Helen 2:74

Adieu cruelle adieu, je te suis ennuyeux :

C’est trop chanté d’Amour sans nulle recompense.

Te serve qui voudra, je m’en vais, et je pense

Qu’un autre serviteur ne te servira mieux.

 

Amour en quinze jours m’a fait ingenieux,

Me jettant au cerveau de ces vers la semence :

La Raison maintenant me r’appelle, et me tanse :

Je ne veux si long temps devenir furieux.

 

Il ne faut plus nourrir cest Enfant qui me ronge,

Qui les credules prend comme un poisson à l’hain,

Une plaisante farce, une belle mensonge,

 

Un plaisir pour cent maux qui s’en-vole soudain :

Mais il se faut resoudre; et tenir pour certain

Que l’homme est malheureux qui se repaist d’un songe.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Farewell, cruel one, farewell : I irritate you.

                                                                            I’ve sung too much of Love without reward.

                                                                            Let he who wishes serve you, I’m going, and I think

                                                                            No other servant will serve you better.

 

                                                                            Love has in two weeks made me inventive,

                                                                            Throwing into my brain the seed of these lines:

                                                                            Reason now calls me back, and scolds me:

                                                                            I don’t wish to become mad for so long a time.

 

                                                                            I must no longer feed this Child who gnaws at me,

                                                                            Who catches the unwary like a fish on a hook,

                                                                            A pleasing joke, a pretty lie,

 

                                                                            A pleasure which suddenly flies away, replaced by a hundred troubles;

                                                                            But I must be resolute, and remain certain

                                                                            That the man is unhappy who feeds himself on a dream.

 

 

 

 

The last two sonnets – apart from the two on the king’s death – turn sharply towards the futility of love and the foolishness of wasting time on ‘a dream’. But this is Ronsard: while he can see love as ‘a pleasing joke, a pretty lie, / A pleasure which suddenly flies away’, in the next breath he has to remind himself that living this dream leads to unhappiness, and resolve (again) to reject it.

 

It’s very neat: rejection of the dream, but underlining just how seductive it is. A fine balancing act, bringing to an end a finely-balanced book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:73

Il ne suffit de boire en l’eau que j’ay sacrée

A ceste belle Helene, afin d’estre amoureux :

Il faut aussi dormir dedans un antre ombreux,

Qui a joignant sa rive en un mont son entrée.

 

Il faut d’un pied dispos danser dessus la prée,

Et tourner par neuf fois autour d’un saule creux :

Il faut passer la planche, il faut faire des vœux

Au Pere sainct Germain qui garde la contrée.

 

Cela fait, quand un cœur seroit un froid glaçon,

Il sentira le feu d’une estrange façon

Enflamer sa froideur. Croyez ceste escriture.

 

Amour du rouge sang des Geans tout souillé,

Essuyant en ceste eau son beau corps despouillé,

Y laissa pour jamais ses feux et sa teinture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            It’s not enough to drink from the water that I’ve consecrated

                                                                            To that fair Helen, in order to be in love:

                                                                            You must also sleep in a shaded cave

                                                                            Which has, adjoining a riverbank, its entry in a hillside.

 

                                                                            You must with eager foot dance over the meadow,

                                                                            And turn nine times around a hollow willow-tree;

                                                                            You must walk the plank, you must make vows

                                                                            To the Father St. Germain who watches over the countryside.

 

                                                                            That done, when her heart is a frozen icicle,

                                                                            It will feel fire, in some strange way,

                                                                            Inflaming its coldness. Believe this writing!

 

                                                                            Love, stained with the red blood of the Giants,

                                                                            Making clean in this water his fair body stripped bare,

                                                                            Left there forever his fires and his colour.

 

 

 

 

A spell with which to win your beloved, apparently. St. Germain is the patron saint of Paris (no surprise to football fans), and I guess by extension France. Love, in the final tercet, is Cupid again.

 

Blanchemain offers a variant in line 2, “A ceste belle Grecque …” (‘To that fair Greek…’), obviously still pointing to Helen.

 

A tiny detail: only the 8th poem on the blog whose first line begins with an ‘I’; however bizarre that seems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:52

Je suis esmerveillé que mes pensers ne sont

Laz [las] de penser en vous, y pensant à toute heure :

Me souvenant de vous, or’ je chante, or’ je pleure,

Et d’un penser passé cent nouveaux se refont.

