Amours retranchées 5

De toy, Paschal, il me plaist que j’escrive

Qui de bien loin le peuple abandonnant,

Vas des Romains les tresors moissonnant,

Le long des bors où la Garonne arrive.

 

Haut d’une langue éternellement vive,

Son cher Paschal Tholose aille sonnant,

Paschal, Paschal, Garonne resonnant,

Rien que Paschal ne responde sa rive.

 

Si ton Durban, l’honneur de nostre temps,

Lit quelquefois ces vers par passe-temps,

Di-luy, Paschal (ainsi l’aspre secousse

 

Qui m’a fait cheoir, ne te puisse émouvoir)

Ce pauvre Amant estoit digne d’avoir

Une Maistresse, ou moins belle, ou plus douce.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Of you, Paschal, it pleases me to write

                                                                            You who far off, abandoning the common throng,

                                                                            Go harvesting the treasures of the Romans

                                                                            Along the banks where the Garonne runs.

 

                                                                            Loudly in a language eternally alive

                                                                            Toulouse goes on praising its dear Paschal;

                                                                            The Garonne replying ‘Paschal, Paschal’,

                                                                            Its banks echoing nothing but Paschal.

 

                                                                            If your Durban, the pride of our times,

                                                                            Sometimes reads these verses at leisure,

                                                                            Tell him, Paschal (for the harsh shock

 

                                                                            Which has made me fall cannot thus move you)

                                                                            That this poor lover was worthy of having

                                                                            A mistress either less beautiful or more gentle.

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve met Paschal before and seen how Ronsard became less enchanted with him too. It’s not surprising that this sonnet ended up being withdrawn when that happened, naming him 6 times as it does! (And that’s even more obvious if you typeset the name in capitals each time, as is done by Marty-Laveaux, following some of the early sixteenth-century editions… But the story of how Paschal rose and fell is interesting, not principally to see Ronsard being duped by someone who didn’t have the same talent as he did, but rather for showing how it could have happened. It’s all about what was important at the time, and how values have changed; what is valued now, is not what was valued then.

 

But first the contemporary notes  on the sonnet written by Muret:

 

Line 1: ‘He addresses this sonnet to Pierre Paschal, a gentleman native to Languedoc, a man who, beyond an understanding of the sciences worthy of a fine mind (in which he has few equals) is endowed with such eloquence in Latin that even the Venetian Senate was astonished several times by it.’

 

Line 3: commenting on an earlier version of this line, which begins “Vas du Arpin…” (‘Go harvesting the treasures of the man from Arpinum’ – Cicero’s birthplace), Muret paraphrases “Go carefully gleaning the riches of Ciceronian eloquence”, and adds ‘he says that, because Paschal is one of those best-versed in Cicero who are alive today’

 

Line 4: ‘River which passes through Toulouse, where Paschal has his residence’

 

Line 9: ‘Michel-Pierre de Mauléon, protonotary of Durban, councillor in the Toulouse parliament, a very excellent fellow. Between him and Paschal is so great a friendship that effaces all those which are recommended by ancient authors.’  

 

 

So, now to the story of Paschal’s rise and fall.

 

It’s easy to forget – in an age when the ‘vulgar tongue’ has triumphed – that the Renaissance was not the re-birth of art, or of vernacular poetry, but pre-eminently was the re-birth of classical Latin & Greek literary style. All (or almost all) languages have a day-to-day form, and a higher style used in poetry and literature; and sometimes the gap between them is bigger, sometimes smaller. During the centuries since the fall of Rome, when Latin had remained the language of the church and of communication, the gap had become quite small – as it is today in English. But in the 1300s and 1400s, Italians rediscovered what the Golden Latin (& Silver Latin) poets and writers had done, and realised that the literary style could be much more refined than it was. And it was Latin, in particular, where their efforts were focused. Languages like French and Italian were, literally, secondary – and scholars even doubted whether anything good could be written in them. Ronsard and his peers were taking a risk by ‘renewing’ the French language as a language capable of birthing poetry of a quality comparable with the Greek and Roman ‘classics’.

 

Petrarch in Italy, and now Ronsard in France, were determined to show that the local language could be used as stylishly as Latin; but they lived within a humanist world which still valued Latin higher. When you see one or more dedicatory poems in Latin at the beginning of one of Ronsard’s collections, it’s not an affectation: it is a statement that what follows is literature worthy of the name, and the Latin is there to prove it.

 

It’s also important to realise that good style was valued enormously highly. In Florence, in the 1400s, reputations were made and lost on the turn of a (Latin) phrase. So Paschal’s Italian training in good classical Roman style was a strong weapon in his armoury. It’s worth noting that Paschal had published only the short book in 1548 (beautifully presented, of course – see it online here) containing his prosecution speech at a murder trial in Venice, and some Latin letters describing his Italian impressions, which would be his calling-card on being introduced to the poets; indeed, he would publish little else. That his reputation, on this basis, should equal Ronsard’s, looks crazy to us at this distance, but gives some idea of the importance the Renaissance attached to style rather than substance: what mattered was writing well, not necessarily the originality or substantive content of what you wrote. And Paschal did, indeed, write Latin well.

 

Paschal’s career was traced at length by Pierre de Nolhac a century back – well worth a read. His rise really begins when he came back from Italy in 1553, fluent in the ‘Ciceronian’ style of oratorical Latin which was favoured by the Italian stylists, and was introduced to some of the Pleiade poets: Ronsard, along with Olivier de Magny, was his first and strongest supporter. For what it’s worth, Baif’s first published piece of poetry was a dedicatory sonnet in another little booklet publishing a French translation of that Venetian speech of Paschal’s.

 

The promise of writing eulogies of France’s greatest poets in Latin had a strong appeal to all of them, even though they were wedded to the renewal of the French language, for they ‘knew’ instinctively that histories and eulogies written in Latin were longer-lasting and more significant than the equivalent in French. Publication in Latin would ensure that their reputation was Europe-wide, for a Latin eulogy would reach educated people across the whole of Europe. And Henri II ‘knew’ that it was more important that the history of his reign was undertaken by someone who could write high-quality Latin, than by someone who could handle sources etc with a historian’s insight.

 

Which is why Paschal rose so quickly to the position of Historiographer of France, in 1554. He was – or presented himself as – the pre-eminent Italian-trained Ciceronian writer in France. Not until Muret went to Rome would he have a direct rival. But his fine Latin did not make him a good historian. Although Ronsard and others ridiculed him for not having managed to write any of his history, three volumes of drafts survive in manuscript, and show that he was good at writing speeches etc, but not at military history or the undercurrents of politics. So his history skimped on what we think of as ‘history’, and majored on long speeches and extended praises of the main characters. And when Henri II died in 1559, he fell from favour and was replaced, returned to the south, and died soon afterwards (in 1565, aged only 45) leaving his history unfinished.

 

By 1554, then, Paschal was an important personage, and with the prospect of being immortalised in Latin, it was important that the poets continued to praise him. As late as 1558 Bellay placed him alongside Ronsard, he the master of prose, Ronsard the master of poetry; and in the mid-1550s Ronsard amended one of his 1550 odes so that it now said ‘Paschal will at some point make me immortal by his eloquence … It’s you who will make me eternal!’. To us, both the statement, and the breath-taking sycophantism of it, look unbelievable. And indeed back in 1555 Etienne Pasquier had already warned Ronsard that he was over-estimating and over-praising Paschal. (Further south, in Paschal’s home, people were less convinced by him: as early as 1551 a humanist poet and professor of law, Etienne Forcadel, had written: ‘Hear what his gilded eloquence actually says: that speech, however sweet, is empty’. So Ronsard’s line 5, about Toulouse praising Paschal, is not entirely true!)

 

(Incidentally, Paschal’s dear friend Durban was, as Muret’s note explains, a member of the Mauléon family. Paschal’s printed speech from Venice was as prosecutor in a trial for the murder of a Mauléon; though it’s not clear if the family chose him for his known eloquence in Ciceronian-style prosecutions, or because of some prior connection in Toulouse. Ronsard, in his 1559 invective, later reproached Durban for having ‘imposed’ the mediocre Paschal on him and for over-praising him among the poets. In fact, of course, Ronsard did quite a lot of that himself!)

 

Ronsard was not alone in preparing biographical material in French which Paschal could convert into a more significant publication, in Latin. But Paschal failed to deliver on his ‘hall of fame’ – though there is evidence that, again, he made some progress towards it: interestingly, there is a piece on Mellin de Saint-Gelais which survives – so perhaps his popularity with Ronsard’s set was affected by his taking a different view of just who was important to mention in this ‘hall of fame’!

 

But then the Pleiade poets began to see through the ‘emperor’s clothes’ and realise that his talents were, in fact, limited. It is interesting that this happened in 1559, when the King his supporter died and he did not gain the new King’s support. Could Ronsard and his friends have been playing safe up to that point? But when the gloves came off they really did get vituperative. Adrien Tournebu published a vicious Latin satire, and Baif published a French translation; Ronsard wrote, but only circulated in manuscript, a vicious anti-eulogy of him – in Latin. In Latin, because that was Paschal’s home turf, and because it carried more weight. Incidentally, although Ronsard’s Latin is fine and even stylish, it’s not in the same league as Paschal’s. Each had their specialism, and each was excellent within it. Is it coincidental that Ronsard also prepared a first collected edition of his works very shortly afterwards in 1560, and removed Paschal’s name from all the poems and dedications he had given him? (He wanted to re-dedicate his Hymne de la Mort to Bellay – but Bellay refused ‘someone else’s leftovers’.)

 

It was about the same time that Ronsard wrote, in his Elegie to Jérôme L’Huillier, of the way others, more adept than him but less deserving, won honours from kings while he struggled to make ends meet.

