Tag Archives: Juno
Amours 2:56
Blanchemain offers a few stylistic variants but essentially the same poem: Ne me suy point, Belleau, allant à la maison De celle qui me tient en douleur nompareille : Ignores-tu les vers chantez par la corneille A Mopse qui suivoit la trace de Jason ? « Prophete, dit l’oiseau, tu n’as point de raison De suivre cest amant qui tout seul s’appareille D’aller voir ses amours : peu sage est qui conseille, Et qui suit un amant quand il n’en est saison. » Pour ton profit, Belleau, je ne veuil que tu voye Celle qui par les yeux la playe au cœur m’envoye, De peur que tu ne prenne un mal au mien pareil. Il suffist que sans toy je sois seul miserable : Reste sain je te pri’ pour estre secourable A ma douleur extreme, et m’y donner conseil. Don’t follow me, Belleau, as I go to the home Of the lady who keeps me in unequalled sadness. Do you not know the song sung by the crow To Mopsus, as he was following Jason’s footsteps ? “Prophet,” said the bird, “you are completely wrong To follow this lover who is sailing alone To visit his beloved : ‘little wisdom has he who advises And who follows a lover at the wrong times’.” For your profit, Belleau, I do not wish you to see Her who through her eyes sent this wound into my heart, For fear that you may win troubles equal to mine. Enough that I alone, and not you, am wretched: Stay healthy, I beg, to be a help In my extreme sadness, and to give me advice.
Elégie à Janet, Peintre du Roy – Elegy, to Janet the King’s artist (Am. 1:228b)
Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!
Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles. Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Serrez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent. Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est l’eau de la marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort. Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée. Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose. Mais las! Janet, helas je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : L’un soit piteux et larmoyant à voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Pres de la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné. Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose. Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc ny court, ny aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend. Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant. Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche. Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans. Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine. Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre. Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette. Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main egale à celle de l’Aurore. Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’u, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si lon peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite. Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, entre-ouvert et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines. Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font qu’à l’heure à se rougir au bout. Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere. Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet favoris du Soleil. Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye. Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour A pleine chair, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice. Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees. Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis. Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy. | Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair. First, make her hair in waves, Tied up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them. Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the waters of the sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep. Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man. Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing. But ah, Janet, ah ! I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Let one be pitiful to see, in tears, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears beside the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her. Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase. But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, not short nor aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound. Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink. In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart. Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his verse could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within. Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea. Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow. Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long. Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands equal to the Dawn’s. I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect. As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, half-uncovered, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver. Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder by the moment at the tip. Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera. A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, the Sun’s favourite. What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through. Her thighs should be made like towers Full-fleshed, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building. Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae. Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes. Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me. |
Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles. Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Nouez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent. [Fais-lui le front en bosse revoûté, Sur lequel soient d’un et d’autre côté Peints gravement, sur trois sièges d’ivoire A majesté, la vergogne at la gloire.] Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est la calme marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort. Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée. Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose. Mais las! mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : Ou que l’un soit pitoyable a le voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Voyant la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné. Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose. Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc gresle, long, aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend. Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant. Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche. Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans. Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine. Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre. Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette. Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main pareille à celle de l’Aurore. Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’eu, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si l’on peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite. Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, profond et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines. Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font alors que se rougir au bout. Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere. Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet entr’ouvert au Soleil. Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye. Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour En grelissant, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice. Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees. Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis. Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy. | Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair. First, make her hair in waves, Knotted up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them. [Make her brow projecting in an arc On which should be, on each side, Painted gravely modesty and glory In majesty on three ivory thrones. Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the calm sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep. Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man. Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing. But ah, my God, my God, I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Or, let one be pitiful to see, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears watching the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her. Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase. But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, slender, long, aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound. Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink. In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart. Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his vere could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within. Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea. Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow. Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long. Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands like the Dawn’s. I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect. As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, deep, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver. Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder at the tip. Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera. A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, half-open to the Sun. What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through. Her thighs should be made like towers Becoming slenderer, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building. Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae. Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes. Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me. |
Odes 1.3
Today one of Ronsard’s early Odes, very formally structured in the classical style with strophes & antistrophes repeating a metrical scheme, and then epodes acting as a ‘refrain’ structure in between pairs of these.