 

Puis legers comme oiseaux ils volent et s’en-vont,

M’abandonnant tout seul, devers vostre demeure :

Et s’ils sçavoient parler, souvent vous seriez seure

Du mal que mon cœur cache, et qu’on lit sur mon front.

 

Or sus venez Pensers, pensons encor en elle,

De tant y repenser je ne me puis lasser :

Pensons en ces beaux yeux et combien elle est belle,

 

Elle pourra vers nous les siens faire passer.

Venus non seulement nourrit de sa mammelle

Amour son fils aisné, mais aussi le Penser.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am astonished that my thoughts are not

                                                                            Tired of thinking of you, thinking of you all the time ;

                                                                            Remembering you, sometimes I sing, sometimes cry,

                                                                            And as one thought passes a hundred new ones reform.

 

                                                                            Then, light as birds, they fly and are gone

                                                                            Towards your home, leaving me all alone;

                                                                            And they know how to speak; you’ll often be sure

                                                                            Of the ills which are hidden in my heart and which can be read on my brow.

 

                                                                            Come then my thoughts, let’s think again of her,

                                                                            Of thinking so often on her I cannot tire;

                                                                            Let’s think of those fair eyes and of how fair she is;

 

                                                                            She might let hers pass over us.

                                                                            Venus not only feeds at her breast

                                                                            Her elder son Love, but Thought too.

 

 

 

Did you get the message that this poem is all about ‘thinking’?! In fact, the French is even more insistent than my translation in that the ‘p’ (of ‘penser’) also alliterates with other words regularly, too. Personally I am not convinced that Ronsard carries it off: a good effort but ultimately unsuccessful.

 

The idea of thoughts as birds, flying lightly but also speaking (singing), is attractive; though being ‘left alone’ by them – as immediately he starts thinking of Helen again – doesn’t seem to work very well.

 

The last line is a minor puzzle: I don’t recall any ‘authorised’ myth which credits Venus with a son Thought. Indeed I’m struggling to think of a god (or goddess) of ‘thought’. I suspect this is something Ronsard has invented for the poem: but his knowledge of the classics was far wider and deeper than mine, so I can’t rule out a real source for this.

 

It is interesting that he is ’emulating’ (basing his work on, but seeking to surpass) a poem of Petrarch’s. It’s not a translation, not least because Petrarch begins with thought but moves on to other actions in each ‘section’ of the poem – so we get thinking + talking + walking + writing (4+4+3+3). Because of this, I think this works rather better than Ronsard’s monothematic poem.

 

 

Io son già stanco di pensar sí come

i miei pensier’ in voi stanchi non sono,

et come vita anchor non abbandono

per fuggir de’ sospir’ sí gravi some;

 

et come a dir del viso et de le chiome

et de’ begli occhi, ond’io sempre ragiono,

non è mancata omai la lingua e ‘l suono

dí et notte chiamando il vostro nome;

 

et che’ pie’ non son fiaccati et lassi

a seguir l’orme vostre in ogni parte

perdendo inutilmente tanti passi;

 

Et onde vien l’enchiostro, onde le carte

ch’i’ vo empiendo di voi: se ‘n ciò fallassi,

colpa d’Amor, non già defecto d’arte.

 

 

                                                                            I’m now weary of thinking of how

                                                                            my thoughts of you are never weary,

                                                                            and how I’ve not yet abandoned life

                                                                            to flee so heavy a weight of sighs;

 

                                                                            and of how, to speak of your face and hair

                                                                            and your fair eyes, which I am always considering,

                                                                            my tongue never lacks the sound,

                                                                            day and night calling your name;

 

                                                                            and of how my feet are never exhausted or tired

                                                                            of following your steps in every place,

                                                                            uselessly wasting so many paces;

 

                                                                            and of how it happens that all that ink and paper

                                                                            I use, writing of you …  If in this I’m wrong,

                                                                            it’s a fault of Love, not a defect of art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:24

Amour, je prens congé de ta menteuse escole,

Où j’ai perdu l’esprit, la raison et le Sens,

Où je me suis trompé, où j’ay gasté mes ans,

Où j’ay mal employé ma jeunesse trop folle.