 

As usual though, Ronsard’s anger was short-lived. His poem beginning “Je meurs Paschal” dates from about 1564, when Paschal had retired to the south; and Ronsard also mentioned him favourably in some of his anti-Calvinist poetry. By this time, though, Paschal was dead, so Ronsard’s cooling anger may have had as much to do with that early death and the sadness of potential unfulfilled, as with any genuine reconciliation.

 

A minor detail of Ronsard history to close: in 1554 it was Paschal who, in Toulouse, persuaded the jury of the ‘Jeux Floraux’ to award the prize to Ronsard, and it was Paschal who accepted the award on his behalf. The silver flower never reached Ronsard, but the next year the committee had a silver statuette of Minerva made instead and sent that. Ronsard presented it to the King!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ronsard on music

Music seems closely linked with Ronsard – partly because so many composers set so many of his poems to music, partly because Ronsard’s poetry itself is littered with references to music, musical instruments, and singing his own songs. In the past scholars and readers assumed that Ronsard must himself have been musical, not least because he refers to playing his songs on the lyre or guitar. But more recently the view of Ronsard’s musicianship has taken a more cynical turn – for good reason!

 

For a start, recall that he was hard of hearing: we don’t now how severe his deafness was, but it certainly inhibited his ability to present his own poetry as music at court (or – perhaps it did, if we assume that the musical supplement to the 1552 Odes was intended to paper over this problem area, and give Ronsard a weapon in the ‘war’ to replace Mellin de Saint-Gelais as court poet in residence).

 

Then, consider the famous Preface to the 1560 ‘Mellange de chansons’ by Le Roy & Ballard (reprinted with some additions in 1572). What evidence does this provide?

 

 

The Mellange is a large collection of songs old and new: Ronsard refers to some of them as positively ancient, though the oldest can date from no earlier than the 1490s! What we must recall is that, until the advent of printing, music was only transmitted in manuscripts, and consequently ‘old’ music was essentially forgotten music. This is the reason why Josquin (in particular, though some of his peers also) became a figure of legend, the paradigm of good music. For Josquin was the first ‘great’ composer whose music was preserved and perpetuated in prints for future generations to read and perform. He was the first composer to get a ‘revival’, as German publishers and musicians discovered the early prints and re-published material from them – and looked out more manuscript material to publish. It was Josquin who, as one German publisher pointed out, was producing more music dead than he had alive… So, Ronsard’s preface had to justify re-producing old music as well as new, despite the fact that in his poetry he had made clear that the new poetry – his poetry, that of the Pleiade – was the only poetry which adequately reflected that of the (true) ancients, the Greek and Roman masters. Hence it is that Josquin has to become an ‘ancient’: a true exemplar whom other ‘moderns’ can follow.  

 

 

Ronsard’s text (above) is not readily available, so here is a transcription:

 

PREFACE DE P. DE RONSARD

AV ROY CHARLES IX.

SIRE, tout ainsi que par la pierre de touche, on esprouve l’or s’il est bon ou mauvais, Ainsi les anciens esprouvoyent par la Musique les esprits de ceux qui sont genereux, magnanimes, & non forvoyans de leur premiere essence: & de ceux qui sont engourdiz paresseux, & abastardiz en ce corps mortel, ne se souvenant de la celeste armonie du ciel, non plus qu’aux compagnons D’ulisse d’avoir esté hommes, apres que Circe les eut transformés en porceaux. Car celuy, S I R E, Iequel oyant un doux accord d’instrumens ou la douceur de la voyx naturelle, ne s’en resjouist point, ne s’en esmeut point & de teste en piedz n’en tressault point, comme doucement ravy, & si ne sçay comment derobé hors de soy: c’est signe qu’il à l’ame tortue, vicieuse, & depravée, & duquel il se faut donner garde, comme de celuy qui n’est point heureusement né. Comment pourroit on accorder avec un homme qui de son naturel hayt les accords? celuy n’est digne de voyr la douce lumiere du soleil, qui ne fait honneur a la Musique, comme petite partie de celle, qui si armonieusement (comme dit Platon) agitte tout ce grand univers. Au contraire celuy qui luy porte honneur & reverence est ordinairement homme de bien, il a l’ame saine & gaillarde, & de son naturel ayme les choses haultes, la philosophie, le maniment des affaires politicques, le travail des guerres, & bref en tous offices honorables il fait tousjours apparoistre les estincelles de sa vertu. Or’ de declarer icy que c’est que Musique, si elle est plus gouvernée de fureur que d’art, de ses concens, de ses tons, modulations, voyx, intervalles, sons, systemates, & commutations: de sa division en Enarmonique, laquelle pour sa difficulté ne fut jamais perfaittement en usage: en chromatique, laquelle pour sa lasciveté fut par les anciens banye des republiques, en diatonique laquelle comme la plus aprochante de la melodie de ce grand univers fut de tous approuvée. De parler de la Phrigienne, dorienne, lydienne: & comme quelques peuples de Grece animez d’armonie, alloyent courageusement a la guerre, comme noz soldatz aujourdhuy au son des trompettes & tabourins: comme le Roy Alexandre oyant les chams de Timothée, devenoit furieux, & comme Agemennom allant a Troye, laissa en sa maison tout expres je ne sçay quel Musicien D’orien, lequel par la vertu du pied Anapeste, moderoit les efrenées passions amoureuses de sa femme Clytemnestre, de l’amour de laquelle Ægiste emflamé, ne peut jamais avoir joyssance, que premierement il n’eut fait meschamment mourir le Musicien. De vouloir encores deduire comme toutes choses sont composées d’accordz, de mesures, & de proportions, tant au ciel, en la mer, qu’en la terre, de vouloir discourir davantage comme les plus honorables personnages des siecles passez se sont curieusement sentiz espris des ardeurs de la Musique, tant monarques, Princes, Philosophes, gouverneurs de provinces, & cappitaines de renom: je n’auroys jamais fait: d’autant que la Musique à tousjours esté le signe & la merque de ceux qui se sont monstrez vertueux, magnanimes & veritablement nez pour ne sentir rien de vulgaire. Je prendray seullement pour exemple le feu Roy votre Pere, que Dieu absolve, lequel ce pendant qu’il a regné a fait apparoistre combien le ciel l’avoit liberallement enrichy de toutes graces, & de presens rares entre les Roys lequel a surpassé soit en grandeur d’empire, soit en clemence, en liberalité, bonté, pieté & religion, non seullement tous les Princes ses predecesseurs, Mais tous ceux qui ont jamais vescu portant cet’ honorable tiltre de Roy: lequel pour descouvrir les etincelles de sa-bien naissance, & pour montrer qu’il estoit acomply de toutes vertus, a tant honoré, aymé, & prise la Musique, que tous ceux qui restent aujourdhuy en France bien affectionnez a cet art, ne le sont tant tous ensemble, que tout seul particulierement l’estoit. Vous aussi S I R E,   comme heritier & de son Royaume & de ses vertus, monstrez combien vous estes son filz favorisé du ciei, d’aymer si perfaittement telle sçience & ses accords sans lesquelz chose de ce monde ne pourroit demourer en son entire. Or de vous conter icy d’Orphée, de Terpandre, d’Eumolpe, d’Arion ce sont histoires, desquelles je ne veux empescher le papier, comme choses a vous congneues. Seullement je vous reciteray que les plus magnanimes Roys faisoyent anciennement nourrir leurs enfans en la maison des Musiciens, comme Peleus qui envoya son filz Achille, & Æson son filz Jason, dedans l’Antre venerable du Centaure Chiron, pour estre instruitz tant aux armes, qu’en la medecine, & en l’art de Musique: d’autant que ces trois mestiers meslez ensemble ne sont mal seans a la grandeur d’un Prince, & advint d’Achille & de Jason, qui estoyent princes de votre age, un si recommandable exemple de vertu, que l’un fut honoré par le divin poëte Homere, comme le seul autheur de la prinse de Troye: & l’autre celebré par Apolloine Rhodien, comme le premier autheur d’avoir apris a la mer, de soufrir le fardeau incongnu des navires: lequel ayant outrepassé les roches Symplegades, & domté la furie de la froide mer de Scytie, Finablement s’en retourna en son pays, enrichy de la noble toyson dor. Donques, S I R E, ces deux Princes vous seront comme patrons de la vertu, & quand quelque foys vous serez lassé de voz plus urgentes affaires, à leur imitation, vous adoucirez voz souciz par les accordz de la Musique, pour retourner plus fraiz & plus dispos a la charge Royalle que si dextrement vous suportez. Il ne faut aussi que votre Magesté s’esmerveille si ce livre de mellanges lequel vous est treshumblement dedié par voz treshumbles & tresobeissans seruiteurs & Imprimeurs Adrian le Roy, & Robert Ballard, est composé des plus vieilles chanssons qui se puissent trouver aujourdhuy, pource qu’on a tousjours estimé la Musique des anciens estre la plus divine, d’autant qu’elle a esté composée en un siecle plus heureux, & moins entaché des vices qui regnent en ce dernier age de fer. Aussi les divines fureurs de Musique, de Poësie, & de paincture, ne viennent pas par degrés en perfection comme les autres sçiences, mais par boutées & comme esclairs de feu, qui deça qui dela apparoissent en divers pays, puis tout en un coup sesvanouissent. Et pource, S I R E, quand il se manifeste quelque excellent ouvrier en cet art, vous le devez songneusement garder, comme chose d’autant excellente, que rarement elle apparoist. Entre lesquelz se font depuis six ou sept vingtz ans eslevez, Josquin des prez, Hennuyer de nation, & ses disciples Mouton, Vuillard, Richaffort, Janequin, Maillard, Claudin, Moulu, Jaquet, Certon, Arcadet. Et de present le plus que divin Orlande, qui comme une mouche à miel a cueilly toutes les plus belles fleurs des antiens, & outre semble avoir seul desrobé l’harmonie des cieux pour nous en resjouir en la terre surpassant les antiens, & se faisant la seule merveille de notre temps. Plusieurs autres choses se pourroyent dire de la Musique, dont plutarque & Boëce ont amplement fait mention. Mais n’y la breveté de ce præface, ny la commodité du temps, ny la matiere ne me permet de vous en faire plus long discours, Supliant le Createur, S I R E, d’augmenter de plus en plus les vertus de votre majesté , & vous continuer en la bonne affection qu’il vous plaist porter a la Musique, & à tous ceux qui s’estudient de faire reflorir soubz votre regne, les sçiences & les artz qui florissoyent soubz l’empire de Cesar Auguste: duquel Auguste Dieu tout puissant vous vueille donner les ans, les victoyres, & la prosperité.