A LA ROYNE Strophe 1 Je suis troublé de fureur, Le poil me dresse d’horreur, D’un effroy mon ame est pleine, Mon estomac est pantois, Et par son canal ma vois Ne se desgorge qu’à peine. Une deité m’emmeine ; Fuyez, peuple, qu’on me laisse, Voicy venir la deesse ; Fuyez, peuple, je la voy. Heureux ceux qu’elle regarde, Et plus heureux qui la garde Dans l’estomac comme moy ! Antistrophe 1 Elle, esprise de mes chants, Loin me guide par les champs Où jadis sur le rivage Apollon Florence aima, Lorsque jeune elle s’arma Pour combattre un loup sauvage. L’art de filer ny l’ouvrage Ne plurent à la pucelle, Ny le lit mignard ; mais elle, Devant le jour s’éveillant, Cherchoit des loups le repaire, Pour les bœufs d’Arne son père Sans repos se travaillant. Epode 1 Ce Dieu, qui du ciel la vit Si valeureuse et si belle, Pour sa femme la ravit, Et surnomma du nom d’elle La ville qui te fit naistre, Laquelle se vante d’estre Mere de nostre Junon, Et qui par les gens étranges Pour ses plus grandes louanges Ne celebre que ton nom. Strophe 2 Là les faits de tes ayeux Vont flamboyant comme aux cieux Flamboye l’aurore claire ; Là l’honneur de ton Julien Dans le ciel italien Comme une planette esclaire. Par luy le gros populaire Pratiqua l’experience De la meilleure science, Et là reluisent aussi Tes deux grands papes, qui ores Du ciel, où ils sont encores, Te favorisent icy. Antistrophe 2 On ne compte les moissons De l’esté, ni des glaçons Qui, l’hiver, tiennent la trace Des eaux roides à glisser : Ainsi je ne puis penser Les louanges de ta race. Le Ciel t’a peint en la face Je ne sçay quoy qui nous monstre, Dès la premiere rencontre, Que tu passes par grand-heur Les princesses de nostre âge, Soit en force de courage, Soit en royale grandeur. Epode 2 Le comble de ton sçavoir Et de tes vertus ensemble Dit que l’on ne peut icy voir Rien que toy qui te resemble. Quelle dame a la pratique De tant de mathematique ? Quelle princesse entend mieux Du grand monde la peinture, Les chemins de la nature Et la musique des cieux ? Strophe 3 Ton nom, que mon vers dira, Tout le monde remplira De ta loüange notoire : Un tas qui chantent de toy Ne sçavent si bien que moy Comme il faut sonner ta gloire. Jupiter, ayant mémoire D’une vieille destinée Autrefois determinée Par l’oracle de Themis, A commandé que Florence Dessous les loix de la France Se courbe le chef soumis. Antistrophe 3 Mais il veut que ton enfant En ait honneur triomphant, D’autant qu’il est tout ensemble Italien et François, Qui de front, d’yeux et de vois, A père et mere resemble. Déjà tout colere il semble Que sa main tente les armes, Et qu’au milieu des alarmes Jà desdaigne les dangers ; Et, servant aux siens de guide, Vainqueur, attache une bride Aux royaumes estrangers. Epode 3 Le Ciel, qui nous l’a donné Pour estre nostre lumiere, Son empire n’a borné D’un mont ou d’une riviere. Le destin veut qu’il enserre Dans sa main toute la terre, Seul roy se faisant nommer, D’où Phébus les Indes laisse, Et d’où son char il abbaisse Tout panché dedans la mer. | To the Queen I am assailed by madness, My hair stands up with horror, Panic fills my soul, My heart is stunned, And my voice can barely Pass through my throat. A deity has seized me. Run, people, please leave me, See, here comes the goddess ! Run, people, I see her ! Fortunate the men on whom she looks, More fortunate the man who keeps her In his heart, like me ! In love with my songs, she Guides me far among the fields Where once on the riverbank Apollo loved Florence, When the young [nymph] armed herself To fight a savage wolf. Not the art of spinning nor its works Could please the maid, Nor her pretty bed ; but she, Before the breaking day Would seek the dens of wolves, Working without rest For the cattle of her father Arno. This god, who from heaven saw her So bold and so fair, Seized her as his wife And named from her name The town which gave you birth. That town boasts of being Mother of our Juno [queen], And amongst foreign peoples For her greater praise Celebrates only your name. There the deeds of your ancestors Rise blazing, as in the heavens Blazes the bright dawn ; There [blazes] the glory of