 

Malheureux qui se fie en un enfant qui volle,

Qui a l’esprit soudain, les effects inconstans,

Qui moissonne nos fleurs avant nostre printans,

Qui nous paist de creance et d’un songe frivole.

 

Jeunesse l’allaicta, le sang chaud le nourrit,

Cuider l’ensorcela, paresse le pourrit

Entre les voluptez vaines comme fumées.

 

Cassandra me ravit, Marie me tint pris,

Ja grison à la Cour d’une autre je m’espris.

L’ardeur d’amour ressemble aux pailles allumées.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, I am taking a break from your school of lies,

                                                                            Where I have lost spirit, reason and sense,

                                                                            Where I have been deceived, where I have blemished my years,

                                                                           Where I have made poor use of my too foolish youth.

 

                                                                            Unfortunate is he who trusts in a child who flies,

                                                                            Whose mind is precipitate, whose actions inconstant,

                                                                            Who harvests our flowers before our springtime,

                                                                            Who feeds us on belief and frivolous dreams.

 

                                                                            Our youth suckled him, our hot blood nourished him,

                                                                            Thought bewitched him, idleness spoiled him

                                                                            Among pleasures empty as smoke.

 

                                                                            Cassandra captured me, Marie kept me prisoner,

                                                                            Now a greybeard at court I am taken by another.

                                                                            Love’s ardour is like burning straw.

 

 

 

An odd sort of poem to come a third of the way into the book – so disenchanted with love in all its forms, so realistic and despairing about the great sequence of loves that have come to nothing as he faces his old age: Cassandra, Marie and now Helen – all evanescent, like burning straw.

 

The various images of winged, flighty Cupid are self-explanatory.

 

Blanchemain footnotes a variant on this text: this last line begins “Le feu d’amour ressemble …” (‘The fire of love is like …’).  But in his main text he has variants in the last lines of each of the two tercets:

 

 

Jeunesse l’allaicta, le sang chaud le nourrit,

Cuider l’ensorcela, paresse le pourrit

Tout enflé de desseins, de vents et de fumées.

 

Cassandra me ravit, Marie me tint pris,

Ja grison à la Cour d’une autre je m’espris.

Si elles m’ont aimé, je les ai bien aimées.

 

 

                                                                            Our youth suckled him, our hot blood nourished him,

                                                                            Thought bewitched him, idleness spoiled him

                                                                            Full as he was of plans, of empty wind and smoke.

 

                                                                            Cassandra captured me, Marie kept me prisoner,

                                                                            Now a greybeard at court I am taken by another.

                                                                            If they loved me, I loved them more.

 

 

This is particularly notable for completely shifting the meaning of the ending – and, therefore, to some extent that of the whole poem! It’s no longer a discouraged ending (‘what a waste of time’), but rather an observation that each of those loves was, in turn, valid and all-consuming…

 

 

 

Helen 2:69

Tes freres les Jumeaux, qui ce mois verdureux

Maistrisent, et qui sont tous deux liez ensemble,

Te devroient enseigner, au moins comme il me semble,

A te joindre ainsi qu’eux d’un lien amoureux.

 

Mais ton corps nonchalant revesche et rigoureux,

Qui jamais en son cœur le feu d’amour n’assemble,

En ce beau mois de May, malgré tes ans ressemble,

O perte de jeunesse ! à l’Hyver froidureux.

 

Tu n’es digne d’avoir les deux Jumeaux pour freres :

A leur gentille humeur les tiennes sont contraires,

Venus t’est desplaisante, et son fils odieux,

 

Au contraire, par eux la terre est toute pleine

De Graces et d’Amours : change ce nom d’Helene :

Un autre plus cruel te convient beaucoup mieux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Your brothers the Twins [Gemini], who are in charge

                                                                            Of this verdant month, and who are both bound together,

                                                                            Ought to teach you – or so it seems to me –

                                                                            To bind yourself as they have with the ties of love.

 

                                                                            But your body – indolent, surly and harsh,

                                                                            Never in its heart gathering the fires of love –

                                                                            In this fair month of May, despite your youth, resembles

                                                                            (O waste of youth!) the freezing winter.