And a translation:

 

PREFACE, BY P. DE RONSARD

TO KING CHARLES IX

SIRE, Just as with the touchstone it may be proven whether gold is true or false, so the ancients used music to prove the souls of those who are generous, magnanimous, and insightful as to their prime essence; and of those who are lazy, slothful, debased in this mortal body, not recalling the celestial harmony of heaven any more than the companions of Ulysses recalled being men after Circe had transformed them into swine. For, SIRE, he who, hearing the sweet harmony of instruments or the sweetness of the natural voice, does not rejoice in it, is not moved at all, does not shiver from head to foot like one sweetly swept away, and feel himself somehow swept up out of himself: this is a sign that he has a twisted, vicious, depraved soul, and we must take guard against him as one who is unhappily born.

How could we be in harmony with a man who, by his nature, hates harmonies? That man is not worthy to see the sweet light of the sun who does not honour music as a small part of that greater Music which so harmoniously (as Plato says) moves all our great Universe. By contrast, he who bears it honour and reverence is ordinarily a good man who has a healthy, happy soul and by nature loves higher things, philosophy, the management of political affairs, the work of war; briefly, in all honourable tasks the stars of his virtue will always appear.

So, to state here what Music is: whether it is governed more by passion than art, of its harmonies, of its notes, modulations, voices, intervals, sounds, organisation and linkages; of its division into Enharmonic, which because of its difficulties was never perfectly used, and Chromatic, which for its sensuality was banned by the ancients from their republics, and Diatonic, which as the one most closely approaching the melody of this great universe was approved of all.

– to speak of the Phrygian, Dorian, Lydian, and how some Greek peoples aroused by harmony went off courageously to war, as our soldiers do today to the sound of trumpets and drums; how Alexander the king, hearing the songs of Timotheus became mad, and how Agamemnon as he went to Troy deliberately left in his home some musician from the East who by the power of the Anapaestic metre could moderate the unchained passions of love in his wife Clytemnestra, inflamed by love of whom Aegisthus could never be happy had he not first of all had the musician killed.

– to seek again to deduce how all things are composed of harmonies, of measures, of proportions – whether in heaven, in the sea or on earth; to seek to discover furthermore how the most honoured persons of past ages felt themselves curiously swept up by the passions of music – whether monarchs, princes, philosophers, provincial governors, or renowned captains;

all these I would never have done, since music has always been the sign and mark or those who have shown themselves virtuous, magnanimous and truly born to feel nothing that is common. I shall take as example only the late King your father, whom God absolve, who while he reigned made apparent how much heaven had liberally enriched him with all graces and with gifts rare among Kings; who surpassed in the greatness of his power, in his clemency, in liberality, goodness, piety and religion not only all princes before him, but also all those who have ever lived bearing that honourable title of King; who to display the stars governing his fair birth and to show that he was accomplished in all virtues, so honoured, loved and took up music that all those who remain today in France who favour this art are not so significant all together as he was by himself.

You too SIRE, the inheritor of both his kingdom and his virtues, show how far you are his son, favoured by heaven, by loving so perfectly this science and its harmonies, without which no thing of this world could subsist entire. So, to tell you here of Orpheus, of Terpander, of Eumolpe, of Arion – these are stories with which I do not want to clutter up this paper as they are things which are well-known to you. I shall only tell you that the most magnanimous kings brought their children up of old in the houses of musicians, like Peleus who sent his son Achilles, and Aeson his son Jason, into the venerable cave of the centaur Chiron to be instructed as much in arms as in medicine and in the art of music; especially since these three roles mixed together sit not badly with the grandeur of a prince, and were for Achilles and Jason, who were princes of your own age, so commendable examples of virtue that one was honoured by the divine poet Homer as the sole author of the capture of Troy; and the other was celebrated by Apollonius of Rhodes as the first inventor of teaching the sea to suffer the unknown burden of ships – who, having passed beyond the rocks of the Symplegades [the Clashing Rocks], and conquered the fury of the frozen seas of Scythia, and finally returned to his own country enriched with the noble Golden Fleece.

So, SIRE, these two princes shall be patrons of your virtue, and when sometimes you are tired of your more urgent affairs, in imitation of them you will sweeten your cares through the harmonies of music, to return fresher and more eager to the royal charge which you carry out so ably. Your Majesty need also not marvel if this book of songs, which is most humbly dedicated to you by your most humble and most obedient servants and printers Adrian le Roy and Robert Ballard, is composed of the oldest songs which can be found today, since we have always considered the music of the ancients to be the most divine as it was composed in a more fortunate age, less stained with the vices which reign in this last age of iron.

Also, the divine passions of music, poetry and painting do not come to perfection by degree like the other sciences, but by bounds, and like flashes of lightning which appear here and there in various countries and just as quickly disappear. And so, SIRE, when some excellent workman in this art appears you should carefully protect him as a most excellent thing which appears but rarely. Among such men arose in the last twenty-sex or -seven years Josquin des Prez, a man of Hainault, and his disciples Mouton, Willaert, Richafort, Janequin, Maillard, Claudin [de Sermisy], Moulu, Jaquet, Certon and Arcadelt. And at the present time the more-than-divine Orlando [di Lasso] who like a honey bee has gathered all the fairest flowers of the ancients, and beyond that seems alone to have uncovered the harmony of the heavens for us to enjoy on this earth, surpassing the ancients, and making himself the sole wonder of our time.

Many other things could be said about music, of which Plutarch and Boetius have made ample mention. But neither the brevity of this preface nor the availability of time or material allow me to provide you with a longer discussion; calling on the Creator, SIRE, to increase more and more the virtues of Your Majesty and to continue you in the good affection it pleases you to bear towards music, and towards all those who study to make flourish again under your rule all the sciences and arts which flourished under the rule of Caesar Augustus; of which Augustus may the all-powerful God choose to give you the years, victories and prosperity.

Although this preface is sometimes presented as a unique and important statement of new enlightenment views, as I read it it seems to show more continuity with medieval views than a new departure: the Enharmonic, Chromatic & Diatonic; the Phrygian, Dorian & Lydian modes;  discussion of music’s ‘affect’, its impact on the emotions. Of course all this is fundamental to Ronsard’s view of music: it is important because it is useful, because it is affective, because it enhances the impact of poetry and because, like poetry, it can lead us to different emotional and intellectual states.

 

If Ronsard brings something new, it is of course a deep engagement with the classics, and therefore examples drawn from the myths to illustrate music’s importance. It has, however, been noted that Ronsard’s examples appear to have been lifted from his fellow-poet Baif, who wrote a much lengthier dialogue on the topic – and explained everything at much greater length, for let us be clear, Ronsard does not actually explain anything here. He simply summarises very briefly, without exploring in any detail.

 

And what Ronsard offers is not by any means an analysis of how music works – of the means and techniques which are used, of what makes good music ‘good’, let alone what makes music have the effects it does. All we are offered is (again) a list, some of the component parts of music: “de ses concens, de ses tons, modulations, voyx, intervalles, sons, systemates, & commutations…” In this respect Ronsard is very far from a ‘working musician’ or even (apparently) from ‘understanding’ music.  

 

Of course, Ronsard does offer a convincing list of leading musicians – something which has been used as evidence of his engagement with music, but which would not be difficult for anyone connected with Le Roy & Ballard to have provided (or helped him with). Indeed, most feature in the ‘Mellange de chansons’: Josquin, Mouton, Richafort, Maillard, Moulu, and especially Willaert, account for nearly 50 songs in the book, with Certon and Arcadelt adding a few more. Missing from the book, though in Ronsard’s list, are other significant French composers: Janequin and Claudin de Sermisy. But Ronsard omits others who might today seem greater than some in his list – Gombert and Clemens, for instance. So, is this list any evidence of Ronsard’s expertise? I don’t think it provides any substantial evidence.

 

What we are left with, then, is a decent ‘philosophical’ context for music, a list of music’s techniques, some evidence of classical reading about affects, and some borrowed mythological evidence, together with a fair list of composers. Not much, in effect, to build a reputation on – either for this preface or for Ronsard’s knowledge of music as ‘a science’.

 

Is that too cynical?  

 

 

 

 

‘Calisto’ again

For interest’s sake, and because the poems are a closely-linked pair, here are the poems by Baif and Calisto I mentioned here. Some sources say Baif’s came first, but the 1555 edition of “Francine” puts Baif’s poem as a response to Calisto’s (though printing Calisto’s as an appendix) – which makes sense to me, and that’s the order they are in here.

 

Calisto’s poem to Baif:

 

Je ne sçay si l’Amour, mon Baïf, te tourmente,

Au tant comme en tes vers tu te fais douloureux,

Pour te voir tant au vif peindre l’heur malheureux

Et l’heureux mal qu’on a d’une ardeur vehemente :

 

Je ne sçay si l’amour ta fureur douce augmente,

Dont tu ecris si bien tout le faict amoureux

Que le docte s’y plaist : et l’amant langoureux

En charme sa douleur, ou avec toy lamente.