your Guiliano In the Italian skies Like a bright planet. Through him, the rude commons Gained understanding Of the best learning, And there shone forth too Your two great Popes, who still From heaven, where they are now, Favour you here. We cannot count the harvest Of summer, nor the icicles Which in winter mark the route Of waters stubborn in flowing ; Just so I cannot encompass The praises of your family. Heaven painted something In your appearance which has shown us, Since first we met, That you surpass in the greatnes of your destiny The princesses of our age, Whether in the force of your courage Or in royal grandeur. The sum of your learning And of all your virtues Tells us that we cannot see here Anyone but you, who is like you. What lady has the skill Of so much mathematics ? What princess understands better The design of the great world, The paths of nature And the music of the heavens ? Your name, which my verse shall praise, Will fill the whole world With your well-known praise ; A mass of those who sing of you Do not know as well as I How we should sound your glory. Jupiter, recalling An ancient fate Once determined By the oracle of Themis, Commanded that Florence Beneath the laws of France Should bend its submissive head. But he wanted your child To have triumphant honour from it As he is, at the same time, Italian and French, His brow, eyes and voice Resembling his father’s and mother’s. Already full of anger it seems That his hand tries out arms And in the midst of alarms Already disdains danger ; And, acting as a guide to his men, As victor places a bridle On foreign kingdoms. Heaven, which gave us him To be our light, Has not bounded his empire With hill or river. Fate wants him to grip In his hand the whole earth, Giving him the name of king alone, From where Phoebus leaves the Indies To where he brings down his chariot Sinking into the sea. |
Amours 2:42
Sonnet 160
There are two ways to look at the Thracian in line 8. Perhaps he is Orpheus, whose singing traditionally competes with that of birds. Or, as Muret learnedly tells us, perhaps ‘the bird is Philomela, changed into a nightingale, who complains of the assault of Tereus, king of Thrace, her brother in law (in Ovid Metamorphoses book 6)‘. Ronsard’s opening quatrain is based on a Vergilian original (of which more in a moment), but is surprisingly ‘graphic’ in its imagery – I can’t immediately think of another poem in which he virtually describes sexual intercourse as opposed to alluding to it! Perhaps it’s OK because it’s a classical allusion … ! It’s interesting too that he personalises the image much more than Vergil; Jupiter and Juno (a married couple of course – nothing untoward here!) rather than Vergil’s Heaven and Earth – an image which goes back all the way to the Egyptians and beyond. To put it in context, here’s Vergil’s original (Georgics 2, lines 323-8): Ver adeo frondi nemorum, ver utile silvis ; Vere tument terrae et genitalia semina poscunt. Tum pater omnipotens fecundis imbribus Aether Coniugis in gremium laetae descendit, et omnes Magnus alit magno commixtus corpore fetus. Avia tum resonant avibus virgulta canoris, … Spring is so desired by the leaves of the groves, by the woods; Indeed the earth heaves and demands the life-bearing seed. Then the Heaven, the all-powerful father, with his rich rains Descends into the lap of his joyful bride, and the mighty god Joined with her mighty body nourishes all her offspring. Then the pathless woods resound to birdsong … For all that Vergil is more impersonal, or less explicit, about the sexual dimension, it’s worth noticing his vocabulary: the earth’s ‘heaving’ is not far from the the English ‘tumescent’, the ‘lap’ is regularly used as a polite synonym in sexual allusions, ‘commixtus’ (compare ‘commingling’ in English is a standard poetic word for sex, and ‘genitalia’ and ‘semina’ (from ‘semen’) pretty obviously carry similar associations! So Ronsard in some ways hasn’t stepped far beyond his model… (And, in this context, I find it amusing that poetic allusion requires Jupiter to seed Juno’s ‘breast’ or ‘bosom’ (“sein”) which is q word still further removed