 

                                                                            You are not worthy to have the Twins as brothers;

                                                                            To their gentle humour your own are opposed,

                                                                            Venus [Love] displeases you, her son is hateful,

 

                                                                            And yet through them the earth is filled

                                                                            With Graces and Loves! Change your name of Helen;

                                                                            A different one, more cruel, would suit you much better.

 

 

 

Straightforward mythology throughout here. Castor & Pollux, the Gemini, are Helen’s brothers through their mother Leda; of course Helen shares Zeus as a father with one of the two (the other had a mortal father). The Twins are, however, generally seen as gods of travellers, sailors, sportsmen rather than “Graces and Loves”, although a “gentle humour” fits them.

 

I am a little surprised by Ronsard’s last line: he often treats Helen as a name linked with destruction (I assume he derives it from ἑιλον, ‘I captured, killed, destroyed’, rather than ἑλένη, or ‘torch’, ‘light’ which seems popular these days, though considered doubtful by Liddell & Scott) – yet here is presumably thinking of that more attractive etymology, if telling her to lose that name and choose one ‘more cruel’.

 

Blanchemain offers a variant in line 6, not changing the sense:”Qui jamais nulle flamme amoureuse n’assemble”, ‘Never gathering any flame of love‘. Additionally, he offers an alternative reading for the final tercet:

 

Au contraire, par eux tout est plein d’allegresse,
De Graces et d’Amours : change de nom, maistresse.

Un autre plus cruel te convient beaucoup mieux.

 

                                                                            And yet through them all is filled with the happiness 

                                                                            Of Graces and Loves! Change that name, mistress;

                                                                            A different one, more cruel, would suit you much better.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:66

Amour, voyant du Ciel un pescheur sur la mer,

Calla son aile bas sur le bord du navire :

Puis il dit au pescheur, Je te pri’ que je tire

Ton reth qu’au fond de l’eau le plomb fait abysmer.

 

Un Dauphin qui sçavoit le feu qui vient d’aimer,

Voyant Amour sur l’eau, à Tethys le va dire :

Tethys si quelque soin vous tient de nostre empire,

Secourez-le ou bien tost il s’en va consumer.

 

Tethys laissa de peur sa caverne profonde,

Haussa le chef sur l’eau et vit Amour sur l’onde.

Puis elle s’ecria : Mon mignon, mon nepveu,

 

Fuyez et ne bruslez mes ondes, je vous prie.

Ma tante, dit Amour, n’ayez peur de mon feu,

Je le perdis hier dans les yeux de Marie.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, seeing from heaven a fisherman on the sea,

                                                                            Folded his wings, settling low on the boat’s side,

                                                                            Then said to the fisherman, “Please may I take

                                                                            Your net which lead-weights make sink deep in the sea ?”

 

                                                                            A dolphin which understood the fire which comes from loving,

                                                                            Seeing Love on the sea, went to tell Tethys :

                                                                            “Tethys, if you have any care for our kingdom,

                                                                            Come to its aid or it will very soon be consumed.”

 

                                                                            Tethys left her deep cavern in fear,

                                                                            Raised her above the water and saw Love on the waves.

                                                                            Then she cried, “my darling, my nephew,

 

                                                                            Run away, don’t burn up my waves, I beg you.”

                                                                            “Aunt,” said Love, “have no fear of my fire,

                                                                            I lost it yesterday in the eyes of Marie.”

 

 

 

An odd poem really – the desire for a net (to capture more victims?) being unexplained, and the poem running off into an extended fire metaphor.

 

Blanchemain offers the usual minor minor variants. The end of the second stanza is “Secourez-le ou bien tout il est prest d’enflammer” (‘Come to its aid or he’s all set to burn it up’), and the end of the third is “Puis elle s’ecria : Las ! Amour, mon nepveu…” (‘Then she cried, “Oh, Love, my nephew’…). Finally, the last stanza begins “Ne bruslez de vos feux mes ondes…” (‘Don’t burn up my waves with your fires…’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La Quenoille – – (Amours 2.67c)

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:45 (madrigal)

Comme d’un ennemy je veux en toute place

M’eslongner de vos yeux, qui m’ont le cœur deceu,

Petits yeux de Venus, par lesquels j’ay receu

Le coup mortel au sang qui d’outre en outre passe.