 

Mais si l’amour tu sens n’estant que demy-tien,

Comme sont tous amans, et tu nous peins si bien

Les passions d’un cueur alaicté d’esperance :

 

Tu nous fais esperer, rapellant celle part

Que ton ame esgarée à Francine depart,

De te voir desvancer les premiers de la France.

 

 

 

                                                                            I know not if Love torments you, my Baif,

                                                                            As much as, in your verse, you present yourself as miserable,

                                                                            So that we see you, as if in real life, picturing the unfortunate fortune

                                                                            And fortunate misfortune which people in ardent love show:

 

                                                                            I know not if love increases your sweet madness,

                                                                            With which you write so well all the facts of love

                                                                            That learned men can be pleased with it, and the pining lover

                                                                            Charm away his sadness with it, or else lament with you.

 

                                                                            But if the love you feel is only half yours,

                                                                            Like all lovers are, you too paint for us so well

                                                                            The passions of a heart nourished on hope;

 

                                                                            You make us hope, recalling that place

                                                                            Where your soul, straying to Francine, has gone,

                                                                            That we’ll see you outstripping the foremost in France.

 

 

I think we can say that Calisto, whoever he was, was a more-than-competent amateur poet; though his poetry does involve some small torturing of French grammar and construction !

 

Here’s Baif’s response, reflecting back much of the phraseology of the original (but avoiding torturing the language):

 

Calliste, croy pour vray que l’Amour me tourmente,

Bien plus que je ne suis en ces vers douloureux.

Sans rien feindre au plus pres je pein l’heur malheureux

Avec l’heureux malheur d’une ardeur vehemente.

 

Croy pour vray que l’amour ma fureur folle augmente,

Qui me fait degorger ces soupirs amoureux,

Que le sage reprend, où l’amant langoureux

Rengrege sa douleur, et la mienne lamente,

 

Amour ne me permet non d’estre demi-mien,

Moins qu’à nul autre amant : et m’empesche si bien,

Que de me ravoir plus je per toute esperance.

 

Or puis que j’ay perdu celle meilleure part,

Que mon ame égaree à Francine depart,

Je me voy le dernier des derniers de la France.

 

 

 

                                                                            Callisto, believe it true that Love torments me,

                                                                            Much more sad than I seem in these verses.

                                                                            Feigning nothing, I paint my unfortunate fortune as closely as I can

                                                                            With the fortunate misfortune of my passionate ardour.

 

                                                                            Believe it true that love increases my foolish madness,

                                                                            Which makes me dig up these sighs of love

                                                                            That wise men can pick up, with which the pining lover

                                                                            Aggravates his sadness, and laments mine.

 

                                                                            But if the love you feel is only half yours,

                                                                            No less than any other lover; and so completely impedes me

                                                                            That I lose all hope of having myself back again.

 

                                                                            Since I have lost that better part

                                                                            As my soul, straying to Francine, has gone,

                                                                            I see myselfas the hindmost of the hindmost in France.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:53

Veux-tu sçavoir, Bruez, en quel estat je suis ?

Je te le veux conter : d’un pauvre miserable

Il n’y a nul malheur, tant soit-il pitoyable,

Que je n’aille passant d’un seul de mes ennuis.

 

Je tien tout je n’ay rien je veux et si ne puis,

Je revy je remeurs ma playe est incurable :

Qui veut servir Amour, ce Tyran execrable,

Pour toute recompense il reçoit de tels fruis.

 

Pleurs larmes et souspirs accompagnent ma vie,

Langueur douleur regret soupçon et jalousie,

Transporté d’un penser qui me vient decevoir.

 

Je meurs d’impatience : et plus je ne sens vivre

L’esperance en mon cœur, mais le seul desespoir

Qui me guide à la mort, et je le veux bien suivre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Do you want to know, Bruez, the state I’m in ?

                                                                            I want to tell you : a wretched pauper

                                                                            Has no ills, however pitiful,

                                                                            That a single one of my own troubles doesn’t surpass.

 

                                                                            I have everything and nothing, I want but cannot,

                                                                            I live and die again and again, my wound is incurable;

                                                                            Whoever wants to serve Love, that cursed tyrant,

                                                                            Receives as all his payment just such fruits.

 

                                                                            Tears, weeping and sighs accompany my life,

                                                                            Pining, sadness, regret, suspicion, jealousy,

                                                                            All carried on a thought which has just deceived me.

 

                                                                            I’m dying of impatience, I no longer feel hope

                                                                            Living in my heart, but only despair

                                                                            Which leads me to death – and I’m ready to follow.

 

 

 

Belleau’s commentary tells us that Brués, as the dedicatee seems to have spelled it, was “learned in law and philosophy, author of dialogues”. Indeed you can still read, courtesy of Google Books, the Dialogues of Guy de Brués, “against the new Academicians”, featuring invented dialogues in the renaissance style between the men of letters Ronsard, Baif, Guillaume Aubert (dedicatee of “Versons ces roses“) and Jean Nicot (who introduced tobacco to France, and is the source of ‘nicotine’!)  In later editions, this sonnet is addressed to Claude Binet who was, says Belleau, “a very learned man and among the best-versed in understanding of law and poetry”. Binet was in fact Ronsard’s closest friend and amanuensis in his old age.

 

There are some minor variants scattered through Blanchemain’s earlier version: here’s his version of the opening quatrain,

 

 

Veux-tu sçavoir, Brués, en quel estat je suis ?

Je te le conteray : d’un pauvre miserable

Il n’y a nul estat, tant soit-il pitoyable,

Que je n’aille passant d’un seul de mes ennuis.

 

                                                                            Do you want to know, Bruez, the state I’m in ?

                                                                            I will tell you : a wretched pauper’s

                                                                            Condition, however pitiful, is nothing

                                                                            That a single one of my own troubles doesn’t surpass.

 

 

and of lines 11-12,

 

Avecques un penser qui ne me laisse avoir

Un moment de repos : et plus je ne sens vivre

 

                                                                            With a thought which lets me have

                                                                            No moment of rest; I no longer feel hope …

 

 

This is another poem ‘translated’ from Petrarch; and this time it does indeed follow the original closely, though Ronsard’s opening quatrain is not paralleled in the Italian.

 

 

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;

e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio;

et volo sopra ‘l cielo, et giaccio in terra;

et nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio.

 

Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra,

né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio;

et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra,

né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio.

 

Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido;

et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita;

et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.

 

Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;

egualmente mi spiace morte et vita:

in questo stato son, donna, per voi.

 

 

 

                                                                            I cannot find peace, yet cannot make war;

                                                                            I both fear and hope; I burn and am ice;

                                                                            I fly above the heavens and fall to earth;

                                                                            I hold nothing and embrace the whole world.

 

                                                                            Such a lady is she who keeps me in prison, but neither frees nor binds me,

                                                                            Neither keeps me for herself nor unlooses the knot;

                                                                            Love does not kill me, does not unleash me,

                                                                            Neither wants me to live, nor rescues me from my troubles.

 

                                                                            I see without eyes, I cry out without a tongue,

                                                                            I yearn to perish and seek help,

                                                                            I hate myself and love another.

 

                                                                            I feed on grief, I laugh as I cry,

                                                                            Death and life displease me equally:

                                                                            I am in this state, my lady, because of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Le Voyage de Tours: ou, Les amoureux

Some poetry is long overdue. Here’s the first 70 lines of “The Journey to Tours”, subtitled ‘The Lovers’, which is inserted by Ronsard into the middle of the 2nd book of Amours, featuring as it does his heroine of that book, Marie (here called Marion).

The poem is an extended eclogue or pastoral poem, imitating the Arcadian literature both of Greece & Rome and of the renaissance poets who renewed these themes. Although the pastoral poets demonstrate their erudition regularly with classical references or simply with complex and allusive verse, Ronsard plays to the genre theme, slightly mocking it in the light semi-comic “rustic” style he adopts, and the ‘colloquial’ names he gives his principal characters.. Marie becomes Marion, as we have seen, and ‘Thoinet’, from ‘Antoine’ (de Baif), approximates to ‘Tony’ in English; though ‘Perrot’ (from ‘Pierre’ de Ronsard) doesn’t quite work as Pete.  The poem gives Ronsard scope both to describe the details of the countryside in loving detail, and also to locate it firmly in the France he knows; we cannot be sure that the journey is an invented one, the details make it so believable.