than the ‘lap’ that Vergil uses!) What’s interesting is how far we are supposed to reflect on this opening, after the middle sections of the poem slide the focus slightly onto more general springtime events, when we reach the conclusion. The solitude and silence directly reflect the middle of the poem, rather than the lusty opening; but there is clearly a subtext that solitude is more than just the absence of the beloved, it’s the absence of a sexual partner. There’s not much variation in Blanchemain’s version: the opening quatrain goes as follows: Or’ que Jupin, espoint de sa semence, Hume à longs traits les feux accoustumez, Et que le chaud de ses reins allumez L’humide sein de Junon ensemence; When Jupiter, aching with his seed, Breathes in long breaths of the well-known fires, And when the warmth of his heated hips Seeds Juno’s moist body;
Sonnet 64
Sonnet 63 is already posted (here) so let’s skip to no. 64…
Tant de couleurs l’Arc-en-ciel ne varie Contre le front du Soleil radieux, Lors que Junon par un temps pluvieux Renverse l’eau dont la terre est nourrie : Ne Jupiter armant sa main marrie En tant d’éclairs ne fait rougir les cieux, Lors qu’il punit d’un foudre audacieux Les monts d’Epire, ou l’orgueil de Carie : Ny le Soleil ne rayonne si beau Quand au matin il nous monstre un flambeau Tout crespu d’or, comme je vy ma Dame Diversement les beautez accoustrer, Flamber ses yeux, et claire se monstrer, Le premier jour qu’elle ravit mon ame. The rainbow does not range so many colours On the brow of the radiant sun When Juno in rainy weather Pours out the water which nourishes the earth; Jupiter arming his marring hand Does not so light up the heavens with his lightning When he punishes with daring thunder The mountains of Epirus or the pride of Caria; The Sun does not shine so beautifully When in the morning he shows us his fire Fringed with gold, as I saw my Lady Variously dress her beauties, And make her eyes shine and appear so bright, On the first day that she stole my soul. Although the Cassandre sonnets are often portrayed as more naive, more confident than the later (Helen) sonnets, in fact I’ve found they’re often just as cynical or just as tongue-in-cheek as the later, arguably more disillusioned, sets. Yet there are certainly occasions when Ronsard offers us a sunny, bright poem that has not a trace of cynicism or disillusionment about it: and here’s one. So neat it is, that even the older Ronsard found nothing in his first thoughts which needed improving! Some comments on the mythological aspects of the poem. Juno strikes me as an odd choice in the first quatrain: she is not (to my mind) usually associated with rain, but with war, youth and strength, maybe the moon and women and fertility. I suppose it is in this last role that she is invoked here, but I wonder if the choice was driven by poetic reasons (and metre!) as much as mythology? With Jupiter and his thunderbolts we are on safer ground; I’ve assumed that Ronsard is using “marrie” transitively rather than in its usual meaning of “sad” or “unhappy”. But why Epirus and Caria? Well, Jupiter (Zeus) had a sanctuary in Dodona, Epirus, so there is a connection; but Ronsard is almost certainly half-quoting Silus Italicus, whose ‘Punica’ contains the line “intonat ipse, quod tremat et Rhodope Taurusque et Pindus et Atlas” – ‘[Jupiter] himself thundered, and Rhodope and Taurus and Pindus and Atlas shook’. I have to admit I can’t think of or find any obvious link to Caria – but I’m sure there is something equally recondite there to be found… [Edit: thanks to Gregorio for pointing me to Muret’s notes, which suggest the ‘pride of Caria’ is a reference to the Mausoleum, the enormous tomb-monument built for Mausolus and his wife, one of the ‘seven wonders of the world’. I can see that this might be ‘the pride of Caria’, but lightning didn’t destroy the Mausoleum – it was brought down by a series of medieval earthquakes. So either Ronsard or Muret is stretching a point here … ]
Sonnet 61
Quand le Soleil attache à ses chevaux la bride :
Amour estoit present avec sa trousse vuide,
Venu pour la remplir des traicts de sa clairté.