 

Je voy, les regardant, Amour qui me menasse,

Aumoins voyant son arc je l’ay bien apperceu :

Mais remparer mon cœur contre luy je n’ay sceu,

Dont le trait fausseroit une forte cuirasse.

 

Or pour ne les voir plus, je veux aller bien loing

Vivre desur le bord d’une mer solitaire :

Encore j’ay grand’peur de ne perdre le soing,

Qui m’est par habitude un mal hereditaire,

 

Tant il a pris en moy de force et de sejour.

« On peut outre la mer un long voyage faire,

« Mais on ne peut changer ny de cœur ny d’amour.

 

 

                                                                            Like an enemy I want at every point

                                                                            To distance myself from your eyes, which have deceived my heart,

                                                                            Those little Venus-eyes through which I received

                                                                            The mortal wound in my blood which runs me through and through.

 

                                                                            I see as I look at them Love menacing me,

                                                                            And I well know his bow having seen it ;

                                                                            But how to fortify my heart against him I have never known,

                                                                            Whose blow can defeat a strong breastplate.

 

                                                                            So, too see them no more, I shall go far off

                                                                            To live on the edge of some lonely sea;

                                                                            Yet still I’m afraid it will be wasted effort,

                                                                            A thing which is for me a common, inherited flaw,

 

                                                                            So strong his hold and for so long over me.

                                                                            “You can make a long voyage beyond the sea

                                                                            But you can’t change your heart or your love.”

 

 

For Marty-Laveaux, this is a madrigal; for Blanchemain, whose version has not yet been amplified with line 12 above, it is a sonnet. I find myself unable to see why Ronsard added that line: it doesn’t seem to be there to add to or amplify the sense of the piece. Even though the change links to further modifications of  the tercet at the end, it is – even in that context – just an extra line, an extra thought. (And, in my view, the more complex thought of the later evrsion isn’t even an improvement.)

 

Well, so much for literary criticism:  here’s Blanchemain’s earlier version complete, despite the small number of differences, to encourage you to read it complete and see what you think about the ‘missing’ line …

 

 

Comme d’un ennemy je veux en toute place

M’eslongner de vos yeux, qui m’ont le cœur deceu,

Petits yeux de Venus, par lesquels j’ay receu

Le coup mortel au sang qui d’outre en outre passe.

 

Je voy toujours dans eux Amour qui me menasse,

Aumoins voyant son arc je l’ay bien apperceu :

Mais remparer mon cœur contre luy je n’ay sceu,

Dont le trait fausseroit une forte cuirasse.

 

Or pour ne les voir plus, je veux aller bien loing

Vivre desur le bord d’une mer solitaire :

Encore j’ay grand’peur de ne perdre le soing,

 

Qui, hoste de mon cœur, y loge nuict et jour.

On peut bien sur la mer un long voyage faire,

Mais on ne peut changer ny de cœur ny d’amour.

 

 

 

                                                                            Like an enemy I want at every point

                                                                            To distance myself from your eyes, which have deceived my heart,

                                                                            Those little Venus-eyes through which I received

                                                                            The mortal wound in my blood which runs me through and through.

 

                                                                            I see always in them Love menacing me,

                                                                            And I well know his bow having seen it ;

                                                                            But how to fortify my heart against him I have never known,

                                                                            Whose blow can defeat a strong breastplate.

 

                                                                            So, too see them no more, I shall go far off

                                                                            To live on the edge of some lonely sea;

                                                                            Yet still I’m afraid it will be wasted effort,

 

                                                                           That guest in my heart stays there night and day;

                                                                            You might well make a long voyage on the sea

                                                                            But you can’t change your heart or your love.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Élégie à Muret (Amours 1:227c)

 

Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer.   Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sangler estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Prit le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Qui deux piliers pour ses marques planta.   Bref, cest Herôs correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit ce Dieu, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui purgea l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole.   Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux.   Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur.   D’autre que d’elle en son ame ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre amoureuse allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson.   Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit.   Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô bastarde vergongne, O vilain blasme, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté) Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle.   Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie.   Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprinse douteuse : Mais lent et vain anonchalant son cœur, Qui des Tyrans l’avoit rendu veinqueur, Terreur du monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’esguille, et tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce joliere, Qui le tenoit en ses fers plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré.   Grande Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir sa vie en paresse changee, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee.   Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave.   Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignée, Impuniment les Monstres ont loisir D’assujettir la terre à leur plaisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant.   Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider.   Mais si l’amour de son traict indomtable A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor l’aire de nostre front, Et que la neige en vieillesse venue Encor ne fait nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : il n’est pas mal-seant, Mais grand honneur au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire.