C’estoit en la saison que l’amoureuse Flore Faisoit pour son amy les fleurettes esclore Par les prez bigarrez d’autant d’esmail de fleurs, Que le grand arc du Ciel s’esmaille de couleurs : Lors que les papillons et les blondes avettes, Les uns chargez au bec, les autres aux cuissettes, Errent par les jardins, et les petits oiseaux Voletans par les bois de rameaux en rameaux Amassent la bechée, et parmy la verdure Ont souci comme nous de leur race future.     Thoinet au mois d’Avril passant par Vandomois, Me mena voir à Tours Marion que j’aimois, Qui aux nopces estoit d’une sienne cousine : Et ce Thoinet aussi alloit voir sa Francine, Qu’ Amour en se jouant d’un trait plein de rigueur, Luy avoit pres le Clain escrite dans le coeur.     Nous partismes tous deux du hameau de Coustures, Nous passasmes Gastine et ses hautes verdures, Nous passasmes Marré, et vismes à mi- jour Du pasteur Phelipot s’eslever la grand tour, Qui de Beaumont la Ronce honore le village Comme un pin fait honneur aux arbres d’un bocage. Ce pasteur qu’on nommoit Phelippot tout gaillard, Chez luy nous festoya jusques au soir bien tard. De là vinsmes coucher au gué de Lengenrie, Sous des saules plantez le long d’une prairie : Puis dés le poinct du jour redoublant le marcher, Nous vismes en un bois s’eslever le clocher De sainct Cosme pres Tours, où la nopce gentille Dans un pré se faisoit au beau milieu de l’isle.     Là Francine dançoit, de Thoinet le souci, Là Marion balloit, qui fut le mien aussi : Puis nous mettans tous deux en l’ordre de la dance, Thoinet tout le premier ceste plainte commence.     Ma Francine, mon cueur, qu’oublier je ne puis, Bien que pour ton amour oublié je me suis, Quand dure en cruauté tu passerois les Ourses Et les torrens d’hyver desbordez de leurs courses, Et quand tu porterois en lieu d’humaine chair Au fond de l’estomach, pour un cueur un rocher : Quand tu aurois succé le laict d’une Lyonne, Quand tu serois, cruelle, une beste felonne, Ton cœur seroit pourtant de mes pleurs adouci, Et ce pauvre Thoinet tu prendrois à merci.     Je suis, s’il t’en souvient, Thoinet qui dés jeunesse Te voyant sur le Clain t’appella sa maistresse, Qui musette et flageol à ses lévres usa Pour te donner plaisir, mais cela m’abusa : Car te pensant flechir comme une femme humaine, Je trouvay ta poitrine et ton aureille pleine, Helas qui l’eust pensé ! de cent mille glaçons Lesquels ne t’ont permis d’escouter mes chansons : Et toutesfois le temps, qui les prez de leurs herbes Despouille d’an en an, et les champs de leurs gerbes, Ne m’a point despouillé le souvenir du jour, Ny du mois où je mis en tes yeux mon amour : Ny ne fera jamais voire eussé-je avallée L’onde qui court là bas sous l’obscure valée. C’estoit au mois d’Avril, Francine, il m’en souvient, Quand tout arbre florit, quand la terre devient De vieillesse en jouvence, et l’estrange arondelle Fait contre un soliveau sa maison naturelle : Quand la Limace au dos qui porte sa maison, Laisse un trac sur les fleurs : quand la blonde toison Va couvrant la chenille, et quand parmy les prées Volent les papillons aux ailes diaprées, Lors que fol je te vy, et depuis je n’ay peu Rien voir apres tes yeux que tout ne m’ait despleu.

It was in the season when Flora, being in love, Made flowers bloom for her lover In the meadows scattered with such a mottling of flowers As the great arc of the Heavens is mottled with colours: As the butterflies and yellow bees, Their mouths or their little thighs full, Wander through the gardens, and the little birds Fluttering among the woods from branch to branch Gather their beak-fuls, and among the greenery Plan, as we do, for the future of their race.     Tony, passing through the Vendôme in April, Took me to Tours, to see Marion whom I loved, Who was at the wedding of her cousin; And Tony too was going to see his Francine Whom Love, laughingly striking him a blow full of trouble, Had written on his heart, near Clain.     The two of us left the hamlet of Coustures, Crossed Gastine and its rich greenery, Passed Marré and saw at midday The great tower of Philip the shepherd rising up, Which brings credit to the village of Beaumont la Ronce As a pine brings credit to the trees of a copse. This shepherd they call Philip merrily Feasted us at his house until late in the evening. From there, we reached our beds at Lengenrie ford, Beneath willows planted the length of a field; Then at daybreak taking up our walk again We saw rising in a wood the bell-tower Of St Cosmas near Tours, where the noble wedding Was taking place in a meadow right in the middle of the island.     There Francine was dancing, Tony’s beloved; There Marion was capering, my own also: Then, as both of us joined in the line of dancers, Tony first began his complaint:     My Francine, my heart whom I cannot forget, Although for your love I am forgotten, Though harsh in cruelty you exceed bears And the winter torrents bursting their banks, And though you bear, in place of human flesh Deep in your belly not a heart but a stone; Though you have sucked the milk of a lioness, Though you are a ravenous beast, o cruel one, Your heart can still be softened by my tears And you’ll still grant mercy to your poor Tony.     I am, you recall, that Tony who, from his youth, Seeing you on the Clain, called you his mistress, Who put bagpipe and flute to his lips To give you pleasure: but that deceived me, For thinking to influence you like a human woman I found your breast and ears full – Ah, who’d have thought it! – of a million icicles Which prevented you from hearing my songs; And still time, which steals from the meadows Their plants from year to year, and from the fields their sheaves, Has not stolen from me the memory of that day Or month when your eyes took my love. Nor will it ever, even if I had drunk The water which flows down below in the dark valley. It was in the month of April, Francine, I remember, When every tree blossoms, when the earth changes From old age to youth, and the swallow from abroad Makes against a small beam his own kind of home; When the snail who bears his house on his back Leaves his tracks on the flowers; when a yellow fleece Covers the caterpillar, and when in the meadows Butterflies fly on their colourful wings, It was then that I saw you, fell in love, and since then everything I’ve seen Apart from but your eyes has displeased me.

 

Remy Belleau’s commentary offers a range of useful, and less useful, details on the places named by Ronsard. Coustures, he tells us, is “where our poet was born”; the forest of Gastine we have met before; Marré and Beaumont la Ronce are villages, Lengenrie a “little village”!  Saint-Cosmas was a priory situated on an island next to Tours; Ronsard was fond of it, not least becasue in 1565 he became ‘commendatory abbot’. This is a picture of the statue of Ronsard now at St-Cosme. The Clain is the river which passes by Poictiers, which (Belleau tells us, in case we didn’t read the line in the poem) is where Baif first fell in love with Francine!

 

A couple of classical references:  Flora, the goddess of spring, most familiar to us from her appearance in a flowery dress in Botticelli’s “Primavera” (Spring); and, again in case we didn’t read the poem, Belleau explains that the ‘waters flowing down below’ are the waters of the river Lethe which make you lose your memory.

 

========

 

The earlier version given by Blanchemain of course differs in detail, but also comes with an introductory dedication. Blanchemain explains “this dedication to L’Huillier, a rich bourgeois of Paris, perhaps the father or grandfather of Chapelle, is found only in the 1560 edition.” He doesn’t explain why Ronsard would call a bourgeois “Seigneur” (my lord).

 

Jérôme L’Huillier, lord of Maisonfleur, was a close friend of Ronsard’s (and an amateur poet) around 1560, and Ronsard wrote two Elegies for him as well as dedicating his “Second Livre du Recueil des nouvelles poesies” to him in 1564 – here’s the title page.

 

When L’Huillier converted to Protestantism in 1566, the dedications were all removed (Ronsard remaining a good Catholic). But oddly L’Huillier’s name remained in the first line of one of the elegies, and the fourth book of Elegies was dedicated to L’Huillier on its publication in 1567! (The fluidity of religious boundaries at the time perhaps also shows in Ronsard’s writing a Hymn to his friend Cardinal Coligny, which he retained in later editions after Coligny defected and became a Huguenot…)  Perhaps there are further signs of a rapprochement in 1586, when L’Huillier’s son & heir Estienne included in a set of Reformist ‘Cantiques’ a translation of the Te Deum by Ronsard which the latter had published in his anti-Reformation ‘Discours’! A later 1592 edition also added three more sizeable Ronsard poems.

 

In this dedication, Ronsard writes 12 lines, but unusually and intriguingly groups them 5-3-4

 

 

Au seigneur L’Huillier

L’Huillier, à qui Phoebus, comme au seul de nostre age,
A donné ses beaux vers et son luth en partage,
En ta faveur icy je chante les amours
Que Perrot et Thoinet souspirerent à Tours,
L’un espris de Francine, et l’autre de Marie.

 

Ce Thoinet est Baïf, qui doctement manie
Les mestiers d’Apollon ; ce Perrot est Ronsard,
Que la Muse n’a fait le dernier en son art.

 

Si ce grand duc de Guyse, honneur de nostre France,
N’amuse point ta plume en chose d’importance,
Preste moy ton oreille, et t’en viens lire icy
L’amour de ces pasteurs et leur voyage aussy.

 

 

                                                                                        To my lord L’Huillier

                                                                                        L’Huillier, to whom Phoebus as to the only man of our age

                                                                                        Has given a share of his beautiful verse and his lute,

                                                                                        For you I here sing of the love

                                                                                        With which Pete and Tony sighed at Tours,

                                                                                        One fallen for Francine, the other for Marie.

 

                                                                                        This Tony is Baïf, who learnedly handles

                                                                                        Apollo’s tasks; Pete is Ronsard

                                                                                        Whom the Muse has not made last in his art.

 

                                                                                        If the great Duke of Guise, the honour of France,

                                                                                        Does not keep your pen employed on important things,

                                                                                        Lend me your ear, and come with me to read here

                                                                                        Of the loves of these shepherds and their journey too.

There are few changes in this part of the poem, though already we can see ways in which Ronsard tidied up and improved the poem in the later version above.