J’entre-vy dans son sein deux pommes de beauté,
Telles qu’on ne voit point au verger Hesperide :
Telles ne porte point la Deesse de Gnide,
Ny celle qui a Mars des siennes allaité.
Telle enflure d’yvoire en sa voûte arrondie,
Tel relief de Porphyre, ouvrage de Phidie,
Eut Andromede alors que Persée passa,
Quand il la vit liée à des roches marines,
Et quand la peur de mort tout le corps luy glaça,
Transformant ses tetins en deux boules marbrines.
A crescendo of classical allusion as we near the end of the book! The garden of the Hesperides was where the golden apples grew – a wedding gift from Juno to Jupiter; Juno is also Mars’s mother. The goddess of Cnidos is Venus – the ‘Venus of Cnidos’ was also the most famous statue of Praxiteles (picture here), one of the foremost Greek sculptors. Phidias was the other great sculptor of antiquity, whose name is a byword for quality. Andromeda was rescued by Perseus from a sea-monster after being chained naked to a rock as a sacrifice – hence a classic example of the nude female form (several examples on her Wikipedia page!)
Sonnet 5
Sonnet 23
Morpheus, would you please present in a dream Tonight my mistress, as beautiful and noble As I saw her on the evening when her lively brilliance In one heart-stopping glance began to enchant my eyes: And would you please, o god, lessen, even just a little (A pitiful wish), the fire of that useless sham Which Love with his trifling wing has begun Ceaselessly to fan all around my heart. I shall hang over my bed your winged picture In the same manner in which I perceive you At night, from the pleasure of your uncertain form; And looking as when Jupiter was deceived at Troy By Sleep and Juno, after receiving From simple Venus the belt of love. Belleau rather unnecessarily offers us the following note on line 9 – “Morpheus is a god bearing wings and feathers like Rumour, Love and others.” (!) Rather more usefully, he also outlines the tale alluded to in the final tercet: “Jupiter was deceived on Mount Ida by Juno and Sleep, Juno having borrowed the belt of Venus to put herself in her husband’s good graces and to make him sleep, so that he would not aid the Trojans. This tale is in Homer’s Iliad.“ Blanchemain offers a number of variants including an almost-completely different first tercet. As seems quite common, he opts for a text which more clearly states its meaning, but in a less interesting way. For simplicity here is his text with changes marked: Morfée, s’il te plaist de me représenter Ceste nuit ma maistresse aussi belle et gentille, Que je la vy le soir que sa vive scintille Par ne sçais quel regard vint mes yeux enchanter : Et s’il te plaist ô Dieu, tant soit peu d’alenter (Miserable souhait) de la Feinte inutile Le feu, qu’Amour me vient de son aile subtile Tout alentour du cœur sans repos esventer : Sur le haut de mon lit en vœu je t’appendray, Devot, un saint tableau sur lequel je peindrai L’heur que j’auray receu de ta forme douteuse Et comme Jupiter à Troye fut deceu Du Somme et de Junon, apres avoir receu De la simple Venus la ceinture amoureuse.
Morpheus, would you please represent to me Tonight my mistress, as beautiful and noble As I saw her on the evening when her lively brilliance In some special glance began to enchant my eyes: And would you please, o god, lessen, even just a little (A pitiful wish), the fire of that useless sham Which Love with his subtle wing has begun Ceaselessly to fan all around my heart. High above my bed I shall hang for you, like a votive offering From your follower, a holy picture on which I shall paint The hour when I received your uncertain form, And looking as when Jupiter was deceived at Troy By Sleep and Juno, after receiving From simple Venus the belt of love.