No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters.   Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, Who planted two pillars as his mark.   In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt that God, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who had cleaned up the world, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him.   Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules.   He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart.   He thought of no other than her in his soul; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now love’s fever, aflame, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love.   Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters.   Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o impure shame, O sordid blame, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world) Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden.   See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness.   That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly making listless his heart Which had made him conqueror of tyrants, The terror of the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle and twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her chains Than a prisoner chained in the stocks.   Great Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life changed to laziness, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus.   What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master.   And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had leisure with immunity To subject the earth at their pleasure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived.   So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses.   But love with his unbeatable wound Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make Our brows look furrowed, And the snow which comes with age Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: it is not improper But a great honour for us simple folk To copy the example of great lords.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Then we move on to the lover’s madness: Ronsard focuses on his love for Iole (though, as we have seen, he had other wives too!), which was more powerful than the commands of King Eurystheus (the ‘king and commander’ for whom Hercules undertook the Labours, and also his cousin – not ‘brother’ as Ronsard terms him). Juno appears, because in her jealousy she had driven Hercules (or ‘Alcides’) mad so that he killed his earlier wife Megara: it was to atone for this that he was tasked with the Twelve Labours. Ronsard however melds the story of Iole with that of Omphale, for it was her he served (as yet another penance) dressed as woman, while she wore his lion-skin.

 

 

========

 

As usual the earlier version, printed by Blanchemain, has plenty of minor variants; but there’s nothing substantial. So, as usual, the best way to show them is to re-print the full text, rather than scatter dozens of line references here. They are mostly ‘corrections’ for euphony – e.g. in the 3rd stanza where “ce heros” is replaced by “cest heros” (which runs on more easily) – though “Sentit ce dieu” (in place of “Sentit Amour” – removing the ‘t’ sound) raplces it with a rather insistent ‘s’ repetition instead.

 

Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer.   Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sanglier estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Print le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Et qui deux mons pour ses marques planta.   Bref, ce héros correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit Amour, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui dompta l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole.   Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux.   Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur.   D’autre que d’elle en son cœur il ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre ardamment allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson.   Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit.   Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô honteuse vergongne, O deshonneur, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté)     [var :      Après avoir le ciel courbe porté.] Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle.   Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie.   Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprise douteuse : Mais lent et vain abatardant son cœur, Et son esprit, qui l’avoit fait vainqueur De tout le monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’aiguille ou tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce geolière, Qui le tenoit en ses lacs plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré.   Vraiment, Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir ainsi sa vie estre changée, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee.   Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave.   Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignee, Impuniment les Monstres ont plaisir D’assujettir la terre à leur loisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant.   Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider.   Mais si l’Amour, las ! las ! trop misérable ! A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor le champ de nostre front, Et que la neige avant l’age venue Ne fait encor nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : car il n’est mal-seant, Pour quelquefois, au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire.

No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters.   Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, And who planted two mounds as his mark.   In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt Love, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who conquered everything, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him.   Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules.   He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart.   He thought of no other than her in his heart; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now a fever, fiercely flaming, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love.   Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters.   Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o shameful immodesty, O dishonour, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world)     [var:       After bearing the curved skies] Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden.   See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness.   That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly bastardising his heart And spirit, which had made him a conqueror Of all the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle or twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her snares Than a prisoner chained in the stocks.   Truly, Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life so changed, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus.   What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master.   And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had pleasure with immunity To subject the earth at their leisure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived.   So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses.   But love – alas, alas, how wretched! – Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make The plains of our forehea furrowed, And the snow arriving before its time Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: for it is not improper For us simple folk sometimes To copy the example of great lords.

 

 

 

 

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

Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 – Apelles is the ‘type’ of a great painter

 – Mars and Venus simply personify war and love

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

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

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

 – the Graces, simply personifying ‘grace’ here

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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