C’estoit en la saison que l’amoureuse Flore Faisoit pour son amy les fleurettes esclore Par les prez bigarrez d’autant d’esmail de fleurs, Que le grand arc du Ciel s’esmaille de couleurs : Lors que les papillons et les blondes avettes, Les uns chargez au bec, les autres aux cuissettes, Errent par les jardins, et les petits oiseaux Voletans par les bois de rameaux en rameaux Amassent la bechée, et parmy la verdure Ont souci comme nous de leur race future.     Thoinet, en ce beau temps, passant par Vandomois, Me mena voir à Tours Marion que j’aimois, Qui aux nopces estoit d’une sienne cousine : Et ce Thoinet aussi alloit voir sa Francine, Que la grande Venus, d’un trait plein de rigueur, Luy avoit pres le Clain escrite dans le coeur.     Nous partismes tous deux du hameau de Coustures, Nous passasmes Gastine et ses hautes verdures, Nous passasmes Marré, et vismes à mi- jour Du pasteur Phelipot s’eslever la grand’ tour, Qui de Beaumont la Ronce honore le village Comme un pin fait honneur aux arbres d’un bocage. Ce pasteur qu’on nommoit Phelippot le gaillard, Courtois, nous festoya jusques au soir bien tard. De là vinsmes coucher au gué de Lengenrie, Sous des saules plantez le long d’une prairie : Puis dés le poinct du jour redoublant le marcher, Nous vismes en un bois s’eslever le clocher De sainct Cosme pres Tours, où la nopce gentille Dans un pré se faisoit au beau milieu de l’isle.     Là Francine dançoit, de Thoinet le souci, Là Marion balloit, qui fut le mien aussi : Puis nous mettans tous deux en l’ordre de la dance, Thoinet tout le premier ceste plainte commence.     Ma Francine, mon cueur, qu’oublier je ne puis, Bien que pour ton amour oublié je me suis, Quand dure en cruauté tu passerois les Ourses Et les torrens d’hyver desbordez de leurs courses, Et quand tu porterois en lieu d’humaine chair Au fond de l’estomach, pour un cueur un rocher : Quand tu aurois succé le laict d’une Lyonne, Quand tu serois autant qu’une tigre felonne, Ton cœur seroit pourtant de mes pleurs adouci, Et ce pauvre Thoinet tu prendrois à merci.     Je suis, s’il t’en souvient, Thoinet qui dés jeunesse Te voyant sur le Clain t’appella sa maistresse, Qui musette et flageol à ses lévres usa Pour te donner plaisir, mais cela m’abusa : Car te pensant flechir comme une femme humaine, Je trouvay ta poitrine et ton aureille pleine, Helas qui l’eust pensé ! de cent mille glaçons Lesquels ne t’ont permis d’escouter mes chansons : Et toutesfois le temps, qui les prez de leurs herbes Despouille d’an en an, et les champs de leurs gerbes, Ne m’a point despouillé le souvenir du jour, Ny du mois où je mis en tes yeux mon amour : Ny ne fera jamais voire eussé-je avallée L’onde qui court là bas sous l’obscure valée. C’estoit au mois d’Avril, Francine, il m’en souvient, Quand tout arbre florit, quand la terre devient De vieillesse en jouvence, et l’estrange arondelle Fait contre un soliveau sa maison naturelle : Quand la Limace au dos qui porte sa maison, Laisse un trac sur les fleurs : quand la blonde toison Va couvrant la chenille, et quand parmy les prées Volent les papillons aux ailes diaprées, Lors que fol je te vy, et depuis je n’ay peu Rien voir apres tes yeux que tout ne m’ait despleu.

It was in the season when Flora, being in love, Made flowers bloom for her lover In the meadows scattered with such a mottling of flowers As the great arc of the Heavens is mottled with colours: As the butterflies and yellow bees, Their mouths or their little thighs full, Wander through the gardens, and the little birds Fluttering among the woods from branch to branch Gather their beak-fuls, and among the greenery Plan, as we do, for the future of their race.     Tony, passing through the Vendôme at this beautiful time, Took me to Tours, to see Marion whom I loved, Who was at the wedding of her cousin; And Tony too was going to see his Francine Whom great Venus, with a blow full of trouble, Had written on his heart, near Clain.     The two of us left the hamlet of Coustures, Crossed Gastine and its rich greenery, Passed Marré and saw at midday The great tower of Philip the shepherd rising up, Which brings credit to the village of Beaumont la Ronce As a pine brings credit to the trees of a copse. This shepherd they call Philip the merry Feasted us in courtly fashion until late in the evening. From there, we reached our beds at Lengenrie ford, Beneath willows planted the length of a field; Then at daybreak taking up our walk again We saw rising in a wood the bell-tower Of St Cosmas near Tours, where the noble wedding Was taking place in a meadow right in the middle of the island.     There Francine was dancing, Tony’s beloved; There Marion was capering, my own also: Then, as both of us joined in the line of dancers, Tony first began his complaint:     My Francine, my heart whom I cannot forget, Although for your love I am forgotten, Though harsh in cruelty you exceed bears And the winter torrents bursting their banks, And though you bear, in place of human flesh Deep in your belly not a heart but a stone; Though you have sucked the milk of a lioness, Though you are like a cruel tigress, Your heart can still be softened by my tears And you’ll still grant mercy to your poor Tony.     I am, you recall, that Tony who, from his youth, Seeing you on the Clain, called you his mistress, Who put bagpipe and flute to his lips To give you pleasure: but that deceived me, For thinking to influence you like a human woman I found your breast and ears full – Ah, who’d have thought it! – of a million icicles Which prevented you from hearing my songs; And still time, which steals from the meadows Their plants from year to year, and from the fields their sheaves, Has not stolen from me the memory of that day Or month when your eyes took my love. Nor will it ever, even if I had drunk The water which flows down below in the dark valley. It was in the month of April, Francine, I remember, When every tree blossoms, when the earth changes From old age to youth, and the swallow from abroad Makes against a small beam his own kind of home; When the snail who bears his house on his back Leaves his tracks on the flowers; when a yellow fleece Covers the caterpillar, and when in the meadows Butterflies fly on their colourful wings, It was then that I saw you, fell in love, and since then everything I’ve seen Apart from but your eyes has displeased me.

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 40

Ne me dy plus, Imbert, que je chante d’Amour,

Ce traistre, ce méchant: comment pourroy-je faire

Que mon esprit voulust louer son adversaire,

Qui ne donne à ma peine un moment de sejour!

 

S’il m’avoit fait, Imbert, seulement un bon tour,

Je l’en remercirois, mais il ne se veut plaire

Qu’à rengreger mon mal, et pour mieux me défaire,

Me met devant les yeux ma Dame nuit et jour.

 

Bien que Tantale soit miserable là-bas,

Je le passe en mal-heur: car s’il ne mange pas

Le fruict qui pend sur luy, toutesfois il le touche,

 

Et le baise, et s’en joüe: et moy bien que je sois

Aupres de mon Plaisir, seulement de la bouche,

Ny des mains tant soit peu, toucher ne l’oserois.

 

 

 

                                                                            Tell me no more, Imbert, that I should sing of Love,

                                                                            That traitor, that wicked one. How could I make

                                                                            My spirit desire to praise his opponent,

                                                                            Who gives to my pain not a moment of rest!

 

                                                                            If [Love] had done me, Imbert, a single good turn

                                                                            I would thank him, but he prefers not to please

                                                                            But to aggravate my ills; and to destroy me more easily

                                                                            He puts my Lady before my eyes night and day.

 

                                                                            Though Tantalus is wretched down below,

                                                                            I surpass him in misfortune; for if he cannot eat

                                                                            The fruit which hangs over him, he can still touch it

 

                                                                            And kiss it and enjoy it; but I, although I am

                                                                            Right beside my Pleasure, I’d not dare even to touch

                                                                            Her mouth nor, however little, her hands.

 

 

Although a footnote assures us that Imbert was a classical scholar, familiar with Latin & Greek poetry, there’s nothing here that would put his skills to the test! The reference to Tantalus is not recondite, and indeed Ronsard even explains it (lines 10-11). I suspect this rather weak metaphor is the reason the poem got cut.

 

Who was Imbert?  Gérard Marie Imbert was born at Condom-en-Armagnac in 1530, and was later a student with Ronsard & Baif at the collège de Coqueret where the Pleiade first began to come together.  He was the author of a book of sonnets (Sonnets exotériques) published in 1578.

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson – Amours 2:67a

Another of the cluster of songs from the end of book 2.

Qui veut sçavoir Amour et sa nature, Son arc ses feux ses traits et sa pointure, Quel est son estre, et que c’est qu’il desire Lise ces vers je m’en vay le decrire.   C’est un plaisir tout remply de tristesse, C’est un tourment tout confit de liesse, Un desespoir où tousjours on espere, Un esperer où l’on se desespere.   C’est un regret de jeunesse perdue, C’est dedans l’air une poudre espandue, C’est peindre en l’eau, et c’est vouloir encore Prendre le vent, et dénoircir un more.   C’est un feint ris, c’est une douleur vraye, C’est sans se plaindre avoir au cœur la playe, C’est devenir valet en lieu de maistre, C’est mille fois le jour mourir et naistre.   C’est un fermer à ses amis la porte De la raison qui languist presque morte, Pour en bailler la clef a l’ennemie, Qui la reçoit sous ombre d’estre amie.   C’est mille maux pour une seule œillade C’est estre sain et feindre le malade C’est en mentant se parjurer, et faire Profession de flater et de plaire.   C’est un grand feu couvert d’un peu de glace, C’est un beau jeu tout remply de fallace, C’est un despit une guerre une tréve, Un long penser, une parole bréve.   C’est par dehors dissimuler sa joye, Celant une ame au-dedans qui larmoye : C’est un malheur si plaisant qu’on desire Tousjours languir en un si beau martyre.   C’est une paix qui n’a point de durée, C’est une guerre au combat asseurée, Où le veincu reçoit toute la gloire, Et le veinqueur ne gaigne la victoire.   C’est une erreur de jeunesse qui prise Une prison trop plus que sa franchise : C’est un penser qui douteux ne repose Et pour sujet n’a jamais qu’une chose.   Bref, Nicolas, c’est une jalousie, C’est une fiévre en une frenaisie. Quel plus grand mal au monde pourroit estre Que recevoir une femme pour maistre ?   Doncques à fin que ton cœur ne se mette Sous les liens d’une loy si sujette, Si tu m’en crois, prens y devant bien garde : « Le repentir est une chose tarde.

