at the last minute and killed the monster. Laomedon had promised them the magic horses as a reward for their deeds, but when he again broke his word, Heracles and his allies took vengeance by putting Troy to siege, killing Laomedon and all his sons save Podarces, who saved his own life by giving Heracles a golden veil Hesione had made (and therefore was afterwards called Priam, from priamai ‘to buy’).”

 

 

Ronsard undertook some fairly substantial re-writing in this sonnet: I’ve put Blanchemain’s version in full below as the changes affect almost all but the last tercet.

 

 

Tes yeux divins me promettent le don

Qui d’un espoir me renflamme et renglace.

Las! mais j’ay peur qu’ils tiennent de la race

De ton ayeul le roy Laomedon.

 

Au flamboyer de leur double brandon

De peu à peu l’esperance m’embrasse,

Ja prevoyant par l’accueil de leur grace,

Que mon service aura quelque guerdon.

 

Tant seulement ta bouche m’espouvante,

Bouche vrayment qui, prophete, me chante

Tout le rebours de tes yeux amoureux.

 

Ainsi je vis, ainsi je meurs en doute;

L’un me rappelle et l’autre me reboute,

D’un seul objet heureux et mal-heureux.

 

 

                                                                       Your divine eyes promise me the gift

                                                                       Which re-heats and re-freezes me with hope.

                                                                       Alas, I am afraid that they retain [the broken promises of] the race

                                                                       Of your ancestor, King Laomedon.

 

                                                                       With the burning of their double torch

                                                                       Little by little hope embraces me,

                                                                       Already anticipating, through their gracious welcome,

                                                                       That my service will get some reward.

 

                                                                       Only – your mouth astonishes me so

                                                                       That mouth which indeed prophetically sings to me

                                                                       Exactly the opposite of the love in your eyes.

 

                                                                       So I live, so I die: in doubt,

                                                                       While one calls me back and the other rejects me,

                                                                       Made both fortunate and unfortunate by one and the same object.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 4

 

Je ne suis point, ma guerriere Cassandre,

ny Myrmidon, ny Dolope soudart,

ny cet Archer, dont l’homicide dard

tua ton frere et mist ta ville  en cendre.

 

Un camp armé pour esclave te rendre

du port d’Aulide en ma faveur ne part,

et tu ne vois au pied de ton rempart

pour t’enlever mille barques descendre.

 

Helas!  je suis ce Corébe insensé,

dont le cueur vit mortellement blessé,

non de la main du Gregeois Penelée:

 

Mais de cent trais qu’un Archerot vainqueur

par une voye en mes yeux recelée,

sans y penser me tira dans le cueur.

 

 

 

                                                                       I am not at all, my warlike Cassandra,

                                                                       a Myrmidon or a sweaty Aetolian,

                                                                       nor that Archer [Philoctetes] whose murderous dart

                                                                       killed your brother [Paris] and burned your town [Troy] to ashes.

 

                                                                       An armed force to deliver you as a slave

                                                                       is not leaving Aulis to suit me

                                                                       and you won’t see at the foot of your walls

                                                                       a thousand ships descending to steal you away.

 

                                                                       Alas!  I am that maddened Coroebus [Cassandra’s lover]

                                                                       whose heart lives with a mortal wound,

                                                                       not from the hand of Peneleos

 

                                                                       but from a hundred wounds which the little Archer [Cupid],

                                                                       overcoming me through a glance received by my eyes,

                                                                       without a thought has shot into my heart.

 

 

 An extended reference to Homer’s Iliad, as the Greeks (Myrmidons and Aetolians among them) sailed from Aulis to Troy, to recover Helen who had been taken by Paris. The Trojan Cassandra was a daughter of King Priam; her lover Coroebus was killed by Peneleos; the modern lover of Cassandre (Ronsard himself) is of course being killed by love…