He who would know Love and his nature, His bow, his fires, his blows and his stabs, What his essence is, and what he desires, Read these verses; I shall go on to describe him.   He is pleasure filled with sadness, He is torture blended with joy, Despair in which you always hope, Hope in which you despair.   He is regret for lost youth, He is dust scattered in the air, He is painting with water, and he is the desire To seize the wind, or un-blacken a moor.   He is a pretended smile, and true sadness, He is not complaining when your heart is wounded, He is becoming the servant instead of the master, He is a thousand times a day dying and being reborn.   He is closing on friends the door Of reason, which languishes near death, And handing over the key to your enemy Who takes it under pretence of being a friend.   He is a thousand ills for just one glance, He is being well but feigning illness, He is lying and being forsworn, and Professing to flatter and please.   He is a great fire covered with a little ice, He is a good game filled with cheating, He is scorn, war, truce, Long thinking and brief words.   He is pretending to be happy outside Hiding within a soul which weeps; He is an illness so pleasing that you wish Always to languish in so fair a punishment.   He is peace which does not last, He is war with fighting guaranteed, In which the conquered takes all the glory And the conquerors gain no victory.   He is a youthful mistake which prizes Prison more than freedom; He is a thought which, doubting, never rests And has as subject always only one thing.   In short, Nicolas, he is jealousy, He is a fever and a frenzy; What greater evil in the world could there be Than taking a woman as master?   So, that your heart should not place itself In the bonds of rules so submissive, If you believe me, take good care ahead of time: Repenting comes too late!

 

 

In this (late) version, the poem is addressed to M. Nicolas – presumably the great Nicolas de Neufville, seigneur de Villeroy, who was secretary of state to four kings (and Catherine de Medici) at the time of the Huguenot massacres and civil wars.

 

Of course, originally Ronsard had addressed the poem to someone else – de Neufville didn’t become a secretary of state till 1567. The dedicatee was Olivier de Magny, a poet from Cahors (after whom the local university is now named!) who joined Baif’s circle and became an author of Ronsardian odes and sonnets; he was also a long-serving secretary to the king. With him dead by 1561, Ronsard was free to re-address the poem to another powerful figure at Court! Here’s the earlier Magny version, from Blanchemain’s edition: as usual, plenty of evidence of tinkering but no substantial re-thinking here.

 

Qui veut sçavoir Amour et sa nature, Son arc, ses feux, ses traits et sa pointure, Que c’est qu’il est et que c’est qu’il desire, Lise ces vers, je m’en-vay le descrire.   C’est un plaisir tout remply de tristesse, C’est un tourment tout confit de liesse, Un desespoir où tousjours on espere, Un esperer où l’on se desespere.   C’est un regret de jeunesse perdue, C’est dedans l’air une poudre espandue, C’est peindre en l’eau, et c’est vouloir encore Tenir le vent et desnoircir un More.   [C’est une foy pleine de tromperie, Où plus est seur celuy qui moins s’y fie ; C’est un marché qu’une fraude accompaigne, Où plus y perd celuy qui plus y gaigne.]   C’est un feint ris, c’est une douleur vraye, C’est sans se plaindre avoir au cœur la playe, C’est devenir valet en lieu de maistre, C’est mille fois le jour mourir et naistre.   C’est un fermer à ses amis la porte De la raison, qui languit presque morte, Pour en bailler la clef à l’ennemye, Qui la reçoit sous ombre d’estre amie.   C’est mille maux pour une seule œillade, C’est estre sain et feindre le malade, C’est en mentant se parjurer et faire Profession de flater et de plaire.   C’est un grand feu couvert d’un peu de glace, C’est un beau jeu tout remply de fallace, C’est un despit, une guerre, une trève, Un long penser, une parole breve.   C’est par dehors dissimuler sa joye, Celant un cœur au dedans qui larmoye ; C’est un malheur si plaisant, qu’on desire Tousjours languir en un si beau martyre.   C’est une paix qui n’a point de durée, C’est une guerre au combat asseurée, Où le vaincu reçoit toute la gloire, Et le vainqcueur ne gaigne la victoire.   C’est un erreur de jeunesse, qui prise Une prison trop plus que sa franchise ; C’est un penser qui jamais ne repose Et si ne veut penser qu’en une chose.   Et bref, Magny, c’est une jalousie, C’est une fievre en une frenaisie. Quel plus grand mal au monde pourroit estre Que recevoir une femme pour maistre ?   Donques, à fin que ton cœur ne se mette Sous les liens d’une loy si sujette, Si tu m’en crois, prens-y devant bien garde : Le repentir est une chose tarde.

He who would know Love and his nature, His bow, his fires, his blows and his stabs, What it is that he is and desires, Read these verses; I shall go on to describe him.   He is pleasure filled with sadness, He is torture blended with joy, Despair in which you always hope, Hope in which you despair.   He is regret for lost youth, He is dust scattered in the air, He is painting with water, and he is the desire To catch the wind, or un-blacken a moor.   He is faithfulness filled with deception, In which that man is safest who trusts it least; He is a market accompanied by fraud Where that man loses most who gains most.   He is a pretended smile, and true sadness, He is not complaining when your heart is wounded, He is becoming the servant instead of the master, He is a thousand times a day dying and being reborn.   He is closing on friends the door Of reason, which languishes near death, And handing over the key to your enemy Who takes it under pretence of being a friend.   He is a thousand ills for just one glance, He is being well but feigning illness, He is lying and being forsworn, and Professing to flatter and please.   He is a great fire covered with a little ice, He is a good game filled with cheating, He is scorn, war, truce, Long thinking and brief words.   He is pretending to be happy outside Hiding within a heart which weeps; He is an illness so pleasing that you wish Always to languish in so fair a punishment.   He is peace which does not last, He is war with fighting guaranteed, In which the conquered takes all the glory And the conquerors gain no victory.   He is a youthful mistake which prizes Prison more than freedom; He is a thought which never rests Yet wishes to think of only one thing.   In short, Magny, he is jealousy, He is a fever and a frenzy; What greater evil in the world could there be Than taking a woman as master?   So, that your heart should not place itself In the bonds of rules so submissive, If you believe me, take good care ahead of time: Repenting comes too late!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baif’s copy of the Works

In a comment on another post, I was pointed to this edition of the Oeuvres (Buon, 1584). It’s worth taking a look, it’s a beautiful book & beautifully reproduced – I wish I could own one, but copies seem to sell for upwards of 20, 000 euros and I don’t think my family would be happy swapping all their holidays for the next few years for one book…! 🙂  However, scan back up to the top of the book – and there’s an ownership inscription. This was Baif’s own copy, and judging from the inscription (in Latin – “Jean Antoine de Baif received/accepted [this book] with a very grateful heart) given to him by Ronsard!!!!  Lovely things found on Google Books no.1…

 

Sonnet 166

Pendant, Baif, que tu frappes au but

De la vertu, qui n’a point de seconde,

Et qu’à longs traits tu t’enyvres de l’onde

Que l’Ascrean entre les Muses but :

 

Icy bany, où le mont de Sabut

Charge de vins son espaule feconde,

Pensif je voy la fuitte vagabonde

Du Loir qui traine à la mer son tribut.

 

Ores un antre, ores un bois sauvage,

Ores me plaist le secret d’un rivage,

Pour essayer de tromper mon ennuy :

 

Mais je ne puis, quoy que seul je me tienne,

Faire qu’Amour en se taisant ne vienne

Parler à moy, et moy tousjours à luy.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Baif, while you’ve practically reached the goal

                                                                            Of Virtue, which has no peer,

                                                                            And while you are becoming drunk with the long draughts of water

                                                                            Held by the Ascraean between the Muses;

 

                                                                            Banished here, where Sabut’s hill

                                                                            Fills with vines its fertile shoulders,

                                                                            I watch thoughtfully the wandering flight

                                                                            Of the Loir which brings its tribute to the sea.

 

                                                                            Sometimes a cave, others a savage wood

                                                                            Or a hidden place on the riverbank charms me,

                                                                            To try to outwit my cares;

 

                                                                            But I cannot, however lonely I remain,

                                                                            Make Love keep quiet, and not come

                                                                            To speak with me, and me likewise with him.

 

 

 

This is, to my mind, a very attractive poem.  We’ve met Jean Antoine de Baïf, Ronsard’s friend and mentor, before; note that in line 2 Ronsard might just be saying that he (Baif) has no peer  – but that is stretching the grammar a bit. In line 4 the Ascraean is Hesiod, the original poet of ordinary life. We’ve also heard of the hill, Sabut, and river Loir which mark out Ronsard’s lands.

 

There are lots of minor changes from the earlier, Blanchemain version; one of which moves Baif’s name down towards the middle of the poem. To those of us brought up on Wordsworth’s dramatic sonnet openings, setting off with the name of the dedicatee at the beginning of the first line (often followed by a ‘!’), that seems almost casual…!

 

 

Encependant que tu frapes au but

De la vertu, qui n’a point sa seconde,

Et qu’à longs traits tu t’enyvres de l’onde

Que l’Ascrean entre les Muses but :

 

Icy, Baif, où le mont de Sabut

Charge de vins son espaule feconde,

Pensif je voy la fuite vagabonde

Du Loir qui traine à la mer son tribut.

 

Ores un antre, or un desert sauvage,

Ores me plaist le secret d’un rivage,

Pour essayer de tromper mon ennuy.

 

Mais quelque horreur de forest qui me tienne,

Faire ne puis qu’amour toujours ne vienne

Parlant à moy, et moy toujours à luy.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Although you’ve practically reached the goal

                                                                            Of Virtue, which has no peer,

                                                                            And while you are becoming drunk with the long draughts of water

                                                                            Held by the Ascrean between the Muses;

 

                                                                            Here, Baif, where Sabut’s hill

                                                                            Fills with vines its fertile shoulders,

                                                                            I watch thoughtfully the wandering flight

                                                                            Of the Loir which brings its tribute to the sea.

 

                                                                            Sometimes a cave, others a savage desert

                                                                            Or a hidden place on the riverbank charms me,

                                                                            To try to outwit my cares;

 

                                                                            But whatever terror of the woods might hold me,

                                                                            I cannot prevent Love always coming

                                                                            And talking with me, and me likewise with him.

 

 

 

 

 

Ode 5:3

The mention of Nicolas Denisot in a recent post sent me off looking for more information. I was fascinated to discover that Ronsard had been one of several Pleiade poets (others were du Bellay and Baif) who contributed poems to a book Denisot saw through the presses in 1551. It was of course early days for the Pleaide poets but it’s still an impressive list! And it secured Denisot’s reputation as a poet.

The book was the Tombeau de Marguerite de Valois Royne de Navarre; you can read it here. But this book was itself a translation (or rather a set of translations) by these French poets of the Hecatodistichon composed by Denisot’s erstwhile pupils in England. For he had spent two or three years there as their tutor before being recalled to France, and their poem in memory of Margaret of Navarre, who died late in 1549 shortly after Denisot’s return to France, no doubt reflected Denisot’s own style and preferences as much as their own. At any rate, Denisot enthusiastically saw the Hecatodistichon through the presses in 1550, and then prevailed on his humanist friends to pull together the Tombeau, whose subtitle is: “Composed first in Latin Distichs by three sisters and Princesses in England; then translated into Greek, Italian and French by several excellent poets of France.” Daurat provided the Greek translation; du Bellay, Denisot and Baif the French; and Jean Pierre de Mesme (who had previously translated Ariosto into French) provided the Italian.

The three princesses were the Seymour sisters – Anne, Margaret and Jane; it’s believed their father hoped to marry Jane to Edward VI, so the family certainly did move in the highest circles. Ronsard’s ode sets their work up as the dawn of culture in England, hitherto ‘barbarous’, and he indicates hopes for an Anglo-French literary rapprochement built on these foundations. Richelet adds notes on the ode (re-published in 1552 in Ronsard’s book 5) to the effect that the ode is “for three learned daughters of England, instructed and taught by Denisot, count of Alsinois”; “because at that time these three ladies had composed a book in Christian distichs, in Latin, terrifically well written, which were soon translated into Greek, Italian and French, and were dedicated to Mme Marguerite, only sister of king Henry II”.

 

Quand les filles d’Achelois, Les trois belles chanteresses, Qui des homme par leurs vois Estoient les enchanteresses, Virent jaunir la toison, Et les soldars de Jason Ramer la barque argienne Sur la mer Sicilienne,   Elles, d’ordre, flanc à flanc, Oisives au front des ondes, D’un peigne d’yvoire blanc Frisotoient leurs tresses blondes, Et mignotant de leurs yeux Les attraits delicieux, Aguignoient la nef passante D’une œillade languissante.   Puis souspirerent un chant De leurs gorges nompareilles, Par douce force alléchant Les plus gaillardes aureilles ; Afin que le son pipeur Fraudast le premier labeur Des chevaliers de la Grece Amorcés de leur caresse.   Ja ces demi-dieux estoient Prests de tomber en servage, Et jà domptés se jettoient Dans la prison du rivage, Sans Orphée, qui, soudain Prenant son luth en la main, Opposé vers elles, joue Loin des autres sur la proue,   Afin que le contre-son De sa repoussante lyre Perdist au vent la chanson Premier qu’entrer au navire, Et qu’il tirast des dangers Ces demi-dieux passagers Qui devoient par la Libye Porter leur mere affoiblie.   Mais si ce harpeur fameux Oyoit le luth des Serenes Qui sonne aux bords escumeux Des Albionnes arenes, Son luth payen il fendroit Et disciple se rendroit Dessous leur chanson chrestienne Dont la voix passe la sienne.   Car luy, enflé de vains mots, Devisoit à l’aventure Ou des membres du Chaos Ou du sein de la Nature ; Mais ces vierges chantent mieux Le vray manouvrier des cieux, Et sa demeure eternelle, Et ceux qui vivent en elle.   Las ! ce qu’on void de mondain Jamais ferme ne se fonde, Ains fuit et refuit soudain Comme le branle d’une onde Qui ne cesse de rouler, De s’avancer et couler, Tant que rampant il arrive D’un grand heurt contre la rive.   La science, auparavant Si long temps orientale, Peu à peu marchant avant, S’apparoist occidentale, Et sans jamais se borner N’a point cessé de tourner, Tant qu’elle soit parvenue A l’autre rive incogneue.   Là de son grave sourcy Vint affoler le courage De ces trois vierges icy, Les trois seules de nostre âge, Et si bien les sceut tenter, Qu’ores on les oit chanter Maint vers jumeau qui surmonte Les nostres, rouges de honte.   Par vous, vierges de renom, Vrais peintres de la mémoire, Des autres vierges le nom Sera clair en vostre gloire. Et puis que le ciel benin Au doux sexe feminin Fait naistre chose si rare D’un lieu jadis tant barbare,   Denisot se vante heuré D’avoir oublié sa terre, Et passager demeuré Trois ans en vostre Angleterre, Et d’avoir cogneu vos yeux, Où les amours gracieux Doucement leurs fleches dardent Contre ceux qui vous regardent.   Voire et d’avoir quelquefois Tant levé sa petitesse, Que sous l’outil de sa vois Il polit vostre jeunesse, Vous ouvrant les beaux secrets Des vieux Latins et les Grecs, Dont l’honneur se renouvelle Par vostre muse nouvelle.   Io, puis que les esprits D’Angleterre et de la France, Bandez d’un ligue, ont pris Le fer contre l’ignorance, Et que nos roys se sont faits D’ennemis amis parfaits, Tuans la guerre cruelle Par une paix mutuelle,   Advienne qu’une de vous, Nouant la mer passagere, Se joigne à quelqu’un de nous Par une nopce estrangere ; Lors vos escrits avancez Se verront recompensez D’une chanson mieux sonnée, Qui cri’ra vostre hymenée.

When the daughters of Achelous, The three fair singers Who were with their voices Enchantresses of men, Saw the fleece growing golden, And Jason’s soldiers Rowing the ship, the Argo, On the Sicilian sea,   Lined up side by side Lazily at the front of the waves, With combs of white ivory They were curling their blonde tresses And, hinting with their eyes At their delicious attractions, Making signs to the passing ship With a languishing look.   Then they sigh a song From their peerless throats, With its sweet force alluring The strongest ears; So that the snaring sound Draws the Greek knights From their primary task, Attracted by their caresses.   Now would those half-gods have been Ready to fall into slavery, Now overcome would they have thrown themselves Into the river’s prison, Unless Orpheus, suddenly Taking up his lute in his hand, Opposing the ladies had played Far from the others on the [ship’s] prow,   So that the counter-tune Of his lyre, repelling it, Lost in the wind the song Which first came aboard the ship, And drew away from danger Those half-god travellers Who needed to take Through Libya their enfeebled mother.   But if that famous harper Heard the lute of the Sirens Which plays on the foamy edges Of Albion’s sands, His pagan lute he would break And would become a disciple Of their Christian song Whose tones surpass his own.   For he, full of empty words, Invented at random Out of the limbs of Chaos Or the heart of Nature; But these maids sing better Of the true maker of the heavens And his eternal home And those who live in it.   Alas, what you see in the world Never rests firm on its foundations, But ebbs and flows suddenly Like the motion of the waves Which never stop rolling, Advancing and falling back, As long as they come crashing With a great shock against the shore.   Knowledge, hitherto For so long a thing of the East, Little by little moving forward Now appeared in the West, And without ever limiting itself Never stopped changing, So that it arrived At the other shore unknown.   There with its haughty gravity It arrived to bewilder the courage Of these three maids here, The only three of our age, And so well did it tempt them That soon you could hear them singing Many a paired verse which outdid Our own, which blush with shame.   Through you, maidens of renown, True painters of memory, The fame of other maidens Will be bright in your glory. And since benign heaven Made to be born so rare a thing In the sweet feminine sex, And in a place hitherto so barbarous,   Denisot boasts himself happy To have forgotten his own land And remained a traveller For three years in your England, And to have known your eyes From which gracious cupids Softly dart their arrows Against those who look on you.   Indeed sometimes [he boasts] of having So raised up his own littleness That with the tool of his own talent He polished up your youthfulness, Opening to you the fair secrets Of the ancient Latins and Greeks, Whose honour is renewed In your new muse.   Ah, since the spirits Of England and of France, Bound in a league, have taken up Arms against ignorance, And since our kings have become, Instead of enemies, perfect friends Killing cruel war Through a mutual peace,   May it come about that one of you, Swimming the passage of the sea, Might join herself with some one of us In a foreign marriage; Then your precocious writings Will see themselves rewarded With a song better played, Which will announce your wedding.

(Let me admit that the second line of that last stanza is a bit of a paraphrase! “Nouer” was an antique word even in Ronsard’s day, equivalent to “nager” (‘to swim’).)

The poem falls into three equal sections: the classical introduction, the generalities about the awakening of culture in England; and then the specific praise of the three ladies. In the classical opening, Achelous was the chief river-deity of classical myth and father of the Sirens.  The legend of Jason and the Argonauts, in search of the Golden Fleece, is well-known, though it’s usually the meeting of Odysseus and the Sirens we read; less well-known is that Orpheus was one of the Argonauts.